Sympathy for a Devil

A few minutes after four o'clock this morning I was awakened from a really pleasant dream by a skunk. No, the skunk did not tap me on the shoulder or whisper in my ear--nothing like that. Fortunately he remained outside, one floor below my open bedroom window, and made his presence known odorifically, if that is a word. If not, it should be, because that's what happened.

At first I thought the smell was gas escaping and that I had mere moments to get out before my house exploded. Lest you think I am overly worrisome, that exact same thing did happen to a house nearby just two years ago, killing its only occupant. (It was a big story, even making the national news.) And just yesterday a repairman came to fix a broken burner on our stove. After messing with it for some time he concluded it needed a new part, which was ordered. I asked him about exploding houses and he assured me that if my house were about to explode, the whole place would smell strongly of gas as a warning. So naturally when I woke up to the skunk gas I was momentarily alarmed; surely you can see how that would happen.

But soon enough I figured it out. By then it was too late to get back to sleep, so the new day was begrudgingly begun and coffee was made. I was annoyed, not only because of the interrupted dream but also because I will be out very late tonight and so likely will be dragging at some point. But then I remembered when I lived in a second-floor New York City apartment and was awakened by noisy garbage trucks and police sirens and street traffic early every morning, so I sent the skunk some positive vibes. In fact, I wondered what had scared him so much that he had released his only weapon. It must have been something fierce, since skunks carry just enough of the chemical for five or six uses – about one tablespoon – and require some ten days to produce another supply.

I hope he's okay.

A Non-Granny Rant

I know you've heard this before, that thing about how "there are two kinds of people in the world, the kind that does this and the kind that does that," and it's always different stuff, and usually it doesn't really hold water, at least not for everyone. But I'm pretty sure this one does: There are two kinds of people in the world, those who have grandchildren (TWHG) and talk about them incessantly and think people are interested and those without any grandchildren (TWAG) and who are not the least bit interested in yours.

Forgive me, but TWAG are getting really sick and tired of hearing from TWHG about how cute the little ones are and about the adorable noises and funny faces they make and what they did at their first birthday party and what their teachers say about them and how they are starring in their school plays and how you bake cookies together and how they are such talented artists and all the rest. The truth is that the whole entire time you are going on and on about the precious carriers of your DNA, whoever is facing you, pretending to listen and smiling with a glazed expression, is actually plotting their getaway. Just so you know.

Really, it's nutty and sometimes downright rude. A new baby is one thing when it's your very own and we're good friends, but a grandchild is a different animal altogether, especially when I've never even met the kid's parents and hardly know you. Besides, even though I am among TWAG, I still matter! Ask me a question about my life, why doncha? So stop with the stories and enough with the pictures and let's focus on more important matters, like the fact that both of the people running for president are currently being investigated for wrongdoings and may be facing legal tribunals before either of them gets elected. Now there's a topic worth jawing about.

It's a Wonderful Life

Yesterday in Kalamazoo County, Michigan, a pickup truck that had been seen driving erratically for some thirty minutes slammed into a group of bicyclists, killing five and injuring four others. Later, two Palestinians fired randomly at crowds in a Tel Aviv market, killing four people in a cafe and wounding five others. After reading that I feel better about our upcoming trip to Israel in the fall, since my odds of survival are better over there than right here at home, or at least in Michigan.

Presidential Private Parts

Does anyone else see how ridiculous things are or is it just me? All the news is about how Hillary Clinton has "made history" by being the first female nominee for president.  She has broken the last glass ceiling! Finally, a female president! At last, we can proudly join with several other countries and say "Madame President."  Oh how long we have waited for this day: "Think of the suffragists who gathered at Seneca Falls in 1848 and those who kept fighting until women could cast their votes," Clinton bellowed to her adoring fans last night as the final votes were tallied putting her over the top, thanks to all the people who voted for her just because she is female.

But hold on just a minute -- I thought gender doesn't matter anymore. Now everyone is just a person, not a "he" or a "she." People are lining up for transgender surgery to become the sex they are not naturally. Bathrooms are up for grabs: pee wherever you like, depending on how you feel inside. No more little girls playing with dolls or little boys playing with trucks; in case you haven't heard, we are all just humans!

