Jewish Paranoia On Sale Now

I keep hearing that antisemitism is on the rise everywhere, especially in this country. 

There are videos online about it, showing lots of protests pro and con, and scary shit going down in major cities like New York and Chicago. News articles and op-eds discussing the problem show up more and more frequently. Reports about NYC's Muslim mayor dissing a pro-Israel parade recently, coupled with an alleged rise in anti-Jewish crime, have increased my worst fears about some gestapo guys barging in and taking my house. 

But the funny thing is, I have not experienced one bit of antisemitic behavior myself. In fact, not once in my entire life. So far it's all hearsay. So is it real or not? And is it really as bad as it's being portrayed by people who sell disaster for a living?

Who knows. You are what you watch.

Time For A Name Change

When he's not posting on Truth Social or running the world, President Trump keeps himself busy by re-naming things. Well, I've got a suggestion for him that I'm pretty sure everyone would accept. Instead of calling our country the United States of America, which is a complete joke since the very last thing we are is united, it should be the Divided States of America. That at least makes sense.

Everyone's An Expert

I used to think there were people who were smarter than everyone else, including me. Then somewhere in my 30s it hit me: there aren't. I came to this conclusion when my gynecologist, a man I respected who had a great reputation, told me, and I quote, "All penises are the same size when erect."  Right away I knew two things about him: First, he was not gay and second, he was an idiot.

Around that same time I started seeing a shrink. I saw him on and off for 20 years and thought he was brilliant, giving me sage advice. But then after his unseemly death -- he drowned, drunk, in a hotel swimming pool -- I learned he was a raging alcoholic who was in and out of rehab several times a year. 

That was long ago and since then I've run into lots more dumb people. The internet is rife with them, all of them "experts" at something, who make videos touting their superior knowledge. A favorite of mine is a woman whose shtick is etiquette and how to dress and behave properly. Her Reels have titles like, "Five Things To Avoid Doing That Make People Dislike You" and "Six Things Never to Wear In Public." It's wild because she is so unlikeable and her clothes are always so ugly, yet she keeps making these videos and I'm pretty sure she's not kidding.

The truth is, each one of us is an expert in one thing -- ourself. Nobody is smarter about you than you. Just listen to your inner voice, unless you are schizophrenic and it's telling you to do bizarre things, in which case you should seek professional help. But Jesus -- good luck finding any.

Not All Birthdays Are Happy

As I have mentioned in this space recently, I am about to turn 80. This fact does not make me happy, and yes, I have considered the alternative.  I don't want to be dead, I just don't want to be 80. At least not in our society, where being old is the only handicap that is still allowed to be mocked. You can't say someone is a cripple or a retard or a fat whale, but you can call anyone an old coot, a geezer, a hag, an old fogey or an old bat, or say they are "over the hill" or "ready for the glue factory" and nobody cares.

Because of that, I do not see this upcoming birthday as cause for celebration. Still, others do and thus far I have had three different friends say they want to "take me to lunch" on my birthday, and I have already agreed to "go out to dinner" with my husband on that day.

Understand, I have lunch out several times a week, often with friends. And my husband and I go out to dinner frequently, certainly once a week if not more. So these outings do not in any way seem special, or make up for the fact that I am now an old hag, old bat and old fogey who is over the hill and ready for the glue factory.

My husband keeps asking what I want for this very special birthday. All I can think of is to be younger. Certainly chowing down some random restaurant food, probably poorly prepared by some 20-something, heavily tattooed and pierced line cook, isn't it. 

Living In Maine Without A Boat

When I take a break from making art, I am not interested in doing the following things: 

Bungee jumping off a bridge

Skydiving

Mountain climbing

Fishing

Eating lobster

Clamming

Shopping 

Demonstrating against Donald Trump

Kayaking

Camping

Going to a Whoopie Pie Festival, or any sort of festival

If I were, I'd be in hog heaven living here in Maine. Alas, I was born and bred in New York and thus like to do the following:

Attend professional theater

Wander through old bookstores

Eat great pizza

See famous comedians and musicians live in concert

Since nothing on that last list is possible here in Maine, I'm sort of at a loss on cold, wet, dark days like today, when hiking in the woods -- the one thing this state is good for -- is less appealing. Also, if I had a boat I could "go down to the boat" and work on it, or just sit on it and read, which is a very popular activity with boat-owners in these parts. I don't have a boat, so one of my major weekend activities is Wondering: How to spend this most precious gift of a day when I'm not sick or in the hospital or committed to someone else's project. I am doing that today -- in fact, right now.

Planet of the Apes

Whatever happened to modesty? How about privacy? These qualities simply do not exist anymore here in America. Everyone shows everything that once was considered too personal, and not just to a few people but to the entire world, or at least anyone with a Facebook or TikTok account. This might be explain why I feel slightly nauseous all the time.

Like just now, when I logged on to my Facebook account and instantly saw a video of a skinny young woman in her underwear exhibiting the gruesome stitches on the inside of both of her thighs, explaining that "most of the swelling has gone down" from her recent surgery for God knows what -- I didn't stick around to find out. What I wondered is, who cares? Why do we, or more specifically I, need to see that? Is Facebook now also an anatomy class in med school? 

What's next? Will people start posting photos of their bowel movements floating in a toilet bowl for praise or diagnosis? When will the downward slide of humanity come to an end? And how? Will we go back to being apes, or go all the way to primordial slime?  (Personally I have met many people who I'm pretty sure are already primordial slime.)

