Black Hair Matters

Venus of Willendorf: Big boobs, braided hair.

Fact: America feels guilty about slavery. So to make up for it, black people can now get away with murder, literally (O.J. Simpson) and figuratively (all those Black Lives Matter signs on the lawns of white people).

Not a celebrity.

The latest example is something called "blackfishing," which means white people who try to look black online, for God knows what reason, I guess being black is "in" these days. A model named Amelia Gray Hamlin, the daughter of celebrities Harry Hamlin and Lisa Rinna, is being called out and CANCELLED online for posting a photo of herself on Instagram wherein she appears darker-skinned than usual. She also, horror of horror, has "big lips," which apparently blacks consider to be theirs alone, despite the common habit of Hollywood stars (like Amelia's mother) and plain old rich ladies getting injections to puff up their lips, which is supposedly sexy.

Making matters worse, Amelia is seen wearing her hair in a braid, which some claim is a hairstyle "invented by blacks." Really, someone should tell the Venus of Willendorf: ("The oldest evidence of hair braiding goes back about 30,000 years: the Venus of Willendorf, a female figurine estimated to have been made around 28,000 – 25,000 BCE, is depicted with braids in its hair.") 

"Blackfishing" is considered to be a tremendous infraction that pisses off black women who are not at all bothered by "whitefishing," which is when celebrities like Beyonce (and non-celebrities) dye their hair blonde, or Michelle Obama and just about every woman of color on TV straighten their naturally kinky locks.  

Hello fairness? Is anybody home?

No More Mr. Potato Head

My son, who is a professional naturalist, has been labelled a "racist" because one of the things he teaches people, children and adults, is how to make baskets out of naturally growing indigenous vines and twigs. The various morons, human pond scum and mental midgets who comprise the group "cancelling" him and potentially destroying his livelihood here in Maine, the state with the motto The Way Life Should Be, insist the craft of basketry belongs to Native Americans and he is the white man stealing from them, despite the fact that I have yet to find any basket classes in the area being taught by Indians.

Who you callin' Mr? Now he's Potato Head.

This sad, stupid, sorry situation makes me want to slit my wrists while sitting inside my car with the motor on in the garage with the doors closed after swallowing all the pills I can find in my house, with a wine chaser. 

Short of that, I will continue to weep for the lost intelligence of mankind, which now requires me to call it womankind or personkind or transkind or LBGTQkind or whatever the heck "they" have now decided. Included in all this nonsense are the folks at Hasbro, the toy company that makes Mr. Potato Head, who have caved in to "them" and renamed it Potato Head. We can now all rest easier in our beds with the knowledge that no potato heads anywhere, be they male, female or other, are offended.

The very worst part is that our government, supposedly led (ha!) by the addle-brained Joe Biden, has decided it's fine for transgender men to compete in women's sports. His executive order mandates that all students, including transgender students, be able to learn without facing sex discrimination, and as part of that, "transgender women should compete on female teams," according to the statement. 

Vaccines: Truth or Dare

Although the day before yesterday I grudgingly bared my upper arm for a shot of Moderna's Covid vaccine, I was never fully on board. Still, knowing that if I didn't get it most people would consider me a conspiracy theorist and danger to society hindering the herd immunity that will save us all, for the good of mankind I did it. (You're welcome.)

The following day was a throwaway. My arm hurt, of course, but besides that I was unable to do much of anything but sleep and weep. My head throbbed. Yes, I did not die and yes, it passed. But then today I read in the news that variants from abroad are showing up here in the US -- like in New York City, for example, which is only 90 minutes away from where I live as the crow flies. (If the crow drives it's six hours.)

Representatives for Moderna Inc. assert they are working on a new vaccine to fight the incoming variants from South Africa and other "emerging strains," since the current vaccine doesn't cut it. So why would I show up for the second dose (which reportedly has worse side effects than the first) of an ineffective vaccine a month from now?

Post-Vaccine Willies

So I get there and first thing some lady takes my temperature at the door, then directs me inside to a woman behind a computer. She takes my driver's license and looks at the photo to make sure it's really me. I am wearing two masks, a wool cap and sunglasses. She decides it's me, God knows how (see photo). She hands me several pages of reading material and forms to fill out. I go on to the form-filling-out room.

First thing I read is that the Covid-19 vaccine may cause severe reactions, possibly resulting in my death. I must admit I was nervous going in, but that really put me at ease. It went on to say that the vaccine was not really FDA-approved, that it might work and it might not, and that I could still get Covid even if it does work, so I need to keep masking, washing, and blah blah blahing. So now why am I doing this? My husband says just do it. I sign everything, agreeing to the fact that if I die it won't be anyone's fault but my own. And Mitch's. (Mostly Mitch's.)

