Remembering Mary Jo Kopechne

People in high places are calling for Roy Moore to resign should he win his senate race, since "he does not meet the ethical and moral requirements of the U.S. Senate." Gee, who knew they even had any?

Call me crazy, but I would rather endure being kissed by then-comedian, now-senator, Al Franken, tongue and all -- yuk, by the way -- than be trapped inside a car and left to drown at the bottom of the ocean by Massachusetts Senator Ted Kennedy.

Spare Me the Details

On some mornings I wake up and walk outside for the newspaper and revel in the surrounding beauty of nature and feel happy just to be alive. On others, like when it's raining or snowing or otherwise inclement, I stay cozy and instead log on to my computer and within seconds feel embarrassed by my species. (Surely being a frog or a squirrel or a bird or just about anything else must be better.) Today I experienced both sensations simultaneously.

The short walk to the end of our driveway made me gasp at the beauty of nature. A powerful wind filled the air with fallen leaves, creating a veritable weather condition: It was leafing! Bright orange pumpkins, some half-rotted by now but still intact and inherently joyful, dotted the lawns and doorsteps of my neighbors in every direction. Impossibly fluffy clouds skittered by in a sky so blue it looked fake, like the one in The Truman Show. I rated the day an A+.

Then I opened the paper and saw, on the front page above the fold, a photo of Al Franken, former "Saturday Night Live" jester who years later became a more respectable fool in the United States Senate. Suddenly he has joined the coterie of famous men accused of "sexual misconduct," a term so loosely applied it includes anyone who ever cast an appreciative glance at a member of the opposite sex, or even of the same sex. Instantly my mood soured.

It seems that years ago Al Franken stuck his tongue in some woman's mouth and she didn't want him to. I wonder, is there any woman alive who didn't suffer that indignity? When Steven Turkowitz did that to me in the 11th grade I bit his tongue and trust me, he was sorry. (There was blood.) I didn't "report" him to anyone, but he reported me to the whole school and for weeks after boys would ask if I would bite their tongue. (I always declined.)

Anyway, don't we humans have bigger fish to fry? Like certain death for all of us, with maybe cancer or crippling diseases on the way to it, and still no power for the citizens in fully half of Puerto Rico? Do we really need a Senate investigation into whether or not Al Franken was once a moron and possibly still is? I'm going out for a walk among the pumpkins and I suggest you do the same.

Dumb Jocks

Three Stupid Guys

There are a lot of really stupid people in the world, and for them I feel truly sorry. It's hard to know the causes in many cases: Is it genetic? A birth defect? An accident that caused swelling of the brain and loss of intellectual capability? Did they not pay attention in school, or even worse, did they not even attend school and thus were denied even the basics? Lack of nutrition during the formative years? The possible causes are endless. However, none of those was the cause of the stupidity of three freshmen UCLA basketball players who, along with their whole team, were on a marketing trip to China and were caught on videotape (duh) shoplifting. Sunglasses, I think it was.

Obviously, shoplifting anywhere is dumb, unless it's for milk and you are destitute and you just gave birth but you are starving yourself and so are not producing milk and you need it for your newborn, but in a country known to pull out one's fingernails as a form of torture, it's downright moronic. Sure, times have changed, but according to the website of The International Society for Human Rights, "Torture is widely used and systematically implemented by the Chinese authorities, despite torture being officially forbidden." Nevertheless, these three bona fide college students considered shoplifting in China to be a worthy endeavor.

Fortunately President Trump was also in China last week hanging out with that country's leader and intervened on behalf of the scofflaws. (See, he's good for something after all.) Everyone knows that playing football can cause brain damage, but might the same be true of basketball? Someone should definitely look into that.

Little Things Mean A Lot

The following headline in today's Wall Street Journal caught my attention: "Think of the Harm Taxing Tuition Wavers Will Do." I wondered who or what tuition wavers could be and why they would be taxed and dived right in. But the first sentence cited "tuition waivers," and I immediately understood that the editors of the esteemed Journal (our nation's largest newspaper by circulation, first published in 1889 and winner of 40 Pulitzer prizes), now rely on Spell-check, a computer program that identifies possible misspellings in a block of text by comparing it with a database of accepted spellings, instead of paying humans with actual brains to perform the highly skilled art of copy-editing. 

If you ask me, a former newspaper copy-editor, that's pretty lame. Certainly in the scheme of horrible things, like earthquakes, mass shootings, childhood cancer and of course anything to do with Russia, typos in the newspaper are but petty annoyances. But are they? Whatever happened to excellence? Maybe Spell-check is why Donald Trump is our PUTOS.

