Maine's Art Desert

Move to Maine if you like to ski, kayak, swim, sail or hike and eat lobster. You'll have a ball. Do not move to Maine if you are an art lover. You will be disappointed.

The museums, a paltry few, all show the work of the same artists ad nauseam: Winslow Homer, Alex Katz and anyone named Wyeth.

They move the paintings in their collections from room to room. They rearrange the groupings. But believe me, if you've seen them once you've seen them all.

Forget seeing a real-live Picasso, Dali, Matisse, Renoir, Van Gogh, Rothko, Kahlo, O'Keefe, Vermeer, Degas, Monet, Manet, Turner or anyone long-dead. Not even a Hockney!

Oh wait -- forgive me. There is a Picasso at the Portland Museum of Art. Small, but nice. I've seen it 100 times in the past 17 years and I always like it.

The (Poor) Nanny

Recently I attended a political fundraiser held at the private home of a neighbor. His property boasts an enormous lawn overlooking the Casco Bay, with beautiful landscaping all around and a stunning water view. The guests numbered about 75, most of whom gathered around a groaning board full of luscious foods and a bar serving beer and wine. The weather was perfect and everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. Except for one person, an attractive woman in her late 30s or early 40s who stood well apart from the crowd, nursing a glass of white wine.

Naturally I went over to speak to her, having been that loner myself at some parties in the past. It turned out she was the nanny to two young children, ages six and eight, who were present. Also in attendance were the children's parents, grandparents, an uncle and an adult cousin. Yet for some reason that escapes me, the nanny was brought along to keep an eye on the children. 

And so she did. In fact, that's all she did. As the rambunctious youngsters ran around the vast property, she tailed them like a hired private eye while their numerous family members were busy drinking, talking, eating and yukking it up with the other guests.

I hope that nanny was being paid handsomely. Very handsomely. And I also hope that when those kids grow up, they'll love their nanny more than their shithead parents.

America's Hitler

Adolf Hitler is the worst bad boy that ever was. If you want to insult someone, just say they are like Hitler -- it'll drive them crazy.  He was responsible for the death of millions upon millions of innocent people, and destroyed the reputation of Germany and all Germans forever. They are all still trying to live it down and insist they had no part in his terrible reign.

So it will be some day with Barack Obama, who in a 2008 campaign speech vowed to "fundamentally transform the United States of America," sowing the seeds for the destructive ideologies that are quickly overtaking what we know as the Democratic Party.

According to multiple recent surveys, most Democrats agree with the principles of the DSA, a group that is reproducing like bunnies, with 250 chapters nationwide. Here's what they want:

Tax the rich until there are no more rich

Universal health care and rent control, i.e. sick people living in government-run squalor

No aid to Israel

Free food in government-run groceries, i.e. waiting in line for potatoes and rice is always nice

Abolish ICE, police and the prison system

Abolish the Senate

Abolish our country's borders, everyone is welcome

Amnesty for all illegal immigrants who are already here

A 32-hour work week (if you want to work, but no need really)

Just like Dr. Anthony Fauci is finally being held responsible for the COVID-19 debacle four years later, so Obama will eventually face the music on the unraveling of the United States. I can't wait.

Social Media Explained

Exactly what is the reason for the existence and continuing explosion of  "social media"? It's simple. While nobody wants to die, at the same time they know they eventually will and so are desperate to figure out what to do with their Life. They're simply looking for answers. 

The invention of the Internet, the engine of social media, has enabled a certain subset of human beings to spill their guts to millions of strangers who are bored with their own lives and eager to hear about someone else's, hoping to feel better about themselves in comparison or at least get some helpful hints. This subset has been identified as Influencers. 

Many Influencers are brave and egomaniacal, trolling for accolades and glorification online, sometimes even sharing their deepest, darkest self-loathing thoughts. One popular trend these days involves troubled individuals opting to live as the opposite sex to see if that feels any better. They are called "transgenders," which is a silly term since one cannot change genders. (It's impossible.)

Transgenders are the current darlings of social media. There's no telling how long their reign will last, but eventually a new aberration will come along and grab the spotlight. All it needs is a couple of tweets from the right Influencers to get it going.

And there you have social media.