Circling the Drain, Feline Style

Both my parents died relatively young: My mother was 62 and my father was 70. (Or 72, depending on who you ask.) While I deeply mourned their early passings, I was spared the horror of seeing them disintegrate before my very eyes, a sad situation I have watched many of my friends endure. So I guess it's fair that I now have an old cat, who at age 19 or 20 -- depending on who you ask -- is slowly dying, or as one friend said bluntly, "circling the drain."

Big Lurch, his proper name at birth, was once a fierce competitor in the feline world. A Maine Coon who in his prime topped the scales at 18 pounds, he was down to 10 at his last vet visit and grows thinner every day. I'm pretty sure he is deaf and half-blind, with a touch of arthritis.

Even worse, he has feline dementia, also known as cognitive dysfunction syndrome, which says it all. He is definitely dysfunctional to the max, and yet atop his skeletal, un-cuddly body, his face is as beautiful and adorable as ever. 

Lurch has become very demanding, like a crotchety old person in a nursing home who hates the food, is always too cold, and splits his time staring out the window for hours or complaining loudly about his current situation. He tells me minute by minute when he is unhappy, or in pain, or wants treats, or wants to go outside, or wants to come back inside. His thirst is unquenchable, causing him to pee in his two litter boxes approximately 500 times every day. If I don't empty them immediately he will pee on the floor next to the box. As a result, I have stopped accepting all invitations in order to stay home and scoop his litter, since cleaning the mess on the floor is so much worse.

My conclusion is that God makes sure everyone gets a little of everything. 

Turning 80

The cover of People jumped out at me as I was paying for a tube of Preparation H and some Miralax at the CVS and it pissed me off, seeing as how Cher is the same age as me and looks like that, and I don't. She's likely got the same things in her medicine cabinet, since internal organs can't have plastic surgery. At least not yet.

Don't get me wrong -- I'm a big Cher fan. Her voice still thrills me and I love her spunky personality. But the blond wig, cheek implants, lip filler and God only knows what else make her look years younger, and that's cheating.

BTW, you know who else would be 80 years old today? Diane Keaton and Freddie Mercury, that's who. And I look a whole lot better than them. (But then I'm still only 79.)

 

Thank You, Fatties!

We didn't get any of these.

This morning my husband and went to a farmer's market in the next town, something we do on Saturdays in spring and summer. Held on the grounds of a local farm, it's a wholesome scene straight from a Lifetime movie set in New England. Vendors offer flats of seedlings and bags of full-grown spinach and lettuce so beautiful they look fake. Goat cheese and natural soaps and candles are showcased next to homemade pickles and bean salads. Three fiddlers sit in the middle of it all, filling the air with lively folk tunes. With lots of babies in carriers and little kids running around excitedly, it truly warms the heart. Except for the long, long bread lines.

No, not those bread lines -- the kind your parents said they had in Russia. I mean the ones you see all over America at any fair or public market: People waiting to buy scones, pies, bagels, popovers, doughnuts, biscuits, buns, cinnamon rolls, cookies, cakes, baguettes, pies, croissants and fruit tarts. Those vendors had the longest lines of all, and most of the people patiently waiting on them were, to put it bluntly, obese. I mean big.

Luckily, obese people are everywhere, showing us just how they got that way. Today I took them as a welcome warning to steer clear of those lines. Instead we left with a lovely hanging nasturtium and several cherry tomato and mini-pepper plants ready for planting, and not one unhealthy calorie-laden treat, proving that all those fatties serve a higher purpose beyond keeping sugar producers in business.

Paging Tony Soprano

It costs $30,000 annually per inmate to imprison someone in Missouri. So if someone around age 40 gets life in prison without the possibility of parole in that state and lives to be maybe 80, that's $1,200,000 of taxpayer dollars spent to allow him to keep breathing and contributing nothing to anyone.

This sentence has just been handed down to a man in Missouri who decapitated his 63-year-old mother in 2018 and has been in prison since then. At the time, he called the police and said he was "concerned about his mother," then when they arrived on the scene he wrote on a piece of paper that he had killed her, showed it to them, and then ate the piece of paper. 

Clearly our legal system is in need of some fine-tuning if that man is not worthy of the death penalty. Imagine what would happen to him if his mother had been a mob boss.

What A Way To Go

Some people die at home, surrounded by their loved ones. Others die alone, peacefully, in their sleep. And then there are those less fortunate, like the 56-year-old woman in New York City who stepped out of her car two nights ago and immediately fell 15 feet into an open manhole, its cover having been dislodged by a passing truck just minutes before. She landed sitting up and could be heard by a passer-by to cry out, "I'm dying, I'm dying," which she did shortly after at a local hospital. 

I think that's not fair and that God got that wrong. Everyone deserves a dignified death. 

War Is the Least of Our Problems

I recently read a story online about a woman who's worried about her mother because she is convinced she's in a romantic relationship with Barron Trump after meeting him online in a chat room. They are going to get married! Forget that he is 20 and she is 53 -- just forget that part. And that he is the son of the president. Forget that too. How crazy must someone be to believe that?

Then I realized that I must be crazy to believe there is such a daughter and such a mother. The whole damn story is probably made up! And yet many commenters, like hundreds of them, offered help and gave advice to the distraught daughter. Unless they were all made up too.