To plagiarize from Wikipedia: "Bigender and androgynous are overlapping categories; bigender individuals may identify as moving between male and female roles (genderfluid) or as being both male and female simultaneously (androgynous), and androgynes may similarly identify as beyond gender or genderless (postgender or agender), between genders (intergender), or moving across genders (genderfluid) or simultaneously exhibiting multiple genders (pangender). Limited forms of androgyny are common (women wearing pants, men wearing earrings) and are not seen as transgender behaviour. Androgyne is also sometimes used as a medical synonym for an intersex person. Genderqueer identities are independent of sexual orientation."

Nevertheless, the voters and the media are going bonkers over the possibility of having our first woman president! Go figure.

A Sad Story About Racism

It started out innocently enough: A woman bought a mask of a creature called Chewbacca. I have to admit that I had no idea who Chewbacca is although her t-shirt had a Star Wars logo. (I am not up to speed on my make-believe monsters, so my bad.) She posted a video of herself on YouTube sitting inside her car, staring into her phone which was the recording device, putting on the mask and then laughing wildly each time the mask somehow made a roaring sound that she found utterly hysterical. This went on for like five minutes.

I watched the video because it was "trending" and as we can tell from the preceding paragraph, I need help in that area. So I watched it but did not laugh. Not at all, in fact I was somewhat horrified, but okay, people have different ideas about humor. But then this morning I read that the laughing lady has received more than $420,000 in goods including college scholarships for her kids because her video "went viral" and made money for the mask people. She also made more than a few appearances on TV, all those morning shows where they have to fill air time between the weather and the news with something, often some bit of meaningless fluff.

It's a crazy world and I'm not sure of how to succeed in it, but I do know you have to be willing to put yourself "out there" and that's something I just can't do. The thought of being in a video seen all over the world by total strangers makes my skin crawl. So I suppose the mask lady is to be congratulated, having brought joy to millions with her silly video, but now many people are angry and are calling her success an example of "white privilege."

The end.

Film Review: THE LOBSTER

Don't believe the hype, the reviews, the trailers or the posters telling you this is a laugh-riot. Depending on your sensitivity, you will spend at least some time averting your eyes, covering your ears, and looking at your watch as you squirm your way through 118 minutes of The Lobster. Billed as a satirical take on society's obsession with coupledom, this challenging film is set sometime in the not-too-distant future (since everything looks just like now) when being single, or a "loner," is seen as an outright threat to civilization.

David and his brother in happier times.

The fantastical premise, which sounds like it could be sort of fun and funny if done right, is that if you are alone for whatever reason -- death of a spouse, divorce or just plain ugly -- and can't find a compatible "partner" in 45 days, the State will have you transformed into an animal of your choosing. Recalling some of my past significant others, I would have jumped at the chance to be a cat instead of me. But I digress. Our pathetic hero, David, played with incredible finesse and a surprisingly assertive paunch by Colin Farrell, has chosen in advance to be a lobster should things get to that, which they don't.

In fact, there is not a speck of seafood or shellfish to be seen anywhere. What there is are lots of disturbing images one hopes will not leave permanent imprints, like a dog, once the brother of the protagonist, beaten to death and lying in a pool of his own blood. And a man screaming in agony as his hand is stuck inside a toaster by the authorities as punishment for masturbating, which is of course against the law. Toss in some random animal cruelty (including dead bunnies) and lots of human cruelty, both emotional and physical, and there you have it. Every character is a complete wacko; there's not a normal person anywhere, except maybe sitting next to you in the movie theater, and I said maybe because who would go see such a film?

To say The Lobster is bleak is like saying Hitler had a mean streak. I can honestly say I regret seeing it. Good thing I wasn't at the 2015 Cannes Film Festival where it won the coveted Jury Prize. Had my opinion been found out I might have been stoned to death by an angry mob of married people.

Muhammed Ali, R.I.P.

Oy--such a doll!