Art From the Heart

I found my first paying job as a fine artist in the classifieds of The New York Times in 1968. It required me to make the exact same watercolor painting 300 times. They would then be framed by the employer and sold in five and dime stores in the south under the pen name Anne Saville. As I recall it looked something like this, only better:

I forget what the pay was -- something like three bucks each -- but as an already starving artist living in New York City, it was good enough for me. After the first hundred I got a little sick of doing them, but I kept at it since I had signed a contract to deliver all 300 by a certain date. Boy, was I glad when that was over and I was free to paint whatever I felt like, whenever I felt like it.

I assumed all artists must feel that way, but not here in Maine. Many of them, if not most of those who want to earn money that way, paint the same scene over and over again: Casco Bay islands covered with green trees, floating in blue water, underneath a blue sky dotted with white clouds. The tourists like those. I have painted that scene once or twice myself. Here's one of them: 

That was fun, so I did another. That was enough. So I was mystified when I went to my dentist's very upscale office today and saw all the walls hung with like 30 paintings that looked exactly like my description above, except some were at sunrise and some were at sunset and some had dark water and others had whitecaps and some clouds were fluffy and others were flat. All by the same artist. I wondered if that's what she has in her heart, or if it's more connected to what's in her bank account.

Meanwhile, I paint what I feel, which varies from day to day. My latest painting is this:

Beat It, Bambi

Alas, this was not meant to be at my house. 

As a serious animal lover, I cry in a movie when an animal is hurt or killed, even when it says at the end that, "No animals were harmed in the making of this film." I still worry that maybe they were traumatized by the bright lights and the chaos of a movie set. I can't watch those TV commercials about starving dogs or rescue cats; I have to cover my eyes or change the channel. And that scene in The Godfather with the horse's head still haunts me. 

So it's surprising that lately I have considered buying a rifle and staking out my garden and shooting every last deer that dares set hoof on my property. 

For example, take the Hydrangea bush that I planted in my side yard about five years ago. I have nurtured it through harsh droughts and harsher winters, through bleak seasons of no blooms and then finally one or two, until this year when eight glorious white snowballs appeared. I reveled in their beauty, imaging how many there would be next year. One morning I went out to revel some more, only to find them gone. (I realize it's odd to find something gone, but that's what happened.)

I know it was deer because I recognized the bitten-off stems from the Hostas in my front yard every year. Despite sprinkling shavings of Irish Spring soap on them, the deer have somehow feasted heartily on what amounts to my shared hobby with God. Now I hate all the deer, including that little brat Bambi, and although I have never even held a gun I fantasize about blowing their heads off. Is that wrong?

Mountains Out of Mole Hills

Recently a young married couple, the wife three months pregnant, were found hanging from a tree in a forest in northern India. A 73-year-old white woman was stabbed to death in broad daylight outside an upscale shopping mall in California by a young black registered felon who had been released. A 24-year-old Arkansas police officer, out kayaking with his fiancee, drowned while saving her from drowning. In an unrelated and mysterious boating incident, five friends drowned in an Ohio river. 

These are but a tiny fraction of the horrendous things that have happened to other people in the past few days. Meanwhile I have fretted over a sore hangnail, a poor night's sleep, my husband's impending birthday and too much laundry. 

Try as I might, I am unable to put my life in perspective and see how fabulous it truly is. To me, everything bad that comes along is a disaster. I wish I could but have not succeeded thus far. Sadly, the tendency to blow problems way out of proportion is all too common. Everyone should just stop doing it and see their lives instantly improve.

Fat, Black and Woke

Sports Illustrated magazine has historically showcased a beautiful, sexy woman with a perfect body on the cover of its annual swimsuit edition. Not this year. In 2026 it's time for obesity and ethnicity to be celebrated, and what's a better way than with a photo of a fat black lady?

If I were as fat as Lizzo I would stay at home sobbing, drinking soda and eating pizza and cinnamon buns. But then, I'm a white Jew and nobody is celebrating us these days, certainly not the mainstream media. 
 

Marital Money Matters

After calling to make a payment over the phone, I learned that our credit card is on a temporary hold because of a declined transaction of $1,000 made six days ago that the people at VISA assumed was false. I can't blame them. It was a payment to the Susan Collins campaign. Collins is Maine's Republican senator who is up for re-election this year. 

I wonder what they will do with that money. Print some bumper stickers? Maybe some lawn signs? Or perhaps pay some flunkies to go door-knocking in the burbs? None of which will have any impact on Collins getting elected or not, since Republicans will vote for her no matter what and Democrats won't, lawn signs and bumper stickers be damned.

