Nothing Really Matters To Me

As usual, Shakespeare said it best: Life is "a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." Despite that, your average Joe, and by that I mean to include your average Jane as well, gets all hot and bothered over the slightest thing. This common occurrence can be seen constantly online in the comments section of every news article. 

I am sometimes guilty of this when it comes to grammar and spelling, if little else. It irks me when ordinary words are misspelled in print and I am quick to point it out, motivated by the desire to educate rather than chide the writer.

Most recently I corrected the spelling of the word "border," as in our southern border, that had been written as "boarder" repeatedly and by several different commenters, enough times for me to realize it wasn't a typo but that's how many people think it's spelled. So I, a former newspaper writer, chose to write: "It is spelled BORDER."

OMG. You'd think I had said that Hitler had the right idea. The wrath! The outrage! Clearly I was a scoundrel and most likely a Trumpie. So I will stop doing that. 

The bottom line is that I don't care if people I don't even know want to remain ignorant.  Go ahead, be a dummy. In the grand scheme of things, nothing matters anyway.

Paleface Bad

I get it now: Being white is bad. I finally understand how black people have felt for so long, and my heart goes out to each and every one of them (except for the murderers, rapists, looters, burglars, drug dealers, sex traffickers and gang members).

What's got me thinking this is that Senator Dianne Feinstein died last night, and California's Governor Gavin "Hairdo" Newsom was ready for it since she had already said she wasn't running for re-election. In a recent interview on CNN, he boasted that he will definitely appoint an African American woman to fill Feinstein's open seat because he wants "the best person for the job" and is "interested in representation." 

I would have thought those are two separate things, but no, not any more, since the former now means anyone who is black, as was seen in Biden's choice for VP and again for an open SCOTUS seat.

Go, blacks! As for us whiteys, it's over. Admittedly, we had quite a run.

How to Eat An iPhone Sandwich

Have you ever had a cell phone-leggings-sneaker sandwich? I guess they are quite tasty, considering how often the ingredients are stolen by allegedly hungry people. 

Like the night before last, when a mob of teenagers looted stores in downtown Philadelphia. Included targets were Apple, Lululemon and Foot Locker. Notice the stores were not Kroger's or Safeway or any other purveyors of food. Yet AOC, that saucy bartender-turned-Congresswoman from the Bronx, explains away these repeated crimes by saying that the looters, "may lack funds enough to feed their families so they steal bread to feed their children."

I wish that once -- just once -- an article reporting on these highly coordinated assaults on high-end retail establishments, now so frequent they are considered to be "an epidemic" by the National Retail Federation, would mention that almost every one of the looters is a young black person grabbing nothing edible. 

Obviously, fear of angering blacks is the biggest detriment to ending the rising crime in America's cities. So why not talk about it? How does it help anyone to sweep the truth under the rug?  Target's answer is to close nine of its stores in four states because of organized retail crime. If a store as large as Target can't handle the losses, how can any retail establishment?

Girls Will Be Boys

Tonight my husband and I will attend an open meeting of the local school board to discuss a recent proposal allowing teachers to keep information about their child's gender preferences from parents, even in elementary school. As you may have guessed we live in a very liberal town, which means most of the people here are obedient soldiers in the culture wars, following orders. Fortunately there are a few remaining independent thinkers who plan to make their displeasure known. 

One reason, we are told, for keeping this important information from the parents is that Maine has the highest rate of domestic child abuse in the country. The statistic being tossed around is that 2% of school-age children in the state are being abused at home.

Hey, here's an idea: Let's dig into that horrific situation and stop giving a hoot if 9-year-old Samantha now wants to be called Sam. If someone is abusing her at home, who cares if she pees in the boy's room or the girl's room?

Many Mainers are misguided mental midgets, and that's putting it mildly, although the sentiment is beautifully onomatopoeic. I'm sure the few dissenting voices at tonight's meeting won't make a dent in school policy, but still it's good to let them know we're out there -- watching.

What Keeps You Up At Night?

