Film Review: KNIVES OUT

The only thing wrong with the new film Knives Out is that it ends, leaving you to wonder what becomes of all those quirky characters you've spent more than two hours with and some you've come to love. And they are truly wonderful characters, not only because of the witty script by writer/ director Rian Johnson, but also as played by an ensemble of excellent actors, some of whom you already know (Jamie Lee Curtis, Don Johnson, Toni Colette) and many you don't.

Christopher Plummer stars as the fabulously wealthy and somewhat grouchy 85-year-old patriarch to a trio of spoiled brats and their offspring, all of whom love him mostly for his money. He's an award-winning writer of mystery novels, and lives in a dark, foreboding mansion surrounded by esoteric statuary, outdated weaponry and scary artifacts from bygone cultures, making the prop master of Knives Out a major player. In fact the scenery is so interesting you might miss some of the dialog, one reason why this film deserves at least two viewings.

Naturally there's a murder, and the world's greatest living sleuth is called in on the case. He is played by Daniel Craig, a British actor who miraculously delivers his incredible performance in a completely convincing southern accent. The twists and turns of the plot will keep you guessing, and laughing, throughout. Chances are you won't even eat your popcorn, you'll be so engrossed in the story. As one tough customer (my husband) who was "sort of sleepy" when it started said afterward, "That was super fun."

Last Minute Thoughts on Turkey Day

So are we supposed to celebrate Thanksgiving or not? Seems like it's a hung jury. Some people cling to the belief that the pilgrims and the Indians (sue me -- I will never call them Indigenous Peoples no matter what the Thought Police decree) got along famously and feasted together in friendship and peace that first year. Others say the gun-wielding white man slaughtered the Indians by the thousands, and so what's to celebrate about that? And still others say the Indians were certainly no angels, given to scalping their enemies alive and performing other horrid acts that were way worse than a shot to the heart, so we'll just keep calling the Redskins the Redskins and too bad for them.

 Any way you slice it, those early days here in the New World were a veritable blood bath, with little good to commemorate them. Eating a lot of one species of bird only adds to the unpleasantness. Personally, I am in favor of banning the eating of turkey on this holiday we call Thanksgiving. What did they ever do to anyone? At the very least we should be eating either pilgrims or Indians, depending on whether you prefer light meat or dark meat, and cooked first of course.

A Cynic's Thanksgiving

Refusing to cook an entire dead animal in celebration of whatever Thanksgiving is supposed to celebrate, instead I have chosen to cook just a small part of a dead animal since my dinner guests are avowed carnivores. While pot roast instead of turkey on "turkey day" seems almost sacrilegious in our culture, I actually know people who have lobster every year and that's worse, lobsters being creatures that are not only non-kosher but also live in crevices on the sea floor, which if you ask me sounds suspiciously like bottom-feeders. Yuk.

Anyway, this annual holiday looms large even though most people dread spending more than an hour at a time with their families. Still we all persist, and each year the advertisements touting organic, free-range, 100% natural, non-GMO, gluten-free, holistic, happy-as-a-clam-until-the-bitter-end turkeys scream at us at every turn. Piles of the headless dead birds literally litter the meat departments of every supermarket, making me wonder anew why this particular animal was chosen for wholesale slaughter each year.

As for the rest of the meal: those yams with candy melted on top remain a popular favorite, although not in our house. No, we don't do that. And since a pot roast cannot be stuffed, thousands of calories will be saved by avoiding the fat-soaked bread that is perfect for sopping up all that fat-soaked gravy. Happily we can over-indulge in dessert, homemade apple pie smothered in whipped cream, or possibly ice cream -- or both. And then it will be Friday and we can all be truly thankful that it's over, get back to the gym and forget those relatives until next November. 

Someone Different for President

Justice Sotomayor in a schleppy coat.

Yesterday Michael Bloomberg officially entered the race for the Democratic nomination for president, and I think that's great. The fact that he is brilliant, Jewish and rich -- he's earned $54 billion during his lifetime -- implies a level of confidence and know-how the office could use.

