About That Giant Trump Banner

Lately I have to keep reminding myself that humans are just like ants and that I'm a blade of grass and that everyone alive today will likely be dead 100 years from now, including the newborn who just arrived this morning, so let's all just calm down and try to have a nice day, if possible. To that end, I refuse to be troubled by certain things going on in the world that are, well, troubling. One thing in particular that falls into this category is the huge photo of POTUS on a banner recently hung on the facade of the Department of Agriculture in Washington, DC. (See photo.)

As a Republican who voted for Trump in the last election, and who has until now felt relief that our country is no longer being run by hidden figures lurking behind a demented elderly man who was clearly unfit for the job, I have to say that the enormous photo is blatantly reminiscent of Big Brother in George Orwell's novel 1984 and gives me the willies.

To be fair, there is another portrait of equal size right next to it of Abraham Lincoln, now long dead. It's all got to do with celebrating agriculture and Lincoln's founding of the Department of Agriculture and blah, blah, blah. Still, it's creepy and completely bizarre.

There, I've said it. See, not all Trump supporters are blind to his faults. But a blade of grass doesn't care -- all it needs is water, fresh air and sunshine, and I happen to have all of those at this moment so I'll let it go. 

And The "Most Stupid" Award Goes To .....

There are lots of dummies in the world, as everyone will agree. But surely the dumbest of all are the members of the group, Queers for Palestine. 

Even if you know almost nothing about what's going on in Israel, or in Gaza, or even Palestine, you may remember when, a few years back, a gay man was thrown off a rooftop by Hamas members. 

While some websites dispute the veracity off that event, one fact remains clear: Homosexuality in Palestine is strictly forbidden, and LGBTQ people experience persecution and violence at their hands. 

So how is there a group of people who protest against Israel under signs saying Queers for Palestine?

Fat-Shaming Goes International

The following paragraph is cut and pasted directly from my blog post of October 23, 2012, on the subject of what I would do if I were President:

"We all know that being fat is unhealthy, unattractive, and in some dire cases downright disgusting. I have said as much before. So when I'm in charge, citizens will be ticketed for every pound over the legal limit, which will be determined by experts such as doctors and insurance actuaries. You might be eating a Whopper at Burger King one day and have a cop come up to you, produce one of those new wrist scales where they can weigh you on the spot, and give you a ticket for breaking the Fatness Law. It might be like $5 per pound, or more depending on how financially strapped my administration is at that point."

Public weigh-in in Turkey.

Well folks, just today I read that something akin to this very plan is currently in practice in Turkey, in order to combat the rising rates of obesity in that country. Started on May 10 and continuing until July 10, Turkish citizens are being weighed in public, at random places, by government representatives. If deemed overweight they are directed to health nutrition centers for counseling and monitoring by dietitians, then re-weighed at a future date.

Naturally there is some pushback from the citizenry, who say it amounts to "fat-shaming" by the government. I say good -- being fat is shameful when caused by gluttony and inactivity rather than an inherent disease. It's about time that someone in a position of authority took steps to halt this widespread scourge that threatens the eventual extinction of our species.

Maybe I should run for president. After all, I'm the perfect age for it: I'm 78 now and I will be 82 at my inauguration. That sounds about right.

How I'm Like (and Unlike) Ina Garten

This morning, after a scheduled meeting was cancelled and I was free to do anything at all, I watched a cooking video posted by celebrity chef Ina Garten, a.k.a. the Barefoot Contessa. My affinity for her stems from my dear friend Noreen Welle who loved all things Ina, to the point that when we were in Paris together we spent half a day searching for and finally finding Ina's favorite street market for ingredients for our home-cooked dinner that night.

That Paris trip in June 2006 was Noreen's first and last as she succumbed to multiple myeloma at age 57 just days after Christmas that year. I still miss her dearly despite all the time that has passed and somehow seeing Ina Garten reminds me of Noreen, who was an ardent cook and credited her skills to watching Ina's cooking show.

The video I watched today showed how to make Chicken Piccata, which I do quite often only I call it the far less glamorous name of Pounded Chicken Breasts. Anyway, hoping to learn a few new tricks I watched it and was amazed that she made it exactly as I do, down to the very last detail. So great minds cook alike! Yet Ina's famous and I'm not. Close in age, also Jewish and born in Brooklyn, our similarities end there. Ina's net worth today is $60 million while mine is $0 million, and she has a swimming pool at her mammoth Connecticut mansion. (See photo.) 

