FILM REVIEW: Three Billboards Outside Ebbings, Missouri

The superb Three Billboards Outside Ebbings, Missouri is often hard to watch but just as often a good time. It's hard because the subject matter is basically life in all its glass-is-half-empty horror, with enough sadness, anger, pain and violence to fill half a dozen movies. The fun part comes from great performances by every single cast member, the luscious cinematography of the beautiful countryside (North Carolina plays Missouri), and a very enjoyable, eclectic musical score.

The eponymous three billboards are at the center of this small-town tale of a mother's unrelenting grief over the recent death of her teenage daughter. Frances McDormand plays Mildred Hayes, the mother, with her usual intensity and uncanny ability to telegraph every nuance of every emotion she is feeling. (I'm certain I could watch her stare at the camera in silence for two hours and be thoroughly absorbed.) Woody Harrelson plays Willoughby, the town's police chief who is the target of Mildred's ire (and the billboards she rents) for failing to capture her daughter's murderer. He too is mesmerizing in the role, having grown far more complicated as an actor than the goofy, grinning guy he has often portrayed.

The only problem is that the whole thing is so damn depressing from beginning to end! Nobody is happy in this film. Not anybody. That actually might be part of its surprising charm since it leaves you feeling so much better about your own life, which keeps you from feeling suicidal. (Oh yeah, there's also a pretty grim suicide.) Despite that, serious film buffs will want to see this film since it will certainly get a few Oscar nominations, and likely a couple of wins.

Female Sexist Pigs

About that cake. I wondered if a Christian baker, or actually any baker who was somewhat prudish, would be forced by a judge somewhere to make a cake in the shape of a penis, testicles and all, with lewd writing on top, like "Here it Cums!" So, before I got into it I googled "penis-shaped cakes" to see if such a thing has been written about, and found to my utter disgust and amazement about a million penis cakes, and vagina and anus cakes, with really filthy things written on them.

FYI, almost all of the offensive cakes, and more than a few cupcakes, were baked for bridal showers given for women who are about to get married. Are these the same women who get all hot and bothered if a man pats them on the fanny during a photo session or says they look sexy in that dress? Are they the same women who "demand respect" from men in the workplace? The ones who are tired of being treated as sex objects? (Probably.)

Helpless, Not Hopeless

Once again the manic members of the media have come forth with the pronouncement: "Donald Trump's approval ratings have hit a new low." This statement shows up somewhere at least once a week. I'm not quite sure what we are all supposed to do about it. Shriek in horror? Wring our hands? Call the police? What exactly should we do, and if nothing, than why do they keep telling us?

Things are bad enough all over. Is it too much to ask for a little respite from hearing how terrible our president is? After all, he was elected, and this only can mean that half the country, i.e. our fellow Americans, are also terrible. Not that I believe that, but it's implied.

Today in my little town we are witnessing our first true snowfall of the year, and it is lovely. California may be burning, but since I'm here and not there, and can do as little about that as I can about how Trump is hated more every day, I will simply go play in the snow, and maybe when I come home I'll have a cup of hot cocoa and hope that things will improve.

California Burning

A man watches as his home is engulfed in flames in Ventura County, California.

Imagine that everything you own is gone in minutes: Your house, your car, your clothes. That purse you agonized over because it was so expensive but you figured it would last your whole life. Those six hand-painted dishes you got in Italy and held on your lap the whole long flight home. All your art, including your own paintings. Your wedding gifts, and all your important documents. Your medications, luggage, shoes. All your books.

The baby pictures! Your wedding album! And what about the pets? And you can't seek asylum next door because next door is now ashes, as is the whole block, the whole neighborhood. That nice little organic market you frequent is gone too.

This horrendous situation is underway as southern California continues to burn for the fourth consecutive day while I write this post, sitting in my comfy house in Maine that is not in flames, is in fact a tad chilly with snow predicted this weekend, sipping my second cup of coffee brewed in my beloved coffee maker which would melt in mere seconds in a fire.

This morning the glass man is coming to repair our shower door which has gone out of alignment and doesn't close perfectly. This seems like no big deal to me, but it bothers my husband greatly and so we are having it fixed. What fools we are, thinking it matters.

The War Against Men

In light of the current climate condemning any sign of the natural sexual attraction between men and women that has thus far fueled the growth of our species, we may see an uptick in the number of men seeking transgender surgery in the coming months. And really, who could blame them? These days, an innocent pat on the back or an appreciative glance could land a fellow in some very hot water.

Earlier today I heard this story on our local radio news: Portland police are "looking for, and hoping to question" a man dressed as Santa who spoke to a woman and her 6-year-old daughter inside a Walmart store. He was not employed by the store but was simply dressed the part. His offense was approaching the child, handing her a candy cane and wishing her a Merry Christmas, and saying, "Good girls get candy, bad girls get jewelry." (I'm hoping the child was less traumatized than her mother, who was the one who called the police.)

