Democrats Gone Wild

If you have children now or plan to in the future, drop what you're doing and get to your local bookstore as soon as possible. Bring a big basket and buy as many of the titles in the "Classics" section before they disappear from the shelves faster than you can say "black lives matter." The lunatics on the left are busy as can be these days, doing their dastardly work in high schools and libraries across the US. 

To Kill a Mockingbird, the award-winning 1960 novel by Harper Lee (chosen in 2018 by a PBS survey as America's Favorite Book) is now being blocked from school reading lists because it portrays the protagonist Atticus Finch as "a white savior." All I can say about that is "Hahahaha and tee-hee." Equally funny is the canceling of Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter for the sin of "slut-shaming." As if being a slut is a good thing. As for Atticus, if I were a poor black man accused of raping a white woman in a town full of racists I would welcome the help of a good lawyer, be he white or black but especially white. 

Book burning has come to America. The modern day Puritans --they're called Democrats now -- have already taken down Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer, and in fact anything ever written by Mark Twain. John Steinbeck is a no-no, as is the entire Harry Potter series. And forget Margaret Mitchell's Gone With the Wind, just forget it entirely.

God help us if those two Democratic senators in Georgia win their run-off elections next week. Then surely we are all doomed.

Sign Language

I am so sick of those Black Lives Matter lawn signs all over the place! Every time I drive past one I have the urge to plow right into it. They are especially irksome here in Maine where there are so few black people, and it's likely the sign-posters don't know any. When will those signs go away? Do we have to see them forever, or will they disappear with the pandemic when we stop being so afraid of death?

Then, here in Maine, there are those big red heart signs, usually seen on the same lawns, although many of the heart-sign people don't single out black lives; they just love all people, one must conclude, and that surely includes black people. For just 21 bucks you can buy one online and tell the world how loving you are.

Best or maybe worst of all are the signs that proclaim, "Hate Has No Home Here." Like hate resides in all the other houses in the neighborhood that don't have those signs? Then there are the ones that cover everything -- it's like a whole paragraph and you could have a car accident slowing down trying to read them -- something about Love and Black Lives Matter and Immigrants, and more. I want nothing to do with those people.

What we need is a sign that says, "Take the Time to Find Out Who I Am." I may have one of those made and put it out front. 

Some Black Lives Matter Less

A teenage girl in Florida had her life canceled when a four-year-old tweet of her saying "nigga" went viral, thanks to the evil doings of one of her classmates, Jimmy Galligan, a mixed-race boy of the same age. The poor girl was only trying to be "cool" since she had heard the word used constantly in rap music by superstars like Cardi B. She had just gotten her learner's permit and said it as an an exclamation, not aimed at any one person. (She was not calling anyone a "nigger.")

Jimmy says he's "not sorry."

Next thing you know, her college acceptance was rescinded and a huge article in last Sunday's New York Times, starting on page 1 and taking up a full page inside, was devoted to making sure the world knew about it, thereby crushing her youthful dreams like Bill Clinton did to Monica Lewinsky. Here's an excerpt:

"Galligan had sat on the video for a long time, waiting for the moment it would do the most damage. After the girl—a cheerleader named Mimi Groves—was accepted to the University of Tennessee, the time had come.

The video depicted Groves, who was 15 at the time, and had just obtained her learner's permit, saying "I can drive, [slur]." The remark was not directed at anyone in particular. The brief video clip featuring it circulated on Snapchat until it was obtained and saved by Galligan, who had grown furious at how often he heard his white classmates using the N-word." 

I wonder if that boy ever heard the following lovely song by Cardi B:

Woo, yeah

Bitches be pressed (woo)
Bitches be pressed (pressed)
Woo, yeah, yeah, woo

Bitches be pressed (pressed)
They know how I'm comin', real bitch in the flesh (woo)
Who the fuck she gon' check? (Who?)
She be talkin' that shit, talkin' out of her neck (brr)
Put blood on her dress (woo)
Bitches be mad when they see Cardi step in the spot (whoa)
Said that you 'bout it, we know that you not
I'ma pull up on bitches as soon as I drop
Bought a new foreign, I might cop a yacht (skrrt)
Bitches in my business, they tryna plot (woo)
Hoes poppin' shit like they hot but they not (no)
Just flooded the wrist, the Patek, the watch (whoa)
Niggas be flexin', we know what you got
Cardi done had got the game in a knot
Fuckin' your nigga, I got him on lock
This go bang…

2021 Could Be Even Worse

The slutty-looking woman dressed like a common street walker shown above on the cover of Vogue magazine is disturbing enough, with her messy hair, naked breasts peeking through a smattering of sequins and sheer lace, and fingernails that could puncture your jugular when she gets pissed off, which she looks like she already is, but even worse is the magazine's cover line in all caps: VOGUE VALUES 2021, NEW YEAR, NEW WORLD. In smaller type we learn that this cover model (for want of a more accurate printable term) is "Dressing for the Future in Fashion That Matters." So I'm guessing that date rape will be making a comeback in 2021.

This is the very same magazine that has refused, for the last four years, to print a photograph of our First Lady, the beautiful, gracious, elegant and extremely photogenic Melania Trump, because she is a Republican. Yet they green-lighted this cover, perfect for teenage boys to jerk off to in the bathroom.

I wonder: just what are Vogue's values for the coming year? And exactly how new will the new world be? Is this how we can expect Jill Biden, or rather Doctor Biden, to dress? Only Editor-in-Chief Anna Wintour, who apparently slept through the women's movement and never met a feminist she couldn't demean, knows for sure.

 

Busy Bees Still Die

My husband is already worried about what he will do after he retires, like that'll ever happen. (I'm pretty sure he will work til his dying day.) I recently overheard him say on a Zoom call with a coworker, "After all, we've got to stay busy, right?" Stay busy until the day you die, and then it's over? That's one approach. 

I have a different one. Being an artist, doing nothing is easy for me. I try to do nothing as much as possible so I can actually notice my life while it's happening. Another benefit of doing nothing is that when I finally do die, there won't be much that I'll miss. It won't be such a Big Deal. It will be, as Seinfeld's Elaine described Jerry's eventual slide into senility, "a pretty smooth transition" for me.

My advice is to do as little as possible while still generating enough income for food and other basic necessities. I guess you could call it my philosophy: "If you take the zing out of Life, you take the sting out of Death."

Only half-kidding.