I console myself with the knowledge that she's fatter than I am: at 5'3" she weighs 159 pounds, and I am 5'5 and weigh 142. Ha -- take that Ina! (Believe me, I'd rather be fatter with all the money and a pool.)

Bagels and Ticks

Growing up in New York I had access to almost every type of cuisine. By the time I was a teenager my tastebuds had scaled heights unimaginable to people raised in the boonies. Back then I never imagined I would live in a food desert, yet here I am in my late 70s, and it's no fun.

What I'm saying is there's no lox in Maine. At least none to speak of, meaning belly lox. Sure, Maine has plenty of Nova, or what I call supermarket lox, which is A, tasteless and B, still expensive, so why bother. Consequently, having "bagels and lox" is a rare thing at our house despite our being Jews.

Today we tried, and invited friends over for brunch. We had Bloody Marys, hoping the liquor would temper our expectations. The bagels were great -- fortunately we have an excellent source that produces as close to the real thing as we have found. Onions, capers, cream cheese, tomatoes, the whole deal, of course. But the lox. Not good. Salting at table can only do so much.

I know -- people are starving the world over and I'm complaining about the lack of lox. How ungrateful. Still, I'm hoping that someone might read this and realize there is a market for it, and other Jewish foods, here in Maine and move here and open up a good deli. As my father would say, "It could happen." Stranger things happen all the time. Remember, Kamala Harris became Vice-President and was a heartbeat -- and cancerous prostate -- away from having the nuclear codes. All I'm asking for is some decent belly lox in "America's Vacationland." 

Anyway, what we do have plenty of here in Maine is ticks. Wood ticks and deer ticks are literally everywhere, inside and out. I got a bite on the back of my neck recently and was literally miserable for days despite getting an antibiotic within 24 hours. I itched a lot, hurt constantly, wept openly and couldn't sleep for fear of all the terrible things I read on WebMD happening to me. 

So come along to Maine on your vacation and you won't be disappointed. Everybody expects ticks and nobody comes for the lox.

How to Become A Celebrity

Becoming a great actor or actress requires talent. But becoming a famous actor or actress, or celebrity of any kind, requires a long list of attributes but talent isn't one of them. What is needed varies for men and women, although both genders must be completely lacking in humility, modesty and the belief that we are all created equal. In fact, they must truly believe that they are better than almost everyone else on the planet. (Think Jennifer Lopez.) It also helps a lot to have famous parents, or maybe an uncle or aunt, to get you through doors impenetrable to the average person.

Women must have ample breasts and a big backside, real or fake, and the burning desire to show them off constantly, often bare and in whatever situation arises, in the most outrageous ways. Just today I saw a photo of the singer Rihanna arriving at the Cannes Film Festival in a dress with a slit up one side to the top of her thigh, completely baring her right leg, and a huge circular cut-out exposing her naked abdomen and tummy. Being pregnant, there was that "baby bump" that she wanted everyone to see. Why? Possibly to get her unborn child accustomed to being in the spotlight.

Male celebrities need a lot of what we Jews call chutzpah. They don't have to pose half-naked but they must be ultra-masculine and very cocky, no pun intended. Has-been TV star Jon Hamm is the best example: a little talent, a big ego, and a beautiful young wife -- the younger the better. 

Common human traits like compassion, pride, a desire for privacy, the fear of embarrassment, emotional intelligence, kindness towards strangers and self-knowledge are not only unnecessary but actually get in the way of reaching the upper echelons of celebrity status. I used to think that having a star on Hollywood's Walk of Fame was an important factor, until recently when actress Ellen Pompeo of Grey's Anatomy bought herself one. Who knew that's how they got them?

Look Who's Missing

I wonder if I had not been found after being kidnapped at the age of four, if the call for help would be an "Andrea Alert." Thankfully I was found and my parents were spared from hearing that sad reminder every time a child went missing. But who knew that an "Amber alert" -- first used in 1996 in the case of Amber Hagerman (see photo) -- just referred to a white child?

It didn't, of course. But today I saw an "Ebony Alert" online for a missing black girl. Really -- are we now making child abduction a race issue? And if she's not found, will that mean the police didn't try hard enough because she's black? And to be fair, shouldn't there be Brown Alerts (Latinos), Yellow Alerts (Asians) and Red Alerts (Native Americans)? 

Just asking.