I become more frightened daily for the future of the human race. I tell myself to stop reading anything online because most of it is fake, but then I ask myself: Who is making all that shit up? And why? Is it a person or a machine? There's no way to be sure that these very words are not being written by a computer. Am I even real?

Decisions, Decisions....

Would you rather be raped by a dog trained to do so by an Israeli soldier or watch your baby get beheaded by a Hamas terrorist? I think most people would choose the first option, and although both are horrendous beyond anyone's imagination, they are topics we can find written about in a number of news sources these days.

Fortunately none of us have to choose between the two options cited in the opening paragraph. I mention them only to illustrate how very complicated modern life is. Like, is that person in a dress with pink hair and a beard male or female? Who would make the worse president -- Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez or Pete Buttigieg? Here in Maine, should I vote for the young Nazi sympathizer who lies about his past or the Senator who has served admirably for the past 29 years? 

Just this morning I had another tough decision to make. Needing to see my doctor, I called the practice. After holding on for about 20 minutes, a member of the "admin team" answered. I described my problem and she came back with two options: I could see the doctor I've been seeing for the past 17 years who knows all about my recent health issue at 2:15 this afternoon, or if it's an emergency, an unknown physician's assistant at 1:45.

Which would you choose?

Fantasy Type-casting

Some people in Hollywood are in a tizzy about a new movie coming to theaters this summer. In director Christopher Nolan's The Odyssey, a black actress has been cast as the historical figure Helen of Troy, who is described in Homer's written epic as "fair-skinned" and "white-armed." 

Liberals say it's racist to even notice it. I wonder, would they notice Meryl Streep playing the lead in a biopic about Rosa Parks? How about one with Timothy Chalamet as Emmet Till? 

The Odyssey is being dubbed a fantasy, and with good reason. Trans actress Ellen Page, who still looks like a pre-teen girl but wants us to believe she's a man and calls herself Elliot, is also in the film, playing a male character. 

I cannot wait to not see this movie!

Ignorance Is Bliss

Here's some advice you can take to the bank: Stay away from the news if you want to be happy. 

This morning I woke up, which in itself was worthy of applause, and found that my 19-year-old cat had also lived through the night and was hungry, two things that made me happy. I made a pot of coffee, another positive, and went outside to get the newspaper, drinking in the glory of the early morning dew on all the blossoming trees and shrubs. The world looked good. 

Then I read the newspaper. Big mistake. Turning the pages, my good mood evaporated in less than five minutes. Here's what I learned:

1. President Trump is apparently out of his mind, using his Truth Social platform "to spread conspiracies and attacks" while the rest of us were sleeping. 

2. Teenagers are being banned from shopping malls due to their violent "takeovers" that have "devolved into physical fights, robberies and gunfire."

3. Restaurants across the country are losing money because so many Americans are on weight-loss drugs.

4. AOC, that dummy-spinoff of Kamala Harris, is definitely considering a presidential run in 2028. Not only that, but she's a front-runner! (No, this is not a dream.)

5. Drug overdose deaths fell to a new low of 70,000 in 2025, which is considered a positive trend. 

6. Young men in their 20s and 30s are smashing their faces with hammers and other blunt instruments in order to get a stronger jawline.

7. "Jew-hatred" is on the rise in America.

8. Most students at Princeton cheat on exams using AI.

Sorry. I don't write the news, I just report it.

Long Overdue Loners Anonymous Meeting

"The Persistence of Memory" by Salvador Dali

To paraphrase, and at the same time completely alter the meaning of a popular saying, "We can't go on not meeting like this!" It's been seven months since our last get-together and we've likely got so much bottled up inside us to not share with anyone.  This is an especially appropriate time for me to be a Loner since my husband, who I live with, has been out of town for the past three days and will remain so for one more day. Consequently I have hardly spoken to a soul, except my trainer at the gym for an hour one day and another one tomorrow.

Since my closest local friends are still in quarantine owing to a bone marrow transplant last November, it's basically been me and my cat Lurch from dawn to dusk, and I do mean dawn. (Lurch starts meowing for breakfast before five in the morning.) Sad to say, he isn't much company these days, being 19 and suffering from feline dementia. While I find it unfair that my cat should be so afflicted after having had a mother who suffered from early-onset Alzheimer's, clearly we don't get to choose our troubles.

The truth is, being alone has its benefits. It allows us to focus on the fact that life is ticking by, minute by minute, hour by hour. (See illustration.) When we distract ourselves with meaningless activities, the days  pass quickly in a blur, and suddenly it's tomorrow, or next month, or Christmas! As we who have chosen the loner lifestyle understand, being alone allows us to savor every minute. I hope you are all doing that and not squandering it online, absorbing the crap posted by all the morons out there or trying to decipher what's real and what's AI in the news. 

Until next time, keep the faith -- and do something productive all by yourself. And if you can't think of anything, read "White Noise" by Don DeLillo, one of my all-time favorite novels which puts everything in perspective.

FILM REVIEW: Remarkably Bright Creatures

Tova and her octopus pal Marcellus share a moment.

Except for the stupid title, this film is almost perfect. Starring Sally Field, now almost 80, in what is surely the most exceptional performance of her long career, this sometimes sappy tear-jerker rises above its genre to expose raw truths about what it is to be human. It's also a fantasy about the deep love and communication capable between a human being and an octopus, the eponymous bright creature given the name Marcellus.