Consider this: There are starving children, or maybe they have cancer, and abandoned dogs and cats in need of food and shelter, and people suffering from rare diseases and homeless junkies sleeping in doorways, and earthquake victims all over the world, not to mention that $1,200 diamond pendant I lust for, yet my husband thought giving a thousand bucks to a pampered white lady who either will or will not get re-elected despite his drop-in-the-bucket donation was a good idea. SMH.

 

My Bigotry

A recent outing to the supermarket has sent me into a funk, making me wonder if I'm crazy or if it's just everyone else. The thing is, the teenage checkout girl was a boy.

Her pinned-on name tag said "Eleanor." She was quite pretty, with a lovely blond braid cascading down the front of her feminine blouse. She wore tiny stud earrings and lipstick . But the voice was deep and her hands were huge and an Adam's Apple was quite evident. Eleanor was male, plain as day.

This troubles me. I find it unacceptable. I've tried, and failed. Whenever I see one, I feel like either laughing or crying, usually both. Does that make me a bigot? Because I don't want to be one, with a couple of exceptions (fat people and Jew-hating Muslims). The worst part is, it's too late for me to get over it. After so many decades of thinking there were two sexes, I can't stop now. 

Anyway, Eleanor was certainly very nice. But I couldn't help wondering how his grandmother felt about the whole thing.

Dear Fat Ladies ....

This is not a good size to be, but you chose it.

I just watched a video in which a very obese woman walked around a Target store pointing to the many, many racks of clothing for regular-sized women, as compared to only two for what she called "plus-size" ladies. She ranted at how unfair this is. 

I'd like to say it's not unfair. In fact, she should be glad they stock any elephantine-sized apparel outside of a costume store. Furthermore, I'd tell her we do not need to applaud your size. You got that way through bad habits that are unhealthy and ungodly.  So when you go out shopping for clothes, don't expect a huge selection for people of enormous sizes. If you want more choices, lose some weight.

To all fat ladies, please don't post videos showing us your gross naked stomachs hanging over your gross naked legs. Don't try on different dresses and ask us which one is more flattering. None of them are. You look bad in everything.

And don't call normal-sized women who look perfectly fine "too skinny" just to make yourselves feel better. Being thin is admirable. Being fat is not.

The Fall of New York City

Muslims praying in Times Square.

The city of my birth exists only in my mind. That's because I refuse to go there since that Muslim, Jew-hating socialist Mamdani was elected mayor. I went there last year to visit my dying friend, a lifelong New Yorker. Also a Jew, Ira had become too sick to follow what the campaigning Mamdani was spouting, and he died just three weeks before the fateful election now dismantling the former "greatest city in the world."

The Democratic Socialists of America -- they only keep that first word to hoodwink clueless followers into thinking they are -- want to defund the police, get rid of the U.S. Senate and the Electoral College, and abolish prisons. Imagine living in such a world. 

Incredibly, they are growing in number, mostly because many young people eschew working for a living and applaud the idea of free food, free health care and cheap housing. They see Mamdani as the Santa Claus they idolized as toddlers. Also, most of them are ignorant of facts, one of them being that their chosen form of government has been tried and failed before, many times.

Lucky for me I'm old, so I won't be around for the fall of NYC and the rounding up of Jews. Now if only I could magically make my young son older and have him also avoid those disasters, I could just relax and watch it all fall apart.

A Second Chance

Hardly anyone reads anymore. Certainly not an obscure blog written by an 80-year-old that doesn't tell you how to get rich, lose weight or find true love. So why do I write it? It's fun for me. Few things are anymore, at least after you've done whatever it is about a couple dozen trillion times. But as a former professional feature writer, writing still gives me a kick. And afterwards I get to edit it, and freely make changes wherever I choose. 

That's something that's possible almost nowhere else: The Do-Over. If it were, life could be perfect. Everything that haunts me would be erased and I could finally get a good night's sleep. One thing I would definitely change is I would watch Star Trek in my youth, or maybe the later remake with those Klingons with the weird foreheads, and understand so much more about modern life. 

Help Us, Jesus!

It's a wonder I haven't picked up some terrible gangrenous disease that will cause me to lose all four limbs and then die of sepsis, considering how much time I spend swimming in a cesspool. It's called the Internet and it's everywhere, all over the world. In fact, you're in it right now.

