Film Review: YESTERDAY

It's such a relief when a movie is actually great, restoring your faith in the power of art. Yesterday is such a movie. Directed by Danny Boyle who made everyone happy with Slumdog Millionaire back in 2008, his latest venture is another one of those crowd-pleasers that rightfully merit the love of the masses, even as the fancy-schmancy "art critic" reviewers have panned it.

I'm not here to recant the plot, only to say that if your dog just died or you're depressed for some other reason, this film will lift you out of the doldrums. As a bonus, you'll hear some great old Beatles tunes and understand perhaps for the first time how much their music has permeated every corner of our world. And best of all, it's funny.

Sue Me, I've Got Astraphobia

As I write this there's a thunderstorm raging in the heavens and I am a miserable wreck quaking in my boots. Not really, I'm wearing bedroom slippers but you get the point. I hate thunderstorms and there is little I can do about it. I have read all the science and still, like those who believe climate change is the result of mankind despite a boatload of evidence against it, I am still scared I could die.

My fear stems from childhood. I was about 10 or 11 when a scary thing happened. My best friend at the time, Adrienne Levine (if she's out there and anyone knows her, please tell her I've been looking for her for years), and I were lying on her parent's bed watching The Ed Sullivan Show on TV.  It was a Sunday night, her parents were out to dinner and her older brother who was about 16 -- his name might have been Allen -- was "baby-sitting" us.

It was summer. A hot night. The windows were open. It started raining. There was thunder. Then lightning. Then a bolt of lightning came through the window and struck the TV, which burst into flames. Naturally we ran screaming from the room looking for Allen, who hardly knew what to do himself. I guess he called the fire department because they arrived and put out the fire.

Anyway, I've never forgotten that, so whenever there's a storm I turn off the TV. This annoys my husband who tells me to "get over it." My son doubts it happened, adding that, "nothing like any of your crazy shit ever happened to me when I was a kid."

For once I agree with him: That was some crazy shit.

An Early Prediction

The Democratic Debates which aired over the last two nights were a lot less fun to watch than I had hoped. There was one good moment last night when that Yang guy said some people would be "laughing their asses off," a comment straight from the Trump playbook. (Not sure which people would be laughing at what since I was in another room when he said it.) Also amusing on both nights were Rachel Maddow's humongous black glasses and Chuck Todd's comb-over, the former making her look decidedly clownish and the latter pointing out his desperation over going bald.

Two old white guys don't stand a chance against a young black woman.

On a more serious note, Kamala Harris was compelling in her tearful recounting of having been part of the school bussing program as a youngster, although this morning my husband, also a participant in that federal attempt to end, or at least stifle, racism remembered it as a waste of gas that did little to change anyone's behavior.

Senator Harris said she would do a lot of things on Day One of her administration, among them put an end to racism. I wonder how. (If she knows, she should tell President Trump so we can get right on it.) Of course President Obama said he would close Gitmo on his Day One, and it's still open ten years later so I wouldn't hold my breath. Still, it's an exciting possibility and warmed me to her. I predict she will be the Democratic nominee. (If so, she'll get my vote.)

Fed Up with FedEx

FedEx Delivery Guy?

Two days ago I returned home to a label stuck on my door saying that FedEx had "tried to deliver" a package but nobody was home. A check mark was in the box saying they would attempt to deliver it again the next day. There was also a space where you could say you released them of responsibility and they could leave the package at the door. I checked that box and signed it since I knew I would be out much of the following day.

So the next afternoon I returned home and found the same label, with my signature, stuck on the door again. This time the driver had scrawled the message, "Can't leave package, would be FIRED!!!" It said I could retrieve the package at a location 20 miles away, on the far side of Portland.

I found the whole thing odd since we often get package deliveries from FedEx left at our door, so I called the number of the pick-up location. A nice woman said the sender had requested an in-person drop-off and signature. I said that like many people I know I often leave home and go out to do things, and so could not guarantee anyone would be home to accept it. Armed with this seemingly surprising information, she put me on hold for half an eternity, during which time I repeatedly was told via a recorded message how important my call was to them.

The woman returned and said that if I wanted, the package could be taken to a FedEx facility nearer my home. I said great. It turned out to be 1.3 miles away. (Yeah, better than a 40-mile round-trip to get it.) We agreed that I would hear from them when the package was there. Ten minutes later another woman called and said it would be at the facility by 10:30 the next morning, which would make it today. 