Are we approaching the day when simply harboring a penis in one's pants will be considered an affront to women? Just in case, I suggest selling any shares of Viagra stock you may own as soon as possible.

When Gay Meant Happy

Now that's a wedding cake!

I have gotten married two times. Neither time did I indulge in a ritualistic wedding costing many thousands of dollars for fancy invitations, a fancy reception venue, fancy florists, fancy musicians, fancy caterers, and all the rest of the fancy hoopla that has nothing to do with either being married or staying married and only to do with impressing other people with how much money I have access to, so it stands to reason that I also did not have a fancy, multi-tiered wedding cake baked by a fancy baker.

But if I had gone ahead and done all that and chosen a fancy baker to make me a fancy cake, and that baker refused to make one for me because I am a Jew, I can assure you that I would not have gone and sued the baker for hating my people. But that's exactly what the two gay men did who started all this business with the wedding cake baker currently being debated by our esteemed Supreme Court justices, like they have nothing better to adjudicate.

There are other options besides litigation if things don't go your way. For example, I would have cursed out that baker, and possibly knocked over a cake or two on my way out, and warned all my Jewish friends about that baker, and found another baker who likes Jews and moved on. After all, life is short, and getting shorter every minute.

This makes me wonder why gays are so pissed off all the time. That whole bathroom thing about where they're going to pee, and now the wedding cake thing, makes me worry about them. Are they getting enough protein? Maybe it's a calcium deficiency. Whatever it is, they need to chill out and live their lives without making the fact that they prefer having sex with other men, or other women, the only thing they think about, talk about, write about and protest about. Yes, gay people -- be gay! Just try to remember the word's original meaning and lighten up.

On Maine Time

"Waiting for the Plumber on the Maine Coast" by Salvador Dali

While living in Maine is great, at the same time it sucks in a couple of key ways, the worst being a lack of professionalism that permeates most business dealings. Case in point: the installation of our new furnace. They said they would arrive at 7:30 AM. They didn't.

At 8:20 I called the home office. A recording told me I was "the third caller in the queue." Finally a lady came on and and asked for my phone number. I gave it. "Hmmm," she said. Then she asked for my address. She still could not find anything about us. Finally she asked for my name, which amazingly netted the result she sought. "Why not ask for that first?" I inquired. "Our system isn't set up that way," she explained.

Next she said I should hold "for a second." After about five minutes there was a definite dead quality to the line. I had been disconnected. So I called back and went through it all again, only this time I was far less cheery. The same lady said she would put me through to the right person to see what was going on. Great. That person asked for my phone number, then my address, and then my name -- that's quite a system they have -- and said I would be connected to someone who "knows about all of it." Next thing I know, I'm hearing a recording of Know-it-all saying she's out of the office and to please leave a message.

As I was hurling some choice suggestions at Know-it-all's voice mail, there was a knock on our front door. By now it was 8:45. It was the furnace guy. A nice enough chap, he said nobody had told him to get here at any particular time, certainly not at 7:30, and if we were going to have an attitude about it he would go on to his next appointment and not do the job at all. "I can't work like this," he said. I placated him by saying that both my husband and I are crazy. He agreed to stay.

Just so you know in case you move here and need some work done, this is fairly typical.

Free to Be You and Me

Colorado master baker Jack Phillips is at the center of a Supreme Court case.

Would someone please remind me what's so great about America? Oh right, all our freedom. I forgot for a minute. It's easy to see why, since freedom is in evidence in smaller and smaller amounts every day.

Like parking. You can't just park anywhere you like; someone else has decided exactly where and when already. If you park with even one tire over the line of the parking space even an inch, you get a ticket for $75! At least I did here in sleepy little Freeport, Maine, on a side street with little traffic. It's not like I was blocking a major thoroughfare and causing a bottleneck that would result in death and injury to countless Freeporters. No, not at all. Still, the parking police patrol our downtown, just aching to issue a citation. But that's peanuts when compared to the lack of freedom of thought that characterizes our nation. It's almost as bad as an Orwellian novel.

Personally, having been surrounded by them almost since birth, and so, like someone who grew up with pit bulls and actually finds them adorable whereas others think the breed is abominable and should be exterminated, I have never understood the people who have any sort of problem with gays. Still, I think they should be allowed to have their thoughts and opinions. In fact, they will still have them even if it's against the law, since you can't legislate what goes on inside someone's brain. At least not yet. But almost.

Tomorrow the Supreme Court will be deciding whether or not a master baker (see photo above) has the right to refuse to bake a wedding cake for a same-sex couple when it violates his religious beliefs. It seems so obvious to me: Hey, the guy doesn't want to bake your cake, go to another baker. In fact, why not go to a gay baker and give that guy the business? But instead, they sued the religious baker to make it a law that everyone has to think gays getting married is okay, or at least act like they do. Where's the freedom?

