Apps To Die For

I titled this post just to be funny since it's about phone apps and the first one I'll discuss is WeCroak. My husband, who is basically obsessed with the subject, loves this one, although I do not. I tell him I already know I'm going to die, I don't need five daily reminders, thank you very much. But I get them anyway since whenever one pops up Mitch reacts audibly, usually with a groan. Naturally this prompts me to ask him what's wrong, to which he replies, "I'm going to die someday." Keeping this knowledge in the forefront of your mind is supposed to enhance the quality of one's life, but based on Mitch's increasingly gloomy disposition, it doesn't. You can do what you want of course, but I'd steer clear of this one.

On a happier note, there are some apps I heartily endorse. A short list of my favorites follows, and I do mean short -- in 2018 there are roughly 2 million apps available to download.

1. Shazam  This app finds the name and artist of any music that's playing within earshot, keeping you from going nuts wondering who's the artist or what's the title. Out in a restaurant, or anywhere there's music playing, you simply hold your phone up in the air and, with enough time, the answer appears. So if the song is, "Baby, It's Cold Outside," you can find out which sexist pig is singing it and then complain to the management to turn it off.

2. HQ Trivia  Daily at 3 and 9 pm, there's a fun game to play where you might even win money! Despite my mini-addiction I've never won a dime since there's only ten seconds to answer each of 12 increasingly difficult questions, which means not enough time to Google it. You're competing with roughly 500,000 others to split the $5,000 prize, although sometimes the pot is $25,000. The best part, besides learning esoteric stuff you never knew, is the game's emcee Scott Rogowski, a gifted comic who is beyond hysterical and definitely reason enough to log in.

3. Pandora  Basically this is free radio tailored to your personal tastes. You plug in a song or an artist you like and it creates a channel just for you. About a quarter of the selections will be the named artist or group, and the rest will be others with a similar sound.

4. Venmo  If you're short on cash, have lost your credit card, or for some reason find yourself penniless, you can still pay for your dinner. Just have your companion pay and Venmo your share! This app transfers money directly from your bank account into another in as little as ten minutes. (Yes, both parties need the app.)


5. Calm  Meditation is bigger than ever these days, but some poor souls remain unenlightened. It's hard to factor doing nothing at all into a busy schedule, thereby letting another day of mindlessness slip by. But Calm tells you exactly how, when and where to ascend to a higher level of consciousness.

6. Map My Fitness  How far did you run? Or walk, or bike? And where did you go? You might want to know, and just by turning on this app when you go out to exercise, you'll have the information, (shown on a map) at your fingertips when you get home. Then you can show your route to your friends and family, or if you're even more self-absorbed, post it on Facebook! (Another app of course, but you knew that.)


7. Open Table  Absolutely the easiest way to plan a dinner out, Open Table saves you the heartache of calling restaurant after restaurant and being told there's no room at the inn, or that there's room, but not when you want to go. Instead, you are presented with a list of eateries that can accommodate your party with the times that are open. Most restaurants in most big cities have registered with this app, but some haven't so you might still have to go it alone for someplace especially esoteric.

8. Waze  Offering a navigation system based on real-time information concerning traffic in your area at the moment, this is a must-have for getting to the airport in rush hour, or on road trips in unknown territory. But be brave: To escape the jams and reach your destination, Waze takes you down secret paths, back alleys and dirt roads. It can be scary sometimes, but you'll get there, and ahead of everyone stuck on the Interstate. 

9. The Weather Channel  You know what this one is, and you probably already have it. In case you don't, what are you waiting for? It's essential for anyone who is planning travel to another city, or even just going outdoors where they live.

10. The Moon  Great for vampires (for obvious reasons), this app is also just plain fun if you're into the moon. Is it waxing? Is it waning? When will it be a full moon? These are things some unusual people want to know. My husband is one of them, since even though he will die someday, he's very interested in the phases of the moon while he's still alive.

11. Tides Near Me Any boaters out there? If so, you need this one. Check to see when the tides will be are high or low and avoid getting trapped out on some low-lying island in the middle of the bay, or ocean, or whatever tidal waters you frequent.