Joe Biden's Prostate Gland

Joe Biden's "office" -- whatever that is -- has announced he has prostate cancer and now every last Democrat and Republican you ever heard of and lots you haven't are offering their "thoughts and prayers" to him and his family. Naturally they have all posted this sentiment online to ensure their reelection.

If I were to get cancer I would want the best oncologists available to put their heads together and come up with an effective treatment plan. That's it. If sending "thoughts and prayers" worked, my friends who are currently suffering with the disease right now would be cured. They're not.

Jim Comey's Shell Game

Shell game: A fraud or deception perpetrated by shifting conspicuous things to hide something else. 

Former FBI Director Jim Comey, who famously said Hillary Clinton was "extremely careless with classified information" and that "no reasonable prosecutor would indict her" for destroying laptops and cell phones that may have held incriminating evidence, is back on the front page. 

Eight years after Comey himself was fired by Trump during his first term and subsequently faded from the scene, suddenly he's out walking on the beach and just so happens to come across some seashells in the sand perfectly arranged to form the numbers 86 47, causing him to post a photo on Instagram of the "cool shell formation." 

After shocked reactions from many people Comey admitted he knew it was "political in nature," but he never knew that 86 inferred violence, as in "Kill Trump." How come I know? I'm an artist, not a lawman. 

What I also know is that James Comey is no dummy, and his little shell game is likely a ploy to get himself back in the news, just in time for his new book being released in a few days. Way to go, Jim!

The Homeless Look

According to its own editors, "Harper's Bazaar is your source for sophisticated, elegant and provocative fashion trends straight from the runway, makeup and hair inspiration, and chic wedding and travel ideas." As proof, the magazine recently presented the above photo of the daughter of Doug Emhoff, husband of Kamala Harris, dressed for a night out on the town. Her look was described thusly by the magazine's fashion experts:

"For the chic night out, the former second daughter wore a simple cropped black tube top beneath a relaxed beige trench coat. She then layered on a bandana-like, blue printed poplin skirt from the Italian house over a pair of light-wash straight-leg jeans. It was a creative, funky twist that instantly elevated the look and reflected Emhoff’s love for signature offbeat layering."

Film Review: NONNAS

Just released on Netflix, Nonnas has a stellar cast and not much else. Based on a mildly interesting true story about an Italian restaurant in Staten Island, NY, I sat through it mainly to see Vince Vaughn, a favorite actor of mine, in a serious role. He was great -- just as compelling as when he does comedy. So if you like him, you'll enjoy this movie.

Vaughn plays Joe Scaravella, a single sad sack who lived with his mother until his late forties. We meet him right after her death and he's an emotional, unmotivated mess. Friends suggest he do something new to move on with his life, so he uses his inheritance money to open a restaurant in his mother's memory. To be authentic, and as a unique hook, he hires Italian nonnas (grandmothers) to do the cooking. 

The eponymous grandmothers are played by Susan Sarandon (78), Brenda Vaccaro (85), Talia Shire (79) and Lorraine Bracco (70). The most fun comes from seeing these four dynamos in action as they first reject, then accept and finally come to love one another as family. Two other standouts are Bruno (Joe Manganiello) and Stella (Drea de Matteo) as Joe's best friends. (I was very happy to see Stella a.k.a. Adriana alive and well after Silvio, at Christopher's behest, killed her in New Jersey's Pine Barrens on The Sopranos.)

Most problematic is the script. For example, Joe doesn't hire any waiters but somehow all the food gets from the kitchen to the dining room. He opens a fabulous restaurant -- look for the backlit wine rack behind the bar -- with almost no money. Not one customer shows up for an entire month and so Joe decides to close the place, but first invites all his friends for a big party to use up all the food and a crowd of people arrive. Why didn't he invite them on opening night? That was stupid. But not as stupid as the food fight in the kitchen -- you'll know it when you see it.

The bottom line: Nonnas employs every cinematic and verbal cliche in the book, including musical ones, to tug at the heartstrings of a willing audience seeking to escape the harsh realities of everyday life. It doesn't succeed.

That Lady Is No "David"

"David"

Not David, now in Times Square.

A bronze statue of a sloppily-dressed, overweight black woman with braided hair now stands defiantly, hands on her ample hips, in Manhattan's Times Square, for reasons known only to the artist and whoever he convinced to put it there. 

Entitled "Grounded in the Stars," the 12-foot-high work was installed yesterday and will remain there until June 17. Meant to "celebrate marginalized people and bodies," and coincidentally compensate for all the statues of white men everywhere, artist Thomas J Price says his work is "a nod to Michelangelo's David." 