Since I had checked off the box saying I do have severe reactions to certain things (bee stings, spider bites, mosquito bites) I had to stay an extra 15 minutes to be monitored, making it 30 minutes in all. But no worries since I wasn't even out of there in 45 minutes. That's how long it took to wait on a long line to make my appointment for the second dose.

Anyway, I got the shot. It was fine. A nice lady gave it to me, and oddly enough my arm felt sore almost immediately, like within five seconds. This was unusual, I thought, but then it seemed to feel better after about ten more minutes. On the drive home I got very sleepy --luckily Mitch was driving -- and once home I was exhausted. 

I'd say the most severe reaction is that suddenly I don't think Nancy Pelosi is a bad person after all. And Chuck Schumer, what a doll -- how have I misjudged both of them all these years? And Maxine Waters is such a sweet old lady, why did I ever dislike her? As for Joe Biden, what a mensch!

Pre-Vaccine Jitters

Tomorrow I am scheduled to get the coronavirus vaccine. I am not happy about it. I am not excited. I won't  be sending out a picture of me holding up my vaccine registration card and giving a thumbs up, like the one I got from a friend a few weeks ago. I envy him; he was so happy! While I am not.

I fear negative reactions to whatever the heck it is they inject into me. Hey, I get drunk from two sips of wine, and that's not an exaggeration. (In high school my nickname was Cheap Date.) I heard about one guy I know who fainted after his first dose. (Listen, I faint on a regular basis, and apparently for no reason anyone can figure out.) I fear getting a dose of something to make me more compliant and less of a pain in the ass. (I recently re-read 1984 and Brave New World and my paranoia where government is concerned is heightened.) And just who are the people who made it, anyway? And why do some "experts" say it might work, while others say it might not?

Whatever the reason, I don't want the damn shot. But I'm getting it because my husband wants me to, and supposedly my doing so will benefit everyone else in the world because it will help develop herd immunity. At least that's the official story. 

Bottom line: I'm getting it for you. (You can thank me later.) If I can, I'll report back post-vaccination. 

Film Review: NOMADLAND

Sad Fern and one of her cigarettes. Who knows what she's thinking.

After months of hype about how great it is, yesterday Nomadland was finally available for viewing by the general public via Hulu. Being hard-core fans of the actress Frances McDormand, my husband and I were pumped up and ready to be blown away, since all the advertising and promotional articles have called it a "cinematic masterpiece" that would likely dominate this year's Oscars. Here are a few highlights:

1. We get to watch a sad, middle-aged woman named Fern (Frances McDormand) live a meager life inside her beat-up van. In one scene she sits on the toilet and has a rather noisome bowel movement, after which she pulls out a roll of toilet paper and wipes her butt. (That was a cinema first for me.) 

2. Regular people, meaning non-actors, portray themselves as nomads living in vans, cooking over fire pits and living frugally on the edges of society. They are a shaggy, craggy bunch who all look like they could use a good scrubbing.  

3. There are many, many -- too many? -- full-screen, National Geographic-worthy shots of the mountains, rivers, deserts, clouds and mostly barren landscapes of Nevada, South Dakota, Arizona, Nebraska and California. If seeing the American West is your thing, you'll love it.

4. There is virtually no plot beyond this: Fern is a recent widow whose town dried up after the local sheetrock plant closed and everyone moved away. Mourning her dead husband, she heads out to see America and comes upon a community of other van-dwellers in the desert. Grieving the loss of all she had, Fern is mostly non-communicative throughout, although once in awhile she smiles. She manages to forge friendships with two other women, and is seen actually sharing laughs with both. But they each eventually drive off in their own vans. (Life is a river.)

5. A fellow nomad (David Strathairn) likes Fern well enough to ask her to come live with him, in a house owned by his son and daughter-in-law who are new parents. She visits him but ultimately rejects family life, and is shown being uncomfortable even holding the new baby for five minutes. She also refuses the offer of shelter from her loving sister (Melissa Smith) who loans her money when the van needs repair. Fern prefers to remain, as she puts it, "houseless." 

5. The film does not address the elephant in the room, which is that Fern is deeply depressed and cut off from her own feelings and those of the people around her. We are never shown what the heck happened to make her this way. What she needs, besides a spa day, a haircut and a pair of jeans that fit -- hers are like two sizes too big -- is several sessions with a good shrink. Also she should quit smoking, something she does constantly.