Here Comes Winter

This year I'm just not in the mood for winter.

I had not realized this until yesterday when our first snow fell and I was pissed about it. Not being into skiing I saw little cause for celebration. Instead I flashed on Vinnie, our snow plow guy who is a major bummer even on a sunny day --  dour and sour and unhappy over God knows what. (I never ask.) I rarely see him except during blizzards, but one time I ran into him at Ace Hardware in the middle of July and he was just as gloomy. Gloomier, even.

Anyway, Vinnie shows up around now and goes from being a bit player to having a starring role in my life, which is annoying since I don't even like him. (I would much rather have Jackson Browne in a starring role.) Nevertheless there I am, staring out the front window at what was once my driveway and praying for his arrival, beginning sometime in November until you never know when in April.

Maybe this year I'm just not in the mood for Vinnie.

Gettin' Jiggy With Jefferson

He certainly did pursue everything.

Sometimes, the less you know the better you feel. I learned this truth anew on my recent visit to Monticello, Thomas Jefferson's glorious mountain-top plantation located in Virginia's stunning Piedmont Region. Our third president and one of our most popular Founding Fathers, Jefferson is famous for stating in the opening of the Declaration of Independence that, "All men are created equal." Turns out that, just like his namesake William Jefferson Clinton who came along so many years later, Tom was also a lying blankety-blank.

Wisely, I see now, I slept through pretty much every history class in high school, being averse to hearing about the repugnant violence and soul-shattering destruction caused by man's inhumanity to man. I side-stepped the subject entirely in college where I majored in Fine Art and spent almost all my time reading Shakespeare, painting, drawing, and immersing myself in the lives of artists, none of whom were busy owning, whipping, trading or selling slaves or tearing apart families, which apparently Mr. Jefferson, or should I call him "Massa Jefferson," did with abandon. Certainly I had heard whispers of those terrible truths, but never to the nauseating degree I heard them during a lengthy and almost too informative tour of the "slave quarters" at Monticello just a few days ago.

Dozens of books have been written on the subject so there's no need for me to say more, other than my conclusion that being a two-faced, lying windbag filled with empty rhetoric has been part of the job description of POTUS for many years. And compared to Jefferson, who fathered at least six children with one of his "slave girls" and no doubt dallied with several others, and who thought nothing of wrenching slave children from their mothers' arms and putting them up on the auction block, our current president, who has admitted to enjoying seeing pretty women undressing backstage at beauty pageants, is a veritable prince among men. Or at least among presidents.

The Little Speck

Suitable for framing, except for that annoying little speck.

This morning I am not happy because I have to fly. While this is not as bad as those mornings when I am scheduled for surgery since today I can have coffee, it's a close second, especially since for surgery they put you out. I would love it if you could get general anesthesia for flying. My husband tries to cheer me up by saying we have been upgraded to First Class. Big deal. All that means to me is we will have more leg room when the unspeakable happens.

Anyway, just in case, I leave you all with this great photo of three pears in a painted wooden bowl. If I make it home safely I intend to make this the subject of my next painting and title it "Three Pears in a Painted Wooden Bowl." Or maybe just "Three Pears." I will definitely paint it minus that annoying little speck on the bottom left side. Or maybe not -- maybe that makes the whole thing. What do you think?

Life in These United States

Yesterday I was a bad citizen. It was Election Day and I did not vote. Honestly, here in Maine I don't even know why people were bothering. All over town, political signs began sprouting up like crabgrass weeks ago, urging one to vote for more Medicare or less rent control, or maybe the other way around. Most intriguing were the ones asking, "Why So Shady, Shawn?" and directing you to WickedShady.com. (Turns out Shawn wanted another casino in the state, which is why he's wicked and shady.) I ignored them.

Better get started!

Harder to ignore were all the phone calls we got every night urging us to do such-and-such and get so-and-so elected. I consistently hung up on every one of them, refusing to be talked at by a robot. After all, if Donald Trump is in the White House telling the nut who runs North Korea that, "We have a nuclear submarine positioned," and also tweets about "unleashing fire and fury," does it really matter who's doing what at the grass roots level here in Maine, a state with more cows than people?

It wasn't always like this. Years ago I was a good citizen and took my responsibilities seriously. But the low caliber of those in office has cured me of that. Ditto the preponderance of random mass shootings. Or even non-mass shootings, like the one just yesterday in a local Walmart store that never made national news. A customer had an altercation with another customer and "a shot was discharged." Nobody was hurt, but as the drama was unfolding a woman entering the store heard the shot, then turned and ran back outside, only to drop dead on the street. According to an eyewitness I heard on the evening news, "that lady must have got pretty anxietied from what she saw inside." (Grammar is not all that important around these parts.)