Today I heard a dastardly rumor swirling around in the darkest reaches of said pool claiming that Senator Lindsey Graham was having sex with a transgender prostitute when he suffered his heart attack. That really irks me. I was deeply saddened to hear of Graham's death over the weekend. One of our finest Senators of all time, his fatal condition was unknown and yet not all that uncommon. Actor John Ritter died of the same thing -- aortic dissection -- in 2003.

Graham had just returned from a trip to Ukraine and had spoken with President Trump two hours before his heart attack. He was scheduled to appear on "Meet the Press" the following morning. If he was consorting with some skanky underworld character, it seems highly unlikely that he would have done so under those trying circumstances. 

The Internet is a sickness we all have, spreading lies, stupidity and misinformation everywhere. The galloping growth of AI has only made it worse. Nothing is real, no place is safe and nobody is held accountable. Someone should pull the plug on the whole damn thing. If Jesus Christ really is coming back, now would be a good time.

Finding My Niche

I read a newspaper profile of a young woman described as a "content creator." Wondering just what that is, I did some research -- i.e. Googled it -- and learned that it's someone who creates content on social media, like with a blog. OMG, I've been one since 2007 and didn't even know it! The only thing is, you're supposed to make money doing it, whereas I definitely do not.

The ways to make money are through advertising and finding a niche, the article went on. Since I find advertising morally reprehensible, that's out. As for finding a niche -- mine used to be Humor, but these days being funny can get you sued, or worse, cancelled, and nobody wants that. 

Next. I'm supposed to charge money for reading my blog. That's insane. How much could I possibly ask? And how would I ask it? Should I just post a photo of me holding a cardboard sign scrawled with, "Anything helps"?

So while my blog continues to create content, I remain niche-less and penniless, except for all the dough my husband has and is kind enough to share with me. And of course all my past earnings before I became a social media content creator and only made content for stone and mortar businesses, for a fee. As for finding a niche, I'm considering one of these:

1. Crimes against humanity, who's committing them, and how to stop it

2. Abuse of the English language by almost everyone, led by people who say,
"At the end of the day" when they mean "ultimately" or "when it's over"

3. Dumb Hollywood movies that get huge audiences because the audiences are themselves dumb

4. Things that are wrong with living in Maine and how they get worse over time

5. How anyone with a head can find Timothy Chalemet sexy, or even male

6. What foods will help you live longer and not get cancer, as opposed to what foods won't

7. Lists of things. (Apparently they get more clicks.)

Headlines I Didn't Click On

Go ahead and make fun of me but I still get my email at AOL. It's been like 20 years and it's too much trouble to change it now. Anyway, the only bad thing about it is seeing the stupid news stories they post when I go to my home page. I try to look away but they seep in somehow.

Following are just a few headlines for the trashy, dumb and possibly untrue stories they print. While I didn't click on any of them, some of them made me laugh.

Indiana Man Accused of Cutting Off His Genitals And Lighting Them On Fire Charged With Arson 

"Little House on the Prairie" Star Melissa Gilbert Discovers She Has 3 Older Brothers 

Bear Feasting On Salmon Surprised As Another Fish Leaps Into Its Mouth

Inside Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce's Ultra-private Honeymoon

Ice Spice Shows Off World's Biggest Tongue Ring 

Violent Abuser Who Made Victim Bark Like A Dog Found Hiding In Fridge

What Your Favorite Nail Color Says About Your Personality

Dad Fights Back Tears While Watching His Daughter, 25, Perform for the First Time 

Only You Can Be You

Obviously nobody besides saints and surgeons knows what to do with themself every day. How else to explain the universal obsession with the lives of celebrities that results in nothing of value for anyone? The recent marriage of Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce, a singer and a football player of all things, is a perfect example. It has dominated the news as if it matters to everyone else as much as to the couple. I wonder, will their eventual divorce also be seen as interesting?

Comparing our lives with those of famous people makes as much sense as comparing our lives to those of squirrels and ants. More sensible is comparing our present lives to our past lives. If there's been no progress, perhaps it's because you've wasted so much time voyeuristically envying other people's lives that you forgot to live yours.

Who Left The Door Open?