Based on a book of the same name, Remarkably Bright Creatures centers on Tova (Sally Field), a widow still grieving the mysterious death of her teenage son 30 years later. Her lonely life as a night-shift cleaning lady in an aquarium is brightened by the sudden appearance of a young drifter (Lewis Pullman) whose truck breaks down in her small seaside village, forcing him to stick around and eventually find work in the same aquarium. Their relationship deepens over time, and eventually blossoms into something touching and unexpected.

Besides the unique story and flawless performances, the underwater photography of stunning sea creatures makes the film special. One word of advice for the faint-hearted: Have tissues handy.

Rawdogging With Harrison Ford

Ford as Indiana Jones in "Raiders"

Recently actor Harrison Ford, who at age 83 has a self-earned net worth of $300 million, appeared on a podcast with younger actors who mocked him for not knowing the meaning of the slang term rawdogging. He jokingly pointed out that he was being made fun of for "being old." 

Ford's Wikipedia entry begins this way: 

"Regarded as a cinematic cultural icon, Ford's accolades include nominations for an Academy Award, A British Academy Film Award, an Emmy Award, five Golden Globe Awards and two Screen Actors Guild Awards. He is the recipient of the AFI Life Achievement Award, the Cecil B. DeMill Award, an Honorary Cesar, an Honors Palme d'Or and a SAG-AFTRA Life Achievement Award."  

But enough about him. I too did not know the meaning of the slang term. I figured it probably didn't mean eating uncooked hot dogs since that would have made the most sense, so I googled it and learned it means either having sex without a condom or doing an activity without any distractions, like flying without headphones or reading a book, just sitting there undistracted for the entire flight. 

Turns out I've been rawdogging -- both definitions -- for my whole life. Who knew I'm so hip?  

Almost Human

People are using AI for so much content these days, it's hard to tell what's real and what's computer-generated. Because of that, writers are deliberately messing up their original content just so readers will know they are not hiring robots, throwing in random slang, jargon and typos. There's even a new startup called Writehuman wherein the company's software "edits AI-generated text to make it sound more human."

Similarly, fake videos and altered photographs pepper the internet. Nothing is real anymore, it seems -- which means it's all sanitized and perfect. For example, I asked ChatGPT to make an image of a vase of flowers in front of an open window with a boat on the water outside. It is shown here below.

Nice. But I forgot to tell it to make it interesting, or stylized, or unique in any way. Now here's one of my own paintings that fits the same description. 

Most interior decorators would choose the AI-generated image. But I like mine better. 

I Didn't Ask, Please Don't Tell

Today I read most of an article online that originally appeared in People magazine about an actress I never heard of who just "came out" as bisexual. She finally "got up the courage" and wanted everyone to know. Now what are we all supposed to do with that information?

Why do we have to know the sexual preferences of movie stars, celebrities, royalty or anyone, in fact, other than someone we are about to have sex with? How does it impact anyone's life but their own?

If I run into you somewhere, please don't tell me who you like to sleep with, unless it's a cat or a dog.

Conspiracy Theories

A few days ago while having coffee with a friend, she mentioned something about "Pizzagate." I wasn't sure I had heard her correctly, so she went on to explain how in 2016, Hillary Clinton was part of a child sex ring based in a pizza restaurant in Washington, DC. She had few facts -- actually none -- correct. 

I rushed to tell her that when I lived in DC, which I did for 30 years, the restaurant in question, Comet Ping Pong Pizza, was a mile from our home and we ate there very often and never saw any funny business. Also, my son's best friend from high school was the manager of the place and he was a nice Jewish boy who would not engage in anything nefarious.

She remained unconvinced, still pretty sure that Hillary and some guy she couldn't name (John Podesta, Hillary's campaign chairman) were knee-deep in child trafficking in the basement of Comet. She then added her belief that it had something to do with "adrenochrome," a chemical which people harvest from the adrenal glands of children and ingest to stay young.

I still consider this woman a friend, mostly because she is decent and kind and, best of all, a Republican, which in my part of Maine is as rare as a four-leaf clover. Also, it's basically impossible to find anyone who doesn't believe in some sort of conspiracy theory. Take me, for example: I still don't believe we ever landed on the Moon. And I'm pretty sure the CIA played a part in JFK's assassination. 

Still, harvesting a chemical compound from children to reverse ageing is a bit much. Then again, Hillary herself was the one who said that when it comes to raising children, "It takes a village." Who knows -- maybe that's what the village was for.

Jimmy Kimmel Is the Joke

Who is Jimmy Kimmel and why do we care? That's the question plaguing me these days. For reasons beyond my understanding, the so-called entertainer has made the pages of my daily newspaper. Stooping to a new low, the formerly staid Wall Street Journal presents an article about Kimmel in today's "Business & Finance Section." This blows my mind.

Admittedly, as someone basking in the glow of my golden years, I turn in early. Usually I'm asleep by 10 pm, or maybe 11 if it's a weekend and I've gone out somewhere. But that's rare. So I'm clueless when it comes to late-night talk show hosts. Besides, after Johnny Carson left, that genre died a horrible death, with a string of lesser talents trying to fill his shoes. Still, I find it depressing and disturbing that someone who tries to be funny for a living is now a mouthpiece for the loony left. 