Yesterday the great Muhammed Ali died at the age of 74. He was one of my heroes, inspiring the following essay years ago. I offer it again here for the stray reader who hasn't read it.

It was a blistering July, and I was not happy to be spending any part of it wandering the streets of Miami Beach. Still sad over my grandfather’s death only two weeks before, I had been tagged to accompany my mother and grandmother on a quest for suitable lodgings for the new widow. While it seemed too soon for her to make such a move, just hours after her husband’s funeral Grandma had begun lobbying for her plight, lamenting, “He should rest in peace, he’s dead already, but what about me, I’m all alone now!” 

Clamoring to get out of that "hell-hole” formerly known as her home for the past 30 years, Grandma ached to spend what time she had left playing canasta on the beach with her friends who had already moved there. Making matters worse, we had to take the train from New York to Miami because Grandma wouldn't fly. Twenty-four hours of her complaining about the broken air-conditioning and the bad food and how she couldn't sleep a wink on the Amtrak Special, with my mother huddled in a corner quietly sobbing into a wad of tissues, primed me for what was coming.

Once there, I was put in charge of it all. With me at the wheel and my mother riding shotgun, Grandma chased her dream in a rented Buick. At first, going through the classifieds, each apartment  sounded perfect. But then we’d get there and Grandma would claim it was too close to the beach, or too far from the beach, or too hot, or too small or too noisy or too quiet. By late afternoon we’d return to the hotel, have an early dinner, and then go to a movie or watch TV. At night, kept awake by my mother’s sobbing, I’d carefully plot my grandmother’s untimely demise. The next morning, after perusing the classifieds at breakfast, off we’d go to view that day’s probable rejects, a dogeared city map serving as our only guide.

Finally, after a week of searching--glory, hallelujah--we found it! A one-bedroom unit with a dining alcove, not too expensive, it was close to her friends, on a low floor, with a nice breeze and an ocean view. Grandma took one look and said, "What's not to love?" We signed the lease and planned a celebratory farewell dinner that night at Wolfies’—after all, who wouldn't celebrate such a thing with corned beef on rye and a lovely stroll down Collins Avenue? My mother was finally happy, mentally counting the moments until she could literally kiss off her mother for good.

Arriving back at our hotel, the venerable Fontainebleau, we were just crossing the lobby when Grandma stopped walking and said, “What do I know from Florida? It’s so hot here. And the beach--feh! What, I'm going surfing all of a sudden? I’m a New Yorker. Maybe I’ll go back home with you.”

Right there, my mother lost it. It was not surprising--she and her father had been very close, and there had been little time to register his death before embarking on this trip. Her emotions exploded out of her, and she screamed, “I hate you, I’ve always hated you! You should have died instead!” My grandmother, kicking it up a notch, clutched her bosom as if she were having a heart attack, wailing, “Oy vey, I should only drop dead this minute, how a daughter can say such things to a mother!” Everyone within earshot stood stock still. Being only 22, I had no idea what to do. I prayed for salvation.

Suddenly a handsome young black man in a blazing white suit approached us. He was smiling and saying, “Ladies, ladies, calm down. What’s the problem?” As he got nearer, we recognized him as Cassius Clay—even though by then he had changed his name to Muhammad Ali—still in his prime. Reaching us, he put his arm around my grandmother and said, “Now, what’s all the fuss about?” Grandma, a world-class bigot—to her, if you weren’t Jewish, or at least white, you were nothing--looked up at him, stroked his cheek, and said, “Oy, you’re such a doll! You know, I hate all schvartzes, but you I love.” He seemed to find this comment acceptable, and the two trotted off together in the direction of the lobby bar.

The hotel physician gave my mother a strong sedative; she slept until the next afternoon. The next morning, I drove Grandma—still in fine spirits from her “date” with Ali the night before--to the airport for her flight to Baltimore, where my uncle would be waiting. (I figured, it’s his mother, let him worry about her.) Ever since, I've considered Ali to be The Greatest.