12. Words With Friends  What -- you don't play Words With Friends? Surely you jest. What do you do when your plane is delayed? Or sitting at the orthodontist while junior is getting those braces adjusted? Or just about anytime and anywhere there's nothing else to do? You could turn on Calm (see # 5) and reach nirvana, or you could play WWF and avoid getting Alzheimer's, since studies like the one done by Cambridge University suggest that word games boost the memory and may reduce the risk of dementia.  It's your choice, along with the more than 57 million other folks playing at any moment, according Michelle David, the app's lead experience designer.

"Killing Eve" Is Killing Me

It's not news that we live in difficult times. Just a few months ago the New York Times wrote, "Long-term use of antidepressants is surging in the United States, according to a new analysis of federal data. Some 15.5 million Americans have been taking the medications for at least five years. The rate has almost doubled since 2010, and more than tripled since 2000."

I don't take antidepressants, but it's not because I don't need them -- it's because I already take daily medications for other health problems and the thought of adding another makes me anxious, which is why I take all the other meds in the first place. (Control of blood pressure and heart issues.) Instead, I rely on reruns of old sitcoms (Friends, Everybody Loves Raymond, The King of Queens) to lift my spirits, calm me down and make me laugh.

Now more than ever the entertainment industry dominates our culture, offering distraction from a harsh reality: climate change, political infighting, homelessness, destitute refugees, foreign wars. Binge-watching TV shows is common, and I've done my share. Comedies like Grace & Frankie, Curb Your Enthusiasm, VEEP, the soapy Grey's Anatomy, and even the violent but mostly funny and stylistically beautiful The Sopranos have prevented me from dwelling on the terrifying state of affairs we all face. But there's a whole other category of "entertainment" out there that I just don't understand, even though lots of other people do.

I passed up the critically acclaimed Breaking Bad for years, because who the heck finds pleasure watching a man with terminal cancer who turns to making and selling crystal meth as a way to stockpile cash for his family after he's dead? Finally I decided that 58 Emmy Award nominations (and 16 wins) couldn't be wrong, so I caved. I lasted for five episodes of the first season, until the horrifically bloody deaths of so many people in the unsavory drug world made me feel so much worse than ordinary life without that show in it. I quit watching it and felt better immediately.

Recently, on the recommendation of a close friend and because I love Sandra Oh, the star of the series (pictured above), I decided to check out the BBC hit Killing Eve. I managed to sit through two of the 43-minute episodes in the show's first season. This involved watching people die in the following ways: a hair pin stuck in an eyeball, four slit throats, a stomach pumped full of bullets, and two poisonings by asphyxiation. Each murder was performed by a young female sociopath assassin who had a ball doing it, basically laughing all the way to the bank. In fact, I found her cold-hearted reaction to murdering strangers for reasons completely unknown to her even more disturbing than the very acts themselves.

I did not have any fun watching this scripted mayhem, yet all the reviews of the show promised I would. One critic called it "delicious fun," while another said it was "an intelligent spy-thriller and captivating good time." The fans love it, so now it's on to Season 2. None for me thanks-- I'm hoping to sleep through the night sometime soon.

I am left wondering why so many people find this sort of entertainment entertaining. As a society, we've come a long way from Mr. Ed (talking horse) Car 54, Where Are You? (dumb cops) I Dream of Jeannie (astronaut marries a genie who lives in a bottle), Leave It to Beaver (average American family solves typical problems), Father Knows Best (the title says it all), and all the other shows of the 1950s and 60s that were not about drug addiction, prison life, sex crimes and murder, murder, murder, murder. I see Killing Eve as a further descent into Hell rather than as an escape from the one we live in called Real Life, and no fun at all.

A Merry Christmas After All

How did I get this old without ever seeing any of these?

Last night, momentarily insane, I agreed to travel during the Christmas holidays. My lapse in judgement may have stemmed from a "Cool Whip shot" I ingested at a Christmas party two nights ago.  I'm not sure what was in it; one person said rum and another said Kahlua. Anyway, hoping to shed my "Bah, humbug!" reputation and get in the spirit of things, I went for it. This was right after a fellow reveler had approached me with a plastic bag full of individual cups of jello, holding it out for me to take one. I asked what it was and she found my query so hysterical she had to tell several  people standing nearby about it. Anyway, turns out they were "Jello shots," which was news to me. Despite my past consumption of pot, LSD, mescaline, cocaine, magic mushrooms, hashish and a wide variety of frozen alcoholic beverages with little umbrellas sticking out of them, I had never come across one of those. (Live and learn.)