My family is currently overflowing with gays, male and female, and it's not an issue for me. Hey, do whatever you want, just don't make me do it too. But insisting that everyone else must accept their lifestyle, and even applaud it, perpetuates the exact opposite of freedom.

Partying with Some Baby Boomers

Walt Disney died at age 65!

Last night I attended a small dinner party given by a new friend I instantly adored when we met last summer. There were nine of us in all, ranging in age from 55 to 72, and everyone looked at least ten years younger. It was an attractive bunch if I do say so myself -- well-dressed and quite put-together, a perfect gaggle of extras at a cocktail party in a Woody Allen movie. Despite that, much of our conversation seemed to touch on health issues, reminding us that death comes to all regardless of station in life (see illustration), and to some sooner rather than later.

My heart attack was a popular subject since two of the women there were nurses interested in furthering their knowledge of how it presents in women. This sparked a lively conversation with a likeable fellow who suffers from atrial fibrillation(Afib), an irregular and usually rapid heart rate that may increase the risk of stroke, heart failure and other heart-related complications. Not a good situation by any definition, yet this man was cheerfully accepting of his condition and looked the picture of health despite all his medications. The two of us had a good time comparing our different blood thinners, and I was surprised to hear that his eliminated the need for a daily aspirin.

All the food was perfection, capped with a stupendous dessert. One of the guests was German, here on a business trip, and had arrived from Germany just hours earlier, in possession of an authentic holiday stollen (see photo) from his homeland that was beyond fabulous.

Someone bemoaned the fact that at our age, many of us become fixated on our health, or lack of it. Someone else said, "True, but it's better than talking politics." We all agreed to steer clear of Donald Trump and stick with happier topics.

There were several admissions of high cholesterol, followed by a discussion on the pros and cons of eating red meat. More than a few hip and knee replacements came to light, which are so common these days as to hardly be worth mentioning. And of course all of those present admitted to suffering conditions literally not worth mentioning, so I have no idea what they were although I can guess.

Despite our ages, not one of us was crotchety. Wigs were brought forth (see photo) and laughs were abundant. Turns out it is still possible to have fun even when you're old, and even in Maine.

Ancient History vs. Modern Times

At the age of four I was abducted by a bag lady at Coney Island and kept overnight in her filthy hovel of an apartment. The next day we went out scavenging for food and I escaped. Five years later I witnessed my six-year-old neighbor and playmate hanging from the shower curtain rod in his bathroom, the belt of his blue bathrobe tied around his neck. (They said it was an accident.) Later that same year, my 15-year-old baby sitter who lived right next door was shot and killed by her older brother in their garage. (I heard the gunshot.)

Many decades have passed, and besides a first-term miscarriage and a couple of botched surgeries, everything has gone well for me since then. Yet I am constantly being told by medical professionals, family and friends alike that those early traumatic experiences are responsible for my present-day anxieties, and even my recent heart attack. To all of them I say: "Balderdash!"

My current vexing anxieties are the direct result of how mean and spiteful people, often complete strangers, are to one another. Another source is the election of Donald Trump by half our citizens, causing the half that didn't vote for him to assume the half that did are all racist morons. More anxiety comes from that lunatic running North Korea who enjoys playing with missiles that could destroy the world. And from groups like Black Lives Matter and the American Freedom Party. And from learning that the now-disgraced but long-adored morning chit-chatter, Matt Lauer, earned $25 million annually, while a dear friend of mine who is a trauma nurse working 12-hour shifts makes $85,000.

I got over my childhood a long time ago. It's right now that worries me.

Bombs on Broadway

No wonder he cries.

These days just about anyone with an agent can wiggle their way onto a Broadway stage, much to the delight of hapless tourists willing to pay absurd prices to ogle their idols. Take for example that beefy blond, Amy Schumer, whose skyrocketing career stems from how many times she managed to stick the word "cunt" into her self-degrading comedy routine. She is currently starring in a Broadway show written by ex-stand-up comic Steve Martin. Admittedly he's a funny guy -- wild and crazy even -- but hardly a Beckett, Ibsen or O'Neill. (Not even a Sam Shepard.)

Thankfully the play, the title of which I won't mention here so as not to give it any undeserved attention, (sort of like Anderson Cooper after a mass shooting refuses to name the perp), runs a mere 80 minutes -- less time than it takes to elbow through the crowds in Times Square to reach your $150 seat. Despite all the bad reviews from all the savvy critics who know better, it's a sold-out smash.

Meanwhile a few blocks away, film star Uma Thurman is less than stellar in another bad play, but her fans who weren't yet alive back when Broadway was something special are flocking to see her in the flesh. By all reports her wooden performance matters not a whit to modern theatergoers, most of whom just want to be able to go back home and boast that they saw Uma live on Broadway.