There are plenty of people alive on this planet, myself among them, who have never seen Jimmy Kimmel do whatever it is he supposedly does. But there is nobody above the age of about eight who couldn't pick Donald Trump out of a lineup. Kimmel's ongoing skewering of Trump, who is the President of the United States for the second time, is perhaps the best joke he has ever told. His recent putdown of First Lady Melania is his second best.

Cruising

Thinking we might want to experience a cruise sometime before we die, my husband and I started our search online. We narrowed it down to small ships sailing on European rivers rather than ocean liners, since if there's a problem on the ship we could swim to shore rather than drown, die of hypothermia or get eaten by sharks, the main reasons I have never gone on a cruise before. 

Naturally all the websites claim the same things: Their cruise line is the best, their food is prepared by award-winning chefs, their staff is extremely attentive to your every need and their on-shore excursions are exciting and memorable. Digging deeper, we realized that we would have to read some reviews from real people. Those were no help at all. 

For example, the same cruise was described quite differently by different people. Some said the food was awful, while others on the very same ship on the very same dates said it was gourmet at its best. Some cited technical difficulties with the ship, like the AC not working, toilets not flushing, and being stopped dead in the water for a day because of engine trouble, while others claimed the same trip was flawless.

Throw in those odd cruise viruses that befall multitudes of passengers, potential bad weather and debilitating seasickness, and something tells me we're not going quite yet.

Assigned Human At Birth

I am not suicidal, but I can't live this way anymore. I am trapped inside a human being's body and it's wrong.  No doctor is able to perform any surgery to fix my problem, at least not yet. I'm not even sure what I'm supposed to be: A cat? A flower? A tree of some kind? Maybe a bird? Just not a human -- they are the worst and I am not handling it well. Never have, really.

I can't relate to most of their habits. I never like anything of the things most of them seem to enjoy. In fact, I am blown away by many of the ways they spend their time. Like so many of them do nothing of value and only spend their time shopping, eating and criticizing celebrities. And the celebrities are no better, albeit thinner and prettier. But most of them become drug addicts and alcoholics.

Just a few weeks ago, the humans in charge of such things spent untold billions for four of them to squeeze into a little compartment and get catapulted into space and circle the Moon one time, and then come back the same as when they left. And everyone thought that was just great -- like a big deal! But it accomplished nothing. While lots of diseases run rampant here on Earth, killing and maiming people daily -- including babies who didn't ask to be born and suddenly here they are without a stomach or a with a heart growing outside their chest, stuck in the NICU at some hospital for months -- people are busy circling the Moon like it's a theme park attraction.

And speaking of theme parks, many people ride roller coasters to thrill themselves because their lives are so dull, I guess. Roller coasters are extremely popular, and all they do is take people up very high and then drop them down very low, at super-fast speeds. After you get off it you are still the same as before, only with less money.

So yes, I'm unhappy to be a person. But until someone invents an inter-species procedure I'm stuck as one, watching others get tattoos and eat pizza and take lots of antidepressants, probably because they also hate being people but don't know how to stop doing it.

Mothers and Sons

Two recent stories in the news have helped me forgive myself. Yesterday I read about a healthy 56-year-old British woman who travelled to Switzerland to end her life through assisted suicide. Her 22-year-old son had died four years ago, choking in his sleep on a bit of a sandwich she had made for him. She simply could not endure the emotional pain of missing him any longer. I totally understood her decision.

Then this morning I read a book excerpt written by a woman whose eldest child and only son, age 23, was taken hostage in the October 7 raid on the Israeli music festival in 2023. Held captive and grievously wounded, starved, tortured and ultimately executed by Hamas, his ravaged skeletal body was returned to his family after 330 days. Somehow she goes on living but writes that she is dead inside, her grief cancelling out every other possible human emotion. She writes that she will feel this way forever.

My own son is now 38 and I thank God every day for his continued fortune and good health. The thought of some harm befalling him haunts me. Recently I feared that a bad cut on his hand would become infected and lead to sepsis. (It didn't.) Whenever he has a cold I pray it won't lead to pneumonia. (It never has.) When he flies, I worry. ("Text me when you land!")

I thought I was crazy but now I understand that I'm just an ordinary mother of a son. Profound attachment comes with the territory.

Trying to Communicate

The purpose of language is to communicate with other beings who speak the same one we do. Without language we are forced to use other methods, such as facial expressions, hand gestures and body movement. Language is by far  the easiest. Which is why it pisses me off when I come across writing that uses rare words I don't know, when known ones are readily available and will achieve a more inclusive result.

For example, in today's Wall Street Journal a theater reviewer discusses a new Broadway play, possibly to encourage people to rush out and purchase tickets before the show closes. You'd think he'd go for the common denominator, since the totality of theater-goers range in education. 

Instead I, a former newspaper writer and editor raised on Scrabble (like all Jewish children) and in possession of an extensive vocabulary as a result of a good education, much reading and years of playing word games and crossword puzzles, had to dictionary-check three words just in the article's opening two paragraphs. This annoyed me no end and made me doubt the opinion of Mr. Charles Isherwood, the paper's theater critic. 

I guess we're supposed to be in awe of his vast knowledge of esoteric words and not care that his sentences may be unintelligible and thus his intended meaning lost. This, to me is dumb. Say what you mean, goddammit! And in plain English! (Unless you are French or Spanish or German or whatever, you get my point.) What else does a writer aspire to besides communicating with his/her readers?