6. The musical score is beautiful and outshines everything else.

I Always Wanted a Big Brother, and Now I Have One!

Growing up with an older sister who, despite her best intentions, made my life hell from day one, I dreamed of having a big brother instead. He would protect me from bullies, make jokes and help me navigate the world. Now I do have a big brother, only he's a Big Brother, and his name is Mark Zuckerberg and he hasn't helped me in any way.

This morning he sent me a message saying I could not go on Facebook for the next 24 hours because I had used "hate speech" in one of my blog posts back in December. (Called someone a bitch, who clearly was one.) 

Honestly, the punishment hurt me not a whit. I have often gone days without posting anything, so big whoop. Besides, I have two Facebook accounts with different names, so now I'm using the other one. (Shhh, don't tell anyone.)

Not sure if this will post since Mark's note said I could not "go live" on the platform, and he might be smart enough to figure out I'm the same person as that bad girl. We'll find out just how up-to-speed they are over at Big Brother's place.

The Truth About Rush Limbaugh

Yesterday a bright light was extinguished: Rush Limbaugh died. I won't bother saying who he was or what he accomplished in his 70 years here on earth since you can read that anywhere today. Instead, I'd like to debunk some of the lies that are out there, spun by lefties who likely never once heard his daily three-hour radio broadcast, only edited clips taken out of context by the likes of Anderson Cooper, Rachel Maddow and Don Lemon and played on their nightly Republican hatefests on CNN and MSNBC.

Rush was not a racist. Not at all, in fact quite the opposite, he loved every single American regardless of who they were or their station in life. 

Rush was not a politician. He had no desire to run for office, thus had no need to lie about anything. He was an entertainer through and through, and his "shtick" was current affairs, history, Congress, the Constitution, and the foibles of those in power.

Rush was really, really funny. He was a great mimic, often doing impressions of people as he talked about them. Some of his best were Bill Clinton, Andrea Mitchell and Barack Obama. (The fact that Rush always called him Barack Hussein Obama made people think he was a racist, as if saying someone's whole name could be construed as a putdown.) He had nicknames for people; and his name for Joe Biden was "Plugs," dating back many years when Biden started going bald and got hair plugs. Even after Biden won the election, Rush still called him Plugs.

Rush was extremely kind. He was never rude to anyone who called his show, even if they were rude to him or represented opposing political views. His staff loved him and considered him a member of their family.

Rush loved kids. Whenever a child or a parent with young children called the show, Rush would have them give their address to his staff so he could send them gifts, like copies of his five best-selling children's books about American history (The Rush Revere series) or a laptop or iPhone if they didn't have one.

Rush was brutally honest, even about himself. He neither stretched the truth nor hid it. Knowing how loyal and caring his listeners were, he openly shared news about his cancer diagnosis beginning in February of 2020. In recent weeks we knew the end was near.

Rush was charismatic. Approximately 27 million listeners tuned in to hear his energetic, upbeat voice for three hours a day, five days a week. They came away with a deeper understanding of complicated issues regarding our government, our leaders and our foreign policies.

Rush made people smarter. As a conservative, he explained his beliefs thoroughly and clearly, at the same time clarifying the inherent problems with progressive idealism and anti-capitalism.

Rush was a bright spot during this pandemic. Now he's gone and all is dark.

Trigger Happy

Okay, are you ready for this? Math is now deemed "racist" so they might stop teaching it in elementary schools. And there's more: Suddenly a period at the end of a sentence is triggering to that generation known as "snowflakes", who are also triggered by the term snowflakes. Even though for the last 2,200 years the little dot has been used to end a sentence, to certain grown adults weaned on text messages it is a sign of suppressed aggression. Recently British writer Rhiannon Cosslett tweeted: "Older people – do you realize that ending a sentence with a full stop comes across as sort of abrupt and unfriendly to younger people in an email/chat?" 

As a baby boomer, periods at the ends of sentences do not offend me. Go ahead, send me lots of short sentences ending with periods, I won't care, I can handle it. In fact, there is no bit of punctuation that I find upsetting. Instead, I am triggered by other things that I can't handle, like the following:

Smile Train ads showing kids with no upper lip

TV commercials showing animal abuse

Joe Biden's holier-than-thou WASPiness

Kamala Harris wearing sneakers on the cover of Vogue

Nancy Pelosi's matchy-matchy face masks

rappers with gold front teeth

childen with cancer

fatties eating piles of French fries in public with their fat kids

Rachel Maddow's smug smirk

bad weather predictions that don't materialize

people without face masks shopping in the grocery store

phone recordings that say "Our menu options have changed" when they haven't, ever

power outages

when someone says, "It is what it is"

food that arrives cold even after you stressed that you want it EXTRA HOT

Anderson Cooper trashing Trump mercilessly even though his own brother committed suicide so you'd think he'd lay off 

Chris Cuomo having a TV show, or even a job

How Crazy Are the Democrats?

