Antiques Roadkill

In our society, the older you are the less you are worth. This is downright nutty as anyone who has ever sold antiques will tell you. So you gotta wonder why we place such a high value on youth when young people are in many ways inferior. Scientists who study such things report that the brain develops from back to front, and the part of the brain which controls reasoning and impulses--specifically the prefrontal cortex--is near the front of the brain and therefore develops last. Still, we nurture superstars who are relative toddlers, rewarding their childish antics with millions of dollars that they spend on God knows what. (Not hospice care, certainly.) The young fans who worship them are excused from criticism, being likewise still dumb, but the older ones who watch for reasons I cannot even guess are puzzling.

Einstein started the tongue thing years ago....

The latest in-your-face celebrity is Miley Cyrus, who is the new Brittany Spears, who was the new Lady Gaga, who was the new Madonna, who was the new Grace Slick, who was the new I forget, but you get the point. Young Miss Miley is shown on the current cover of Rolling Stone magazine, with her famous tongue sticking out, nude, in a swimming pool, proving what we all suspected: That underneath her clothing she is naked. (The harlot!) I guess that sells magazines, or at least Rolling Stone magazine, which ran the picture of another precocious 20-year-old, the surviving brother responsible for the Boston Marathon bombings, on its cover recently. Not sure, and don't quote me, but I bet anything the editor and art director are both older than 25, yet they made those questionable decisions.

What bugs me, since I'm no spring chicken myself, is that while many of them have lost their muscle tone and gotten fat, plenty of really cool and really smart "old" people walk among us. They too have tongues and are naked underneath their clothing. Often they do things of merit. To be fair, some of them can be idiotic morons just like the young folks, but on the whole they've got valuable wisdom to share. Maybe if we revered more of them instead of pushing them out of the way, things would be better all around.

My Secret

Several years ago an Australian woman named Rhonda Byrne wrote a book which spawned a movie, and together the two made $300 million. More than 19 million copies of the book had been sold by the spring of 2007, earning $12 million, not counting the profits from 2 million DVDs. Today Rhonda is likely lolling on a South Seas island counting her lucre from the sale of her great idea. The book was called The Secret, and anyone who knows anything about anything knows that it's just a rehash of The Power of Positive Thinking, written 50 years ago by Norman Vincent Peale, with a dash of How to Win Friends and Influence People, written in 1936 by Dale Carnegie. The secret was that there really is a sucker born every minute, among them my old friend Nancy who bought the whole package and started attending weekly "Secret meetings," and talk-show diva Oprah Winfrey who helped popularize The Secret by giving it her blessing on TV and in her monthly magazine.

The "secret" was that if you think good things, good things will happen to you and if you think bad things, bad things will happen to you. I believe this to be a crock, however I would be all but penniless were it not for the generosity of my husband combined with the marital laws in this country, so what do I know? Who can think very good thoughts these days, what with all the horrors of everyday life and death and insane fanatics holed up in shopping malls for four days shooting random strangers, but hey, maybe it's time to turn it all around. Perhaps everyone should start thinking good things, and even write books that spawn movies that sell a lot of DVDs and end up lolling on some beach somewhere too. Yes, that's it, that is exactly what we should do.

Compare and Contrast: Janet Yellen & Me

Janet.

Me.

A woman named Janet Yellen is being talked about as the next Federal Reserve Chairman, although in her case it would be Chairwoman. I have noticed her in news reports because you rarely ever see old ladies written about unless they were murdered in a senseless rampage, or are being held hostage by a terrorist, or are missing with Alzheimer's, yet here is this lady and she's none of those things but is still big news. I checked her out and learned that we have a lot in common:
1. We are both 67 years old.
2. We were both born in Brooklyn.
3. We both have one son.
4. We are both Jewish.
5. We are both "effective leaders" with a "sharp mind" who "clash with others" and "leave hard feelings" in the wake of "confrontations."

Yet we are also very different:
1. In 2012 she was named one of the "50 Most Influential People" by Bloomberg News; I can't get the neighbor's dogs to stop pooping on my lawn.
2. She respects the current administration and therefore President Obama, whereas I would cross the street to avoid bumping into him.
3. She has gone gray, while I color my hair.
4. She is being considered as the next leader of the Federal Reserve; I was passed over by L.L. Bean to sell duck boots to tourists.
 5. I think marijuana should be legalized, but I bet she does not. (Just guessing.)

Don't Bother Reading This

From now on I'm aiming for fewer readers instead of more. Then when I have no readers at all, I can say whatever I want without worry. This plan came to me after I recently met an acquaintance here in town who I particularly dislike and she mentioned that she read one of my blog posts and found it offensive. This made me feel two emotions: A, I was stunned that she reads my blog--I certainly would never read hers--and B, I was annoyed that she told me so. Relating this encounter to my husband and son, they said I should write a diary and not a blog, and that if it's online it's public, and yada, yada, yada. They suggested I keep it private and email it to a select few friends if I want readers.