An op-ed in yesterday's Wall Street Journal addressed the grim reality that anxiety is rising for most Americans, especially among young people. Emergency room visits and recent federal surveys concur that mental health issues have soared significantly in recent years. Gee, I wonder why.

The author of the piece cited several reasons, including Covid, climate change, wokeness (fear of being cancelled) and the increased use of cannabis. Oh yes, and the very existence of Donald Trump. 

None of those do it for me. My anxiety stems from not knowing who's really running the government, since it's obviously not the doddering old fool in the Oval Office or the cackling brown lady who is good for nothing. So who is it? Not anyone any of us voted for, that's clear. At least not in the last election.

That's what keeps me up at night.

Democrats Seeing Clearly

Lately I've met several die-hard Democrats who vow to vote Republican in the next election. Finally they have removed their blinders and see that Biden is feeble-minded and Kamala is incapable of much should he die, which is a possibility despite the power of those behind the scenes who run the country. Also, Senator John Fetterman? AOC? Ilhan Omar? Are they kidding?

Age Happens

As expected, my recent blog post denigrating tattoos has elicited insults from strangers. Okay, I get it and they are deserved. But the insults lobbed at me are pathetic: I was called "a granny" and "old as dirt."

Biologically, one can become a grandmother as early as age 25. It has little to do with age and more to do with one's fertility and sexual activity and that of one's offspring. I am not yet a grandmother, despite being in my 70's. Talk to my son about it.

Next, as far as being "old as dirt," that's just plain silly. Dirt is as old as the planet, which is many millions of years old. Nobody can ever be as old as dirt.

Lastly, I can't keep my body from aging -- it's a natural process that occurs to all people who don't die. But I can choose to not deface my body, a personal act many people commit freely.

So go ahead and call me old. In fact, thank you.

Fat Is Gross

Is it just me, or are fat people seriously gross? My husband says that is judgmental of me, but then what is anything that anyone says but a judgment? 

It's cold outside, it's way too hot, this steak is too rare, I hated that movie, the music is deafening, the doctor is wrong, my foot hurts, your hair is very pretty, this wine is delicious, that baby is adorable, that comedian is very funny and this coat is too expensive are all judgments. But they're okay. But saying that Lizzo and her back-up singers, shown above, are too fat, way too fat, grossly overweight -- that's not allowed. That's being judgmental.

Well, that's crazy. (There I go again.)

Return of The Freak Show

Well, that didn't last long. My hiatus, that is. I decided that the world needs my voice. Most people don't know it yet because most people haven't heard it, but The Daily Droid is one of the very few places online where nothing but the truth is told, and little is held back. So onward I go into the fray, holding my nose since we all can agree that the fray stinks these days.

Back when freaks were freaks.

Today's topic boring a hole in my brain is the prevalence of tattoos among the misguided. This morning as I worked out with my trainer at the gym, I was visually assaulted by a woman working out near me. She had full arm sleeves and lots of ink on her back, her torso and her legs, and it was all pretty nauseating. A young 50-year-old, she is attractive under all the ink, but with it she looks like a freak in a circus side show tent, the kind they still had when I was a teen in the '60s.

Speaking of which, the first time I fainted was in a "freak sideshow" at a circus in Rye, New York. I can remember the whole thing very clearly: getting woozy in front of a cage containing "The Elephant Lady," whose skin was grey and wrinkly. Next thing I knew I was out in the sunshine, lying on the ground with someone holding a bottle of smelling salts under my nose.

I bet that so-called Elephant Lady was once a normal woman who got colorful tattoos all over her body, and as she aged they morphed into a leathery, gross, grey-ish blob covering her from head to toe. So look out for a generation of freaky people with elephant skin in about 40 years, that is if any part of this dying society still remains.

I'm Sick of it All

Last blog post for awhile as I am throwing my computer out the window, or into the ocean, or under the next oncoming Freightliner. The Internet is depressing, as is life these days. Everyone I know is depressed or has cancer or is in a nursing home or has a husband with Alzheimer's. Some of the best ones are dead.

I'm going out for a walk.