One of these caps will drive people wild. Guess which one.

My husband loves wearing baseball caps. This is mostly because he shaves his head and thus lacks natural protection from the elements, be they rain, sun or snow.  Sometimes he even wears one inside because, as he explains it, "My head gets cold."

Mitch is picky about his caps. No fan of corporate logos, any with one of those is immediately disqualified. He will wear one with the name of a town or a city he has visited if he likes the color, but his favorite hats are simply solid colors. Those are extremely rare, since baseball caps, like almost everything else in our society, have turned into advertising for someone.

Over the years, Mitch has found just three hats that are solid colors with no words or logos. One is olive green, one is tan and one is red. He likes the red one best because it is bright and cheery. Recently our son said his red hat is "triggering" because it is "MAGA red," and that Mitch should never wear it in public.

This is how crazy the Democrats have become. 

The End of Trump, Once and For All

If only the members of Congress would listen to me, we could all be spared a lot of needless expense. Despite his second impeachment, which found him not guilty of the charges, Congress is still not done with Trump. Their obsession, if anything, has only grown and they are now exploring other ways to punish him. These include invoking the 14th Amendment, whatever the heck that is, as well as conducting a "full-scale 9/11 type inquiry" into the events of January 6, which they fear will happen again unless Trump is mashed into a pulp, fully disgraced and unable to run for political office ever again.

So, as I said in my opening sentence, they should listen to me and read The Lottery, a short story by Shirley Jackson. It describes in detail how to get rid of Trump once and for all. For you non-readers, here it is: Trump would be placed in the middle of the National Mall, perhaps even tied to a crucifix just for dramatic effect. Then each member of Congress with hate in his/her heart, meaning all 221 Democrats and those seven Republicans, 50 Democrat senators and of course Joe Biden and Kammie, would pick up a big rock from the pile pre-arranged by Nancy Pelosi and throw it at him, one by one, until he's a bloodied heap of flesh. 

With Trump dead, finally the country could move on, although God knows it would put CNN out of business.

Getting The Vaccine

Yesterday I bumped into a neighbor I hadn't seen in awhile. Chatting about trivia, I asked if she had gotten The Vaccine. She said yes, about 10 days ago. I asked how, and she explained that her doctor's office had called and said she was eligible because she is over 70. "Hey, I go to the same doctor and I'm the same age as you and they haven't called me," I whined. (I could tell I was whining.) She suggested I call the office.

Even though I don't want the damn vaccine, still I was annoyed since everyone I know has already gotten it, except for my son and husband who are both too young, at least here in Maine. So I called. I was on hold for about 15 minutes listening to recordings of blah, bah blah, and finally a human showed up. She asked my birthdate and then said she would switch me over to the Covid appointment line since I am eligible, being such a dinosaur. (She didn't say that but her tone of voice let me know she was thinking it.)

Once on the Covid appointment line, a recording welcomed me and said my wait time on hold would be approximately 60 minutes. Naturally I hung up.

Next I tried Walmart's, since I had heard they had just received thousands of new doses, available at all Walmarts. There's one about 10 miles from my home. So I called. The recording said to go online. So I went online. I searched for the Falmouth, Maine Walmart on Route 1 and the website said there was no such place. So then I put in the zip code and suddenly there was such a place. Only there were no open appointments, from now until approximately forever.

That all took about two hours and I still had no vaccine scheduled. I swallowed an extra Vitamin D pill and that was that.

Death of a Teen

Dazharia Shaffer, the rising TikTok star known online as Bxbygirlldee, committed suicide on Monday. She was 18. Despite her 1.8 million followers on TikTok, and thousands more on Instagram and Twitter, she still wasn't happy. I wonder why.

Could it be because Cardi B, a former stripper who admits to bringing men back to her hotel after her show, then drugging and robbing them, is today worth $24 million earned from showing off her giant boobs and rapping about rape and niggas and hit me upside the head, while decent, hardworking people who toil ceaselessly as doctors and nurses in Covid-19 wards are barely eking out a living?

