Black, Not White

The Hanukkah stabber being led away by police.

The three most recent crimes against Jewish people were committed by black Americans, not white Nationalists. Donald Trump has nothing to do with it.

The Worst Hotel in New York City

The bathroom ceiling was less than ideal....

This is a pubic service announcement. If you are headed to Manhattan, stay anywhere but The Radisson Hotel on 51st between 5th and 6th Avenues. Sleep on the street, in a subway car, under a bridge or with your cousin in Hoboken. Trust me, they are all better options. I know because my husband and I stayed there for three nights and we're just now getting over it. Following is a list of some of the problems:

Elevator wait time is between A Cold Day in August and The 12th of Never.
One thin blanket from an orphanage in a Dickens novel was all you got.
No cups or glasses in the bathroom, just use what God gave you.
Filthy, worn carpeting grossed us out.
A late check-out of even 10 minutes will cost you $200!
Breakfast buffet: cold scrambled eggs, colder bacon, potato ice chips and frozen oatmeal ($20).
Amateur spackling job (see photo above) was alarming.
The tiny room suitable for Keebler Elves didn't even have a Bible!
Bag of mystery garbage (we were afraid to look inside) under the bed was there the whole time; so much for the daily maid service!

On the plus side, it's next door to a 24-hour Duane Reed drugstore, which came in handy when shopping for Pepto-Bismol due to the hotel's nauseating condition.

Room charge: $290 per night

Film Review: ELF

Last night being Christmas Eve, my husband and I thought it appropriate to watch a holiday-themed movie. And just last week a new friend recommenced Elf, a movie we had studiously avoided back when it was released in 2003 for so many reasons, not the least of which was its star, Will Ferrell. But this particular friend said it was "hysterical" and seemed shocked that we, such self-acclaimed students of humor, had missed it. So we fired up the TV and settled in for some Santa-sized belly laughs.

Wrong. No laughs -- just smirks, the occasional smile and a few embarrassed giggles were all we got. Despite the assembled talents of actors Bob Newhart, Ed Asner, James Caan, Zooey Deschanel and Mary Steenburgen, director John Favreau's effort comes off as pathetically lame fare perfectly suited to a bunch of kindergartners or perhaps a group of drunken, stoned frat boys.

First of all, the plot is ridiculous: Through a completely unbelievable mixup at the orphanage, Buddy (Ferrell) ends up being raised by Papa Elf (Newhart) at the North Pole. Okay, if you swallow that, he lives there until he is 30 when he finally is told he isn't really an elf but a moron -- I mean man. So he walks from the North Pole all the way to Manhattan to meet his birth father (Caan). He makes this journey without food or water, wearing only tights and a tunic and pointy little cloth shoes-- no gloves or boots or scarf or down parka. He is supposed to be a human, after all, so how is that possible? What, no frostbite? Or more to the point, no death by starvation?

I can't go on, it was so bad. But even worse, it was lauded by most professional critics as "uproarious" and has become an endearing, enduring Christmas classic hauled out each year for new generations to enjoy. Even Roger Ebert, my chosen god of critics (then alive), gave it a glowing review. Here, I'll let Wikipedia say it:

"Elf was released in the United States on November 7, 2003 to critical and commercial success, grossing $220 million worldwide against a $33 million budget. Ferrell’s performance as Buddy the Elf was praised by audiences and critics alike, with many calling it one of his best performances. It is often listed among the greatest Christmas films of all time."

Somehow we sat through the whole thing, lulled into a daze by the non-stop idiocy wherein a grown man in a dumb costume walks around the streets of New York City without getting carted away to the loony bin. Then this morning, Christmas Day, the only present I got was a dead mouse from my cat. So far this Christmas sucks.

Udderly Ridiculous

Some women see breastfeeding as an award-winning activity to be done in public and for which they should receive accolades. This is like getting praise for passing a good stool, in my opinion, another bodily function which the non-crazy individual chooses to do in private, except in Nancy Pelosi's San Francisco district where they may be making a political statement.

Anyway, there is a new one of those Facebook borders you can apply to your profile picture that says "Normalize Breastfeeding" in fancy script lettering. I saw it today on my husband's cousin's daughter's page, showing her big fat boobie with a child attached. The child looks old enough to eat a filet mignon with a knife and fork.