Not everyone feels that way, though. Sen. Amy Klobuchar, who lacks either the time or the money to fix her annoying lisp, considers his wealth to be a negative. During an ABC-TV interview, she said about Bloomberg's chances as another rich person running for office, "I don't think voters are going to buy that. I think they want someone different."

Okay, someone different, let's see. Oh, I know --we could elect a homeless drug addict to run things. There certainly are a lot of those out there, and God knows they've got the time. Or maybe an unemployed high-school dropout eking out a living working nights at a call center. Or a professional gardener or beautician? They would all be "someone different."

No kidding, maybe it is time for the little people to run things. Just think how life would be if an average American sat in the driver's seat: Vouchers for beer and pizza would be given to every voter at the ballot box at every election; that would get people to show up! And no more of those ridiculously complicated tax forms. Instead, all the money in Monopoly games stowed in basements everywhere would become legal tender and you could send that in every so often. Reality stars would comprise the cabinet, and we could vote them out if we didn't like their act. Supreme Court justices could wear regular clothes instead of those meaningless robes that just make them look hoity-toity and, to be honest, silly.

Who knows, living in America might be fun again.

Lucky Ruth

Hang in there, Ruth!

I haven't written a post since last Thursday, mostly because I've had wax in one ear and my equilibrium is off. I am not sure how one gets wax in an ear, or why one ear and not the other, but I do know that the over-the-counter solution they sell at CVS does not work at all. Instead you have to fork over the big bucks and go to an ear doc, or maybe your primary care physician, who has much better stuff.

The older I get, the more body parts I seem to complain about. This is true for everyone I know in my age group, so if you are still young, be happy if you can. I know cancer hits at any age, as do other diseases, but I'm talking about the general, run-of-the-mill degradation of the human body. After all, we are not all Ruth Bader Ginsburg who gets hospitalized in Washington, D.C. for "chills and a fever" and is then "transported" to Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore for a dose of antibiotics and some fluids to keep her feeling good and prevent Donald Trump from getting another Supreme Court nominee. Some of us have to fend for ourselves.

A Difference of Opinion

At lunch with a friend at a local bistro, after sharing an appetizer we saw a bug crawling out from under the lettuce. I found this disturbing and while I did not completely freak out, I was audibly disgusted, alarmed and altogether turned off. I reported it to our server lest there be lots of other bugs hanging out in the lettuce in the kitchen.

My friend thought little of it and was all the way to amused by my reaction. For some reason I still don't understand, she chided with me the nonsensical statement, "It's not a big deal, and besides, your husband is a gardener! His lettuce must be crawling with bugs." Like we regularly eat bugs at home or something. Anyway, I got over it, although I did inspect my salad entree quite closely with each bite.

When it was time to pay the bill the server asked, "Separate checks?" Since we had ordered similar items I said we'd split the check, having forgotten that I had coffee for $3.00 and my companion had not. Now it was her turn to be disgusted, alarmed and altogether turned off, balking at paying for more than what she had consumed. I said she was being cheap. She denied the charge and in fact got mad that I had "called her a name." I had to apologize.

Apparently eating bugs is "no big deal" but refusing to buy a friend half a cup of coffee is not being cheap. 

Pick One

The remaining Democratic hopefuls were at it again.

I missed the Democratic Debate last night. I didn't forget, it's just that I had no idea it was going to take place since I never looked at the TV or the paper yesterday. I was doing something else: living my own life.

The whole political circus is just another reality TV show, much like that early one called Survivor that I never watched but certainly heard about, constantly. Since then a parade of similar shows have surfaced, like American Idol and Dancing With the Stars and America's Got Talent and So You Think You Can Dance and So You Can Walk While You're Talking and Talk While You're Walking, and today's popular Pick a Presidential Candidate, a.k.a. Who's On First? 

It's always the same plot: A group of hopefuls start out, and one by one they fall by the wayside. Still standing on Pick a Presidential Candidate are the pretty young gay boy with a husband, the earnest Obama look-alike who still lives in a bad neighborhood, the black, tough-talking, rhymes-with-witch who nobody likes, the rich Asian businessman promising to give you $1,000 a month if you elect him, the pasty-faced unknown billionaire, the old rabbinical Jew spewing fire and brimstone, and the former VP who looks like Death only with a facelift. And let's not forget the shrill-as-Hillary-Clinton clone and the smart, pretty one from Hawaii.