My friend Ron, who is 90 but looks and acts 70, said when I bemoaned turning 80, "Don't worry, the eighties are a piece of cake!" Well I don't know what kind of cake he meant, but for me it's been a total drag since that milestone birthday one month ago. My back constantly hurts, I pulled my shoulder somehow, and I'm more fatigued than ever despite getting to bed earlier and earlier. But what happened today was the worst so far.

I had gone out to do some errands which took me about 45 minutes. Arriving back home, I was stunned to see my front door wide open. It wasn't just ajar -- it was as wide open as it could be, letting in a parade of moths and mosquitos. WTF? I was 100% certain I had shut it hard when I left, still paranoid about break-ins from 30 years of living in crime-ridden Washington, D.C.

After checking with my husband and son to see if either one had come in  during my absence and left the door open -- they hadn't -- I undertook a full-scale search of the premises, fearing I was about to be murdered by some intruder hiding in a closet. I found none, but the call to my son was disheartening. 

He recounted an article he recently read suggesting that aging does not happen gradually, but at three distinct times in life: at about age 34, then at age 60, and finally at age 78. So apparently I am now an old coot who leaves doors open without knowing it. I wonder, does plastic surgery help with that or is Jane Fonda, looking fabulous and spry at age 88, also wondering who left the door open, or who went and closed it, or why did I come in here anyway?

Off The Rails Online

Yesterday the picture shown here appeared on my Facebook page. It was posted by a relief organization in Venezuela that was distributing food to the survivors of last week's massive back-to-back earthquakes which killed thousands, leaving thousands more missing and presumed buried under the rubble. 

I found it odd that, amidst the death and destruction, the little boy had a cellphone on his lap, and commented, "at least he has his cell phone." The following response to my bland observation came from a woman named Claudette Veitia: 

"Andrea Rouda he can’t hear you but US VENEZUELANS CAN! Shame on you! What kind of evil lives inside you? It’s disgusting to even read your IGNORANT AND EVIL comment! I am going to be much kinder to you than you were to this little boy in wishing you that you never see what he has seen as a young little boy and I wish you never live what he is living and all Venezuelans are living since the devastating earthquakes. I am sorry life or someone in it has put that much hate inside you, my last wish is for you to heal from whatever it is that fudged you over this bad, but you probably won’t, because only damaged goods would make a comment like that about other human being’s suffering!"

Thank God I hadn't written anything incendiary.

Happy Hot Holiday

Tomorrow is supposed to be a day to celebrate the birth of America 250 years ago. But it's just too damn hot. If it's outdoors and 90 degrees, count me out. That includes tomorrow's 4th of July Parade in our little town. 

Instead of standing on a street corner watching retro cars and fire trucks filled with waving people who somehow were convinced to participate, I will be at home in my air-conditioning. Is that wrong? Remember, heat waves kill. 

In fact, yesterday's Wall Street Journal had an article about that very subject, which asserted that in Europe, heat waves have "often caused tens of thousands of deaths." That was a hard fact to swallow so I did some fact-checking, and so far in Europe 1,000 people have died in France, another 1,000 in Spain and 25 in England during this current hot spell. I also looked up the meaning of "tens of thousands" and it means between 20,000 and 99,000, so I guess their AI bot/writer got that wrong.

Anyway, stay cool and Happy Fourth!

Alone In A Crowd

Do you prefer having just one or two friends and eschew group think? You might be an otrovert!

I just found out I'm an otrovert. I've always known I'm not an introvert or an extrovert, so after living with no label for my entire life it's exciting to be considered something other than "a kook" by at least one New York psychiatrist, who coined the term in 2025. 

Since then it has taken hold in the wider psychological community, earning a Wikipedia page wherein it is described as, "A persistent sense of being an outsider in group settings, even when the person is socially included, and a preference for selective, one-to-one connections over group affiliation."

That's me to a tee. I'm not shy and can easily hang out within a large group of people, be they strangers or friends, without anxiety. It's just that I never enjoy it. So for me it's ixnay to book clubs, volleyball games, yacht clubs, bowling leagues, group exercise classes, parades, parties and political functions.

However, I do enjoy my Loners Anonymous club, which meets only in my mind and on this blog. 

Harry Potter Is A Jew

It's laughable that antisemitism is on the rise in America today, or so it is said. So many actors, movie producers, inventors, business leaders, scientists, biologists and writers are Jewish, it's hard to imagine what life would be like today without all their efforts. And of course, no bagels. Everyone would be eating what for breakfast? Crumpets and plum pudding?

