Sex Is More Popular Than Death

News Flash: You will die someday. I know -- you don't like thinking about it, or talking about it, but it's true. And lately it's been on my mind more than usual because my husband has recently plunked down many thousands of dollars for a burial plot and headstone in a local cemetery, along with the promise of someone putting him into it, because he knows that if he dies first I won't do it, finding it barbaric to enclose a body inside a box and lower it six feet down under the dirt, leaving it there to rot. I prefer cremation, which seems more ethereal -- angelic, almost -- and a whole lot cheaper.

I wanted some opinions on the subject and so asked ChatGPT, "Are there any websites that discuss the subject of death?" The answer came back that yes, there are several, and it listed three, only one of which opened when I clicked on it. Then I asked ChatGPT, "Are there any websites that discuss the subject of sex?" The answer came back that yes, there are thousands of websites that discuss sex. (Big surprise.)

I was disappointed, since I don't need any advice or opinions or instructions or information about sex, but I'm clueless about death. I'd love to know if spending money that could be used for something charitable or beneficial to society or educational or just plain fun in this lifetime trumps buying a hole in the ground and some people to lower you into it sometime in the future.

Crazy Rich

Today's New York Times contains a full-page ad for an auction company claiming to be "The world's largest collectibles auctioneer." It shows a note with scribbled lettering on it, which are actually John Lennon's handwritten lyrics to the 1964 Beatles hit, "If I Fell," from the album "A Hard Day's Night." The estimated sale price for this piece of note paper is between $500,000 and $1,000,000. There are three phone numbers to call if you are interested.

Despite loving that song, if someone came to my home and presented me with that particular piece of paper, it would change my life not one bit. I would still have a terrible backache from pulling a muscle at the gym last week which kept me up all night alternately weeping and drinking Tension Tamer tea (which BTW doesn't work). I would also still be ten pounds overweight, and my dear friend Janice would still have pneumonia and my cat Lurch would still be 19 years old and skinny as a rail. 

Nothing in my life would be any different, except I'd have to figure out what to do with that silly piece of paper. Yet somebody, somewhere will likely respond to that ad and purchase that piece of scribbled-upon note paper for an unbelievable sum. 

The only possible explanation is that rich people are nuts.

The Perks of Aging

The former love of my life is back!

Getting old is not all bad. It's mostly bad, but once in a while something good comes along. For example, forgetfulness is seen by most people as a negative. Losing your memory about something that happened, or entering a certain room and having no idea what to do when you get there, is playfully dubbed a "senior moment." Ha, ha, not usually funny. But having a gigantic senior moment can be beneficial. Like watching the entire series The Sopranos for the second time and not remembering one thing about it means you get a whole new show.

My husband and I first watched The Sopranos in 2005, in its entirety. We were addicted, rushing through dinner every night to put it on. Since then we've seen hundreds of other shows, movies and documentaries. But one night we thought, hey, let's watch an episode of The Sopranos again -- it was so good. So we did, and were certain we had missed that episode since we remembered nothing about it. We tried another, and the same thing happened. So we started at the beginning and are now in Season Two, and loving it. Remembering nothing. 

It's a small thing compared with arthritis and heart attacks and hip replacements, and of course impending death, but hey -- it's something.

Seeing God: Blink And You'll Miss Him

As a child growing up in an observant Jewish family, I often found myself sitting in a synagogue for one reason or another, searching the hidden recesses for a glimpse of God. I never saw Him. My mother told me that God was not in churches or temples, He was at the ocean, and in fact, He was the ocean. 

That seemed more plausible, and she and I went to the beach often, sitting quietly on a blanket and staring at the great expanse. Since then I've witnessed the harm of tsunamis and have decided that a benificent God must reside elsewhere. Somewhere that does no harm. He's got to be in flowers. (And babies, of course.)

With that in mind, I recently went to the Coastal Maine Botanical Gardens. Flowers of unimaginable shapes, colors and sizes were in full bloom. All the visitors who had ponied up the entrance fee ($31 for adults, $28 for seniors) were stunned by their beauty, leaning in close to take pictures, trying to capture the essence of God within them, whether they knew it or not.

But then I did some research and found that there are many, many toxic blooms, at least 35, that can cause serious illness, skin irritation, nausea, vomiting, paralysis and even death if touched or consumed. Lots of them are in my own backyard. Who knew?

So I guess we're down to babies. If you happen to have one right now, be grateful and treat it with reverence. They don't last long and ultimately turn into people, and a quick look at the news tells you that at some point Satan takes over, earlier than you think.

Normalizing Insanity

This woke bullshit concerning the widely accepted mental illness of transgenderism is getting so out of control. Today I searched a few medical websites for possible reasons why a friend of mine has been losing weight without trying. She's down to an alarmingly low number and her various doctors, while aware of the situation, are not doing anything except "keeping an eye on it."

In my reading I came across this sentence: "People with vulvas should pay close attention as unexplained weight loss may have to do with menopause." People with vulvas? Exactly who are people with vulvas? Could they be, um, maybe WOMEN?

Meanwhile, New York's lame Governor Kathy has decided to change all the official written crap in her state to say "gestating parent" and "non-gestating parent" instead of MOTHER and FATHER. Somebody, somewhere, with still functioning brain cells, should outlaw all this insanity before it's too late and our maternity wards turn into that scene in The Matrix with all the babies being manufactured by the state.