3 Steps to Happiness!

I keep reading about how unhappy everyone is. There are new books coming out every day based on turning this around and making us all happy. I bought one of those recently called "Uncovering Happiness" and it didn't. In fact, it made me feel even worse about myself because it turned out to be such a piece of crap but yet it got published by a reputable publishing outfit, while my latest novel cannot even land an agent to show it to any publisher, even a disreputable one.

People are unhappy for all sorts of reasons, but aside from terrible physical problems and debilitating illnesses, the main cause seems to be Having Less Than Other People Who Seem to Have It All. We usually learn we are suffering from this chronic condition by reading magazines and newspapers, watching TV and logging on to Facebook. I try to cull some of these outside influences before they bring me down, throwing out those "special sections" inside every Sunday's New York Times that are brimming with lavish spreads on fabulous houses and fantastic journeys to exotic places populated by beautiful people, that sort of thing. You know, things I can't afford and have no bearing on my life. I usually take the offending magazine and close my eyes so I can't even read the cover lines, then grope my way to the recycling bin in the garage and dump it in.

Today I realized I will have to cancel our home delivery of the Wall Street Journal because we are simply not rich enough to continue reading it. I won't go into details about which one of several articles detailing how the filthy rich squander their money while African babies with distended tummies barely survive on mud pies sent me over the edge because I don't want to bum you out. In fact, like every other freelance author out there, I want to make you happier! And so here's my prescription for happiness in three easy steps:

1. Stop comparing yourself to anyone but yourself. 
2. Be grateful if you can walk, and in fact, get outside and walk. 
3. Forget about how your outsides look and be grateful your insides still work.

Grateful for Bananas

So far today I have been awake about four hours and nothing terrible has happened, unless you count my random blood pressure spike of 207/90, determined by my home blood pressure monitor, which in turn brought on intense dread, fear and loathing, tears, dizziness and a deep sense of hopelessness. Unwilling to give in to it, I popped a few meds, ate a stalk of celery, downed a glass of water and turned on a Buddhist podcast from Tara Brach entitled "Happy for No Reason," figuring my current situation certainly fit that description. Tara helped, instructing me to recognize what was going on, allow it to be there, and focus on the things for which I am grateful. (Turns out much of Buddhist teachings are a variation of Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music singing "My Favorite Things.") I started to feel better quickly, but the real magic bullet was the banana.

Bananas are almost mystical in their powers. In addition to their sweet taste, silly shape, amusing packaging and easy availability, they are filled with potassium and fiber and thus instantly cure much of what ails you, within reason. Be it high blood pressure, high cholesterol, intestinal problems, low energy or depression, bananas fix them all. It seems quite sensible to enjoy two a day. In fact, if I were a young Hollywood starlet with a baby on the way, I would name that baby Banana. After all, there's already an Apple running around Rodeo Drive.

Too Harsh for the Mainers, Even in Summer

Turns out today is one of those days when having my own blog comes in handy. Following is a short essay I wrote for the bimonthly magazine published by AAA, the car people. It was to run in a reader-written column called "On My Mind," which occupies the last page of their New England edition, officially titled Northern New England Journey. It was a freebie; I just wrote it for fun. The magazine's Editor-in-Chief, an agreeable sort named Al who lives in California, happily agreed to run it if I cut it to fit their allotted 750 words. I made a few edits and it was good to go next month. 

This morning Al called and said that the local Portland editor axed the story, complaining  that it "made her cringe" and "might be offensive." A laid-back Californian, Al was perplexed by her decision, saying, "I don't know, I've never been there, but maybe those people in Maine are a little thin-skinned. " Gee, yuh think? Following is the rejected article, not worth a dime to me or anyone:

Born in Brooklyn and educated at New York University, by the time I was thirty I thought I knew it all. You could have asked me anything and I’d have an answer on the spot, or at least within 24 hours. But this is no longer true because two things happened, one causing the other: I moved to Maine and I stopped caring.

Don’t get me wrong, I still know things, but now they’re different. Like where the best seaweed for mulching my vegetables washes ashore. And how to boil a lobster alive without crying. I can shuck a clam, tap a maple tree, and snowshoe up a mountain.