The End is Overdue

Believe it or not, I just saw this headline on a news site online: "Taylor Swift Steps Out in Knee-High Leather Boots for Dinner in NYC." There was a tease hinting at who she dined with but I didn't click.

The only thing I can conclude is that reading the news, even just logging on to my computer each morning, is a one-way ticket to Hell. I tell myself this again and again, yet I continue to do it. One reason is that I have so few local friends -- one plus my son -- that I communicate with friends living far away via email and Facebook to avoid being a total recluse.  

But maybe being a recluse is the way to go. After all, Sen. John Fetterman, a stroke victim and obvious whacko in addition to any medical condition he may have, was elected by Pennsylvania's voters to represent them instead of the sane, educated, distinguished heart surgeon running against him. Not only has Fetterman seemingly won the respect of his constituents, but now all of Congress has bowed down to his wishes for a relaxed dress code in the Senate. Do I really want to be part of that human race?

I mean this literally and with all my heart: If both my parents, long gone, were to come back from the Great Beyond -- like Emily did for one day in Thornton Wilder's "Our Town" -- and saw the state of our union today, they would immediately drop dead. My mother would drop first and hardest since she toiled in grass-roots politics for many years, finding it the only valuable and serious use of her time and deep intellect. Today, being involved in politics is less intellectual than flipping burgers at a fast-food joint.

When exactly is that giant meteor we've been warned about ever going to get here? It's way overdue.

Dressing for the Job

                                                          Guess which one is Fetterman.

Finally our lawmakers have come to the realization that what they do for a living is a joke, and thus it's now permissible for them to dress appropriately. (Too bad they didn't start this years ago and extend it to the Executive Branch, because I always imagined Bill Clinton dressed like Ronald McDonald no matter what he was wearing, red nose and all. And Joe Biden could always be wearing footie pajamas so he's ready for his next nap.)

Pennsylvania's Senator Fetterman, that mentally-challenged goofball -- can I say that without being arrested and sentenced to 22 years in jail like some of those poor saps who went to the Capitol on January 6 with little more than tomfoolery on their minds? -- has apparently set the standard for dress in the Senate. Seems that getting into a buttoned shirt and suit and tie is just too much for him, and he feels most comfortable in sweats and a hoodie, so now the entire Senate will enjoy Casual Friday every day of the week. 

All kidding aside, things just keep getting worse in the USA. It's gone way beyond making America great again -- how about just aiming for not embarrassing?

Lying Shall Set You Free

"I mean, you got the first mainstream African-American who is articulate and bright and clean and a nice-looking guy. I mean, that's a storybook, man." So said Joe Biden about Barack Obama during the primary run-up to Obama's election. Not only was Biden not canceled, or even chastised, but Obama then went on to name him as his VP.

Jump ahead to today, when Rolling Stone publisher Jann Wenner is ejected from the Board of the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame -- he was one of its original founders-- for saying something he believed in his heart: that Black and female artists were not as "articulate" as white male stars about the impact of rock music on their generation.

These days in America you dare not say what you think! Gee, I wonder where else that is true?

Good News is a Snooze

Here in Maine we are in the middle of a non-hurricane. As you might guess, it is not windy, not raining, and not life-threatening in any way. No roofs are being torn off, no streets are flooded and nary a tree has been uprooted. Best of all, or worst depending on how much stock you own in The Weather Channel, there are no power outages anywhere.

I find this annoying, since yesterday afternoon I spent about two hours carting all my outdoor flowering potted plants inside, lest they get drenched and/or blown to smithereens from the projected destructive winds of Hurricane Lee, even though it was ever only a Category 1 storm that was, BTW, never expected to make landfall. But those facts did not deter all the newscasters and weather forecasters from hawking their usual hysteria. After all, as my husband explained to me, bad news gets views and thus sells more advertising while good news is a snooze.

It's a shame that our collective psyches don't respond to pleasantries instead of horror. Imagine if you woke up to those dorks on The Weather Channel reporting, "This morning the sunrise was absolutely spectacular, I hope you caught it!" Or, "Be sure to check out tonight's moon, it will instill you with a sense of calm and blissfulness." 