All the Words You Dare Not Say

It's crazy these days how the English language is being crippled by political correctness. Really, it's sort of retarded. Everyone knows the obvious ones, like the N-word, which means nigger, but every day more are added to the list of no-nos. Like now you can't say "picnic" because it has some sort of convoluted racist meaning. Same for the words slave, master, grandfathered, blacklist, and brown bag, as in a "brown bag lunch." These rules are made for us by the Words Matter Task Force at the University of Michigan. Thank God someone is on it! 

You can't say dummy. You can't say low-hanging fruit because it makes black people think of lynchings. The helpful folks on the task force suggest options, like saying "weakened" instead of "crippled" and "unthinkable" instead of "crazy."  So, in the giving spirit of the season and as a Jew, I offer the following list of words upsetting to my people that may trigger anxiety, and where possible offer inoffensive replacements:

camp (place in the woods)

camping (hanging out in the woods)

campsite (home in the woods)

concentration (think hard)

concentration camp (college)

Aryan race (murderers)

blueberry bagel (sesame bagel)

cinnamon raisin bagel (poppyseed bagel)

the game Yahtzee (Scrabble)

German chocolate cake (chocolate babka)

German measles (plain measles)

Germany (France)

holocaust (big mess)

hologram (sounds too much like holocaust)

ghetto (neighborhood)

trains (cars, planes, boats, buses)

showers (baths)

gas chambers (there is no substitute)

chamber music (rock, pop, soul, jazz, country, classical)

Volkswagen (Jaguar)

Weiner schnitzel (make something else)

finals (exams)

final solution (one way to do it)

furious (brings to mind Fuhrer, say angry)

hometown (brings up Hymietown)

"aw, shit" (sounds like Auschwitz, say "oh, crap")

RIP Leslie West, Mountain Man

The band, with Leslie in the middle

Leslie West, the larger-than-life creator of the rock band Mountain who rose to super-stardom in the 1960s and 70s, died yesterday at the age of 75. More to the point for me, he was just eight months older than I. (Older than me sounds better. That's correct grammar for you: if it sounds wrong it's right.)

I loved Leslie West (nee Weinstein, who knew?). Actually I loved his music, ever since I saw him perform live at the Woodstock festival, and then at smaller venues like New York's Fillmore East. Best known for the song "Mississippi Queen," still heard today as background music in commercials and on oldies radio stations, his guitar playing and singing captured the mood of his young fans perfectly, especially with a little pot to heighten the experience. He was fun onstage too, with a joking personality.

So I was saddened to read his obituary and learn of his on-again, off-again troubles with drug addiction. And weighing almost 300 pounds did not serve him well: he contracted diabetes and had his lower leg amputated when he was 66, a fact I never knew. His death was also a result of his weight, dying of cardiac arrest in his sleep.

As Queen would say,"Another one bites the dust." Never to be replaced.

 

Film Review: THE PROM

You know those movies that are so bad they're good?  The Prom is not one of those. We thought it was one of those in the beginning, but it turned out to be just so bad. For starters, it's a musical with people bursting into song whenever the scriptwriter drew a blank. Sadly, the songs all sound exactly alike, sort of like on a Jackson Browne album except Jackson's voice is like honey being poured into your ears and this is more like not that.

Meryl Streep stars, and as always is worth watching. Here she hams it up as a narcissistic Broadway star in a red wig and with a dazzling, over-the-top wardrobe, so the clothes are fun. Nicole Kidman plays a tarty chorus girl who looks like she might have anorexia. She's awfully skinny and shows a lot of it in skimpy costumes. The rest of the cast is okay, but just okay. Except for the head gay guy Barry, who is a train wreck. Played by James Corden, a straight actor who tries to act gay, he does this by flouncing around and using his hands a lot. I am not even gay and I was insulted. 

But the true star of the film is the LGBTQ community. Gays are coming out all over and isn't that heartwarming? They are supporting the protagonist, a high-school lesbian who wants to attend the prom with her girlfriend but the school board says no way. This makes the news and the Broadway gang, laid low after their new show receives dismal reviews and closes on opening night, hops a bus to Indiana to show their support for homosexuals everywhere and hopefully earn some good publicity.

There's tons of singing and dancing and schmaltz. We couldn't stop watching, our mouths agape for the whole two hours. It was directed by the guy who made the Glee TV show, so if you liked that you will love this, especially if you are about 12 or 13 years old.

Covid Christmas Letter

Dear Friends and Loyal Readers:

I would be remiss to not write my annual Christmas letter simply because we are experiencing a global pandemic. Today I got one of those from a friend who in past years shared details about her international travels but this year took several paragraphs to recount what shows she and her husband have been watching on Netflix. That and all their surgeries.

Speaking of Netflix, we recently installed a huge new "smart" TV in our living room just to make it official that we are never going out to the movies ever again. We're considering building a concession stand where the fireplace is and stocking it with Raisinets, Sno-Caps and Twizzlers, and maybe going the extra mile and getting a popcorn machine. You know, for the aroma.

While this isn't exactly news, I will say that I have several face masks I like to wear. I'm no Nancy Pelosi but I do have a few besides the standard blue paper kind you see everywhere. My favorite is a pink and white striped cotton one made by my dear friend, Jay. It fits great and doesn't cause my glasses to fog up. Another one is navy with white stars that I got at Ace Hardware for $6.oo. That's a lot to spend on a face mask but it's washable and likely will last the entire pandemic, unless that vaccine doesn't work and then all bets are off.

Naturally we have not gone anywhere outside of Maine, so there's nothing to report in the travel department. We did watch a great documentary about America's national parks the other night, and it reminded us of so many places we visited when life was actually fun. There was Bryce Canyon and Yellowstone and Arches and Zion and the Grand Tetons. Those were the days, weren't they?

If the virus had not arrived I could tell you about our two-week trip to Israel last April with our dear friends Teresa and Jim, but of course it did so I can't. On the other hand we've had some fun Zoom dates with friends in D.C., New York and Charlottesville, so it's not like we haven't thought about other places.

Mitch finally got his dental implants and I finally got done wearing Invisalign braces, so that's something.

My new favorite drink is a White Russian, but with only half a shot of vodka, otherwise I get too drunk. I have one almost every evening before dinner and I find although it's delicious, it hasn't helped much in the depression department. All I can say is "Thank God for Lorazepam!" 

We put up Christmas lights on a few trees in our yard since it gets dark at 4 pm here in Maine. What with the frigid temperatures and the snow and ice, things can get bleak.

Merry Christmas!