So I went to get it around noon and it wasn't there, and was told that today's delivery had already been made.  I don't even want the damn package.

All Kidding Aside

The reason I often use this space to complain about something is because there's just so much to complain about. And anything that's not a complaint, like if something good actually happened to me or my family, would likely be seen as my being boastful. Admit it: there's always someone around to find fault with anything.

For example, I recently wrote a blog post critical of the practice among betrothed young people of posting wedding gift registries online, wherein they ask for the moon, stars and in particular a dish drainer with teak handles for $70.00. One crabby lady, possibly a relative of the bride or groom, left the following comment: "Didn't your mother ever teach you that if you have nothing nice to say, don't say anything at all?"

First of all, no. Next, that's ridiculous! What if that policy were followed by members of the media? Goodbye CNN, MSNBC, FOX News and the editorial pages of every newspaper in America. The ladies of The View would be left speechless. Don Rickles and Joan Rivers would never have become famous. There would be no late-night TV, and the writers at Saturday Night Live would be left high and dry. Ditto Larry David, Jerry Seinfeld and just about every comedian who ever told a joke. In fact, there would be no jokes.

No joke.

Fried Balsamic Brussles Sprouts with A Maple Glaze

For reasons beyond my comprehension, most people here on Earth are petrified to stand out from the crowd. This explains the explosion of body tattoos and facial piercings that once signaled an individual who was out of the mainstream but quickly became the mainstream, as does almost every new thing. Now it's the non-pierced and non-tattooed who come off as the free thinkers.

Fashion designers, chefs, wedding planners and architects all use this human trait to their advantage. Clothes look alike, restaurant menus are identical, barn weddings are in and new home communities are indistinguishable from one another, assuring the purveyors of each plenty of eager customers.

To avoid the label of "oddball," you read the books on the bestseller lists, see the movies everyone's talking about and binge-watch the series of the moment. You drive a Prius, unless you're rich then you drive a Tesla. Here in Maine, dogs are chosen for their popularity: it's either a black lab or a golden retriever, or if you want to break the mold, a yellow lab.

I write about such things in this blog. It lets me blow off steam, and at the same time hone my writing skills. Some people take offense and for that I'm sorry. I just call it like I see it.  I don't like it, but there is no other option -- at least not yet.

Keeping the World Safe from Fruit Spreads

Several years ago as I was returning from Haiti, I stood in the security line at the airport, watching with awe their procedures. Since Haiti is too poor to have much of anything, certainly not the sophisticated security machinery we have in the US, the prevailing"security" system was two rubber-gloved men who would unzip your luggage and rifle through it, looking for something irregular. If they found nothing you were good to go.

Ahead of me on line was an elderly foreign woman who looked like she had spent far too much time in the sun. When it was her turn, she began to moan that she had lost the key to her suitcase. She begged the men not to cut it open since then she would never be able to get it home. They sized her up, looked at one another, called over some other airport personnel to pass judgment and ultimately let her go through, locked suitcase and all.

That memory resurfaced yesterday as I watched my suitcase being pulled off the conveyor belt at Dulles International Airport, where I was catching a plane home after visiting friends in rural Virginia. The young TSA inspector looked grim as he briskly unzipped my bag and started rifling through my carefully packed clothing. Assuming it was, I asked, "Is this a random search?" He shook his head no.

Ultimately seizing the offending object that had been spied on the x-ray machine, he unwrapped a 6-ounce jar of peach butter I had purchased at one of those "Pick-your-own" farms dotting the  countryside outside of Charlottesville. I had forgotten all about the carry-on rules and stuck it in my bag, bringing it home as a gift for my son.

"I'll have to take this," the man said.

"But it's just peach butter," I exclaimed. "You can see that quite plainly." Tightly sealed, the label on the jar boasted it was 100% organic, had no added sugar, and was made from only the best local peaches."It cost $7.00 and is supposedly quite good," I added, hoping that information might win him over.

Sorry, he said. I asked if he could take it home or perhaps give it to one of his co-workers -- just don't throw it away. No, it had to be destroyed, unless I wanted to go back several steps and check the jar, then return and wait in that security line again, and maybe even miss my plane. Rejecting that suggestion, I asked if he thought the peach butter would explode. No answer, although I saw him struggle against a smile.