For reasons of rebellion, members of today's child-rearing generation have decided to extend breastfeeding for as long as possible. In fact, the longer they do it the more sanctimonious they behave, as if they are the embodiment of Mother Teresa. They're wrong. Instead they are raising a bunch of spoiled brats who grow up to be demanding and unable to do much for themselves. I've seen this outcome in another friend's daughter who was breastfed until age five and now, at six, is a world-class terror.

If you ask me, if the child can say, "I want some Mommy milk," like my friend's daughter did, it's enough already.

The Aftermath

So now Trump is impeached, further assuring him a place in the history books, maybe even a whole chapter. What I'm thinking is big deal. It doesn't change how I feel about anything, except that most of our elected lawmakers are goofballs, with a very few exceptions.

Life goes on. I will still not vote in 2020 for anyone the Democrats are currently trying to shove down my throat, even if Vladimir Putin comes to my house and puts a gun to my head which is supposedly what we all should be fearing will happen if Trump remains in office. Actually, if Vlad did come to my house I would ask him in, offer him some vodka and possibly get him to take his shirt off. (See photo)

Crime and Punishment

I don't know who's reading this crap. And by crap I mean this blog. What I do know is that a preponderance of the audience finds it by way of porn sites featuring young girls sucking on men's you-know-whats. This pisses me off and makes me want to write outrageous and disgusting things, and today I am going to do just that. I might not even edit it twice for typos. Take that, porn fans!

In today's politically correct climate you could easily be murdered, which apparently is no longer a big deal to our lawmakers. The death penalty is falling out of favor across the country, according to an article in today's Wall Street Journal.  Instead, life without parole is the punishment deemed appropriate for the sickos who commit heinous acts of violence on random innocent people.

Not only that, but a man who was convicted six times of killing four people in Mississippi and has been in prison for 22 years has just been released on bail due to alleged "racial bias" in his conviction. Prosecutors are now deciding whether to try him again, and hope he won't kill anyone else while he's awaiting trial.

In my opinion the death penalty should definitely be used on one particular group of criminals: tailgaters. Not the football game kind, the other kind. The people who ride your tail and flash their lights and honk you even if you are going ten miles over the speed limit in the left lane, or just five miles over the speed limit in the right lane. These monsters pose a danger to anyone on the road. They should be pulled over by the police and just shot in the head right then and there, like they did to the Jews in Nazi Germany. That would put a stop to it.

Babe Ruth's Bat

At an auction in California this past weekend, some rich asshole paid a million bucks for the bat used by Babe Ruth in 1929 to hit his 500th home run. So now he's got this bat and he's gonna do what with it? Put it in a glass case and look at it? Bludgeon his wife to death while she sleeps? What, exactly, is so great about this particular piece of wood?

Instead he might have bought mosquito nets at $7.50 each and saved 134,000 people from contracting malaria in Africa. Or paid for half a day's expenses at St. Jude's Hospital for Children, helping to cure countless kids with cancer. Or built a homeless shelter somewhere in San Francisco, or at least get 1,430 port-a-potties ($700 each) distributed in the city's homeless areas.

The list is endless. Someone should talk to this guy.

Film Review: THE IRISHMAN

Romano, De Niro and Pacino

Now playing in a living room near you, The Irishman runs for three-and-a-half hours and believe it or not, it flies by. This is mostly due to Robert De Niro, the title character whose incredible performance takes you into another world you're in no hurry to leave. You just want the movie to go on and on. The great thing about it being on Netflix is it can, anytime you're ready. A second viewing is almost required since there's so much to take in visually, it being set mainly in the 1950s and 60s.

And in case you dislike De Niro (as I do) for his loud and obnoxious political views he feels compelled to shout from the rooftops, there's also great acting by Joe Pesci, Al Pacino, Bobby Cannavale, Ray Romano and a host of other familiar faces from every movie about the Mafia you've seen in the past.