Sometimes Racism is Allowed

If we notice and then mention that the robber of a local convenience store was a black man, we are racist. If we ask our son or daughter if their new love interest is white or black, male or female, we are racist and sexist. We are not supposed to notice. We are supposed to pay no attention to skin color, gender choice or ethnic background. Such trivia doesn't matter to non-racists.

Yet incoming president Joe Biden, following orders from above, chose as VP a woman with little else in her history to merit becoming the leader of the free world if and when Biden develops that "mysterious disease" he said he would develop if it becomes necessary for him to resign, because of skin color and gender. He chose a black man to run the EPA and a female Native American to be the Interior Secretary. People who get excited about such things are excited about that since she will be the first Native American cabinet secretary ever. 

Mr. Biden has praised his cabinet as one of "firsts," with nine of his nominees poised to break barriers if they are confirmed by the Senate. "We'll have more people of color than any cabinet ever. We'll have more women than any cabinet ever. We'll have a cabinet of barrier-breakers. A Cabinet of firsts," he said. No word on how qualified any of them are, but hey, who cares? 

Still to come are the morbidly obese, the Little People, Latinos, the disabled, Muslims and those with mental illness. Can't wait to see who fills those slots.

Bye Bye Dems

Certainly with a few exceptions, like my son and my very closest friends who know who they are, I'm done with Democrats. Their blanket refusal to admit that this election was fraudulent is just plain idiocy. Whoever it is you want to be president, and it likely is neither Trump nor Biden, you at least want to feel that your vote is properly counted. And obviously this is no longer true in America.

Those people who jumped on the Biden Bandwagon, even after so many years of Biden being seen as a perennial loser noted for his frequent plagiarism, getting hair plugs, politicizing his dead wife and children for sympathy, sticking his foot in his mouth and now knee-deep in dirty deals with his son Hunter in the driver's seat, those Democrats who buy the party line no matter what, like saying Bill Clinton's sex life is his own business, have lost all credibility with me. I can't befriend someone with no mind of their own. What's the point?

Beautiful Melania is Always in Vogue

Anna Wintour, who since 1988 has been the editor of Vogue magazine, that useless print vehicle for high-end luxury advertisers, has been given a promotion. She will now be the Global Chief Content Editor for the magazine's parent company, Conde-Nast. This puts her in charge of all 25 editions of Vogue, which is sold worldwide, believe it or not, although I am pretty sure there is no Haiti edition.

Melania is a natural cover girl.

At 71, Wintour is what might be called "an old bag" were she a Republican. She has been accused of racism more than once by former employees. In a recent memo, she vowed to "do better" and "elevate Black staffers." The fact that she capitalized the word black is evidence she means it.

My bone to pick with her is that in the past four years, Vogue has never once printed a photo of Melania Trump, our most beautiful, fashionable, gracious First Lady who by the way is a former fashion model. Forget the cover, Melania has never even appeared inside the magazine. This is just plain dumb. Wintour is a Democrat, we get it. But 78 million people voted for Trump in this election, and lots of them are rich, and lots of them are women, and all of them love Melania. Doesn't Vogue want those readers?

Michelle Obama, certainly nobody's idea of a beauty or fashion role model, appeared on the cover of the magazine three times while her husband was president. Hillary Clinton, ditto, was on the cover too, as was Beyonce, a raunchy pop music star. But not Melania. I'd say that elevating Anna Wintour to a position of even greater power is a step in the wrong direction for Conde-Nast.

Prof. Sarah Parcak, Bitch on Wheels

Sarah Pancake, white privileged bitch.

As hard as it is to believe, a small firestorm is still raging over a recent op-ed piece in the Wall Street Journal on the topic of whether or not those who earn doctorates, which is 13.1% of the population, should be addressed as "Doctor" in everyday conversation. It was directed at Jill Biden, a.k.a. Mrs.Biden to me and Dr. Biden to the many feminist Nazi women out there who spend their days looking for any slight aimed at their gender, then call it an example of misoginy and rally their troops in for the kill.

One of these is, sadly enough, a teacher, or rather professor, of archeology at the University of Alabama. (Ask yourself: When was the last time you used archeology in your everyday life? If you answered "never" you got that right.) 

Sarah Parcak, not to be confused with  "Pancake" which is actually something of value in our lives, was OUTRAGED that anyone would dare utter such things as were uttered in the essay by Joseph Epstein, and which BTW I thought made perfect sense. A woman who teaches English is no doctor in my book, and I'm not calling on her in any emergency unless I'm choking and she's at the next table and knows the Heimlich maneuver. As for all the years of hitting the books to earn that degree, hiding out in school rather than contributing to the world has always struck me as a cop-out. But then, all I have is a lowly BFA from New York University, so what do I know? After all, nobody calls me "Bachelor."

Anyway, rather than addressing the entire issue calmly, as any mature 41-year-old educated adult might, Ms. Pancake took her white privilege to Twitter where she called the paper's Opinion Editor, "an angry, old white misogynist" and ended with, "F- the WSJ, F- Joseph Epstein, and F - their trash op-ed pages. Oh also, go F- yourself."

Nice work Sarah. I am so glad you are not teaching any of my children about digging up old bones. Or even how to make pancakes.

It's Crazy These Days

The baseball team known as the Cleveland Indians for the past 105 years is planning to change its name. This is because the name has been deemed "offensive" to those people who used to be known as "Indians" but one day decided that the very word was offensive, so now they are called Native Americans.

I can't help but wonder how the name hurt anyone. In fact, it seems rather an honor to have a professional team of athletes who each make millions of dollars named after your ethnic group. And baseball is not a deadly sport played by drug addicts or criminals in prison. Also, they weren't the Cheap Cleveland Indians or the Drunk Cleveland Indians, just the Cleveland Indians. But still, that's somehow bad. 

I wonder, has anyone checked to see if perhaps Cleveland is the problem? What if they were the Fabulous Ohio Indians? Or the Special Ohio Indians? Anyway, I suggest they change the name to the Cleveland Native Americans. Surely that would be okay.

Time for Two Americas?

I'm ready for America to split in half; where do I sign?

I'll miss some people for sure, but I often imagine how pleasant life would be without the constant and senseless nattering of all those lunatic lefties who think exactly alike, close their ears to anything they hadn't heard on CNN, MSNBC or read in The New York Times, insist that deaths from Covid-19 are the fault of Donald Trump, as if that's possible, curse all Republicans and call them "stupid" including brilliant minds like Trey Gowdy, Sen. John Kennedy, Sen. Ted Cruz, Rep. Jim Jordan, Victor Davis Hanson, and pundits Mark Styne, Ben Shapiro and Candace Owens, yet applaud simpletons like Rep. Maxine Waters, bumbling Alexandria Whatever-whatever, heiress Nancy Pelosi, Rev. Al Sharpton, Senators Richard Blumenthal and Chuck Schumer, and get their so-called "news" from Chris (Fredo) Cuomo and Don (Lemonhead) Lemon.