Instead we are repeatedly told, this particular time non-stop for more than a week in advance, to head for the hills, seek shelter, stock up on food and batteries, cancel all outdoor activities and plan on hunkering down until the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad storm passes. And for God's sake don't get caught in any rip currents for they will truly be life-threatening. (Aren't they always?)

My best advice for staying in a good mood: Never watch the news. If your roof flies off you can deal with it then.

Reverse Evolution

I got over trying to figure out the gender of many of the young people I meet long ago. Basically, if you're not dating my son, I don't care. But today I became quite unsettled when I went to a store and literally was not sure what species the sales clerk was. It looked like something straight off the backlot of one of those Planet of the Apes movies, although not as cute.

At first I thought it was a male, since it had copious facial hair, a man bun, two hoop earrings and one of those snot-nose rings and a fairly deep voice. Then I noticed it also had breasts -- maybe a B cup -- and lacked an Adam's Apple, so I was back to thinking female. But what really stumped me was its demeanor, which was decidedly not human. It walked like an animal that was uncomfortable being on two legs instead of four, and was very unfriendly, almost threatening. It might have growled.

I left without buying anything and am still kind of freaked out. With the popularity of all these surgeries lately, could the human race be devolving?

Respect for the Non-tattooed

Neither of us feeling like cooking, last night my husband and I went out for dinner at one of our usual local haunts. Our waiter was a handsome, clean-shaven young man claiming to be 40 but looking more like 30. Anyway, he was wearing shorts and a t-shirt like all the other waiters, but something about him was different. At first we couldn't figure it out, but then we realized: his calves and arms were completely devoid of tattoos, whereas all the others were sporting full arm sleeves and matching back-of-the-calf nonsense.

Feeling like I knew our waiter well enough, having spoken with him a dozen times before, I asked, "Where are your tattoos?" I imagined a few on his shoulder blades, a popular spot for the men and women at my gym, every one of whom is tattooed. 

But no. He replied that he had none, adding that none of his five siblings had any either. No special reason, explaining that he just could imagine how bad they would look when he's older, and also what a waste of money. "People make choices in life, and that's not one of mine," he said.

See, every once in awhile you meet a good one. Respecting his decision and knowing he probably wouldn't waste it, we left him a big tip.

Astrological Mumbo Jumbo

"Your words could now surprise even you. You've got lots to say and do while the Moon moves through your 3rd House of Chatter, but the energy will get thrown off course when the Moon squares Uranus in your 12th House of the Subconscious, bringing things bubbling up from under the surface. You may say something that comes from out of the blue, and it could shock you as much as it shocks other people. These revelations can lead to major lightbulb moments!"

The drivel above could have come straight from a speech by Kamala Harris, as usual making no sense. But no, it is actually my Gemini horoscope for today, which I received in an unsolicited email from some Horoscope Person, I forget who already.

I can honestly say that none of it happened, whatever that would have meant. I had no major lightbulb moments. I was neither shocked, nor shocking to anyone else. Nothing bubbled up from beneath the surface.

It's crazy what some people do for a living.

Broomstick People

Do you know someone who has a broomstick up their ass? They live in many places, but are concentrated in blue states on the East coast. Usually they are women, and they are easy to spot: They are often a tad overweight or else anorexic, go gray early -- oh no, they would never color their hair -- and belong to book clubs, sometimes more than one.

That broomstick is their problem. It hurts, and so they are always in a bad mood, and rarely smile or laugh, certainly not at jokes they can't understand.

The city of Washington, D.C. is full of them, Nancy Pelosi being their leader and Queen of the Broomsticks, although I have met plenty of them here in Maine too.

Be on the lookout for them! Make sure not to use sarcasm in their presence as they don't "get" it. And let me tell you, if they find out you are a Republican they can make your life a living hell.

Change Isn't Necessarily Progress

From Vogue Magazine: How Men's Fashion Changed for the Better This Year.