Another wondrous aspect of Martin Scorcese's latest look at the horrors of organized crime is the music. Starting with the opening scene, the camera snaking through the corridors of a nursing home accompanied by the 1956 version of The Five Satin's "In the Still of the Night" and continuing throughout the film with a fabulous original score by the prolific Robbie Robertson, formerly of The Band, there's great music in almost every frame.

Now for the bad stuff, which abounds. A new, computerized technology not quite ready for prime time tinkers with the aging of the stars, so one minute they're young and the next they're old, and the next they are really, really old. Sadly, everyone looks sort of like puppet heads, but after about the first hour you just accept it and stop groaning. Also, since we're talking Mafia it's plenty violent, with countless gruesome shootings, spattered blood on sidewalks and piano wires strung around necks, that sort of thing.

Still, it's great.

My Husband's Despicable Cousin

Hillary "Has-been" Clinton famously called the people who attended Trump rallies "deplorable." Personally I'd rather be considered deplorable (deserving of condemnation) than despicable (deserving hatred and contempt) any day, but that's just me.

I say this because of a comment on Facebook posted by my husband's despicable cousin, a woman I have never met in the flesh (which she has far too much of, a trait she passed on to her similarly gigantic and equally foul-mouthed daughter) concerning our country's sitting president. In a spitting match posing as political discussion with my husband and others, she wrote that she hoped Trump would be impeached and suffer a "massive, debilitating stroke."

Like many other Trump-hating Democrats, the woman is clearly despicable. (See definition above.) I mean really, can't the man remain physically healthy despite having policies some find abhorrent? Must he suffer? How does that help anyone feel better about things?  

Why My Son Is An Only Child

About six weeks ago our landline phone rang well after midnight, waking me from a deep sleep. Assuming it wasn't good news I answered and heard the wide-awake voice of a man claiming to be a doctor in a hospital in New York. He explained that my sister was in the Emergency Room and needed surgery immediately, and since I was her only living relative and thus her health proxy by default, he needed my consent to go forward. Still groggy I asked what "go forward" entailed, and was treated to a thoroughly revolting and detailed description of her obstructed bowel that had basically "exploded," spilling its contents on all her surrounding internal organs. A "repair" was necessary to save her life.

I should mention at this point that I have not seen my sister in 28 years. Five years my senior, she had stolen my childhood and cost me many thousands of dollars in therapy as an adult trying to overcome the horror she had rained down on our family when I was growing up. (Turned out the damage was done since you only get one childhood, but if I repeat my mantra enough times I can sometimes drown out the hideous memories.)

Anyway, I told the doctor, "Sure, go ahead," and hung up, hoping to get back to sleep. No such luck as my mind was filled with images of unleashed feces invading body parts. Several hours later, maybe it was five in the morning, the doctor called back and again sailed into an impromptu anatomy lesson, ending with the news that he had removed my sister's entire colon and she would now be using an external "bag" to perform its functions. Still she was not "out of the woods" and they needed to do other things, and would I give my permission for putting in a drain and debriding the wound and a bunch of other sickening things. "Hey, you're the doctor, I just paint pictures -- why ask me? Do what you have to do!" Still, they needed my okay and two witnesses in the hospital had to be on the line to hear me give it.

Over the ensuing weeks I received many of these phone calls, asking for permission to do this or that. She was out of the hospital and back at the nursing home facility where she has lived for the past five years, then she was back in the hospital. Each time I was informed of her transport. In again, out again, they reported that she was not quite conscious, basically incoherent, there was possible dementia, maybe another surgery, "Whatever, go ahead, do it," I always said.

Being hyper-empathic by nature, I became consumed with thoughts of my sister's degrading body, most especially her exploded colon, and how depressed she must be yet unable to communicate her misery. I shared in this misery and have cried daily since then, my tears quelled by repeated squirts of CBD tincture, glasses of red wine, doses of Lorazepam and an occasional hit of pot.

The phone calls from various doctors, nurses and hospital administrators came weekly and without warning, each one plummeting me into a new pit of despair. A message on our home answering machine could only mean trouble. Yesterday, after a fun lunch out with two good friends, I returned home and there it was: the flashing red light. Listening to the message, I was surprised to hear my sister's voice. Crazy as ever, she was under the impression that my outgoing message was actually me and tried talking to it, then became frustrated when it didn't talk back. She hung up and called again, saying "I hear you, I know you're there." Oh well, at least she was coherent.