Instead, people should start hating that one ethnic group that has contributed nothing to society -- there must be one. (Google it.) That would at least make some sense.

Videos To Die For

Fat people are helpless and pathetic addicts, no less than someone who shoots heroin. But there are no videos of anyone doing that online. I guess give it time.

I've known about mental illness since I was a very small child. My first introduction to it was seeing the classic 1948 film, The Snake Pit, starring Olivia de Havilland, who became my favorite female film star of those old black & white days. I must have been very young, having been born in 1946, and it stayed with me. There were lots of people in strait jackets, with dirty, stringy hair walking around with dazed expressions like zombies. Starring the usual manic depressives, schizophrenics, bi-polars and psychopaths, some of them were confined to cages.

Today's crazies are more fortunate. They are not only free to be their looniest selves, but they are actually online "influencers" applauded by a vast number of "followers" on TikTok and Instagram who enjoy watching their insanity. Their output is called "mukbang", wherein they eat large quantities of food and post videos of themselves doing so online. The name comes from two South Korean words and literally means "eating broadcast." 

Very obese people -- and even some who are not overweight at all -- eating unimaginably large amounts of terribly unhealthy foods is beyond disgusting. Several of these mostly young people, in their 20s and 30s, have actually died while eating online from a heart attack or some other obesity-related disease. Almost worse is the enormous cult of people, called "Feeders," who get off on watching people stuff themselves and actually send them food and money to support their addiction. 

The pro-obesity sub-culture makes me feel sorry for the entire human "race", which apparently has already been lost.

Open Letter to All Dumbocrats

Connecticut's Democrat Congresswoman, Rosa DeLaurio

Okay, come on. Maybe you don't like Donald Trump because he's a braggart who is rich and successful with bad taste in furnishings and a penchant for self-aggrandizement. I get it. But he's very smart, and very accomplished, and has great political instincts, and he's done a great job as POTUS.

Now let's look at the contenders for president on the Democrat side in 2028: Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, a goofy bartender-turned-socialist cheerleader, Pete Buttigieg, a one-time small-town mayor who's gay and that's about it, Governor Hair Gel, a good-looking jerk with a bad political record, and worst of all, loser extraordinaire Kamala Harris,who cannot even speak plain English and is clearly a mental midget of monumental proportions.

How anyone can be a Democrat anymore is simply beyond my comprehension. Really, what are you all thinking? 

Series Review: CLARKSON'S FARM SEASON FIVE

After what seemed like an eternity (but was really only 11 months), the gang at Clarkson's Farm has returned this month on Amazon Prime. I hadn't realize how empty my life has been without them until I watched the first episode of Season 5 last night. There are seven hour-long episodes left, and I'm thrilled at the prospect of watching them and already sad that they will come to an end.

If you've never seen the show you are missing out on something totally unique and exhilarating. First of all it's a documentary, so you're seeing real lives play out, not some Hollywood writer's inner, often drug-induced, fantasy world. The series is set on a thousand-acre farm in the Cotswolds, perhaps the most beautiful part of the English countryside. (You'll want to drop everything and go there immediately; we did exactly that last year, eventually making our way to the farm.) 

Just the color-drenched photography alone makes it all worthwhile. Some of the stunning images that take your breath away include drone shots of impossibly-green farmland, all species of farm animals living their best lives -- growing, having babies and running free, birds soaring in flight, darkening clouds gathering for a storm, magical sunsets and sunrises, and intense close-ups of flowers and vegetation. 

The accompanying music is great, and the characters are even better. Jeremy Clarkson, the star, is a total hoot and it's easy to see why he was, and has remained, such a fan favorite all across Great Britain. His partner Lisa is adorable and funny, adding a feminine slant to the basically all-male cast. The assorted, sometimes wacky, locals who help Jeremy make a go of his farm and the village beer pub he opened in Season 4 will soon become your favorite neighbors. 

Best of all, the show is free of evil drug lords, monstrous murderers and rapists, racism, flying wizards, international spy rings, wild car chases, political infighting and violence -- although last night's episode did show the aftermath of a wild dog attack on a poor, innocent sheep that was quite gory and all too real. But in general you can watch Clarkson's Farm with your children without worry. They'll likely want to be farmers when they grow up, which in our current economy and with AI taking everyone's jobs away, isn't such a bad idea.

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?