As for the insanity mentioned earlier, my husband and I will fly almost all the way across the country to be with friends in Phoenix on Christmas Day. Naturally my mixed emotions are being whipped into a lather by the TV meteorologists who aim to make every weather event The Storm of the Century. This morning, during a local report on the friendly snowfall we are experiencing as I write this, one of them said, "I promise this holiday weekend, travel will be a mess!" (Really? You promise?)

Normally, being Jewish we usually do nothing besides watch a movie and order Chinese take-out, like we learned in Hebrew school. There's no frantic last-minute shopping or late night gift-wrapping sessions, and Christmas is just a regular day, only without mail and the newspaper. But this year we will celebrate the birth of the baby Jesus with dear old friends who are Italian Catholics, complete with a tree, holiday lights, presents and a lasagna dinner attended by 14 people. I better start shopping.

Marriage 101

A young newlywed friend of mine asked me if marriage is more than having someone to listen to your complaints all the time. I told him yes, of course there's more to it. Marriage is a wonderful convenience for people who are looking for a scapegoat, which is just about everyone. Around my house I get blamed for everything. If anything is lost, I obviously threw it out. If the door is locked, I obviously locked it, even if I was asleep in my bed when my spouse went out to get the mail at the post office.

On the other hand, when you need a driver to take you home after your colonoscopy, you've got one at the ready. Last time I asked if I could simply call a cab and they said no, explaining that the hospital will not permit you to leave with a stranger after you have been anesthetized. (Thanks a lot, #MeToo movement.)

The Fake Authenticity of Lil Miquela

"Keep Obama in president!"

Surely you remember the "Obamaphone lady," pictured at right, a somewhat endearing idiot who was voting for Obama because he was giving all the people on welfare free cell phones, as opposed to his opponent Romney, about whom she succinctly said, "He sucks."  At the time I was appalled that such a large portion of our population believed such rot and acted upon it. But by today's standards that Obamaphone lady was a Rhodes scholar.

An article in today's Wall Street Journal describes the rise of an Instagram superstar who has 1.5 million followers watching her every move. Her name is Miquela Sousa, a.k.a. Lil Miquela, and she's about to become an even bigger "influencer" than the Kardashians, if such a thing is possible what with Kim's ginormous butt. But here's the rub: Miquela is a fake. As in not a real person, but a so-called "CGI-based social media influencer" represented by a Los Angeles startup called Brud. CGI stands for computer-generated imagery, and Miquela came to be in 2016 as part of a digital art project with an Instagram account.

Her agents have Miquela inserted into photographs of actual high-end restaurants or wearing expensive fashion brands. Billboards in London and Japan currently feature her touting Ugg products, testing the power of a social media celebrity. "I think the success of digital talent is in their engagement and their authenticity," said Adam Westcott, partner at a talent management firm for social media influencers. (Yes, he said that.)

While Kim Kardashian has a fake butt, at least she's got a beating heart. Suddenly she doesn't seem quite so bad.

Film Review: DUMPLIN'

Given the state of the nation it was only a matter of time, but finally, being fat is in. And not only is it in, but it's better than being thin. Apparently fat people are nicer, more generous and have a better outlook on life than mere superficialities. Or so the story goes. (Truth be told, they do judge people on looks, and anyone audacious enough to be thin and in shape sucks.)

The Netflix movie Dumplin' brings this point home in spades. Despite the fact that it's not a "real movie" but one made for TV, it's gotten a lot of reviews, all positive, including one calling it a "feel-good hit" and a clear thumbs-up from a New York Times critic who is usually hard as nails to please.

It turns out that I am even harder to please since I found it cloying, simplistic and impossible to watch in one sitting without tossing my cookies. So I watched it two nights in a row, since I wanted to get it under my belt after reading about it in so many places. I am always interested in the portrayal of fat people in films, having grown up in the enormous shadow of my obese older sister and seeing the devastation involved firsthand. Also, I've been a fan of Jennifer Aniston since her days on Friends and wanted to see what she's up to these days. (She was one of the film's producers.)

The movie, based on a young-adult novel of the same name, turns a blind eye to the girth of the main character, an obese teen named Willowdean Dickson (Danielle Macdonald) who goes by the name of Will (she's so strong!). But her skinny mom Rosie (Aniston) still calls her by the childhood nickname Dumplin' -- an obvious reference to her doughy, pudgy body. Rosie also leaves prepared salads for Will in the fridge, which is supposed to indicate how unfeeling and downright malicious she is in wanting her only daughter to lose weight and get healthy. (I thought it was nice.)