Since moving here seven years ago, I’m a different person. Not saying better, just different, and a far cry from that little Brooklyn girl.

That’s good and bad. Some of the bad is that the natives in my new state are tight-lipped and aloof. They keep it close to the chest. They have family over for Sunday dinner where they likely talk badly about people from “away.” (I’m guessing, having never attended one of these dinners.) And all their clothes come from L.L. Bean, which makes it hard to tell them apart when you see them at the post office.

Mainers talk most about the weather, the black flies, and how the fish are running. As for culture, the art is mostly paintings of boats, rocks, and surf; or surf crashing on rocks with boats in the foreground; or lighthouses. The theater is amateurish and movies that open simultaneously all over the country don’t open here, finally showing up when they’re old news.

That’s the bad, and it’s not too bad. The good, however, is very, very good. The city of Portland is an up-and-coming, award-winning foodie town, with many restaurants serving the same pretentious things you never heard of in New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles. Beside the ubiquitous and affordable lobsters, the halibut and haddock, fresher and tastier than anywhere else, fairly jump onto your plate. They are downright habit-forming.

Along with great deep-sea and lake fishing, there are scenic hiking trails along the coast and far into the mountains. North of Portland, the terrain changes dramatically, becoming craggy and full of necks, and mountains are crashing into the sea by the time you reach Acadia. Hundreds of islands flung out in the ocean offer more of the same, only better.

In the winter, tons of snow delight skiers and snowboarders. Otherwise, it gets dark early so it’s best to do things like read or clean the basement. Or shovel the snow; there’s always that.

By any measure, the winter of 2014–15 was rough. It snowed for seven months, burying the fall leaves in early November. It was well below zero many days and nights. My husband and I came to the same conclusion: We’re outta here!

Then spring arrived and we came to our senses. With so few people—Maine’s population is 1.329 million—there’s virtually no crime and hardly any traffic, except for car dealership lots and in the summer, when the “out-of-statahs” come. And houses are twice as nice at half the price of some others elsewhere.

I’m lowering my hoity-toity standards concerning “theater” and “art” and sleeping soundly at night. I may not know as much about the world as I once did, but since nobody asks, it hardly matters. We’re all just busy smelling the flowers.

Food for Body and Soul

It's finally happened. I thought it might someday but not this soon. My head is empty. I have no new ideas, nothing to write about that hasn't already been said, either by me or someone else. Alarming as this sounds, it may actually signal a positive development, at least according to one Buddhist tale I heard recently from spiritual teacher Jonathan Foust at a weekend retreat last month. He repeated a famous story of a monk from Asia visiting the United States who spoke only two words of English.  Everywhere he went he would bow, then smile and say, “Empty Empty, Happy Happy.” That's it. Nothing more. Somehow those two words were enough to convey the fact that an empty mind is a happy mind, or something like that. If that's true, then I am ecstatic today.

But just so you have something for your troubles, and since Buddhism and vegetarianism often go hand in hand, here is a recipe for a dynamite dish from the old WHFS-FM Cookbook. This dates back to the 1970s when I first moved to Washington, D.C. The reigning hippie-dippy radio station is now defunct but this delicious casserole lives on. And I promise that when your plate is empty, empty you will be happy, happy.

SEVEN-LAYER CASSEROLE
The layers:
2 medium or 1 large white potato
1 medium eggplant
2 medium zucchini and/or yellow squash
3 medium tomatoes
1 cup mushrooms
1 large onion
1 green pepper

Mixture for between each layer:
1 cup grated Parmesan cheese
1 cup any other kind of cheese
1/2 cup sesame seeds
1/2 cup wheat germ
12/cup sunflower seeds
1/2 cup butter
Salt and pepper to taste

Wash and cut all vegetables into fairly thin slices.
Layer in large greased casserole, beginning with potatoes and ending with green pepper, spreading mixture between each layer and on the top.
Sprinkle 2 tablespoons water on top.
Cook at 350 degrees for one hour or until vegetables are soft. If green peppers start to dry out, cover with foil.
Serves five ravenous vegetarians.