Who will rise to the top? Who will be kicked off the island? More importantly, who gives a  damn? Not me any longer. They're all the same, just wrapped up in different packages, kind of like shampoo or toilet bowl cleaner. One of them will win or lose to Trump next Election Day. Until then, it's all just theater. And bad theater at that.

A New Me

Before women could drive, hair was a method of transportation.

This morning I have an appointment for a haircut and possibly some new color. I go through this pointless ritual periodically, for reasons that remain unclear to me, especially since I find the whole thing rather unpleasant.

If I were living back in caveman days, my hair would just grow any which way and nobody would care, as long as it was long enough for my mate to grab a hank and drag me around by it, seeing as cars had not yet been invented. Looks didn't matter; everyone kept busy just staying alive. But today, with survival pretty much in the bag, hair is a big deal and has been for my entire life, causing me to spend untold thousands on how it looks.

Naturally this lapse in judgment is directly attributable to my mother, since everything we do as adults is traceable to what we saw our parents doing during our formative years. My mother went to the "beauty parlor" every Friday where a pudgy stylist named Harvey shaped her hair into a red helmet and sprayed it liberally with that gluey stuff called "hairspray." She then didn't touch it all week, and neither did anyone else, and was judicious in keeping it from getting wet in the shower and at the beach.

I rejected almost all of that behavior, except for the coloring part. My hair has been black, blond, red, streaked, striped, brown, auburn and whatever since I was about 13. This seems normal to me. And of course now it's boring, seeing as how it could be orange, green, purple, blue, magenta, yellow or any combination of those. (Kids today hop on the hair-changing wagon early.)

Somehow new hair helps me feel good, or at the very least different, if only for about a day or two. And who among us doesn't yearn to be different?

If You're Not Woke, Are You Sleep?

Suddenly, it seems, my standard-issue down coat that I bought two winters ago is a Puffer Coat. That's the term everyone uses, and if you don't you are simply not woke. You are sleep.

I guess I was asleep when the change happened, and when a friend asked me if I had a puffer coat I said no, what is it? Then I put on my down coat, and she said, "You do have one after all!" I'd better get with the program or else suffer the consequences, which could be dire. For example, saying "colored people" makes you a racist pig who favors lynchings, slavery, the Klan and Jim Crow laws, but saying "people of color" makes you woke. You don't want to make that mistake, trust me.

What I want to know is who decides these things. Is there a building somewhere that houses distinguished linguists who determine what's okay to say and what's outdated, or worse -- just plain wrong? Where is this building? Who are these people? Are they responsible for the moronic, "It is what it is" and "At the end of the day?" If so, it's best they remain in hiding.

BTW, I hate that whole woke business. It's clearly the wrong tense. Shouldn't it be awake? And what about word? I don't get that one at all.

Why Santa's So Fat

Yesterday I attended a holiday party at the home of some very generous people. Not only had they provided enough food to feed a small African nation, but many of the attendees brought offerings of their own. The result was a feast for the ages, of which I partook with abandon. Not only that, but a hired bartender was passing out special cranberry juice "holiday drinks" that were lovely to look at, garnished with a festive toothpick holding bright red cranberries coated with pink sugar. Who could resist? Not I, certainly.

Turns out that besides juice, those cranberries were floating in lots of vodka and triple sec, an orange liqueur that is anywhere from 15% to 40% alcohol. Added to the wide  array of foods I inhaled (none of them vegetables), I got home just in time to down some Pepto-Bismol before passing out cold. Happy holidays, I guess.

And that was just the opening salvo to the approaching season of giving, drinking, and stuffing one's face at office parties, art gallery openings, school fairs, neighborhood gatherings, family celebrations and the usual 14 Days Of Baked Goods laid out at our local post office. If I continue down this path without doing something drastic like having my teeth wired shut, my entire wardrobe could be obsolete by January 1.

If only the holidays ushered in a period of fasting. Now that would be something to celebrate.