That seems like a lot of trouble, and quite presumptuous; imagine getting this nonsense in an email! How annoying would that be?  So then I came up with the idea of having it just be dumb and boring so that nobody else will read it at all, thus making it my own personal diary except still online, with Gordon's illustrations or cartoons or whatever. Plus, I like going back months later and editing it, and besides I hardly ever write longhand anymore, I prefer typing. Thus I am starting the new plan with this very post.

Timing is Everything

Although the election is still 17 months away, someone named Eliot Cutler has announced he is running for governor here in Maine. Once again, the Independent candidate will reprise his role as a spoiler in the three-way race in 2014. When I heard him speak the last time at a neighbor's casual backyard "meet and greet," the most interesting thing I learned was the recipe for the delightfully spicy guacamole, and that wasn't even from him. (What set it apart was a healthy infusion of freshly chopped cilantro---who knew?)

As usual, I wonder what inner mechanism makes all those politicians who lost come back for more. Are they older and wiser, or just older? More determined to do good, or just more desperate to repair a wounded ego? Whatever the reason, it seems awfully early to start the droning. If only they showed up a month or two before Election Day, brimming with fresh ideas, maybe more people would pay attention.

Brain Drain

My mother died of early-onset Alzheimer's at age 62. I was 34 at the time, and since then I have kept up with all the latest findings on the disease. One thing that seems clear is that, like any other body part, when it comes to the brain it's use it or lose it. To that end I am a nut about crossword puzzles and word games and reading and writing, believing that continually stretching my brain will keep it from crumbling, or at the very least, I'll notice if it starts to go. I believe that playing Words With Friends is therapeutic. Ditto Scrabble. I don't feel guilty since all I'm doing is taking my medicine, which just happens to be fun. Every Sunday when the New York Times arrives, I do the crossword in the magazine. Like a good girl. I am not wasting my time, I am avoiding dementia.

So the other day when I got an invitation from a friend to play Candy Crush Saga, a Facebook game I have studiously avoided thus far, I was unsure how to react. It's a quandary, since one of my dearest old friends plays it with gusto, and so if it's good enough for her, maybe it's good enough. I said to myself, "Hey, she's asking me to play, she's my pal, she's no dummy, I'll give it a try." So I did. And I gotta say, it seemed like if I played that game regularly it would actually bring on Alzheimer's. I had no idea what the goal of the game was, nor did I know even how to start, but that mattered not at all since suddenly I had won the top spot over three of my friends who have all been playing for months. There were lots of flashing lights and numbers coming at me, and little cartoon people, and it all had to do with brightly-colored, throbbing pieces of candy, like jelly beans and suckers. Anyway, since there is no way playing Candy Crush Saga could be considered therapeutic I will resist, although I'm sure it is one hell of a fun time-waster.

Finding Purpose

Sometimes Buddhist monks just wanna have fun....

I'm guessing most of us were taught to believe that life should be fun and that recreation is our God-given right, and thus a lofty goal. This surely explains why there are 649 roller coasters in America. At an average cost of $15 million each to construct, these feats of engineering serve no purpose other than to thrill the rider for approximately three minutes. And when they are not on roller coasters, or waiting in line to get on one, many of the people who might otherwise be saving the world or feeding the poor or finding a cure for cancer are instead playing Candy Crush and Words With Friends and Farmville on their iPhone toys. This is a shame, since our world is riddled with horrendous problems, none of which the iPhone can solve despite the fact that it's now available in fun colors and an unbreakable plastic case with a fingerprint recognition locking device.

Personally, I am sick and tired of recreating. I've done it to death, and by the time you are in your sixth decade, which I am, having fun is just not all that much fun. In fact, it's boring. What we crave at this stage of life, especially if we are retired or just plain unemployed, is Purpose and Meaning and a Reason To Get Up In The Morning. I'm still searching for those. I'm not sure where to look anymore, although I won't be checking atop the world's tallest coaster, the 456-feet high Kingda Ka at Six Flags Adventure in New Jersey, the thrill of which is reported to last 28 seconds. I've got lots more time to fill than that.

Words of Wisdom from a Dead Guy

If only more people could follow the preceding advice given by Steve Jobs, things would be so much better in our society. But far too few do. In fact, if you even try you are branded a "kook" by the rest of the sheep-like people (sheeple) who comprise the ever-increasing bulk of America. I have been branded "a piece of work" or an "oddball" ever since I can remember, and to be honest, I'm sort of tired of hearing it by now.