I called back the number on the caller ID screen and a nurse answered. It was her cell phone that my sister had used earlier. "I'll get her for you," she offered. Finally I could talk to her! Right away I asked how she was. She said fine. I said it must have been rough undergoing so many surgeries. She said, "What surgeries? I didn't have surgery." I asked why she was in the hospital for so long, what did they do to her there, and she said she had no idea. She even laughed about it, and I heard her ask a nurse,"What happened to me in the hospital?" A murmured response in the background seemed to dodge the question. Most amazing, my sister was completely clueless about the loss of her colon since when I asked how that felt, she said, "I don't know what you're talking about." Apparently I was the only one who missed it.

My husband figures she must be on some heavy drugs, like morphine. I wonder if maybe I could get some. After all, I am her health proxy.

Friday the 13th

What is it about Friday the 13th we are supposed to be wary of? One explanation found on Wikipedia suggests that the superstition goes all the way back to the Middle Ages and has something to do with Jesus' last supper where there were 13 people present, the night before his death on Good Friday. If that's the case, I'm over it.

In fact I have never given the date a moment's thought since there are so many other days to be wary of, like April 15 or my next birthday. Those are some bad days. Still, better safe than sorry, and I'm willing to bet that almost everyone avoids walking under a ladder and having a back cat cross their path, despite not knowing why they do it. Ditto with this particular day. Just in case, I'll toss some salt over my left shoulder and be extra careful out there.

The Higher You Bid, the More It's Worth

Alligator handbag with gold finish by Cartier: $27,000

People value strange things. Especially rich people. For example, a woman's handbag these days is a status symbol to the wealthy and can cost thousands. This perversion has trickled down to the masses, where people of average incomes still will pay a lot of money for what is basically a bag in which to schlep one's belongings, not all that different from the shopping cart used by the homeless or a rag attached to a stick used by hobos. I admit to furthering this practice as I have on occasion paid more for a handbag than for a week's worth of food.

One difference between the rich and the not rich in the valuation department is art. The rich pay millions for it, while the middle class sees most art as lacking in value of any kind, unless it's to fill in an empty space over a sofa. As an artist I find this sad and downright depressing, causing me to overeat and then feel bloated and nauseous, my two least favorite ways to feel. If only people would buy my art I could have such a better digestive system!

Despite my oil paintings costing me anywhere from $50 to $75 to create, depending on the size of the canvas and how much paint I use, and adding in my time at the minimum wage of $15/hour and the typical painting taking about 60 hours to complete, a starting price might be $900. But for my friends, who I want to enjoy my work, I charge only $200 regardless of the size of the canvas.

So I recently posted this price on my Facebook page and a friend asked, "How much for 2?" As if the fact that he would buy two would diminish their value even further. And he's what you might call "rich," based on all outward appearances. 😢

I would love to know what his wife pays for her handbags.

Film Review: THE LAKE HOUSE

Okay, so sometimes I watch schlocky movies on Netflix when my husband is out of town. This one at least starred Keanu Reeves, an actor I could watch read the Yellow Pages and thoroughly enjoy myself. So I've established that I enjoyed myself, but still I found myself yelling at the screen a few times over how stupid the story is.

A time-travel romantic drama/fantasy also starring Sandra Bullock, right away you know we are not talking rocket science. But oddly enough, The Lake House (released in 2004) did turn out to be rather rocket-scientific, if for no other reason than the plot involves time and space and how we relate to them, no easy subject to comprehend. This conundrum is covered much more coherently in a novel called "Time and Again," by Jack Finney, which I highly recommend. (If you have not read it, just stop reading this and go to Amazon right now and order it... I'll give you a few minutes and find a picture to post while you're gone.)

The Lake House with the lake in the background and the magical mailbox in the foreground.

So anyway, The Lake House is after all about a lake house, one that is shared by two different occupants at different times. As one of them moves out, she leaves a note for the next tenant to please forward her mail. Fine, except the next occupant turns out to be the previous tenant. Kate (Bullock) is living in 2006 and Alex (Reeves) is living in 2004, and they can write letters to each other because of the magical mailbox out front which transports their mail almost instantly, despite them living 62 miles apart. (He's in Kenosha, Wisconsin and she's in Chicago.)