Suddenly, and Without Warning

I want to kill half myself. Is that possible? Just take half a dose of lethal pills? Cut only one wrist? How does one go about it? It's just that one of me is great and the other one sucks. And the one that sucks is ruining everything for the one that's great.

It's too boring to go into, and besides, everyone has the same problem. All those pathetic souls who say they're giving up smoking, but then they buy a pack of cigarettes. Or they're going on a strict diet right now and then go out for pizza and ice cream.

I wonder why. Is it Adam and Eve getting kicked out of the Garden? Are we still feeling guilty for that one? I certainly can't think of anything else that would make so many people with such potential, i.e. almost everybody, settle for lives half-lived, and at their own doing.

We all think we have so much time to do the things we say we want to do. But then it ends. 

Trump Is Not the Problem

Yesterday a 16-year-old boy in California killed two classmates and wounded three others before shooting himself in the head, on his birthday. Meanwhile, every last one of our elected officials is focused on how to kick our president out of office, a subject that has occupied them for the last three years and which nets nothing.

It’s time we impeach every last one of the dodos currently in office and start over with people who are not imbeciles. Maybe then we can work on finding ways to end teenage drug addiction and depression and keep our kids, also known as tomorrow’s adults, from ruining our country.

I Know the Whistleblower

My computer died yesterday, right in the middle of a sentence. I took it to the Apple store to see one of those geniuses they have there, but there weren’t any around. Apparently my situation required the attention of a Texan Specialist and will be gone for at least a week. Sad news as I am stuck with this inferior thing called an iPad on which to write my blog. This takes all the fun out of it, especially since there’s such a fun topic available to write about: The impeachment proceedings concerning our president, a.k.a. Democrats

Democrats talking on the phone to the whistleblower.

Gone Wild.

It’s not as sexy as College Girls Gone Wild but a lot funnier. For example, the head guy behind the whole thing swore that he did not know the identity of the so-called whistleblower, but somehow I do. That cracked me up.

Beware of 5G

It's snowing here in Maine today and ice covers everything, keeping me inside. Amazingly, it feels like just a few days  ago it was hot as hell with mosquitoes everywhere, keeping me inside. Things are going faster and faster, too fast if you ask me, and yet not fast enough for some people.

Today's Wall Street Journal has a special section all about 5G and how it will speed everything up. And despite reading as much of it as as I could stand, I remain virtually clueless about what the heck it is and why we need it, except that China has it and we want to beat them at their game. All I know is that it's really, really fast.

Shorthand for "the fifth generation" of cellular network technology, the application of 5G will make every device work faster and enable geeky tech types to discover cool things, like new beer flavors. And hackers will be able to hack your accounts more quickly. Really, I learned that.

I already hate 5G and want nothing to do with it. Heck, I don't even drink beer.

Eating Outside the Box

My husband and I spent this past weekend out of my comfort zone and it was indeed a jolt to my system, lulled as I am by the slow pace of Maine. Pittsburgh is a lot bigger than Portland, so naturally there was a ton of traffic everywhere, much of it either going up a hill or down a hill or over a bridge, crossing one of the three rivers that meet in that city. There were also a ton more people than I am used to, hundreds and hundreds, or maybe thousands of them dressed in various arrangements of black and gold pants, shirts and hats in preparation for Sunday's big football game between the Pittsburgh Steelers and the LA Rams. Team spirit wafted through the downtown streets, getting thicker and thicker the closer you got to the stadium.

Alas, it was not on the menu.....

One experience I shall long remember involved dinner out. Our friends had gone to great lengths to book a table at Poulet Bleu, "Pittsburgh's hottest new restaurant." They were diligent enough to score a reservation on a Saturday night. I was excited to try one of their allegedly superb chicken dishes, especially the exotic blue chicken, which is what the restaurant name means in English. Now that would be something to write home about!