There's no dad in sight and we wonder who pays the bills, since Rosie spends most of her time running teen beauty pageants in a small towns somewhere in Texas. She's done it for years since she won the local crown herself twenty years ago. Daughter Will decides to enter the pageant despite her obvious physical flaw, and gets two other friends -- a macho lesbian and an even fatter girl -- to join her as a protest to all those horrid people who value looks and thin bodies and girly girls. (How dare they?)

Blah, blah, blah. The handsomest boy in high school (Luke Benward) falls for Will even though the thin, sexy girl who ultimately wins the pageant asks him to the dance, but he doesn't like her "that way." Instead he wants only Will because she's so beautiful on the inside. (This movie is a fantasy, after all.) The entire soundtrack is comprised of Dolly Parton songs -- she wrote six new ones for this film -- so if that's your thing you'll be entertained. Also amusing are a group of drag queens who help Will and her cohorts transform themselves for the pageant, doing their hair and makeup and teaching them how to strut their stuff.

In the end Rosie sees the error of her ways and the fat friend is named First Runner Up, but Will is disqualified for breaking some pageant rule -- she's such a rebel! -- even though she gave a fabulous performance and the crowd loved her. Buoyed by the applause, she strides out on her wobbly, red high heels and goes straight to the diner where the hot high school boy works and they kiss, out in the parking lot next to the dumpster, because now she knows she's worth a guy like him.

All I can say is poor Jennifer Aniston. She deserves better.

Seize the Day

 

 

Ten Thousand Flowers in Spring, the Moon in Autumn

  By Wu Men Hui-k'ai

   
Ten thousand flowers in spring, 
the moon in autumn,
a cool breeze in summer, 
snow in winter.
 
If your mind isn't clouded by unnecessary things,
this is the best season of your life.

Let's NOT Do Lunch

I just learned about a poet named Rumi who lived in Persia about 800 years ago, give or take a century. Supposedly he is the most-read, best-selling poet in America today, which I find hard to believe since you never hear a word about him. Instead it's Trump, Trump, Trump all the time, and occasionally Maya Angelou. Anyway, I listened to one of Rumi's poems on a meditation podcast and decided to order "The Essential Rumi," and I'm glad I did. Reading his words late last night rescued me from a Darkening Mood that threatened to morph into a Pit of Despair where I might have lain until God knows when, seeing as my husband is out of town and I have no friends in the immediate area checking in on me.

Even if I had any, that's simply not the Maine way -- I could lay in that Despair Pit for a week without anyone noticing. I've accepted that fact after almost ten years here, until today when an article in the Wall Street Journal on the dangers of loneliness among aging baby boomers gave me a start. The claim was made that loneliness "is as closely linked to early mortality as smoking up to 15 cigarettes a day or consuming more than six alcoholic drinks a day. It is even worse for longevity than obesity or inactivity."

So starting today I vow to reach out more. For example, yesterday I never interacted with anyone except with my husband on the phone. On the other hand, I spent hours painting in my studio, which is more rewarding to me than chit-chatting at a cafe with a friend. (Maybe the loneliness thing doesn't apply to artists.)

As for Rumi, he suggested fasting as a way to increase creativity and self-realization: "There's hidden sweetness in the stomach's emptiness. If the brain and belly are burning clean with fasting, every moment a new song comes out of the fire." So there's another reason to skip lunch with a friend. Or even lunch alone.

We Are All Addicts

Certainly there are better and worse things one might become addicted to, but I have never met anyone who is not addicted to something. (Have you?) I recently heard an expert on the subject, some sort of psychologist, assert that these days children as young as two show signs of addiction to their toys and games. He added that the average child acquires a cell phone at age ten, after which he or she abandons the felt world and enters a virtual reality where they will reside until their death or the loss of their phone, whichever comes first.

Over the years my personal addictions have changed. The earliest one was dieting. This was the result of having a mother who was a former dancer who ate like a bird and weighed about as much as one, coupled with an older sister who got fat as a form of rebellion and stayed that way, giving me a front row seat at the eternal passion play, The Misery of Obesity. I dieted from the age of 12, in between compulsive and binge eating. I did Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig, oh who cares -- you get the idea.