Cultural Appropriation For Dummies

Found online, posted by a Millennial. This is so wrong!

In today's nutty, nonsensical environment, white people cannot wear their hair in braids, or God forbid, dreadlocks. These are clearly examples of what has been popularized as "cultural appropriation" by the generation known as Millennials, those poor misguided souls. They also believe that whites must not darken their skin though tanning or other means. Other no-nos include the wearing of kimonos by anyone but Japanese people and the use of an Indian headdress in a Halloween costume. ( And the use of the word "Indian" except when discussing people from India, but that's another story.)

Oddly enough, somehow it's acceptable for African-Americans to straighten their hair and color it blond, conditions appearing naturally only in Caucasians. And nobody seems to care that hundreds of thousands of white teens and young adults sport nose rings and ear plugs, two hallmarks of other cultures.

One has to agree with Canadian psychologist Jordan Peterson, who in 2017 described cultural appropriation as "nonsense" and said that, "there's no difference between cultural appropriation and learning from each other."

Tulsi Gabbard and the Transgenders

This is nothing new, but the so-called mainstream media is a joke. Today I read an article about Hawaii Rep. Tulsi Gabbard, who introduced a bill that would essentially prevent transgender males from competing in women's sports. This makes total sense. But the headline of the story was, "Tulsi Gabbard Introduces Anti-Transgender Bill." Gee, I thought, how could she? But of course, she hadn't.

For those who don't get it: When transgender males who present themselves as women compete with natural females, they will almost always win, being stronger and bigger in most cases. This is unfair.

The whole transgender thing escapes me, if you must know. Yesterday I was in the supermarket where the checkout clerk, a woman I usually choose if I can because she is fast, accurate, has a great personality and I love her hair -- cropped very short, salt and pepper, sort of spiky on top -- wore a name tag for the first time. Her name was one I had never heard before, and so I asked about it. She quickly supplied the information that she had "made it up" because she is transgender, so she kept part of her given name -- a girl's name -- and added a new ending to make it more masculine. 

I was mystified. Did this mean she is now a man? If she is transgender, and started out with a female name at birth, that would imply she is. Or he is. Anyway, whatever she/he has done to herself/himself, it didn't work. Later on I asked my husband, who also knows the clerk from shopping at that market, what sex she is. "She's a girl," he said assuredly. 

I'm so confused.

I Might Be An Anti-Vaxxer

The news is all aflutter over the latest findings related to the Covid-19 vaccine, which somehow has been developed by three different companies, each of them employing human beings who we know are prone to error. We are told by His High Holiness Dr. Anthony Fauci that they all work, with one having 90% efficacy, another 95% and a third 100%. These are good results, to be sure, but still I'm hesitant. It seems awfully fast to pull off what has in the past taken at least four or five years, and in some instances, like polio and ebola, nine or ten. 

I'm not suggesting it's a hoax or anything like that. It's just that I'm already taking five pills a day for high blood pressure, anxiety and heart disease, making my insides a roiling chemical plant that causes me some amount of distress at random moments: dizziness, headaches, blurry vision come and go with no warning. So you can understand why I'm not eager to add a medication that might work, and might make me sick with symptoms of the coronavirus for a few days, or might not work, or might make bad things happen to me that nobody has even imagined.

Having been kidnapped at the age of four, I am naturally suspicious. I'm not saying this vaccine is a perfect way to implant that chip inside everyone that will give our incoming  totalitarian government complete control over our every thought and action, but the idea has crossed my mind. And it's still my mind, which happily can have such thoughts.

Hey, but you all go ahead.

Devil Woman

People all over the country are fighting for their lives. ICU beds are running dangerously low in some states. Deaths in the US thus far have topped 285,000. But take heart, all is not lost: Nancy Pelosi still has the time to plan which face mask to wear with what outfit. At a cost of $22 each from designer Donna Lewis, the almost 81-year-old House Speaker defends her fashionable masks, saying they "make a statement." 

I couldn't agree more. Since she wears a different one every day I'm guessing her mask budget for any month tops $700. Thus the statement is, "I'm rich and I wouldn't be caught dead in one of those blue surgical masks the peasants wear." What else could it be?

Her office did not respond to my request for a comment.

Film Review: MY OCTOPUS TEACHER

Now streaming on Netflix, the 2020 documentary My Octopus Teacher has much about it to love, although the thin "plot" -- for want of a better word -- is not one of those things. Instead you can almost turn off the sound and simply feast on the glorious and fantastic images of the undersea world, a world few of us know.  Teeming with thousands of incredible, wild creatures that could have been drawn by a Disney animator, they spend their lives in a forest of kelp, its fragile leaves waving artfully in the water. It's almost impossible to believe that it's all real. (I was fully expecting to see King Triton, Ariel and Ursula from The Little Mermaid show up any minute.)

The story, on the other hand, is as drab as dishwater and almost boring enough to put you to sleep. (I did nod off a few times.) A burned-out videographer (Craig Foster) takes a year off from his job so he can "be a better father" to his son. He hints at a troubled marriage, and we see his wife in shadow at the beginning, never to be mentioned again. Instead the man, who narrates his own mania while sitting at his kitchen table, recounts a year of his life spent diving underwater at the very same spot every day --  a bay in the Atlantic Ocean near Cape Town, South Africa. There he meets and falls in love with an octopus. Yup, you heard me. Falls in love.

Okay, so the octopus is an amazing creature, we learn. When it loses a limb, it grows a new one, and by the way it has eight of them. It takes on the colors and textures of its environment in a nanosecond, to hide from predators. It can get really big or really small in a flash. On the downside, it lives for just a year so don't get one for a pet. Still, the film makes you want to take up scuba diving right away, just as soon as this damn pandemic ends. Sadly, the man is not amazing. In fact, he's borderline nuts, perhaps over the border. Try to ignore him and see this unusual movie just for its escape value.

A Baby Boomer Lost in a Millennial World

I recently visited an optometrist for my dry eyes, an annoying but not life-threatening condition that afflicts 4.88 million Americans over the age of 50. Common though it may be, still it's a pain in the ass, as well as the eyes. Blurry vision, watery eyes, mild headaches and the inability to read small print even with perfect vision and great reading glasses sent me there.