Film Review: DISCLOSURE DAY

Emily Blunt and Josh O'Connor star.

The latest "are we alone in the universe or not?" saga from director Steven Spielberg enticed me to a movie theater for the first time in about two years. My husband and I were expecting big things from Disclosure Day -- things that would benefit from being seen on a large screen, rather than our TV in the den. (We were wrong. You can wait til it's streaming.)

Starting out, not much that's happening is comprehensible, just a lot of sci-fi mumbo-jumbo between the good guys who want the world to know the TRUTH and the bad guys who are keeping it secret. Close attention, and possibly a copy of the script, is required to figure it all out, so I nodded off a few times. No problem  as I was awake for the parts that mattered, most of which take place in the last quarter of the two-plus hours run time.  

Suffice it to say that Spielberg is stuck back in his E.T., Close Encounters, Raiders heyday, and thus borrows heavily from himself. Some of what he chose to include is more suitable for Indiana Jones, like a car-train-crash scene that is totally off the subject of this film but is fun to watch. The final payoff is that we eventually meet "E.T." in his dotage, and not surprisingly he looks exactly the same, but older and with a bigger head. Also, the two lead actors (Josh O'Connor, Emily Blunt) are superb as strangers who share a uniquely common path that began in childhood and who finally meet as adults.

Things Nobody Needs

I wonder what themes were on their dashboards.

About my new car. It's a 2026 Audi, and while it drives great it's full of crap that nobody needs. Much of this crap surely adds to the high price tag, not to mention the waste of design talent of those responsible. In fact, there's so much of it that I had to go back to the dealership today for a tutorial on how to work all the bells and whistles -- really they are buttons, it's just an expression -- that I couldn't figure out.

For example, one of the headings on the changeable dashboard is "Themes." Hmmm, what could that mean, I wondered. Turns out it's like wallpaper on your cellphone, only for your car's "infotainment screen." You can choose from about 25 different background images to personalize your vehicle, as if your license plate isn't enough. Things like New York City, dolphins, Disney, the ocean, sports team logos, animals, favorite movies, landscapes, and blah, blah blah. Talk about distracted driving.

Technology keeps improving everything but our lives. 

The Black Sheep of Maine

Yesterday I got a new car. Gone are all my stickers: the one letting me into a local park for free because I'm old, the one advertising my son's business, the one declaring my unwavering support for Senator Susan Collins, and the one saying "I Brake for Birds." However I did keep the one that tells the world I am "From Away." God forbid anyone should think I'm a native Mainer.

Lately it's embarrassing to say I live in Maine, what with a humongous scumbag not only running for office but winning in yesterday's primary for Senator. Of course he was unopposed, but then he was nominated in the first place and that's pretty damning in itself. I'm talking about Graham Platner, the man with no good qualities. He's amoral, immoral and has PTSD to boot! And yet the Democrats of Maine love him. Or at least if they hate him they still voted for him. How cringy.

I heard one woman being interviewed on the news say the following when asked how she felt about him: "He is disgusting and has done terrible things. He has a Nazi tattoo and lies about his past. He treats women terribly and I certainly wouldn't want to be married to him. But I think he'll make an excellent Senator."

And that's why my new car has a sticker that says "From Away." 

Time Marches On

Two days ago I was 79.

Yesterday was my birthday.

Now today I am 80.

I didn't realize back then how young I was. 

Pay attention, people.

God vs. Satan

As much as I would like to, sometimes it's hard to believe in God when you take a look around. The bad certainly outweighs the good, making me think that maybe Satan is in charge. Let's do a quick tally:

Satan: Childhood cancer, serial murderers, pandemics, mental illness, floods, war, tsunamis, earthquakes, tornadoes, poisonous snakes, poisonous plants, poverty.

God: Flowers, babies.

Imagine

A few months ago I invited a friend out to lunch to celebrate her birthday. Another friend came along and we had a fun time. How nice. Now my birthday is nigh and she invited me out to lunch, to pay me back. WTF?

People lack imagination, plain and simple. Or maybe it's just that people in Maine lack imagination. It's annoying, at least to me, because I don't lack imagination. For example, I can imagine a world where everyone has a brain and uses it, instead of just getting up each day and going through the motions, following orders, and doing what they think is expected of them.

It would be glorious.

The Sick Scumbag vs.The Saintly Senator

Platner has admitted to masturbating in Port-a-Potties.

If you follow the news you have likely heard of Graham Platner, the lying sack of garbage who is hoping to unseat our longtime Senator, Susan Collins, a bipartisan saint who votes her conscience, not her party. As it happens, she is a Republican and he is a Democrat.

I won't go into all the bad behavior that has gotten Platner into hot water recently as it's been covered everywhere and it's already boring. (See photo.) What I do find interesting is that he receives a monthly disability check from our government for his PTSD, which he allegedly earned while in the military, back when he got his now-famous Nazi tattoo.

My question is this: If he's too messed-up to hold a job, then how can he be a working Senator? Do Mainers want someone representing us who has a "100% disability rating from the VA," who is possibly hearing voices or  having flashbacks or whatever the heck goes on inside his head that makes him eligible for lifelong disability payments?

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 I 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?