I boarded my plane without the peach butter, but I wondered why, unless I looked like a terrorist, things turned out that way. I'm pretty sure those Haitian guards would have let me keep it.

Fake Bumper Stickers

The bumper stickers on all the cars say "Virginia is for Lovers," but it's hard to feel that when you're there. I am there, and just yesterday my husband and I came in contact with several of the natives and none of them were at all loving, at least not towards us.

We were driving on a stretch of unfamiliar road that was very curvy, and if you were hoping to avoid crashing into an oncoming car suddenly cresting over a hill or appearing around a blind curve, you took it easy. At least if you were from out of town. Which we are. So we were going slightly below the posted limit of 55, and a chain of cars trailed behind us, itching to pass but unable to because of the double yellow line. A light drizzle was falling. Every so often we would pull over and let them all by, but soon enough a new chain would develop.

For about the fourth time we pulled over, and about seven cars whizzed by. Then a pickup truck came out of nowhere, pulled up right next to us, and the bearded and bandana-wearing driver rolled down his window and fairly screamed, "It's 55! You were were holding up all those people, asshole!"

Mitch responded by saying, "That's why I pulled over, to let them pass. I'm scared to drive fast on this road, I don't know it like you do." The Virginian responded by sticking his middle finger in the air, shouted, "Fuck you!" and tore off, gravel flying everywhere. Among several others was that loving bumper sticker.

I was just happy he hadn't shot us.

Keep Moving!

Some days I want to do nothing. I fantasize about staying in bed, alternating between sleeping, doing crossword puzzles and drinking coffee. I never have such days. Instead, like most people, I get up and get going, get out there, do something, do anything, just be alive. As my grandmother, and everyone else's apparently, always said, "There's plenty of time to sleep in the cemetery!"

More importantly, I recently read that multiple studies have proven that walking every day leads to a considerably longer life. So it's off with the PJs and on with the walking shoes. Gotta get going, gotta keep moving! Even writing this blog is bad for my health, since sitting is the new smoking, other studies have concluded. You too -- stop scrolling through your phone and go for a walk. Now.

More Fun Than a Barrel of Monkeys

The Democratic presidential candidates are excited and raring to go!

Many people get excited over the Oscar Awards show, or the Emmys or Golden Globes. I can't say I care all that much about those. Instead, I am counting the days until the Democratic debates held on two nights later this month and featuring 20 people who have the chutzpah and/or balls to think they've got what it takes to lead all 327.2 million of us! It should be quite a scene, and I'm already planning our menu for those two evenings: Simple fare that can be eaten in front of the TV -- nothing we could choke on if we laugh too hard, and certainly no milk to come spouting out of our noses.

To help you understand their differences I did a little research and found "mission statements" from the candidates. Following are excerpts straight from the mouths of some of these presidential wannabes:

Cory Booker: "I believe we can build a country where no one is forgotten, no one is left behind."

Pete Buttigieg: "I launched a presidential exploratory committee because it is a season for boldness and it is time to focus on the future."

Julian Castro: "I'm running for president because it's time for new leadership. Because it's time for new energy."

John Delaney: "I think I'm the right person for the job, but not enough people knew who I was or still know who I am." (Who is he?)


Tulsi Gabbard: "There are a lot of challenges that are facing the American people that I'm concerned about and that I want to help solve."

Kirsten Gillibrand: I'm going to run for president of the United States because as a young mom I am going to fight for other people's kids as hard as I would fight for my own." (She's 52 years "young.")


Kamala Harris: "I believe our country wants and needs some leadership that provides a vision of the country in which everyone could see themselves."

Amy Klobuchar: "It is time to organize, time to galvanize, time to take back our democracy."

Joe Biden: "If we give Donald Trump eight years in the White House, he will forever and fundamentally alter the character of this nation, who we are, and I cannot stand by and watch that happen."

Bill de Blasio: "As president, I will take on the wealthy. I will not rest until this government serves working people." (His net worth is $1.5 million.)


Marianne Williamson: "We need a moral and spiritual awakening in the country."

Beto O'Rourke: "This is going to be a positive campaign that seeks to bring out the very best from every single one of us, that seeks to unite a divided country."

Elizabeth Warren: "It's time for women to go to Washington and fix our broken government, and that includes a woman at the top."

Bernie Sanders: "The only way we will win this election and create a government and economy that works for all is with a grassroots movement, the likes of which has never been seen in American history."