This was the second eye doctor I went to. The first had recommended a treatment -- a special eye mask filled with beads that I heated in the microwave and then placed over my eyes for 20 minutes every morning -- that worsened the condition, so I decided to get another opinion. 

This one, Dr. X let's call her, appeared to have come in the morning mail. Okay, fine, I reasoned, she's young, fresh out of eye doctor school, full of the latest info. The fact that she wore yoga pants and a long t-shirt, an outfit I might wear when cleaning the bathroom, irked me, but hey, I'm old and stuck in my dinosaur ways of expecting professional people to look professional. Those days are gone, I chided myself.

But the woman-child knew nothing. She quickly examined my eyes and declared them perfect, concluding I had dry eye syndrome, which I had said on the phone when I made the appointment and again on the patient questionnaire I filled out when I arrived. She offered two prescription medications citing them both as "the very best available" treatment, and left the room to get me a sample so I could try some out. But she returned with a third drug saying, "I haven't ever used this but my colleague just told me it's new and pretty good. It's quite expensive so we'll have to see if your insurance covers it. Oh, and it won't start working for about two months. Anyway, I don't have any samples of the other ones."

I left with my one-month trial of the very expensive Cequa, a prescription for my pharmacy for more of the stuff, and an appointment for a check-up with the doctor in three months. Not being a moron, when I got home I read all I could find about Cequa on the Internet. I learned that it had some very serious side effects, and some less serious side effects. These included intense burning of the eyes upon insertion of the drops, blurry vision, watery eyes, headaches, increased floaters, increased sensitivity to light, haloes, urinary tract infections, lower back pain, and sharp pain in the side.

So I could start taking this costly drug and for the next two months feel a lot worse than I do now, and then maybe feel better, or not. I called Dr. X and told the receptionist that I would not be taking the drug and thus would bring back the sample packs. She put me on hold, then came back and said, " No problem. You don't need to bring them back. Just throw them in the trash."

The Election Was Stolen

Do you still believe in the Tooth Fairy? How about Santa Claus? No? Then how can you possibly believe that Joe Biden actually won the election? The evidence that it was stolen in the middle of the night, after people were told to "stop counting" votes for reasons nobody understands, except that Trump was ahead, is as clear as day. 

Donald Trump earned the hatred of every career politician the day he declared himself as a candidate for president. Then he had the balls to go ahead and win, blowing all their minds. They had to stomp him out, and his entire family as well, just like my husband and I have killed every fly we have seen in our home in the last few days.

I will never believe for a second that Biden got more votes than Trump, or than Obama did in the last election. Or that anyone chose Kamala Harris to be VP and ultimately president, except for the DNC Puppet Master, Barack Obama, who hand-picked her after she dropped out of the primary race for lack of any support anywhere.

In light of all the mounting stories of wrong-doing being completely ignored by the left-leaning press, I am now officially petrified of our next bogus administration, with its evil plans to pack the Supreme Court and make me pay for everyone's student loan debts and health care. I shall look away and close my ears to all of it. The only interest I have is seeing how long they permit Biden to stay in office before he gets "too sick" or dies, finally putting Fraulein Harris in full control.

Coming Out (Meow)

Dear Readers:

I want to share with you that I am trans, my pronouns are kitty/puss, and my name is Fluffy. I feel lucky to be writing this, to be here, to have arrived at this place in my life. Finally I can drop the charade, curl up in a ball and take a nap whenever I feel like it.

I feel overwhelming gratitude to the people who have supported me in this journey, especially my dear friend and veterinarian who has always given me treats whenever we get together. I can't begin to express  how remarkable it feels to love who I am enough to pursue my authentic self. I am especially grateful to my husband, who understands that while traditional sex between us is out of the question, I will always let him rub my tummy, scratch under my chin and brush my fur whenever he wants.

I love that I am trans. And I love that I am a cat. The more I hold myself close, the more I dream -- about chasing mice and reaching high for the bouncy toy on the end of the string and working out on the scratching post. Finally, I can live the life I was meant to live. As a loving feline I will do everything I can to make this world a better place, except of course for the local birds, chipmunks and aforementioned mice who are my natural prey and thus must die.

If you see me on the street, don't rush over to congratulate me. Let me come to you.

Hugs,

Fluffy

2023

I was at home, alone, when the pounding on the door came. I debated going to hide in our panic room but decided they would just kick in the door and it's only been a month since I had it repaired from the last time, so I opened it.  As I assumed, it was the Mask Guard. The biggest guy yelled, "You are not wearing a mask!" 

I nodded in agreement. I knew enough not to answer and get my admission on a recording like my friend did. She ended up in the service to Commandant Harris, doing her hand washables for two months. No thanks. He boomed, "Why not?"

I said the first thing that came to mind. "I have asthma, and my doctor said I shouldn't wear it indoors when nobody else was around." That was a total lie, and I hoped their lie detectors didn't pick it up or I'd be in real hot water.

"Fine," said the other guy, who was smaller and seemed to be a bit more humane. "Still, we will have to fine you," he said, handing me a yellow ticket. Then they turned and left, the mean one barking out, "We will check on that asthma story."

I wondered how I was going to pay the $200 fine and how I could convince some doctor I had asthma. Picking up my magazine, I read about life in Portugal, where people were sunning on a beach, maskless. If only I had moved there two years ago after they killed Biden and she took over.

Gender, Shmender

The young actress formerly known as Ellen Page recently announced his/her new name as Elliott Page on Twitter, where else. His/her new pronouns are he/his. Formerly gay, she/he is now transgender. This means she's a man now. For this she/he is being lauded and applauded by all of Hollywood for bravery, honesty and hipness. Publicly tweeting congratulations to Elliott signals to the world that you also stand for all that is good and pure and honest and true, and that you embrace equality of all peoples, and that you hope to expand your fan base to include all LGBTQs.

I/me don't get it. We try to get it, really, but it escapes us. So many questions: If you still get your period, do you feel manly? Or do those hormones make it stop? And is having a beard the key to being a man or is having a penis the key to being a man? Does losing your breasts make you feel at peace with yourself? If so, I want mine gone ASAP. And if gender is no big deal why couldn't she/he keep the name Ellen? I know a woman named Timothy who is very feminine and nobody raises an eyebrow.