I live in a small town in Maine. I'm talking a really small town, population 8,737 as of the 2020 census. When you think about it, what happens here in Freeport impacts the world's problems not one teeny, tiny bit. Still, the "town leaders" -- those kids who were class president or treasurer in high school and liked it and so ran for office as adults and got elected to the Town Council -- take themselves and their jobs very seriously .

It's good to have a hobby, we can all agree. But when your hobby is telling other people what they can or cannot do, it's obnoxious. For example, the latest edict to come down from the Climate Action Committee appointed by the Council is the demand that by 2030, 23% of all cars in the town are electric vehicles.  The other 77% can be gas-powered, pollution-belching, global-warming jalopies or what have you, but 23% will have to be electric. A hired sustainability coordinator suggested we adopt certain goals, one being to cut our carbon use by 64% and one of the ways we could achieve that is by the 23% EV goal. 

Personally, I don't want an electric car for several reasons, but mostly because they're dumb. You have to plug them in overnight and if you forget then you're dead in the water the next morning. I can barely remember to charge my phone overnight and I'm pretty sure I'd forget to charge my car. And even if I do remember, I can only go so far before I'll have to charge it again, and that's not very far. My gasoline-powered Audi can go 545 miles on a full tank without stopping if I were say, running from the police.  An EV can get between 110 and 300 miles, and only if you can find a place to re-charge.

But the real reason I don't want an EV is because it's just too damn woke. I want nothing to do with all this "progress" we are supposedly making. IMHO, things were better when men looked more like Paul Newman than Joanne Woodward. And when our president was young and vigorous, or even old and vigorous like Ronald Reagan, who at least had the decency to wait until he was out of office before he got Alzheimer's.

Darn Those Democrats

Why are some lies and liars more acceptable than others? How come when Bill Clinton, then a sitting president, had sex in the Oval Office with an intern, his supporters didn't care and said his sex life was his own business, but when Donald Trump, then a private citizen, was heard on tape merely saying a celebrity could "grab women by the pussy" and get away with it, those same people labeled him a sexual predator? I am seriously asking: Does one's political party define them? In this country, it seems to. 

On a personal level, I once had a friend named Mary. I gave her gifts at Christmas, encouraged her desire to paint and helped her enter art shows, hosted her for dinner countless times (always providing gluten-free foods for her), and repeatedly watered her large backyard garden for two weeks in the heat of the summer when she went on vacation. Yet none of that stopped her from suddenly, without warning, ending our friendship because she didn't like the things I blogged about. She also was quite upset that I used plastic straws, one time actually screaming that I was "killing the planet!" Mary also said she found the way I think unacceptable, and if I didn't change my thoughts we could no longer be friends. (I didn't and we aren't.)

I am a complex person politically, as are most of us. I started out as a Democrat, switched to being a Republican, and now consider myself an Independent. More important, politics hardly matters when it comes to friendship. Will that person care for you when you are ill, drive you to the airport, listen to your problems and offer advice if asked, watch your pets when you travel, lend you their car, etc? The essence of friendship is how you care, not how you vote.

Film Review: DARLING COMPANION

Streaming on Hulu, Darling Companion (2012) is easy viewing and a welcome change from the news of the day. Instead of migrants flooding America's biggest cities or looters ransacking department stores, watching a star-studded cast exercising their considerable acting skills is downright heartening. And for an hour and 43 minutes you can forget your own troubles and watch other people wallow in theirs.

Keaton and Freeway at bath time.

A family drama concerned with old-fashioned relationship problems between husband Joseph Winter (Kevin Kline) and his wife Beth (Diane Keaton), the "darling companion" of the title is neither spouse but rather an adorable dog named Freeway. After the dog disappears while on a walk in the woods with Joseph, Beth is even more unhappy with her distracted, work-obsessed husband. A three-day search ensues, involving visiting family members and a few townspeople, with problems befalling all of the searchers. 

A lame script is the biggest problem with this film, but even that doesn't dampen the fun of seeing Keaton, Kline, Dianne Weist and Richard Jenkins running around -- and around and around -- the stunning mountainous landscape (allegedly Lake Tahoe but actually it was filmed in Utah). There are also a few scenes with a young Elizabeth Moss before she became famous on Mad Men and Sam Shepard as a barely-recognizable local sheriff. 