John Hickenlooper: "I've proven again and again I can bring people together to produce the progressive change Washington has failed to deliver."

Ugly People Unite!

A meme on social media mocking the ugly is perfectly acceptable.

As a society, some might say we've come a long way. Fat models are finally showing up everywhere, especially on those TV home shopping networks and in almost every underwear print ad. High-end fashion houses have proudly employed them on the runway, along with models with Downs Syndrome and in wheelchairs, during New York's Fashion Week. Little people have their own reality show, as do the morbidly obese weighing in at 600 pounds and those lunatic "hoarders" living in squalor with boxes full of packaged soy sauce, broken doll parts, cracked dishes, tattered stuffed animals and abandoned car parts. Transgenders are as common as apple pie, and just as American. Nobody looks twice at the teeny-tiny, the double amputees, the pituitary giants, the grossly-pierced and the overly tattooed.

Yup, these days everybody's a winner! Except for one group that has yet to be embraced by our all-inclusive society: the Ugly.

You never see an ugly model. All the fat ones are pretty. You never see a reality show about what it's like to be ugly, never have a date, go through life unmarried, unloved and unheralded in any way.  Face it: when's the last time you approached an ugly person at a party and introduced yourself? Better yet, when's the last time you even saw an ugly person at a party? Probably never, since they don't get invited out much.

Why is that? And when will it change? Do they need to stage a protest? Would anybody show up? Do your part and befriend someone hideous today.

Film Review: LIMITLESS

Released in 2011 and now streaming on Netflix, Limitless is a psychological thriller worth several viewings. Not only is the plot complicated enough to warrant it, but it's just so much fun to watch.

Bradley Cooper plays Eddie Morra, a down-on-his-heels writer on the verge of becoming a homeless bum. He's a mess: he's got writer's block and needs a shower, a shave, a haircut and a decent meal. When his girlfriend (Abbie Cornish) breaks up with him, he spirals downward towards a pit of despair. Then suddenly help arrives in the form of his ex-brother-in-law, who offers a tiny pill he promises will allow Eddie to use 100% of his brain, not just the 20% we all supposedly use.

Turns out it's true, and within 30 seconds of swallowing a dose of NZT, Eddie is brilliant. Even his eyes are bluer. He cleans up his apartment, starts working out, and turns himself into the handsome Bradley Cooper we all know and love today. On NZT, he stuns his agent by finishing his book, then decides he wants more out of life and plunges into the world of high finance. In no time he's the hottest trader on Wall Street, attracting the attention of the richest man in the world, or close to it, played by Robert DeNiro who turns in a lackluster performance, the film's only sour note.

But all is not blissful brilliance: NZT comes with a heavy dose of violent thugs who want the drugs and will do anything, like "slicing you at the waist and pulling your skin up over your head," to get them. The plot thickens, ridiculously so. Eddie learns that most of the people who took the drug regularly are either very sick or dead. What a dilemma: have a great life and die soon or stay dumb and dull and live longer!

Lots of blood and gore, a possible murder charge, and the return of Eddie's girlfriend all are a result of his taking those little pills. Still, blackouts and beatings aside, he's moving up in the world, eventually entering the world of politics by running for Senator. Enough with the spoilers. Just watch it; you can thank me later.

The Crazy Deli Lady

The other day I was at Bow Street Market in Freeport, which is basically my second home. It's a great little store, far superior to those giant supermarket chains with their fluorescent lighting and too much stuff. Bow Street sells fabulous farm-raised meats, fresh fish from local waters and veggies from the small farms dotting Maine's countryside. It simply can't be beat.

So I was shocked when I came face-to-face with one of their new employees who possibly is an escapee from some sort of institution. She had on a regulation hairnet and was working the deli counter, albeit with a somewhat crazed look in her eyes. Our exchange went like this:

Me:  "I'd like a medium-sized cole slaw, please." (Points to the desired item.)
Her: "We have regular cole slaw and blue cheese cole slaw. Which do you want?"
Me:  "I want the plain cole slaw." (Speaks louder and again points to the desired item, which was on a different shelf and not near the other one mentioned.)
Her: "Are you sure you don't want the blue cheese cole slaw?" (Spoken plaintively.)
Me: "Yes, I am very sure." (Getting annoyed.)
Her: "Do you want to try it?"
Me: "No, just give me the PLAIN cole slaw, thanks." (Full-blown angry, muttering things like if I wanted it I'd have asked for it, etc.)