Man, woman -- who gives a shit? The world is in chaos. There is a global pandemic which, as my cousin Brian pointed out, is widespread. Many thousands have died and many more are sick in hospitals. The economy is tanked. People are jobless, rendered homeless because they can't pay their rent. And while Elliott may be happier with his/her new gender identity, I hardly see how/why congratulations are in order. Move along people, there's nothing to see here.

A Bad Influence

This one's not on her Instagram page.

A 26-year-old woman who called herself an "influencer" on Instagram and a "mentor" to God knows who was found dead on the side of the road somewhere in Texas. No cause of death has been disclosed. In her role as "influencer" she posted pictures of herself online. Other photos included her with friends, all in revealing outfits, having fun at parties and art openings, etc. She was always laughing. 

Well, she's not laughing anymore. The dangers of posting your life online are by now old news. Don't do it.

A Flurry of Flies

The night before last, as I was getting ready for bed, I was surprised to see a fly circling the room. A common housefly, we rarely see them in the house even in summertime, ever since we had our new windows and super-tight screens installed. Oh well, I thought, maybe he got in through an open door. Moments later I saw another one. This guy was on my pillow, which really pissed me off/grossed me out. I killed him immediately, something I hate doing since it is, after all, a life.

The next morning, which was yesterday, we awoke to see several more around the house. One there, two there. What's going on, we wondered. Downstairs in the kitchen making coffee, three more were hanging out on the walls and one was on a lampshade. I became officially freaked out. I'd swat one and turn around to see another one right behind me.

Googling "flies in the house," I learned that they are attracted to open garbage. Well, we not only don't have open garbage, but when we have even the smallest amount of kitchen waste I take it to the outside trash bin. Obviously there could be only one explanation: We were cursed. But by who? Then I remembered that horrible woman online who had written hateful things about me in response to a recent blog post she found objectionable. I thought at the time she was a witch; it must have been her.

Last night a friend came for dinner (don't tell Dr. Fauci) and she agreed that we had a "situation" on our hands as we swatted away flies during our meal. They seemed to drop with just the lightest tap, so they were old and weak already. Possibly they had gotten the wrong address and thought this was the Fly Hospice?

I went to sleep gripping the fly swatter, telling myself that in light of the global pandemic this was nothing. Still, it really was something, and on top of a global pandemic! (Talk about adding insult to injury.) Happily, this morning has been fly-free. It's too soon to celebrate but I've put the swatter down to write this post, so perhaps it's over. What I want to know is where did they go and from whence did they come?

Karen and Sh'amiqa

As a white woman who was not born in a garbage dump, had plenty to eat as a child, had two functional parents and took out multiple school loans to go to college (which by the way took the next 20 years to pay off and no government, certainly not the president or the governor of New York, let me off the hook, rather they dogged my footsteps weekly with phone calls and threats if a payment was late), I deeply resent and am quite sick of the rise and use of the word "Karen" to describe white women "of privilege" who, through no fault of their own, had and have everything they need and through habit expect a level of comfort in life and are therefore considered to be racists.

This is considered acceptable by the masses. Nobody has spoken out against the Karen put-down or in defense of this type of woman, and in fact on Facebook there are several "Karen" pages full of snarky sarcasm and photos of blond white women related to the whole thing.

Now imagine if it became acceptable to use the name "Sh'amiqa" to describe a black woman who grew up in poverty, fatherless, was often hungry as a child, had four children with four different men by the age of 21, blames all whites for her predicament, and is considered to be a pathetic victim worthy of derision.

I said imagine.

Happy Thanksgiving?

I woke up this morning Covid-free. Or should I say Covid symptom-free, since I could have Covid and not know. Or I could die from it. Anyway, I am relieved since the media frenzy reached a fever pitch yesterday, with dire warnings about how gathering with friends and family to celebrate Thanksgiving was not all that different from shooting yourself in the foot, or maybe even the head.

Now that bad boy Donald Trump is slowly fading from the limelight, journalists are desperately seeking something to freak us out about since Joe Biden is such a snore. The virus is just the thing since it impacts every single person, thus the audience is huge for every little thing related to the CDC, NIH, WHO, FDA, hospital ICU beds, vaccines, masks, mandates, death counts, and anything uttered by Dr. Fauci.   

Yesterday, moments before my guests arrived, a friend from New York City called and read me the riot act about having people in my house, and at my age! "You must be kidding," he fairly shouted. Then he listed all the ways I might contract the virus, including being indoors, not staying socially distant, having all the windows closed, not wearing masks, sharing food, etc. By the time my son and his girlfriend arrived I was a blithering mass of nerves. Thankfully we stock plenty of alcohol which seemed to help, and by the time dinner was on the table I forgot to worry and didn't start again until this morning when it was too late.

The good news is that our newspaper was not delivered today, so I can remain blissfully ignorant of the latest horror stories if I'm careful.

How to Stay Healthy This Winter

I am not a dictator, hold no political office and consider myself about as important as a blade of grass, but I truly believe that the press is the enemy of the people, sentiments I share with the likes of Stalin and Mao. And more recently, Donald Trump. Perhaps in days past, the press had as its goal the education of the populace. That is no longer the case. For some time now, surely half my life, the goal has been to increase earnings via increased ratings, which morph into more advertising dollars. 

The Lords of Journalism have rightly discerned that sensationalism is the way to get more sheeple watching TV, reading the newspaper, logging on to the Internet and listening to the radio. They all share the same message:  Everything is a DISASTER! The world is in CHAOS! More people are DYING and the pandemic is SPREADING and you must stay IN YOUR HOME and talk to nobody but LOOK TO US for all you need to know!

Personally I find that staying connected to "the people who know things" quickly depletes my store of Lorazepam. It's not just me; according to reputable sources, "Prescriptions for antidepressants and anti-anxiety and anti-insomnia medications shot up 21% between February and March 2020 alone."

I beg of you guard yourself against this onslaught of negativity. Bake, cook, paint, run, hike, put in a new basement floor, winterize your garden, pet the cat, play with the dog, watch a movie, rearrange all the furniture in your house, read a novel, write a book, learn a language, listen to music, in fact do anything you can think of but for God's sake (and your own), stop ingesting the news. 

Welcome, President Geezer

"I'm the president? Of what?"

Sad but true, our next president (he should live so long) is a geezer. No matter how you dress him up, Joe Biden is old. As in "old coot," "old codger" and "ready for the glue factory." I'm willing to bet he has tinnitus, annoyed if not downright irritable bowels, some level of arthritis, and that he gets up several times a night to pee. His teeth are not original. He may or may not have cataracts. He definitely has dementia. 