Or maybe she heard that "stimulus" checks from the government to help families pay their monthly expenses are also being sent to every prisoner, even those sentenced to life and those on Death Row, where their money only stimulates illegal drug trading.

Perhaps it's because Dazharia was confused by the grown-ups who are supposed to be intelligent.  Those elected to do the business of running America, allegedly the world's "best nation," are spending their time impeaching a man who is no longer in office.

Any one of these things is enough to depress the hell out of a young, impressionable girl just starting out in the world. Fortunately I am now old enough to realize that nothing matters except how you treat others and especially how you treat yourself. All the rest is just show business.

Nice Day

About ten days ago I hurt my back. I think it was from shoveling heavy wet snow, followed by doing lots of chores and topping it off with a 2-mile walk in new boots that did not fit well. Whatever the cause, since then I have alternated between sobbing, taking painkillers, lying flat on my back, slapping myself in the face and getting up and walking around, doing some back exercises, reading and watching some really bad TV. 

The point is, I hurt my back and now my life sucks. Which made me understand how bad life is for people who always have a backache, or have a terrible disease that makes their whole body an enemy, or a million other things that cause pain and make having a nice day all but impossible.

The whole "have a nice day" thing is so insulting to so many people who are suffering from emotional or physical pain. Who started it? And why? It never helps, in fact for me it does the opposite. Every time someone says it to me I want to stab them in the heart. Not that I ever would, of course, since I can't even kill a bug, but still, I want to.

So here's a tip on how to make the world a better place: Stop saying "Have a nice day!" to strangers. Say it if you must to your toddler going off to daycare, or your spouse going off to work, but please, not to a stranger who for all you know has not had a nice day in 15 years and won't have one today just because you suggested it.

When It's Okay to Say Nigga

At 27, white singer Morgan Wallen was on his way to becoming the next great country music star. Until last week when he got drunk with his friends, and as they dropped him off at home late one night he laughingly called out to one of the people in the car, "G'night, nigga!"

As is more and more common these days, with our every move increasingly under surveillance, a nosy scumbag neighbor recorded the incident and soon enough it went viral. Now young Morgan has been cancelled --  his talent agency fired him and his music has been dropped from radio stations and streaming services like Spotify and Apple Music. All because he said a particular word.

Funny that both of those platforms play songs by Cardi B, a former stripper who has admitted to drugging and robbing men in her hotel room "to get by" before becoming a superstar/slut performer (see photo) with a current net worth of $24 million. Most of her lyrics contain "nigga," like those shown below.

Yo
Yo my nigga
Yo what's good?
What you doing?
I'm chillin' and shit what happened
Yo I'm dumb tight right now
Like tell me how this nigga I was in the club and he was dead tryna style on me tryna play me like yo
I'm so tight I feel like these niggas be thinking just because I'm a BITCH like I don't be having bros to smack a nigga
That's crazy so what you want me to do?
What I want you to do? I want you to handle that that's what the fuck I want you to do
Aight aight bet say no more you already know I'm a slap his fucking head off his shoulders you ain't gotta tell me twice
Yo where this nigga gon be at anyway where he gon be at?
I'm a check his Instagram and whatever and I'm a see where he gon be at tonight
I can do it tonight
Or maybe tomorrow aight just stay on deck
Yo I want you to smack this nigga like if you was his father
I'm a violate him
That's what I want you to do
I'm a violate him don't worry you already I got you sis
Aight then love you bro
Alright love you too you already know

Film Review: 28 DAYS

 Eddie returns Gwen to rehab after she falls out a window.

Since new movies suck so bad these days I have taken to watching old ones I missed. One of those is 28 Days, released in 2000 and now showing on Netflix until the end of this month. I may even watch it again if the weather here in Maine doesn't improve; temps in the single digits combined with snow and ice make staying at home "to save lives" easy.

Sandra Bullock stars as Gwen, a sophisticated New York City writer whose traumatic childhood at the hands of her alcoholic mother is revisited several times in gauzy flashbacks. As always, the beautiful actress with the perfect body manages to impersonate a regular person quite convincingly. 

28 Days opens noisily with Gwen drinking and partying out of control. In the space of about ten movie minutes we see her dancing wildly on a bar, back home in bed with her boyfriend where her bra catches on fire, throwing on a dress and racing to her sister's wedding where she insults everyone she meets, falling backwards into and smashing the three-tiered wedding cake, running off in her underwear to carjack the honeymooner's limo, which she drives crazily and ultimately rams into a lovely house, crashing through the front porch and straight into the living room. It's a wild ride and if you don't have time for the whole movie, at least watch that. (I hope they did it in one take!)