Turns out there was no blue chicken, or chicken of any kind, on the menu -- not even in the standard white. And our 8:00 pm reservation got us seated at a table at precisely 8:50, a.k.a. ten minutes to nine, better known as "almost bedtime." There was a table for us, it's just that the people who occupied it before us were still in residence. They had finished their meal and paid the bill, yet remained, sitting around gabbing and oblivious to the huddle of hungry patrons waiting in the vestibule, staring into the dining room longingly like orphans in a Dickens novel. According to the restaurant's host,  suggesting they leave would be "rude." (I thought making us wait almost an hour to be seated was rude, but hey, that's just me.)

Now we're back in Maine with winter approaching, and since all the tourists have fled we can get into any restaurant at any time, no problem. Alas, nobody offers blue chicken here, so fulfilling that dream will have to wait. Oh well, there's always plain old dependable red lobster.

Aging Disgracefully

I just saw a picture on Facebook of a friend from high school who had a facelift. Naturally she looks fabulous and a lot younger than I do. All the comments are about how great she looks. Nobody mentions why, including her. That's stupid; do people think she sold her soul to the Devil, or maybe started some new kind of juice fast or diet regimen?

Despite the transparent duplicity, I'm jealous. My husband says I can have one any time I want. This is his way of saying I am turning into an old bag and he's willing to pay dearly for it to cease. Since he's 11 years younger than me, one can sympathize.

But I can't do it. Not only could I die during surgery, and what a dumb way to go, but it seems so frivolous, especially since my own sister is gravely ill in the hospital after having her entire colon removed in a midnight emergency surgery.

I guess I'll just have to shrivel, wrinkle and wither until the end. Although that rubber cement idea isn't half bad. (See illustration)

Why People Kill

Like most people, things drive me crazy. Ordinary things that happen all the time. It's a wonder I haven't yet gone on one of those shooting sprees they have these days, except I don't have a gun and wouldn't know the first thing to do with one if I did, and besides I cry bitter tears when I kill a bug which I do only when absolutely necessary, like it's right there in plain sight on my pillow as I'm getting into bed at night and my husband is out of town. (This happens more than you might imagine since our house seems to be the chosen destination for ladybugs and crickets looking to escape Maine's harsh winters.)

Anyway, the thing that drove me crazy most recently was a simple trip to the grocery store. I was in good spirits when I arrived but a raving lunatic half an hour later when I left. The problem was that other people were in the store, and as we all know, many of them can be total assholes. Today the Bow Street Market was rife with them.

There was the grown man who actually slammed into my shopping cart, repeatedly, so as to alert me to his presence. Apparently he could not get past me, and rather than saying something he resorted to brute force. I looked up from studying the kinds of tea available -- sadly they were out of Tension Tamer -- to see this Cro-Magnon just standing there, pushing his cart into mine again and again. "Are you mute?" I asked him. He shook his head no. Not exactly proof although apparently he was not deaf. Whatever, I pulled my cart over to let him pass, but my lighthearted mood had been darkened considerably.

What is it with people? Why not say a pleasant, "Excuse me?" instead of just standing silently while I'm lost in thought and oblivious to your presence, waiting for me to look up and then expecting an apology -- like I'm the one who did something wrong? I mean really, doesn't everyone have a larynx?

The same exact thing happened two more times while I was shopping. Seriously. Not the cart crashing but the standing silently with a pained expression, expecting me to have eyes in the back of my head. By the time I was leaving the store I was fit to be tied, whatever that means, so I was immediately livid when an old lady (and by that I mean older than me with white hair and old lady clothes and especially old lady shoes) suddenly stopped dead in her tracks to put on her gloves, and believe me it was not glove weather today, it was actually quite balmy, but anyway she stopped right in the doorway of the store so nobody could enter or exit until she was done. What is that? I wanted to hit her over the head with my umbrella, which I did not have with me, it being a nice day as I mentioned earlier, and probably wouldn't have even if I did. But I wanted to. Instead I got safely inside my car, locked the doors and screamed for a few minutes.

People. They're the worst. I tell you, it's a wonder more random shootings don't occur.

When Hell Freezes Over

Many people look forward to Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year's, but I'm looking forward to what I call Hell Freezing Over, since a lot of things promised to me will happen then. Just today a couple more things went on the list.