Be prepared: If you're a dog-lover, you might cry.

Stuff Andrea Likes

Slippers, available in brown, maroon, tan and black

Imagine I am a huge celebrity, like Oprah Winfrey. And there is a website called "What Andrea Likes." It's hard even for me to imagine since there is no part of me that wants to be a celebrity, and even though I am talented I have never done anything to get anywhere, unless you count back when I tried to sell drawings to the New Yorker magazine for like six months and finally they bought some, and then bought some more, and then I stopped sending them.

Anyway, I'm big, and my fans want a list of things I like in time for Christmas so they can get gifts for their friends and family and tell them, "Andrea has one of these!"

So here's the list, plenty early enough to do your holiday shopping:

TEMPUR-PEDIC Slippers

World's Most Famous Mug Mug

Donald Trump Mugshot Mug

Maine Coon Cats

Maine Coon cat

See, it's a short list but I really like all of them. And not much else. This is another reason I am not a celebrity.

What Oprah Likes

I recently saw an ad selling the "Towels that Oprah likes." This is another in a long line of ads selling "what Oprah likes," including sneakers, a crossbody bag, sheets, perfume and her very favorite jeans. 

Are we all supposed to be motivated to buy something because Oprah Winfrey allegedly likes it? Especially knowing that she probably never even saw the stuff but instead signed a legal document saying they could use her name in exchange for a boatload of money?

The thing is, Oprah and I have nothing in common so who knows if I would like anything she likes anyway. Okay, fine, I'll take take one of the swimming pools at her six homes, and her yacht and some random furnishings from her $100 million mansion in California. But that's it -- my own towels work just fine. 

Politically Speaking

We currently have houseguests who are of the opposite political party. Two old friends we have known for many years are visiting, following about a two-year hiatus because of political differences. Back then, during Covid, what began as innocent conversations -- to mask or not to mask, to vaccinate or not to vaccinate, the merits of Dr. Fauci -- always ended up in heated arguments over abortion, climate change, the presidency, immigration, or you name it. 

This time we all know better and are studiously avoiding any subject that could lead down that slippery slope that ends up where Chuck Schumer is a moron, Donald Trump is a criminal, Joe Biden is a crackpot and Kamala Harris is just plain dumb. Instead we are talking about other things, like how to keep bananas from going bad so quickly* or the advantages of Medicare or what's the latest movie to see. During dinner last night we veered dangerously close to the edge when discussing the growing homeless problem in NYC, but fortunately someone had the wherewithal to change the subject. 

That's what you have to do these days to maintain friendships across the aisle. It's a delicate dance.

* When you get the bananas home from the market, separate the bunch at the top. This keeps them fresher longer.

DeSantis: A Man of the People

According to Forbes, Nikki Haley's net worth in 2023 is estimated to be $8 million. Robert F. Kennedy Jr. has $15 million. Mike Pence, a relative pauper, has $4 million. Donald Trump has $2.5 billion. Vivek Ramaswamy has $950 million. And what do all these rich people have in common? Every one of them emails me daily asking for money! 

Hahaha -- what a riot, since I have $0 million. My husband has some money because he works for a living, but nothing in the ball park of what all those politicians have. And yet they ask us for money so they can become even wealthier. 

It pisses me off that people running for office nickel and dime us for contributions they then hand over to advertising agencies for TV commercials trashing their opponents, and lawns signs, mugs, baseball caps and t-shirts emblazoned with their names. Meanwhile the poorest among us live in shacks, except the ones in cardboard boxes or under tarps, eking out a paltry living or begging for handouts. 

Here's an idea: How about if the politicians pay us? If I ever got an email from one of them saying, "I have mailed you a check for $500 to help pay your bills this month," I would definitely vote for that person. As for me, I'm rooting for Ron DeSantis, a totally normal guy: At the end of last year he was worth about $320,000 and still owed roughly $20,000 in student loans, according to a financial disclosure report he filed in June.