While I witness individual instances almost daily, my last sighting of a flock of sheeple occurred over a year ago, while I was in Haiti. Our tour group of 12 women had gathered for an informal meeting in the hotel's lounge area. Drinks were offered; I ordered a Pastis. Someone asked what that was, and I explained. Then she ordered one. Next thing you know, everyone there was drinking Pastis, although one or two had it on the rocks, again per my suggestion. It was pretty weird, and I was congratulated for "starting a trend." The next night in the hotel bar, Pastis was again quite popular in our group. I think I was supposed to be flattered, but instead I was appalled--didn't even one of those women have their own favorite drink by the age of 50-ish? Naturally I said nothing, since unbridled honesty is always a one-way ticket to Palookaville, and I was already in Haiti--being in both at the same time seemed unduly daunting. Anyway, Steve Jobs got it right--maybe each of us should try a little harder to follow our own private GPS.

Relaxed and Loving it

Talk about dodging a bullet: Yesterday someone went on a shooting spree in Washington, D.C. and killed a dozen random people, just two blocks away from where I once lived. If there were no guns, the killer would have had to use something else--a spear, or maybe rocks or some really hard apples--and probably nobody would have died. Let's face it: Guns are a bad business. It would be nice if they could all be rounded up and destroyed, but it's too late now. Sadly, like Twitter and Miley Cyrus, guns are here to stay.

I lived in D.C. for 30 years. I saw great theater and ate at fabulous restaurants. There were lots of good jobs for the taking, and freelance writing assignments crawled out of the woodwork. Throw in the annual display of Cherry Blossoms, the world-class museums, the Library of Congress, and blah, blah, blah---it's a great city. Except I saw friends murdered and raped, got mugged myself and had my car stolen, and generally held my breath every time I went outside, and that was in a good year, unlike 2002 when those Beltway Snipers ruled the streets for 21 days.

And it's not just in Washington but in every city: It's a jungle out there. These days all you city folks can do is stay low to the ground and keep your heads down. Or you could move to Maine. I'm not sure why, but there are hardly any deranged psychopaths living up here. In fact, the Maine crime rate is far lower than the national crime rate, earning it the title "safest state" in 2013. So snicker all you want about the cold weather and Governor Paul LePage--I'm breathing a huge sigh of relief and staying put.

Why Does Anyone Do Anything?

Illustration by Gordon Studer

I got an email from a friend today saying he was confused--he thought I had said that I wasn't going to write this blog anymore, and here it was again, and what the heck is going on? Here's the thing: writing a blog is sort of like doing nothing. It doesn't make me any money and it doesn't cost me any money. People don't leave comments, so there's no give and take with an audience. And while I do hear from a couple of people every so often, and I appreciate those people very much, aside from Tedinski and David, and an occasional peep from Mel or Diane, it's a black hole out there.

I still don't know why I do it, but why does anyone do anything? Old habits die hard, which would explain why Shakespeare wrote the same play over and over, only with different characters dying from different causes. If I stop writing this blog, then I've got nothing, whereas if I continue writing this blog, I've got this blog I write. And I can say and do whatever I want, and it's just about the only place where that is true. So it matters not if anyone reads it--my life doesn't change either way. (That's the worst part. The best part is that I get to read it, and sometimes I find a typo to fix, and that's always fun.) And I can do things like right in the middle of it say, "Paul is dead now," or whatever the heck I want, and nobody can stop me. And I get to show off my friend Gordon's illustrations, which are awesome. For that alone you should thank me.

Love Fades

Daisy suspects something...

Is it possible to divorce your cat? Because if it is, I definitely want to. Like many a marriage, ours has gone downhill after 18 years together, and the spunky kitty that once brightened my days is now responsible for--and I'm just guessing here--my annoyingly high blood pressure.

When did it happen and why is the question we ask ourselves when relationships sour. With Daisy and me it started about a year ago, maybe more. My once sweet and affectionate soul mate is now always cranky and demanding, and usually screeching. She cries often, perhaps from arthritis but maybe just from years of disappointment; sometimes I can actually make out the words, "Is that all there is?" She spends her days wanting to go in or out, depending on whether she is in or out. She eats a lot, yet always wants treats. She's basically a pain in the ass.

Complicating matters is the fact that my other cat, a fluffy and feisty four-year-old named Big Lurch, is fabulous. He is incredibly dignified, and very handsome, and hardly ever makes a sound. I like him so much better than Daisy but I can't let her know; it would break her heart. Even worse, Lurch and I are sleeping together, something I used to do with Daisy until she stopped coming upstairs. I think she suspects. I suppose I should feel guilty, but I don't--I'm just tired of all the sneaking around. I don't know how much longer I can carry on this charade.