Our health insurance company suddenly wants documentation of four specific claims before they will be covered by our benefits card, which has been temporarily suspended. One of the disputed claims is for the amount of $2.17, originating in the office of my dermatologist. WTF? Was I charged for the rubber gloves he wore during the examination? No way of knowing, yet I spent about an hour on the phone this afternoon trying to get written clarification that whatever happened did indeed happen so my benefits can be restored. (If you are confused at this point, that's good; that means I've done an adequate job in conveying the situation.)

Anyway, after talking to a woman in Medical Records who said I clearly needed to talk to Billing, where another woman assured me in no uncertain terms that I needed to speak with Medical Records and happily re-connected me, I was eventually promised that someone would be getting back to me shortly, if not sooner, which I interpreted to mean When Hell Freezes Over.

That's when I will also be getting a call back from the theater director concerning the volunteer position I applied for months ago, and the local politician who swore last year that she really needed my help and would be calling me "ASAP." I know she meant WHFO, but somehow she got her letters mixed up.

Believe me, it's going to be a busy time when it happens.

Read It and Weep

I am currently re-reading the ground-breaking dystopian novel 1984 by George Orwell, written in 1949 as a prediction of the future. I remember reading it in the actual year of 1984 and thinking things were nothing like in the book. Now it's 2019 and it's spot on. In fact, I'd like to raise Orwell from the dead and get his permission to change the title.

The following aspects of daily life as described in the novel are happening right this minute, and if a Democrat gets elected in 2020, things will only get worse::

The Two-Minute Hate: The citizens are forced to vent their pent-up anger and rage daily and direct it towards the country's much-hated leader. (This is seen nightly on MSNBC and CNN.)
Big Brother Is Watching: Surveillance cameras installed everywhere see and record every movement of the citizenry. (Just take a look around.)
Thought Police: They are out in full force, with the goal of regulating your thoughts. You'd better not think for yourself and stick to the approved script, or else. (Punishment is most obvious on Facebook, Twitter, and in fact the entire Internet.)
Thoughtcrime: You could be arrested simply for what you are thinking. (No kidding, especially if you dare to wear a MAGA hat.)

Rockabye Theybe?

Is there anything worse than being a racist? How about a body-shamer? A serial murderer? A child rapist? What could top someone who refuses to bake a wedding cake for a gay couple? It's hard to imagine. Oh wait, I thought of something: Parents who let their children decide their own gender when they're old enough to even know what gender means. Until then they are neither here nor there, by which I mean neither he nor she.

This abusive psychotic practice is actually growing in popularity. According to news reports found online, "A Brooklyn couple's blog about their 2-year-old, Zoomer, offers advice on how to navigate the world while raising a “theyby.” Meanwhile, others with the same mental illness share photos of the kiddies on Instagram and seek support from the genderless baby community.

Oddly enough in other news, gender reveal parties continue at a fever pitch, with ever more elaborate goings-on. Last week a 56-year-old Iowa grandmother was killed at one of those celebrations when a homemade device meant to discharge colored powder instead exploded like a pipe bomb, spewing debris that hit her in the head and, well, goodbye Granny. So yes, there are worse things than being a racist. Go ahead and dislike anyone you want, just don't kill anyone or screw up your kids for life.

Capitol Hill Loonies

Even worse than having Donald Trump as president is having much of the Democratic congressmen and senators do nothing for the last three years but blah, blah, blah all day long, trying to impeach him. Is this what their constituents elected them to do?

It's all so tiring, childish and embarrassing. And so what if he is impeached? It is meaningless since it will be voted down in a heartbeat by the Republicans in the Senate. Talk about a waste of time!

Sometimes it seems that our leaders are the worst among us. And sadly, that may be true. According to a pair of British neurologists, many people in positions of power are actually suffering from something called “Hubris syndrome,” defined thusly in a 2009 article published in Brain: “A disorder of the possession of power, particularly power which has been associated with overwhelming success, held for a period of years and with minimal constraint on the leader.”

Hubris syndrome is notable for 14 clinical features that include manifest contempt for others, loss of contact with reality, restless or reckless actions, and displays of incompetence. Sounds to me like the whole bunch up on Capitol Hill.