All I can say about that is "Ha, ha -- somebody get that man some glasses!"

Stop Beating Up Our President

So is this how it's gonna be for the next four years -- the bratty Democrats throwing daily tantrums over not getting their way, just like the last time they lost the election? I'm afraid so.

You may recall that the when Donald Trump won the presidency in 2016, the petulant losers -- each of whom had been elected by their constituents to make laws and run the country -- spent every waking minute seeking ways to kick him out of office. 

They famously invented the "Russian collusion story," which turned out to be a hoax funded by Hillary Clinton's campaign staff. What was not a hoax was the fact that Hillary had smashed her cell phone with a hammer and wiped her several personal computers with bleach to avoid having her crimes discovered. (Oddly enough, the Democrats in Congress and those who run the media had nothing to say about that.)

There was more, which honestly I have forgotten by now. Lawsuits involving his alleged womanizing, his alleged unsavory business deals and his alleged desire to end democracy and shred the Constitution all went up in smoke. What remained was his just plain breathing in and out, which pisses off the radical lefties to this day. 

Try to imagine how great our country could be if everyone worked together to achieve peace and prosperity for all, regardless of who occupied the White House. Who knows -- maybe Trump would do an even better job if people weren't always trashing him.

 

How My Cat Is Like Joe Biden

While he has not been professionally diagnosed, I am pretty sure my 17-year-old cat has Feline Cognitive Dysfunction, which causes him to behave more like Joe Biden every day. This is not as devastating for me as when my 57-year-old mother developed early onset Alzheimer's and died at age 62, but much sadder than if Nancy Pelosi, Maxine Waters, Chuck Schumer and Ilhan Omar all perished together in a plane crash.

Since Lurch never spoke English to begin with I haven't had to mourn the loss of us sharing deep conversations, but there are other symptoms that are blatantly disturbing. First of all, he seems to never know what to do with himself, and so sits in one spot staring into space for perhaps 20 minutes. Truth be told I do this myself quite often and call it "meditating," but I'm pretty sure Lurch is not repeating a mantra to himself. 

He also seems to have lost his appetite, yowls mournfully for no reason, and is no longer very affectionate to his human roommates. He hasn't hunted a mouse or a chipmunk in more than a year and even fresh catnip bores him. Another odd thing is his crying to get into the basement, which used to be his favorite place to hang out. He still cries at the door to the basement, so I open it and he walks down a few steps and then comes right back up. Still, he will cry to get down there again a few hours later.

But worst of all, and most Biden-like, he still demands to be treated like royalty. So we brush him and spoil him with treats and try various brands of expensive cat food and bring home new toys, all to no avail. I'm not proud to admit it, but despite feeling immense sympathy for him I am looking forward to his successor.

The Not Really News

Why is it -- with half the world at war, with children orphaned and starving, with entire cities destroyed, and with homeless people sleeping on the streets of our biggest cities -- that the headline story on my AOL home page concerning Pamela Anderson, an actress I have never seen perform, and her new hairstyle she recently debuted at the Met Gala (a party for the rich celebrities that occurred in Manhattan) spurred so many ordinary people who were not in attendance to comment as if it matters? Following are just a few of the  responses seen online:

"I hate her bangs."

"I had hair like that when I was seven."

"She looks like the Little Dutch Boy."

"I wouldn't leave the house looking like that."

"Who is Pamela Anderson?"

"Her stylist needs to be fired."

"Very dated hair and eyebrows."

"I thought she was Mia Farrow."

I was hoping someone might know.

The Shame of Anonymous

It's so sad to hide.

I've recently received a slew of negative comments on this blog from someone signed "Anonymous." Really, on this little blog written by a nobody -- that's me-- you can't sign your name? Why is that?

According to a psychologist at Australia's University of Queensland, "Some of those who choose to remain anonymous -- these so-called ‘keyboard warriors’ -- appear to be motivated by toxic behaviour.” So, in the interest of my mental health which is already a bit shaky, I have temporarily shut down the comments feature for The Daily Droid. 

This is actually no big deal since my most prolific commenters have been my husband, who can say what he wants to say to me in person, and my best friend Debra who was killed in a car crash almost three years ago and who since then has only communicated with me via digital clocks. Deb has never mentioned my blog, so I assume there's no Internet in Heaven. (Thank God!)