I watched her bend down to the lower shelf and approach the pan of cole slaw, then turned away to get a few other items nearby while she finished packing up my order. Turning back and taking the container, which bore a label clearly marked COLE SLAW, not BLUE CHEESE COLE SLAW, I thanked her and walked away.

That night at dinner Mitch and I enjoyed a great piece of grilled swordfish. Along with it we had some mixed vegetables and a side of slaw. My husband ate some first and said, "Hmmmm, this is different. What is it?" I quickly took a taste and discovered, to my horror, veritable chunks of blue cheese in the cole slaw! WTF?

Explaining to Mitch what I had endured at the deli counter that afternoon, I said, "What if I were allergic to blue cheese? I could be dead by now!" I suggested he kill me on the spot, somehow making it look like an allergic reaction to blue cheese, then sue the market for millions and go out and get himself a new wife, a boat and a motorcycle, all things he fantasizes about. He pointed out that he would be in jail and thus not able to enjoy those things (except maybe a conjugal visit every so often), so instead I wrote this post and I'm sending it to the store manager. That deli lady must be stopped.

A Quiet Week in Lake Wobegone

It's been six days since my last post, so I am considering changing the name of this blog to The Whenever Droid. But that doesn't quite roll off the tongue the same way, so I'm stumped. Some possible names I am playing with:
     Occasional Musings of Nobody Special
     The Not-Daily Droid
    A Quiet Week in Lake Wobegone
I like the last one best but think it could get me into trouble, legally speaking. So for now I will leave it alone and invite my few die-hard readers to send me suggestions.

Legal issues aside, it's been a quiet week in Freeport, Maine. One positive development was the return of the belted cows to the pasture on South Freeport Road, an event we all cheer each year about now. But the true highlight was my birthday mid-week. As is the custom I was supposed to celebrate getting a year closer to my death, but I found little joy in turning 73. One person I ran into said, "Consider the alternative," which I did and decided I like being alive more than being dead, although I have no way of knowing for sure which state is better.

As for birthday greetings, I got only one of note: My dear friend Diana Bond (see photo) called from Denver to wish me a happy birthday. This was the best (and basically only) gift I got that day. Diana and I have not spoken in a long time, yet she went the extra mile to call. We had a grand time catching up, and once again I understood the truth of the saying that old friends are the best!

Naturally my husband remembered since he lives with me, and took the day off from work to watch me age. Our son completely forgot, but later on came through with a wonderful card and joined us for a delectable sushi feast in Portland, his lively girlfriend adding much to the festivities.

Other than that, the scary highs and lows of my zany blood pressure kept me on the phone with doctors (mostly on hold) and necessitated a blood test to make sure my inner workings were in order. (It was the nurse who drew my blood who said I should consider the alternative.) All results came back as normal, and so yet another drug was added to the bunch I already swallow each morning.

So that's why I haven't written a blog post all week. Can you blame me?

Chernobyl: That's Entertainment?

After hearing from several people whose opinions we respect, and the buzz online saying it's better than Game of Thrones and The Sopranos, my husband and I fired up the TV last night to watch Chernobyl, HBO's five-part miniseries about the notorious nuclear accident that happened so many years ago in Russia. Back then, in 1986, I paid minimal attention to it since I was busy being a single working female deeply involved in my career and the dating world, and Russia was so very far away. So last night I approached the show with a mixture of excitement and interest, hoping to learn the facts about a monumental historical event and be entertained at the same time.

A first responder on his way to having his face peel off.

Instead I was immediately freaked out by some guy hanging himself. Soon after I became quite nauseated by the events onscreen, my fragile blood pressure mounting with every taut moment. Sure it was only a movie, but still Chernobyl goes way farther than I was willing to go to tell the story of how a nuclear reactor exploded, raining down radiation on everyone nearby and sickening the first responders. People -- yes, I know, actors -- were vomiting all over the place, fortunately not in my living room but almost. Fake skin melted off of faces and fake blood oozed from body parts. And this was just in the first 45 minutes!

Plus the fact they are all British actors and there's not a Russian accent anywhere, although all the signs are in Russian and it's taking place in Russia. It's quite confusing.

With a horrible headache and mounting anxiety, I turned off the TV and then foolishly went to bed and tried to fall asleep. All I can say is that in comparison to what I saw, The Sopranos is a laugh riot.