After all, the man is 78. Trust me, by the time you hit your 70s it's not a pretty picture. I speak from experience, and although I'm four years younger than Joe, I'm in the same the ballpark. It's not a good one.

Today I went to the office of my cardiologist to get outfitted with a heart monitor. This was to learn why I get dizzy spells and pass out, or almost pass out, for no apparent reason. During a telephone appointment with a staff nurse practitioner (God forbid a doctor should waste his time talking to patient), I was assured that it was "no big deal" and would simply involve wearing "a little sticker" on my chest for 30 days to check my heart's functions. 

As it turned out, it was a big deal. In fact, deals don't really come much bigger. The "little sticker" turned out to be a hard plastic unit which held a plastic, battery-operated monitor that would send live data to some computer somewhere, manned by someone who would evaluate the various beeps and bleeps my heart outputted. The plastic unit and the monitor were about the size of a large Butterfinger's bar -- the kind they hand out in rich neighborhoods on Halloween, not the skimpy fun size. The whole clumsy apparatus was attached with some sort of skin glue augmented with adhesive tapes. 

There was a separate, dedicated iPhone sending the data that I had to keep within 10 feet of me at all times. It would beep continually, telling me it was working, and needed to be recharged nightly. I would have to replace the monitor every week, and change the tape holding it on my skin every few days. I could shower, but only with my back to the spray. WTF? And if the little green light turned orange, that was bad. And I had to do this, and that, and blah, blah, blah. After two nurses worked up a sweat getting it all taped onto me, I realized I wanted no part of it and instructed them to, "Get this thing off me!" 

For all I know, Joe Biden has one of those things on him. Or he may have something even worse -- who knows what happens between the ages of 74 and 78? Anyway, let's all pray he lives because if not it's that bitch on wheels running things, and that can't be good. 

Survey Says

These days everything you do or say online, or even in person, sparks an immediate survey asking how satisfied you were with whatever it was you just did. It's nuts! Also annoying, like we have nothing else to do but give them free marketing data? I remember when you had to pay for that kind of thing and also were paid to participate in a survey. Now it's just assumed you will tell anyone all they need to know in order to improve their services and thus wring more money from the public.

I began wondering if that survey thing could somehow work to my benefit. So starting today I will be sending surveys out to any and all people who come by for a visit, stay for a meal, use the bathroom or whatever. That way I can improve and maybe even get to a better spot in Heaven than I ordinarily would. You know, closer to God or something. 

Following is the one I have prepared for this Thursday when my husband and I will host two family members and a guest for Thanksgiving. (Please don't tell the Governor of New Jersey.)

2020 Thanksgiving Survey

1. How easy was it for you to find parking at the venue?

A) Ridiculously easy  B) Very easy  C) Somewhat ridiculously easy  D) Not at all hard

2. How worried were you that would contract the coronavirus at the venue?

A) Not at all worried, I'm a moron   B) Somewhat worried   C) Very worried, I'm a moron

3. How would you rate the meal?

A) Fabulous  B) Excellent  C) Stupendous  D) Yummy  E) All the of the above

4. How likely are you to recommend this venue to others?

A) Extremely likely  B) Very likely  C) Pretty likely  D) Highly likely

5. Who was your favorite person at the dinner?

A) The hostess  B) The host  C) The funny one  D)  The pretty girl  E) The cat

6. Which stuffing did you like better?

A) Cooked inside the bird  B) Cooked in a pan in the oven

7. What might have improved your dining experience?

A) Being allowed to take off my mask to eat  B) Not having my temperature taken every 10 minutes

8. Overall, how did this year's holiday compare with past holidays at this venue?

A) It sucked   B) It was similar except for all the anxiety  C) No different

9. Which politician is the most heinous?

A) Maizie Herono  B) Maxine Waters  C) Nancy Pelosi  D) Chuck Schumer

10. How likely is it that this year's election was not exactly kosher?

A) Very likely  B) Oh please  C) Are you kidding me? D) All of the above

Bye Bye Joe and Kamala (I Wish)

My mother died 39 years ago today. That bit of information helps nobody, not even me. It's just stuck in my brain, along with many other useless memories that occupy brain space and keep me from remembering what I had for dinner last night. My point is, wouldn't it be nice if we could just eliminate those memories that serve us no damn good, and in some cases actually cause ongoing sadness? Here are some of mine I would like to eradicate:

 The DC Sniper: For three weeks in October 2002, the city of Washington and its surrounding suburbs were terrorized by two crazy individuals driving around and shooting (and killing) people at random, as if all of life were their private video game. High-schoolers at the time, my son and his friends enjoyed tempting fate by going out into the city to "hang out" or get a pizza. Naturally this caused me, huddled under my bed at home, much angst. Actually, as I recall it was friggin' nightmare. If I could erase that memory I might be less wary of everything, and possibly ten pounds lighter.

John Travolta, once upon a time.

My date with John Travolta. I was in my 30's and single and he was my idol at the time. Through connections, I was designated his escort for an entire weekend of festivities surrounding The Kennedy Center Honors, for which he was one of the presenters. But he turned out to be a boring and insecure narcissist. (How many times did he ask me if his hair looked alright? About a billion.)

The time I left my date in Madison Square Garden after the Janis Joplin concert ended. It was 1969. I was a hippies. I told my date I was going to the ladies' room and would meet him out front but instead I just got on the subway and went home. I couldn't stand the guy and only went out with him because he had tickets to the concert, which by the way was a million miles beyond fabulous, so I would keep that part of the memory.  (Wrote one critic: "Late in the show, Janis performs "Bo Diddley" with her fellow Texan and guest star, guitar whiz Johnny Winter. The song becomes an extended jam when Paul Butterfield joins them onstage. The response of the audience is ecstatic.")

The time I coaxed my adorable dog Rufus to, "C'mon, get in the car, we're going for a ride!" Then we went to the vet, who put him down.

My father's dying of colon cancer. It took three months, coincidentally the exact dates of the first trimester of my pregnancy. 

Joe Biden and Kamala Harris. Somehow that tiresome twosome finagled their way into power. Not sure how they did it since neither one ever was a crowd-pleaser, with Kamala dropping out of the primary race early because she couldn't raise any money and Joe losing any time he tried running for president in the past when he wasn't even 78 and demented. 

2020. Obviously.

All that freed-up brain space might allow me to learn the rules of football, understand how to do my taxes and stop paying my accountant an arm and a leg to do them, and read maps. 