They exchange letters daily and fall in love, even though Kate is living "in the future." Ha! What future -- very little changes in two years except maybe the Twin Towers fell down, but still people drive cars not hover boards and everyone still eats at The Olive Garden, although God knows why. Still, if you are separated by two years you cannot simply meet for dinner, I guess, even if you both show up at the same restaurant at 6:30. It's those darned two years, I suppose. It's hard to grasp.

Still, the director made sure that every so often the couple meet before they knew what would happen later, like back when they were both living in the same year, so we can see them kiss. Nobody explains how Kate got two years ahead of Alex, and nobody explains how they have the same dog. Yes, the very same dog lives with both of them. It's odd, to be sure, but also oddly compelling to watch. I would say you should pour yourself a glass of wine, or maybe smoke some pot and just try to figure out if Alex is dead or alive at the end. I think he's alive, but his brother thinks he's dead.

Christopher Plummer adds gravitas as Alex's very famous, very grouchy architect father who withheld love and attention from him as a child and thus screwed up his whole life. Parents -- the true devils in cinema!

The Great, Great, Great Donald Trump

With my lunch today I sat down and perused yesterday's Sunday Times Magazine. As usual I found it disheartening to read the bios of the contributing writers, all of whom have won writing awards of one sort or another yet still nobody ever heard of any of them. It jolted me to realize that there are hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of amazingly accomplished people who nobody ever heard of. Artists winning scholarships and getting their work into museums, writers landing book contracts worth thousands of dollars, and yet none of them are famous and few ever will be.

Then I thought of the most famous person in the world: Donald J. Trump. Yes, he is surely the most famous, known in every country and written about everywhere. Headlines and articles and editorials in every newspaper are studded with his name. And if he is supposedly such a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad man, it's hard to understand his rise to the Top of the Heap, The Apex, The Zenith of our culture.

What does that say about the human race? And especially the Human Race? How has a man who is so despised become so important, despite the fact that he hasn't murdered anyone like Jack the Ripper, robbed anyone like Bernie Madoff or invented anything that benefits mankind? How did it happen? What qualities does he possess that others lack, making him such a Big Deal? While I lack the answers, the questions make being a nobody like me feel pretty good.

Secret Racists

It's so interesting, not to mention ironic and depressing, that the candidates currently leading the pack at this late date in the Democratic race for president are all white. So much for those politically-correct, unbiased, non-racist, white-man-hating liberals who talk a good game but rarely play one.

Gone are the candidates of color, since Kamala Harris quit and Tulsi Gabbard and Cory Booker have such low polling numbers they did not qualify for the next debate. I wonder why. Could it be that the real, man-in-the-street Democrats who are counted in polls and show up on Election Day are secretly not "liberal" after all?

I certainly see that among my Democratic friends, none of whom has any black people in their lives. In fact, the people I know who socialize with members of any minority are mostly Republicans, surprise surprise. This sad turn of events not only means that Trump will be re-elected in 2020 but that racism thrives under wraps, not out in the open where it is always loudly decried.

Andrew Yang, Millionaire Cheapskate

A friend of a friend has a friend who works on the Andrew Yang for President campaign. She asked her friend (of my friend) if the campaign could use her home to shoot a political ad for Yang in her New Hampshire kitchen. The friend and her husband, although not Yang supporters, said yes anyway, thinking it would be "fun."

Enter a crew of dozens carting cameras, equipment, dollies, electrical units, lighting, microphones and more. Chaos ensued. They filled the entire house, even stowing a couple of big amps on the bed in the master bedroom.

I have not heard if it was any fun. What I did hear was that not one penny of compensation was offered the couple; all they got was a cell phone photo of themselves standing with Yang. This is the very same Yang who promises to give every American $1,000 a month if he is elected president. The same Yang who, during the first Democratic Debate, offered thousands in prize money to everyone who registered at his website.