My next addiction was running; that was a fun one. I did it six days a week in all sorts of weather. The best part was that I could eat anything I wanted and never gain weight! I didn't stop until one of my hips all but disintegrated, requiring a fake one to be installed. These days I am addicted to writing this blog, and then reading it and re-reading it. And then editing it. But hey, it's not damaging to my health, unless you count the health of my marriage since I require my husband to read it every day and when he doesn't I'm annoyed, or worse.

Other popular addictions I happily do not have include alcohol, heroin, opioids, prescription drugs (although I do love my lorazepam, possibly too much), nicotine, cocaine, crystal meth, gambling, sex, food, shopping, playing video games, mindlessly checking cell phones, scrolling Facebook, watching YouTube, watching reality TV, having plastic surgery and shoplifting. For reasons not yet understood, nobody is addicted to cleaning public bathrooms, helping strangers in need, preparing healthy home-cooked meals, picking up litter from the streets, stopping to talk to the homeless or reflecting on our inevitable death. Those would be some pretty good ones to have.

You Are What You Eat

I recently had the misfortune of spending several hours inside an airport, and then, adding insult to injury, inside an airplane. Both experiences were unpleasant, adding no joy whatsoever to this supposedly joyful period called "the Christmas season."

To wait out the long hours until our flight, having arrived at the airport very early in order to escape an oncoming blizzard where we were, my husband and I opted for a leisurely lunch at a restaurant called Wolfgang Puck's Kitchen, or something like that. The famous chef had lent his name and culinary expertise to the establishment, so we assumed the food would be reasonably tasty and at the same time not send us to the ER, which is about all I was hoping for, what with toxic romaine lettuce blanketing the country.

Besides the ridiculously high prices aimed at a captive audience of travelers already through the security line so nobody's leaving no matter how bad things are, the next insult was the arrival of the wrong entree. I had ordered the Asian Chicken Salad, specifically because it was made with non-poisonous lettuce, my favorite kind. Instead I was presented with a Caesar Salad, easily recognized as a bowl of romaine with croutons, Parmesan and E. Coli sprinkled on top. I ask you: do those two salads sound alike? Go ahead--say them out loud: ASIAN CHICKEN SALAD. CAESAR SALAD. No they do not, but they must have to our waitress. (I should have known something was amiss when she served our food and left immediately without saying "Enjoy!")

While some may say romaine has gotten the all-clear, as recently as yesterday the CDC warned the public "to remain cautious about eating romaine lettuce," which in my book means don't go near the stuff. Thus I rejected the platter of poison. After some time, while my considerate husband picked at his own lunch so as not to finish his before I even started mine, the desired salad that would not kill me arrived.

I know this is all petty stuff and "first-world problems" and an example of White Privilege and blah, blah, blah, but since I consider any meal I eat before boarding a flight to possibly be my last meal, I'd like it to at least be something I want. Is that too much to ask?

A Novel Vacation

Sometimes you just need to get away. Real life can be so unpleasant, especially these days with the commenting hordes on the Internet ruining everything. For example, on Facebook this morning a news story reported details of yesterday's  stately funeral service for president George H. W. Bush, held at the National Cathedral in Washington, D.C. It was a sober and somber affair, lightened by a few funny stories from his friends and family. One eulogist was his son, former president George W. Bush, who delivered a terrific tribute to his dad. But the trolls on Facebook tore into him, bringing out the hackneyed slings and arrows used on him years ago. So it's come to this: A grieving (Republican) son is a target for some ignorant (Democrat) citizen's decades-old ire.

Average people -- and I do mean average-- have become cruel to the max, plain and simple. Thus, the aforementioned escape. The following novels have transported me to another world, saving me much despair over this one, no matter how many times I have read them. Pick one up and go for it; it's so much more relaxing than scrolling through the Internet.

 The Sweet Hereafter (Russell Banks)

Mildred Pierce (James M. Cain)

Mrs. Bridge (Evan S. Connell)

Mr. Bridge (Evan S. Connell)

The Hours (Michael Cunningham)

White Noise (Don DeLillo)

An American Tragedy (Theodore Dreiser)

Being There (Jerzy Kosinski)

Into Thin Air (Jon Krakauer)

Martin Dressler: The Tale of an American Dreamer (Steven Millhauser)

Too Late the Phalarope (Alan Paton)

Maus (Art Spiegelmann)

Ethan Frome (Edith Wharton)

The Bonfire of the Vanities (Tom Wolfe)