FILM REVIEW: The Truth and Tragedy of Moriah Wilson

Moriah with her parents after winning a gravel bike race.

Reportedly the top choice of Netflix viewers since it arrived earlier this month, this chilling documentary detailing the joyful life and shocking murder of a 25-year-old leading cyclist is deeply touching and will likely stay with you long after the final credits roll. Moriah Wilson's lifelong dream of being in the Olympics was brutally snuffed out for the oldest of reasons: romantic jealousy. 

Her killer turned out to be the new girlfriend living with Moriah's former beau, who was also part of the cycling community. She eluded capture for 43 days, using her sister's passport to leave the country and undergo plastic surgery to alter her looks before finally being caught, tried and sentenced to 90 years in prison.

Through a combination of family home movies, still photographs, TV news footage and current interviews with police, family and close friends, The Truth and Tragedy of Moriah Wilson paints a compelling portrait of an extraordinary young woman who was beloved by a wide circle of people and hated by just one. That person ultimately took her life. 

Despite the gruesome subject matter the film ends on a high note, with her grieving parents and younger brother looking healthy and happy four years after her death. This 95-minute film is part of their ongoing effort to keep Moriah's memory alive through the charitable foundation they set up in her name. See it to find out more.

Get A Life!

If you're like me, you've noticed a steady decline of intelligence in the average American since the invention of the Internet. The evidence is everywhere, from the decreasing test scores of our students to the increasing weight of the typical citizen. Instead of eating well and exercising, the masses -- including billionaire Oprah Winfrey, an obvious non-masser -- now ingest drugs to diminish their appetites and girth. But perhaps the most telling sign is the overwhelming interest in the personal lives of celebrities, most notably a singer named Taylor Swift.

I, a former Woodstock Music Festival attendee who saw just about everyone who was anyone in the music world perform live in concert, have never seen Swift's act or heard any of her music, at least not that I know of. But being alive on the planet, I do know that she is dating a pro-football player and they are now engaged. Their relationship impacts my life not one iota. So imagine how little I care about rampant rumors that she is pregnant. The news is going viral! In fact, her fans are going absolutely wild over the possibility, excitedly exchanging tweets online. 

Here's what I don't get: Why would anyone except for the immediate family of the singer and her boyfriend, and maybe some of their friends, care? How can anyone get excited over the birth of a child they will never meet? What's the difference?

As the popular saying goes, people need to get a life. I usually avoid "sayings" but that one is very appropriate to several generations of today's youth, most of whom exist wholly online, forgoing their own lives and instead living vicariously through celebrities and influencers. This is a sad mistake that many will realize too late.

Earlier today I read about a 38-year-old Brazilian fitness influencer with 61,000 Instagram followers who drowned during the swim portion of an Ironman triathlon in Texas, shortly after she told followers to "savor every moment of life." Now what the heck are all her followers supposed to do?

Series Review: BIG MISTAKES

Levy and Ortega as siblings in very hot water.

The title says it all. Dan Levy, who was so engaging in the comic series Schitt's Creek, is less so in this new Netflix offering wherein he plays a closeted gay pastor who inadvertently gets swept up in the activities of a violent Russian/ Italian drug gang smuggling cocaine into the country via a bull's testicles. One wonders what the writers were smoking, drinking and snorting when they devised the storyline.

Starring along with Levy are Laurie Metcalf as his mother and comedian Taylor Ortega, who as his sister steals every scene and is the only reason to watch it. The twisted plot, which stretches the viewer's believability as well as patience to grievous limits, also involves Metcalf as an obnoxious, possibly mentally ill, harridan running for mayor of their unnamed small town. The two stories barely connect but occasionally crash into one another, adding to the total mayhem and chaos that defines the show. 

It's not funny, unless you find train wrecks funny. There is a fair amount of men kissing men, people screaming at one another, foreigners with guns kidnapping people, and some really triggering music, so if you like all that then you'll like this. 

I watched all eight episodes which mercifully were each just about half an hour long, hoping things would improve. They didn't. A second season is being threatened. I will not be tuning in.

People, They're the Worst!

Cher: Not bad for a cadaver.

Let's face it: The average American woman is hideous. Morbidly obese with ugly facial features, covered in tattoos like that will help, messy hair crudely dyed in Crayola colors, bad skin, multiple piercings and terrible taste in clothing. Yet she trolls the Internet writing scathing criticisms about Hollywood's elite, those chosen few among us who have risen above average to become beautiful, thin, fabulously dressed and often wealthy role models. For these very reasons they are hated by the average American.

For example, in an article online about Cher, one of the most gifted singers to ever exist, and who at 79 looks 30 years younger, still has a fabulous figure, beautiful flowing hair and lovely features -- thanks to Botox and surgery no doubt she remains wrinkle-free -- some bloated nobody likely munching on a bag of Cheetos in some dark hellhole in Boise, Idaho called her a "walking cadaver."

The walking cadaver has a live-in boyfriend who is 39. Someone should tell him she's dead!

Forgotten Memories

This blog has so few readers that I could post photos of me giving Bill Clinton a blow job and there would be no comments. Of course I never did that and so have no photos of it, and certainly wouldn't do it now, and would never post anything lewd or vulgar here. All I'm saying is that I could, and that they would go unnoticed.