My hope is that this particular Anonymous isn't someone I know personally, although he/she certainly could be. My past includes many now-militant Democrats who are surely angered by my constant trashing of their party leaders, so you can't blame them for retaliating. Or could it be a waning celebrity, like Whoopie Goldberg, Joy Reid, Maxine Waters or Joy Behar -- the most common targets of my vitriol? At least when I insult them I sign my real name.

So, dear reader, if there's anything you feel you must say, contact me via Facebook or email.

When It Comes to Cupcakes, You Can't Go Home Again

"The story of the world’s most famous bakery begins in 1996 on a quaint, cobblestone corner in the West Village where Magnolia Bakery opened its doors for the first time. The sweet smell of cakes and cookies and pies and pudding tumbled out, wafting down the streets, beckoning all in."

The words above come straight from the website of Magnolia Bakery, which was once a magical sort of place fit for a fairy tale. I was among the adoring acolytes waiting on long lines that snaked around the corner and down the block from the bakery, no matter the weather. If it was snowing, you bundled up. If it was raining, you brought an umbrella. The cupcakes were that good. 

Once inside the tiny shop, in view of the glass cases displaying the goodies, you got busy deciding what flavor cupcake topped with which kind of frosting. By the time it was your turn you ordered enough for a small army since it had taken you half an hour or more to get there, and who knew when you'd be back. 

In the early days, when there was just one store in the Village, the cupcakes were literally to die for, topped with ethereal frosting that swirled a few inches up to the heavens. They were epic, unlike any other baked goods anywhere. So a trip to Manhattan to visit friends and family always included a stop at Magnolia Bakery.

Recently, all these years later, my husband flew home from a visit to New York and excitedly announced that he had brought some of the iconic cupcakes with him. How, I asked, remembering them as wonderfully fragile and fabulously messy to eat. Seems they had grown so popular they were able to expand all over the city, including an outlet at LaGuardia airport. Mitch made a few selections and flew those babies back to Maine with care.

Sadly, these cupcakes look nothing like those cupcakes. Now they are supermarket quality, half the size of the originals and grimly packaged for a long shelf life. Worst of all, the list of ingredients one cannot pronounce is distinctly unappetizing. So far I haven't tried one, whereas in the old days I had scarfed down two in the car before we'd even gotten to the Bronx.

Cisgender, Shmisgender

I'm confused about many things, but there's one thing I'm sure of: I am a female. My gender was declared at birth, and I don't think my parents relied on the doctor's opinion -- it seemed pretty obvious to them based on MY BODY PARTS!  (See photo.) Yet in these crazy, mixed-up times, to be considered cool, woke, fair and caring, I am supposed to refer to myself as a "cisgender female." What's that, you ask?

"The word cisgender describes a person whose gender identity corresponds to their sex assigned at birth, i.e., someone who is not transgender." -Wikipedia

Though I may incur the wrath of many, I will never, ever refer to myself that way. I started out as a girl, grew into a young woman, spent some years as a hot chick and morphed into an old lady. Cisgender, shmisgender -- I am female. 

How Gross Can We Get?

Internet ad for adult diapers.

An internet ad shows an extreme closeup of a woman's wet, denim-clad crotch, accompanied by a voice asking, "Struggling with incontinence?" 

An elected official responds to a reporter's televised question by saying, "Fuck off."

Movies and TV shows regularly shock viewers with people sitting on the toilet wiping their butts, or having oral sex, or writhing naked in strip clubs, or conducting nauseating and gory surgeries, both actual and pretend. 

When did private life become so indelicate, indiscreet, uncivil, and worst of all, public? And why? I have no answers, only questions. As someone old enough to remember when the word "cancer" was always whispered, and then only to a few close family members of the stricken, I can only shake my head in disbelief and wonder what's coming next.

Does Ilhan Omar Have Head Lice?

These are surely depressing times. I just watched a video wherein one of our elected congressional leaders told a reporter, on camera, to "Fuck off" because he asked her a question. It was Ilhan Omar. Remind me -- who let her in Congress? 

Since when is it acceptable to tell a reporter to fuck off when he is just doing his job by asking a question, and not a snarky one like I would ask, like "Why do you wear a head scarf, do you have some sort of condition?" Or maybe, "Did you really marry your brother?" Instead it was a perfectly legitimate question: "Do you think more of your colleagues will be going to El Salvador to visit that POS gang member imprisoned down there?" Only he didn't say that, he was very respectful and used the guy's name which I do not know. (I guess it's Kilmar something based on the photo above.)

Good thing I am no longer a reporter.