God Only Knows

I have never looked to any politician for guidance on how to live my life. Why would I? So many of them are broken, sexually addicted, egotistical, embezzling, amoral, lying and cheating fools, you'd have to be sorely lacking in so many areas to make decisions based on their examples.

So I find it truly shocking how many adult Democrats believe that the coronavirus has surged because of a "lack of leadership" on the part of Donald Trump. Who knew so many people cannot make their own health decisions? Interestingly they are almost always Democrats. God only knows -- and He's the only one that does -- what they will do when Joe Biden is their New Daddy, since he often doesn't even know where he is or who is standing right next to him, like when he introduced his young granddaughter as his dead son at a recent appearance. 

If you need someone else to tell you whether or not it's wise to wear a face mask during a raging pandemic, then you deserve to catch it.

My New Job

In 2020, every TV ad features either a black family or a mixed race couple. Every cabinet pick for the incoming president (who I shall not name) is either a woman of color -- any color but white -- or a black man. This means I don't stand a chance: I am white and actually burn easily when I try to tan, so darkening my skin is out of the question. Also, I am old, which is never good unless you are running for president.

Also quite popular these days, especially on new TV shows and in the wedding announcement pages of The New York Times are gays, lesbians, queers and all the rest of those letters in LBGTQAN, and anyone who is not cisnormative, which I am. I was born with a vagina and I still have it. Ditto two breasts. 

I am so over. In a way that's a relief, since nothing is expected or asked of me except to not get the coronavirus, which my son has begged of me. That's all I have to do. It's a full-time job, with no time off, but I can handle it.

Skirting the Censors

This morning, after reading an article on AOL about Michelle Obama criticizing President Trump for not conceding the election, I posted the comment, "Who gives a crap what that cow thinks?" I wrote that for several reasons: A, she is a cow and B, she's nobody now and C, it is within Trump's rights to not concede until he is satisfied all the votes are counted and D, that's the level of comments on AOL so I figured I'd fit right in. But no -- my comment was censored! I was given the option of changing it or else it would not appear.

I decided that "cow" had to stay, so I substituted "hoot" for "crap" and waddya know, they took it, which I thought was odd. If I had that job I would have disallowed the word "cow" which was the truly offensive part. Who gives a hoot if it says who gives a crap? But I guess they saw the word "cow" and figured, hey, cows are nice. They give us milk, are gentle and non-aggressive, etc.

Those censors have a lot to learn about reading between the lines, even though my husband says they are all computers and know nothing of our people. Still, you've got to get by them somehow if you want your opinions known. (Someone should offer a course in Skirting Online Censorship.)

When Comfort Food Isn't Comforting

Earlier today, after working out for an hour with my personal trainer at the CrossFit gym, I stopped off to pick up lunch at a local deli. After placing my order for a turkey-on-spinach-wrap with shredded lettuce and a few tomatoes, I waited and watched the other patrons. One of them was a big fat girl of about 25 years and 200 pounds who grabbed the following items for her lunch: a large chocolate milk, a large Coke, a large bag of potato chips and two slices of pepperoni pizza. I surprised myself by not being appalled but by being jealous: I wanted her lunch, yet there was no way I could ever order such things.

I tried to imagine what it would be like to eat with abandon, anything I wanted. I couldn't even imagine it; that's how screwed up I am. Even during this pandemic, when people are throwing caution to the wind, I'm still counting calories. (Thanks, Mom.) Arriving home in a sour mood, I determined to do some caution-throwing myself. The best I came up with was a bowl of All-Bran with 1% milk, a handful of raspberries and a lorazepam chaser. Still hungry (or sad), I sucked down a dropper-full of CBD tincture.

It's a wonder I'm not thinner. Or happier.

Film Review: JUDY

Renee does Judy. 

A complete nobody named Monica Castillo who has blue hair and is Hispanic (not that there's anything wrong with that), writing under the auspices of deceased film critic Roger Ebert, hated the film Judy. In her pouty review she trashes the directing by Britain's Rupert Goold and the acting by Renee Zellwegger, who won the Best Actress Oscar for her star performance as Judy Garland, as well as a Golden Globe and Screen Actors Guild Award for the same, among others.

According to Castillo, a.k.a. Señorita Blue Hair, "Goold manhandles these scenes with poor directing, barely masking Zellweger’s noticeable lip syncing. Some of the shots during the performances are unforgivably atrocious, cutting Judy’s face out of frame so that she holds less than a third of the screen and the empty air hogs the rest. It feels like an artless attempt to seem deep." (By the way, I never saw any such scenes, so WTF?)

Regarding the star, the Señorita says,"Try as she might, Zellweger’s Judy never goes beyond an impression of the multi-talented artist; her all-caps version of acting fails to allow the role to feel natural." All I can say about that is, "Hogwash!"  You heard me, hogwash. Judy is a brilliant movie, superlative in every aspect of filmmaking. The sets, the photography, the costumes -- it's all dazzling.

But the superlatives must be saved for Zellwegger who literally becomes Judy Garland without any distracting makeup devices intruding into the story, like Nicole Kidman's fake nose in The Hours or Gwyneth Paltrow's fat suit in Shallow Hal. It's just Judy Garland, alive again! Zellwegger does the singing herself, so give her extra kudos for that. And while her voice is certainly not equal to the haunting, angelic Garland's, it's certainly melodic and dramatic enough to remind you of the powerhouse that was Garland.

The busy script flips between Garland's earliest Hollywood years when she played Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz and her 47th and final year on earth in London, after her worldwide star had faded owing to her outbursts cursing at the audience and collapsing onstage, drunk and stoned. Garland's alcoholism and lifelong reliance on uppers and downers, fostered at the age of 12 by studio moguls bent on wringing every last bit of talent out of her while staying on shooting schedule, eventually took their toll in the form of fewer job offers and eventual poverty.

It's an emotional film that's difficult to watch at several points. But I held it together, repeating to myself, "It's only a movie," until Judy's -- or rather Renee's -- final rendition of Somewhere Over the Rainbow, sung in front of a huge audience, proved too much for me. I finally burst out crying bitter tears for a beautiful life lived so wrong at the hands of others: mean studio bosses who drove her like a dog, a series of husbands who mismanaged her money and left her destitute, and the harsh critics who called her "too fat" when she was a little girl and "too thin" when she was an anorexic adult on drugs.

And now along comes Señorita Blue Hair who didn't like the movie or the star's portrayal, the same one that Rolling Stone's Peter Travers, a critic we have all actually heard of, called "the best performance of the year."  I wonder, what have you done lately that we might remember, Miss Castillo?

 

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