After that, it's either jail time or a month in rehab for Gwen. From then on the film focuses on a group of addicts who have hit rock-bottom and ended up at a rehab facility in suburban New York. There are alcoholics, substance abusers and pill-poppers of all ages, races and genders. Working with their counselors, they each have a month to get it together. Some do, some leave and return, and one dies. 

A notable performance by Steve Buscemi as a deadly serious psychiatrist type is an interesting switch from the kooky guys he usually portrays. Also on hand and looking twenty years younger are Viggo Mortensen as Eddie, a famous ball player addicted to women and alcohol, and Elizabeth Perkins as Lili, Gwen's older sister whose wedding got trashed. Several other actors whose names escape me (including the guy who played Poppy on Seinfeld) but the face is familiar round things out.

Bonus: If you are addicted to anything -- drugs, food, booze, sex, whatever -- there are enough feel-good bromides tossed around in the script that one or two may hit home and actually be of help. 

I Will Not be Saving the Turtles

"SAVE US!" screams a headline urging you to donate to American Tortoise Rescue at Tortoise.com/give. 

A full-page ad in yesterday's Wall Street Journal warns that turtles will be completely gone in 50 years unless we do something about it. Now I love animals more than people, as anyone who knows me would agree. But turtles? I had to stop and think -- what do they do? How do they add to society, or the planet or the environment? Have I ever known a turtle personally? No, except for a cement garden statue I had for awhile and then gave away to a friend when we moved. 

I searched my brain for more turtle memories and finally found one underneath a pile of unread books with titles like The Rules of Football, Understanding the Stock Market and Taxes Made Easy, and it was a bad one: Once when Mitch and I were driving along a country road at dusk, at a fairly good clip since we had not seen another car in hours, suddenly there was a turtle in the road and we ran over it. I can still summon up the sound of the bump it made. I cried for at least an hour and thought of the turtle for days. That was about 15 years ago. Since then, nothing.

Then I remembered seeing a gigantic turtle in an aquarium somewhere. He was the size of VW bug. I wondered how they had kidnapped him from his natural habitat and stuck him there for people to gawk at. That was sad. Naturally I cried for hours about him too, and was reminded of a wonderful novel by Russell Hoban called Turtle Diary. Written in 1975, it concerns two middle-aged strangers who meet at a London zoo and devise a plan to emancipate a giant turtle and return it to its rightful home in the ocean. (Definitely worth reading.)

I did not have a pet turtle as a child, nor did I get one for my own child when he was little. I have never had turtle soup, if there really is such a thing since I have never seen it on a menu anywhere, here or abroad. Despite graduating from New York University and then working at several newspapers, magazines and even The Humane Society of the United States during my career, all I know about turtles is that they move very slowly and live inside their shells. 

I asked my husband how he felt about the demise of the turtles and his immediate answer was that he likes turtles. He went on to say that a turtle was his very first pet, that they live to be very old, like 100, and that he had three or four of them as a kid but they all died within months from soft-shell disease, which is why he had three or four of them, each one bought to replace the one that had died. (So much for living to 100.)

I am not sending money to the turtles. I don't care if there are no turtles in 50 years, but it would be fabulous if there were no cancer, which is where my money goes.

All News is Fake News

My dirty little secret is that I love getting into verbal spats, and even outright mudslinging, with total strangers on Facebook. I say things I would never dream of saying to anyone in person. This is because the people who initiate such things online are almost always morons, idiots, dumb teens or clueless snowflakes with big mouths who post comments on any and every damn thing they disagree with. Another group are well-meaning people who lack a sense of humor and thus think a bit of satire is meant to be taken seriously.

I got into one of those spats today with a girl, I'm pretty sure she was quite young, who alerted others that my blog post asserting that the Covid vaccine causes foaming at the mouth was "not a reliable source of information."

I was stunned to imagine that anyone would ever think it is. That's not to say that I lie. No, I triple-check my information before I write it. But sometimes I'm just joking, and if you can't tell when that is I certainly cannot be held responsible.

As for repeating fake news, hey, gimme a break: What news isn't fake? Twisted and turned into whatever shape necessary to appeal to a certain demographic that might buy their sponsors' products, even the weather reports can't be trusted these days.