Sort of like when disgraced Congressman Eric Swallwell raped and choked a woman until she blacked out and thought she died back in 2018, yet she never called the police or told anyone about it until he was running for governor of California in 2026. Don't get me wrong, I think Swallwell is scum, but still, his latest accuser reminds me of Christine Blasey Ford and her patently false accusations about Brett Kavanaugh on the eve of his Supreme Court nomination.

Where do they get these women?

Judgment Call

Judgment: the act or process of forming an opinion or 

evaluation by discerning and comparing.

My son's girlfriend thinks I'm too judgmental. That's just one on her list of things that are wrong with me, but it's the only one that irks me. After all, if we are not discerning then what are we? How do we differ from squirrels and birds and worms and lions and camels and crows and -- somebody please stop me, you get the point.

Many people earn their living by being judgmental. This includes theater critics, movie reviewers, therapists, doctors, dentists, lawyers, hair stylists, car mechanics, newspaper columnists, chefs, house painters, fine artists, furniture repairers, plumbers, piano teachers, dress designers and every last judge in our entire legal system, including the nine sitting Justices on the Supreme Court.

Following are some judgments heard every day in common conversation:

1. It's too hot today.

2. It's freezing out there.

3. That's way too much to spend on a car.

4. Your nails look beautiful.

5. Donald Trump is an asshole.

6. That movie sucked.

7. These grapes are spoiled.

8. Buying a lottery ticket is just throwing your money away.

9. New York City has the best pizza.

10. That song is so annoying.

I could go on literally forever, but I won't. Anyway, a few nights ago I attended a play with my husband, my son and his girlfriend. Afterwards I commented that one of the costumes on one of the actors did not fit well and was very distracting. I thought it looked bad. I later learned that my comment was considered too "judgy." I would tell you what I think of her thinking that, but I can't. Not here. (Email me.)

Stuff We Never Think About

How many times have you wondered who is the poet laureate, not counting Maya Angelou who was famous for being black and reading her poem at Barack Obama's inauguration that, according to my husband, had something to do with mastodons?

If your answer is "never," you are on track with the rest of America. What are poet laureates, why do we have them, what do they do and who picked them for the job are questions one would ask if the subject ever came up, which it rarely does. 

The poet laureate is appointed to a two-year term by the Library of Congress. Currently it's someone named Arthur Sze, a handy fact to know if you do a lot of crossword puzzles. Starting his second year in the job, Mr. Sze says he is, "Excited to travel to multiple cities to celebrate poetry and poetry in translation."

The position earns $60,000 a year, which is $10,000 more than an elementary school teacher in Maine earns to educate children during their most formative years. I don't know if poetry is one of the subjects in the curriculum, but I do know that Maine scores lowest on all national tests and graduating seniors can barely read beyond an 8th-grade level or do advanced math beyond addition and subtraction. 

I've never heard any young person say they want to be a poet laureate when they grow up. Or a poet, for that matter. Personally, all I can summon up is "Jabberwocky" and "Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening."  That being said, I do have a poet of choice and his name is Billy Collins. Following is my favorite poem of his:

I Chop Some Parsley While Listening to Art Blakey’s Version of “Three Blind Mice”

And I start wondering how they came to be blind.

If it was congenital, they could be brothers and sister, and I think of the poor mother brooding over her sightless young triplets.

Or was it a common accident, all three caught in a searing explosion, a firework perhaps?

If not, if each came to his or her blindness separately, how did they ever manage to find one another? Would it not be difficult for a blind mouse to locate even one fellow mouse with vision, let alone two other blind ones?

And how, in their tiny darkness, could they possibly have run after a farmer’s wife or anyone else’s wife for that matter? Not to mention why.

Just so she could cut off their tails with a carving knife, is the cynic’s answer,

But the thought of them without eyes, and now without tails to trail through the moist grass or slip around the corner of a baseboard, has the cynic who always lounges within me up off his couch and at the window trying to hide the rising softness that he feels.

By now I am on to dicing an onion, which might account for the wet stinging in my own eyes, though Freddie Hubbard’s mournful trumpet on “Blue Moon,”which happens to be the next cut, cannot be said to be making matters any better.

In Sickness and In Health

Most young people, blinded by love, accept the usual marriage vows and recite them easily. They promise to love and cherish and even obey, and be faithful and remain loyal in sickness and in health, til death do them part, confident that those issues will never come back to bite them. Well they're wrong, and those vows need a rewrite.

My husband of almost 40 years has had a terrible, loud, hacking, near-constant cough for going on two weeks now and I am fit to be tied, whatever that means. When I said I would stick with him "in sickness" I was imagining something much quieter, like him languishing in bed with me bringing him chicken soup and fluffing up his pillows, not me lying awake on the guest-room-too-hard bed pulling the blankets over my head to drown out the explosive hacking. And that's just at night -- the days aren't much better. 

I know it's worse for him and I'm sad about that, but I'm exhausted. Sleeping is a thing of the past, although Mitch seems to have mastered the art of coughing without waking himself up. Two visits to the doctor and a chest X-ray have netted no results other than it's bronchitis not pneumonia and it will simply have to "run its course." But the doctor never said one word about what I'm supposed to do.

About those marriage vows: Coughing should be mentioned and have a definite time limit.

80 Is The New 90

I am currently 79 years old. Happily, this number still retains some dignity. Nobody considers being 79 the same as being 90. Nobody uses it as the precursor to the grave. But 80 -- now that's a different story. When you're 80, people treat you like you're already dead. Being just two months away from that milestone, I can tell you from personal experience that it's a monumental drag.