I asked a friend of mine who works in advertising if this all seemed odd to him. He fairly shouted that "Yes, it's crazy," explaining that anytime he had taken a film crew into a private home to shoot a commercial, the owners were compensated and all sorts of disclaimers for insurance coverage, damages, fire hazard, etc. were signed.

Rich people can be so cheap.

Sick of Gays

Over the course of my lifetime I have had countless gay friends. Literally countless. And family members, although not countless (5). So I can honestly say that the desire for one person to have sexual relations with someone of their own gender bothers me not a bit. Much less than a mosquito bite, or bad restaurant food, or getting a flu shot, or a host of other things I could name. It doesn't even register on my annoyance scale, and why would it? How does what someone does with their genitalia have anything to do with me?

So we can conclude that someone being gay is just fine with me. Or it has been until recently, when all the gays and their string of alphabets have become so militant, destroying businesses and suing those who disagree with their chosen sexual behavior, protesting restaurant owners who support anti-gay politicians, and all the rest.

What's got me to this point is reading the blurb shown at right in today's Wall Street Journal. Really?

From Wikipedia: "Because the Salvation Army is a church, Title VII of the U.S. Civil Rights Act of 1964 allows it to inquire into people's religious beliefs in its hiring practises. The Salvation Army states that it does not "discriminate against hiring gays and lesbians for the majority of its roughly 55,000 jobs,"^[150] but it has supported legislation which would allow it to deny employment and federally-funded services to lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender (LGBT) individuals."

Still the Salvation Army is present in 131 countries, running charity shops, operating shelters for the homeless and bringing disaster relief and humanitarian aid to developing countries. Their 2013 Mission Statement clearly states: "The Salvation Army stands against homophobia, which victimizes people and can reinforce feelings of alienation, loneliness and despair. We want to be an inclusive church community where members of the LGBT community find welcome and the encouragement to develop their relationship with God ... Our international mission statement is very clear on this point when it says we will "meet human needs in [Jesus'] name without discrimination". Anyone who comes through our doors will be welcomed with love and service, based on their need and our capacity to provide.

So to all you LGBTQs out there, I have one thing to say in language you can understand: STFU. Now excuse me while I go write a check to the Salvation Army, as the time to make charitable donations for this year is running out.

Don't Say Anything

If I had any strength of character I would discontinue looking at Facebook since it's often  idiotic. One bad feature is allowing people to comment. If there were no comments, you could just read what people post and if you had something to say about it, you'd pick up the phone and call the person instead of adding your two cents worth, which is usually more like half a cent's worth. Of course I could probably turn off the commenting feature, but then how would I stay abreast of how dumb people are becoming? (Let's face it, that's half the fun of the whole thing.)

This morning my news feed contained a lovely photo of Monhegan Island in the snow. I appreciated it since I love Monhegan and often wonder how it looks in winter, it being a summer destination for me and my husband. The photo engendered the following comment stream:
"Beautiful photo"
"Beautiful shot"
"Beautiful"
'So pretty....'

Three beautifuls in a row! I wonder -- did the fourth person who said it was "so pretty" really want to say it was beautiful but instead used a different word to be, well, different? And did the second and third responders each think they added something of value? And in fact did the first responder have to say anything? What about that old adage, a picture is worth a thousand words? Does that imply a thousand different words or the exact same thousand words?

The funniest part of the whole thing was that the picture was just okay. Had I commented I would have said, "Nice photo." But why would I?

Be On the Lookout

After living here for ten years, the only thing I can say with certainty is that Mainers are odd ducks. One example was a story on the local TV news this morning, which I rarely watch unless a storm is coming our way. Since that is the case today, I tuned in for the latest weather update just in time for the following story: "Mainers should be on the alert for feral pigs. While none have been spotted anywhere in the state, they have wreaked havoc in other parts of the country. So be on the lookout, just in case."

That sobering announcement was accompanied by film footage of two pigs cavorting inside a metal cage. They were both quite pink and adorable if you ask me, and since they were being held captive were obviously not feral but I guess that's all there was down at the TV station, pig-wise. Anyway, just in case, I am keeping an eye out. Actually I already was keeping an eye out as yesterday my husband and I, out for a drive, passed a yellow road sign that said: BE WATCHFUL FOR WILDLIFE.

So much to do here.