Covid Vaccine Reactions

Several legitimate authorities have reported deaths and adverse reactions following the injection of both the Moderna and Pfizer Covid vaccines, often among the elderly but not always. A 60-year-old man in Norway suffered a fatal stroke three days after he received the second shot. Naturally, being old, I was a little nervous after reading this so called my doctor to discuss the safety of the vaccine and heard the following recording:

You have reached the office of Dr. John Doe. Please listen carefully as our menu has changed: 

If you have received your first dose of the Covid vaccine and wish to schedule your second dose, Press 1.

If you have received your second dose, are over 65, and are foaming at the mouth, Press 2.

If you have received your second dose, are under 65, and are having hallucinations, Press 3.

If you have received both doses and are tongue-tied, have an overwhelming urge to perform with  Riverdance, or miss hearing about and reading about Donald J. Trump, Press 4. 

For all other questions leave your name, date of birth and phone number and we will call you back when Hell freezes over.

A Really Bad Nightmare

Last night I had a terrible nightmare. I dreamed that a deadly plague was cooked up between China and some really bad people in order to increase the likelihood of an American candidate friendly to the Chinese regime getting elected in 2020. Yes, a lot of people all over the world would have to die, but when it comes right down to, these bad people thought, who matters more than the United States and China?

I woke up to go to the bathroom and felt shaky, but relieved to realize it was just a dream. But when I fell back asleep the nightmare continued! (Don't you hate when that happens?)

After many people the world over had died, the evildoers devised another plan to vaccinate all the people with a drug that would make them more compliant and happier with their lot in life. It would make strivers less strident, eliminate complainers  and instill in everyone the belief that the government was a kindly "big brother" whose only desire was to help them be happy.

The worst part was that anyone who doubted the wisdom of the government and refused the vaccine, thus leaving them with their own thoughts and the courage to claim things were not as they appeared, was shunned publicly and cited as worthless, doomed to fail in whatever venture they undertook. Families and friendships were ripped asunder. It was a cold, cruel world where brother spat upon brother.

Ultimately the few remaining non-believers were rounded up, vaccinated and re-programmed in order to rejoin society. This involved watching old Progressive Insurance commercials alternating with the documentary RBG over and over and over and over...

Thank God my cat jumped on me and I woke up. Wow, it was bad.

News You Can Snooze

I don't know about you guys, but where I live face masks are freely available at the entrance to every supermarket, drug store, restaurant and retail shop. In the resort town of Bar Harbor, Maine, they are given out at every street corner. So I was surprised to read the following news story this morning at the Huffington Post. It is printed below verbatim, augmented by my words in red to clarify it.

WASHINGTON — The Biden White House is considering the ridiculous plan of sending masks directly to American households, according to three people familiar with the discussions who are embarrassed to give their names, an action the Trump administration explored but scrapped because they recognized immediately how stupid it was. The Biden Covid-19 Response Team is evaluating the logistics of mailing out millions of face coverings at a phenomenal cost in the multi-millions that would be a total waste of money, but no decision has been made. The moronic proposal hasn't yet reached President Joe Biden for final approval, another anonymous White House official supposedly said.

Shut Up and Stick Out Your Arm

I'm no conspiracy theorist although I often see what's driving them. I am also not a spineless birdbrain willing to swallow whatever pap is fed me by the government and regurgitated through the media. These two facts combine into a slight but nagging reluctance to get the Covid-19 vaccine, the incessant touting of which brings to mind The Stepford Wives and The Invasion of the Body-Snatchers, two old movies that deal with losing your own mind and having it replaced with one more compliant. (Both films are fantastic, including the originals and the remakes, as well as the books of the same name upon which they are based.) 

An article in today's Wall Street Journal cements my suspicions that not all is kosher with our government, regardless of which political party is in charge. "YouTube Cancels the U.S. Senate" discusses two videos that were censored by Google, at the behest of the National Institute of Health, concerning a drug called ivermectin that cut the chance of contracting Covid to zero in a study of 1,200 Argentinian health care workers. As the writer states, "They have decided there is only one medical viewpoint allowed, and it is the viewpoint dictated by government agencies."

This reminded me of the brouhaha over the therapeutic drug hydroxychloroquine. Early on, many patients and doctors reported that it was a "lifesaver." Then President Trump started touting it and suddenly it was deemed to be worthless. Hey, I'm no doctor and I know relatively little about medicine. But sometimes it seems like our government is trying to kill us with kindness.

All the Angry Old Democrats

Name withheld for obvious reasons.

I recently received a forwarded message from a friend that consisted of a letter from the actor Clint Eastwood on turning 90. The first part spoke poetically about how he would miss living and that we should grab every minute we have alive. It ended with a walloping putdown of Joe Biden. I found it completely believable since Eastwood is known to be a stalwart Republican who fears reprisals from nobody.