The fact is I am limber. I work out with a trainer at CrossFit twice a week to help stay that way. I walk unaided, and with a spring in my step when I feel like it. (I would run but my hip replacement will last longer if I don't.) I live in a three-story house and run up and down the stairs all day long, too many times to count. (Yes, I hold onto the handrail, I'm not an idiot.) Still, lately I am treated like an invalid by people who know my real age, especially my own family. 

Just last night, descending the stairs at a theater after seeing a play, my son turned to me and asked if I needed any help, something he has never asked in all his 38 years, even when I could have used some. And just last week as I was emerging from an airplane, a  porter rushed over and shouted --just in case I was deaf -- "Do you need a wheelchair?"  Quickening my pace I shouted back, "Hey buddy, do I look like I need a wheelchair?"  (I was remorseful later, realizing he was just trying to earn a living.)

I'm sick of it. Treating seniors like they have one foot in the grave sucks. Can't we be permitted to feel good if we do feel good? A shining example is Cher, who is 16 days older than I am and lives with her 39-year-old boyfriend. (See photo.) 

So I've decided to cancel my upcoming birthday and continue telling anyone who asks that I am 79, steeling myself for the inevitable intake of breath followed by,"Wow, that's almost 80!" 

I'll take "almost 80" for as long as I can get away with it. 

Jewish Hospitality

If someone happens to stop by my house unannounced, just a few minute pass before I offer them something to eat or drink. If they have actually been invited, say for dinner or cocktails, they are greeted with a full spread worthy of Happy Hour on the QEII. I can't help it, I was raised that way. So I notice when I receive similar treatment -- or don't. The results of my independent study show that the generous folks who offer refreshments to visitors are always Jewish.

My husband and I recently went far afield of our vacation destination to visit friends who live in the state and wanted to show off their new digs. At first we assumed they would be putting us up, but they explained they couldn't so we got a hotel room nearby for two nights. (A crummy hotel, but hey, what are friends for?)

We arrived at their condo complex where they live independently of one another and spent about half an hour inside each one's home. After a brief tour of their individual premises, we sat together in the living room of each one. Nothing was offered in either location: Not a sip of water. No drinks before our dinner out in a restaurant. No after-dinner coffee or dessert. No breakfast in the morning after our two nights in the aforementioned crummy hotel. Basically, nothing by mouth.

Initially we were stunned and a bit hurt, but then it dawned on us: They're not Jewish. They just don't know any better. Like George's mother uttered in a particular "Seinfeld" episode after meeting his shiksa girlfriend's parents, "We're sitting there -- drinking coffee -- without a piece of cake!" His outraged father added, "It's stupid, that's what it is!"

Maybe it's not stupid but it's definitely inhospitable. Now I'm rethinking my behavior in anticipation of their upcoming visit to our home. It will likely be a lot easier to play hostess this time.

Trivial Pursuits

The CEO of Air Canada, Michael Rousseau, will resign from his position later this year after the recent crash involving one of that company's jets and a fire truck on a runway at LaGuardia Airport. He isn't leaving because of incompetence, or accusations of sexual misconduct, or embezzlement of company funds. In fact, no crime whatsoever. Instead, he is leaving because he delivered his televised condolence speech after the crash in English with French subtitles. Many people who have nothing better to do and have nothing real to worry about complained about that, forcing his resignation.

Popular bumper sticker of morons.

With so much big stuff going wrong in the world, it's hard to believe that anyone would care. Still, the Frenchies in Canada, a bi-lingual nation, are outraged that Rousseau's native tongue is English. Despite having taken French lessons for years, he explained that he was "just not comfortable enough" speaking the language, especially for such an important speech. But pettiness prevailed and off he goes.

Being petty is fast becoming the leading character trait of many human beings. Defined as "narrow-minded and ungenerous, especially in trifling matters," it is the stuff of almost every grievance these days. Pettiness is responsible for every road-rage incident, some of which end with the death of one of the participants. It's shocking how crazy people get if someone cuts in front of them in traffic, or doesn't move fast enough when the light changes from red to green.

Pettiness is exemplified by Donald Trump's stupid nickname, coined by the lefties, of "Orange Man." It fuels their derision about his hair color and his penchant for a Florida tan, sort of like if people had called FDR "Roller Boy."

Ode to Good Health

I saw a Reel posted by a fat woman who asked, "Why is my being fat the only thing you can say about me? What about all my other qualities?"

Here's how I answered her: For starters, we don't know you and can only see how you look. Certainly when it's a friend, neighbor or colleague we know in real life, we know other things about them. But still, being fat isn't about how you look but about how you act. What behavior did you indulge in to get that fat? That's what people object to, not how you look. 

Eating too much (gluttony), eating too much of the wrong foods (poor judgement), thinking about food constantly (lame brain), planning every activity around a meal (boring) -- these are not behaviors I seek out in people. 

Hollywood has recently taken things to the other extreme, with beautiful young actresses striving for totally flat chests (except for the fake boob crowd), sunken cheeks and skinny arms. Where are the role models for strong, healthy bodies? 

The times are certainly ripe for a return to putting health and fitness back on a pedestal. Remember the President's Council on Physical Fitness established back in 1963 by President Kennedy? Supposedly it still exists, with a different name, but if you look at today's youth you've got to wonder who's in charge of it and what the heck they are doing.