Most days I try to pay as little attention as possible to the world and focus instead on taking my medications, eating right and keeping my head down. I suggest you all do the same.

Thinking Positive

Turns out every cloud really does have a silver lining!

The upside of my heart attack six weeks ago, which rendered me fearful (of having another one), depressed (that I had one in the first place), sad (that I can never again eat a greasy cheeseburger with pile of salty fries) and lacking an appetite (Oy, who can eat?) is that I have finally reached my goal weight. Now all those pants that haven't fit me for the past two years zip right up, no problem.

I may have lost my bravado, but I've gained a new wardrobe.

Democrats Don't Get It

Hey, did you hear the one about the crazy 26-year-old former Air Force pilot who walked into a rural church on a Sunday morning and opened fire, killing 26 innocent people and wounding at least 20 more? Here's the punchline: Democrats think guns are the problem!

I guess they've forgotten about the jet planes piloted by crazy people in 2001 that crashed into the Twin Towers and the Pentagon (3,000 dead), or the several vans driven by crazy people that plowed into crowds of unsuspecting people (8 dead in London in June, 13 dead in Barcelona in August, 8 dead last month in NYC), or the bombs exploded by crazy people at the 2013 Boston Marathon (3 dead, hundreds injured).

They must also have forgotten about all the historical murders committed by all the crazy people without guns, including Timothy McVeigh (168 dead), Jeffrey Dahmer (17 dead), Richard Speck (8 dead), Son of Sam (6 dead), Charles Manson (7 dead), Ted Bundy (30 plus dead), and Jim Jones (900 dead). Sadly that's just the tip of the iceberg: Besides Jack the Ripper stalking the streets of London in the 1880s (murdering at least 11 women with his bare hands and "a blunt object"), there have simply been too many others to mention here.

I can't help thinking guns are not the problem. Instead, might the constant consumption of poisonous foods, rampant drug use, declining health, obsession with violent and moronic entertainment, shameless sexualization of children, faulty religious beliefs, polarization of the races, lack of respect for our elders, overwhelming abuse of nature, emphasis on financial success, worship of false idols and inability to adequately treat the mentally ill have something to do with it?

Prayer is Overrated

Last Sunday a powerful storm ripped through Maine in the middle of the night and obliterated power for much of the state. I slept through the exciting part -- the gale force winds and torrential rains -- and woke up Monday morning to that eerily quiet condition commonly referred to as a "power outage," notable for the absence of humming from any and all appliances. A month ago I had a power outage of far more serious proportions for me personally in the form of a heart attack, but oddly enough the more recent one (involving my inability to check my email or make toast or watch Curb Your Enthusiasm, not to mention keep up with the latest terror attacks and political upsets) had a greater impact on both my mood and my daily life.

Exacerbating the situation was the fact that my husband was out of town for the entire event, leaving me literally alone in the dark, which around these parts begins to descend about 5:30 in the afternoon. An extra kick in the pants came from all the surrounding generators belonging to my storm-savvy neighbors, each accompanied by a relentless cacophony similar to an airplane taking off, adding up to five or six airplanes taking off. This noise went on day and night, making sleep all but impossible for those lacking generators and also lacking heat, unless you happen to have a fireplace in your bedroom which I do not. The noise also freaked out my cat, who refused to stay outside for more than a few minutes, but once back inside began meowing to go out since he has a pea brain and forgot why he was inside in the first place.

This throwback to prehistoric times lasted every minute of a full three days. Candles were lit, oil lamps were filled, tears were shed and curses were muttered. In between all that, a special prayer was dispensed to the Heavens: "Please God, turn the power on." I repeated my prayer incessantly and with gusto while shivering in the cold showers I endured to maintain the level of personal hygiene I have come to enjoy, and while emptying the fridge of rotting food that was starting to make itself known, and while struggling to make coffee with a rigged-up container and some old Chemex filters, having committed years ago to an electric coffee maker, a decision surely worth revisiting. All to no avail, since downed power lines and busted transformers apparently trumped my piddling prayers.

Finally, after hearing the plaintive quality bordering on hysteria in my voice on one of our few successful phone calls placed somewhere beyond the outage area, my husband cut short his business trip by one day to return home and help shoulder the burden of daily life without benefit of technology. Alas, Mitch was on the scene for perhaps three hours of daylight and 45 minutes of darkness when the power was restored. And the funny thing is, he hadn't even prayed for it.