 

Finding it both funny and affirming, and foolishly without double-checking its veracity, I forwarded it to eight friends of mine, six of whom are devout Democrats. Within seconds I received a poisonous response from one of the recipients (see photo). An old friend and former beau, he had no charity in his heart when he spit out the following:

"Tut tut, poor Andrea the poor misguided Commedianne, listening to right wing drivel all her waning years. I’ll bet you fervently think T**** won the election.And Mitch is a Great American and Greene is a thoughtful Congressperson. sigh.  Please keep your Fox/Hannity vomit to yourself,as it is embarrassing to hear wven fourth-hand. Tsk tsk."  

Hard to believe he signed his last email to me (the one before this) "Your old chum." Things happen for a reason, though, and I'm glad I found out how much he truly hates me before wasting more time on our supposed friendship.

Sez Who?

I recently wrote about the fact that the word Eskimo is now on the Do Not Say (DNS) list. What I want to know is who put it there. Who decides which words are okay and with are verboten? It seems to me that in a democracy, something that big should be decided by the people. How about  a referendum? Or a survey in the daily newspaper or online? Instead, we all just wake up one morning and suddenly we can't describe someone as disabled, or look forward to Indian summer. And no more Eskimo Pies? What I want to know is, "Sez who?" Is there a committee somewhere? If so, I want on.

Following are some of the words and phrases I believe should be stricken from usage, and at least I'm willing to explain why.

Savvy: What is that, exactly? Does anyone really know? People who use that word -- and by the way it's usually only in print, you rarely hear it in conversation -- are only seeking to make you think that they are savvy, not whoever they are talking about. Why not just say "smart" or "knowledgable" or any other normal words that people actually understand?

White privilege: Not a real thing, it was manufactured to make white people feel guilty for not being black, or for not having slaves as ancestors, or something like that. Nobody knows, but since pleasing black people is of utmost importance these days it is heard frequently, especially from black people on TV news. Recently a white, female high-school teacher in Berkeley, CA wrote an op-ed for the San Francisco Chronicle about Bernie Sanders being the epitome of white privilege because he wore a "puffy coat and mittens" to the Inauguration. The 79-year-old senator did not "dress up" and instead tried to stay warm, sitting outside for hours in freezing temps. OHMYGOD! Should he have worn black tie and tails and contracted pneumonia and died? Would that have been less privileged?  

Upchuck: This word makes me want to. Why not just say "vomit" or "throw up" and be done with it? Even "toss my cookies" is better, and that's stupid. Who is this Chuck anyway, and what's he been up to?

Plus Size: Plus what size? If it's plus a size 4, or 6 or 8 or 10 or even a 12, who cares? If it's more than that, then you are fat and that is that. Saying this meaningless phrase does not make you look any thinner.

Happy Hour: So you hate your job so much that you need to rush to the nearest pub to drink alcohol after doing it all day to make yourself feel good? It should be called Sadness Hour.

Gay: What the hell are they so happy about? Closing down bakeries that refuse to make them a wedding cake? And why that word? What's wrong with homosexuals, now on the DNS list?

Shrink: Someone who went to school to become a professional MD or whatever, in order to help you live without misery, addiction, or suicide, is to be lauded and applauded, not shrunk down in size. They should be called "Doctor," way more than someone who teaches English or whatever they teach in some college. 

Final Sale

So many of my high school classmates have died by now that it's giving me the creeps. I just heard about two more. Am I next? And if I am, what will happen to all my unsold paintings? And worse, all my handbags? Many of them are like new, since my obsession involves buying them but not necessarily using them. (It's a sickness.) 

Who will water my plants? Will they die with me? What about the cat? He will miss me terribly as I am the only one in the family who knows exactly how long to microwave his food. (He likes it not too hot, but not too cold either.)

The worst part is that I won't know how my son's life turns out. I swear, if I am reincarnated I won't have children or pets. Or plants. Or buy anything. 

I hope I come back as a monk. They live out their lives in one room in a monastery, have no material possessions and wear the same clothes every day. The long brown robe, the rope belt, the sandals. Sort of like Mark Zuckerberg, only poor. 

I hope I come back as a monk. But since I am still alive, I'm going to pile all of my handbags, or at least most of them, into my Audi A4 and take them to a consignment shop this week. As for my paintings, check them out on my website and if you want one it's yours for a song, any song, plus shipping. (www.andrearoudapainter.com)