Advancing Colored People

"The National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) is a civil rights organization in the United States, formed in 1909 as an interracial endeavor to advance justice for African Americans." --Wikipedia

Haven't they heard that the term "colored people" is considered racist? 

The Washington Redskins had to change their name. So have Uncle Ben's (rice), Aunt Jemima (pancake syrup), the Atlanta Braves (sports team), The Dixie Chicks (musical group), the Cleveland Indians (sports team), Jeep Cherokee (automobile) and Eskimo Pie (ice cream bar), to cite but a fraction. Yet the very organization that is intent on hunting down these "offensive" names of products, people and corporations still keeps their own, which is worse than any of the others.

Can you imagine what would happen to you if you dared to call a group of African Americans colored people?

White for Life

The skin covering my entire body is not white but more of a tannish color, with some pink in a few areas like the palms of my hands and my lips. Since birth I have been told I am a white person and have accepted it as no big deal, it was just me. Now I find out I am terribly racist just for walking around like this, which I thought is the exact definition of Racism: judging someone by the color of their skin. Apparently I'm supposed to not only not be racist, but be actively anti-racist, and my ignorance about what that entails is just further evidence of my racism.

Long ago I had several close black friends, back when I lived in New York City and Washington, D.C. Now I live in Maine and have none, since they are few and far between here. Does that make me a racist? I'm not sure what I'm doing wrong. Until I find out I guess I will continue to be white, and thus by the popular woke definition of today, a racist. 

Sorry.

My Racist Fantasies

This Indian shrink dreams of shooting a lot of white people.

I don't know about you, but I often daydream about killing a whole lot of brown-skinned people. Especially those towel-heads like that Omar lady. And those Indians, with their stupid jewels pasted in the middle of their foreheads. Maybe then they would stop calling my house pretending to sell me something or trying to fix my credit cards. Those accents give them away every time. Or maybe I'll imagine shooting up a day care center full of black kids. You know, while I'm waiting in the doctor's office or getting my driver's license.

But the one I have most often involves blowing up a lecture hall at Yale University while a psychiatrist  of Indian descent is speaking. That would be so cool. Besides her, I could off a bunch of snobby rich white kids at the same time.

I think tomorrow I'll apply for a speaking engagement at Yale, since they go for that sort of thing and find it "refreshing."

Don't Call Me, Or Anyone

You cannot call anyone under a certain age anymore. It's considered rude. You have to text, like that's not rude? Consider some of the following texts:

FYI, your dad died this morning. TTYL😃

FWIW, I have lung cancer. HMU soon😢

TBH, I'm broke, need money. LMK😇

ICYMI, you are being evicted. Pack up and GTFO ASAP👮

You also cannot call any business establishment and reach a human. This morning I called my local CVS to see if my prescription medications were ready for pickup, and instead of an answer I got a ten minute lecture on what Covid is, how to get a vaccine, where to get a vaccine, and other information that did not apply to me personally. I was also told to "press 6" for a company-wide directory, and to "press 7" to speak with a pharmacist. I pressed 7 and learned that my call was very important to them, and then I heard the Covid-vaccine spiel again while I waited for someone to come on the line.

After eight minutes I hung up. The store is three miles away, if I walk it will be quicker to get an answer.

Here Comes Tulsa

The story of Tulsa, Oklahoma is the latest piece of red meat being chawed on and spit out by Democrats as proof of America's racist nature. It's everywhere. No doubt movies are being made this very moment depicting the tragedy. Get ready for one starring Tom Hanks.

Hanks is a great actor but he sure can't write. His turgid editorial in yesterday's New York Times, "We Should All Learn About Tulsa," proved that. I read it through twice to see if maybe I missed the point, but no -- there was no point to miss. Just a virtue-signaling, "I'm so liberal, I love black people" hodgepodge about how terribly biased our country is.

Hanks attended high school in the 60s and "never read in any history book" about what happened in Tulsa, Oklahoma in 1921. Supposedly this "tragic omission" changed his whole life, and that of every other white person. Being of the same generation, I too had no idea about what happened in Tulsa, and now I'm wondering how my life would be different if I had. Hanks concludes that knowing 300 black people were killed by a mob of white people all those years ago would have made all of us "wiser and stronger." That's funny, because hearing about it today only makes me sadder and more depressed.

 

Reviewing the Situation

Everyday life is very annoying these days.* You can't do anything without getting an email or a text or a phone call afterwards asking you to write a review about your experience. Earlier today I brought my car in for an inspection at a local auto shop. When I paid, I was informed that if I write a review of my service and post it online I will get a free oil change whenever I need one.

First of all, who says I'm bringing my car to them for my next oil change? And secondly, what do I look like, a PR lackey? Write your own damn reviews. (Besides, if you read the reviews of Nomadland, which won the Oscar for Best Picture this year, and also saw the movie, you know that other people's opinions are meaningless.)

Every time I shop at at L.L. Bean, which I do often since it's three miles from my front door and just about the only retail establishment still in business after Covid swept through, by the time I get home I've received an email from the store asking me to rate my purchase. Hey, I haven't even had time to take it out of the bag yet -- how do I know what I think of it? Not to mention, who cares how I feel? If I like my socks, does that mean you will like the same socks? No, is the correct answer. so what's the point?

*Please review this post to qualify for unlimited free blog posts in the future.

How I Am Like a Famous Actress

Cher at 74.

This year (in fact today) I turned 75, just like Cher, Sally Field, Goldie Hawn, Candice Bergen, Liza Minelli, Dolly Parton and Talia Shire, and despite how great we all look (except me), it's no picnic. Even though I have not contracted Covid, am in good health, work out with a Crossfit trainer twice a week, go for daily walks, can see perfectly well and have all my marbles, nevertheless I do have what one can term "ailments" that are quite annoying. Except for one that is too personal to divulge, they are:

BPPV (Benign paroxysmal positional vertigo) 

BMS (Burning mouth syndrome)

Dry Eye Syndrome

GAD (General anxiety disorder)

Heart Disease

Hemorrhoids

Hypertension

IBSC (Irritable bowel syndrome with constipation)

Tinnitus

Varicose Veins

So the next time you see any of those glamorous celebrities all dolled up on the Red Carpet or wherever, you can bank on most of them having some, if not all, of these as well. No wonder so many of them go in and out of rehab.

 

Living in Scary Times

For my lunch today I phoned in an order to a cafe that was on the way home from an early appointment. It was a simple order, just a veggie wrap (lettuce, tomatoes, cucumber,  black olives and hummus) and a black coffee. The person on the phone said it would be ready in 20 minutes

I arrived at the shop and went inside to pick up my order, which was not yet ready. The scene behind the counter was frightening: About eight or nine staffers were answering phones, making sandwiches, bagging orders and bumping into one another with the precision of a group of Ringling Brothers circus bears learning how to tap dance. Someone looked up at me and shouted, "Stand back! Wait over there, we'll call your name when it's ready."

Finally it was, and I was happy to escape the chaos. I drove home, eager to eat my tasty sandwich. Only when I opened it turned out to not be my sandwich but someone else's. This one had chunks of chicken breast and sun-dried tomatoes and some sort of secret sauce I could not identify. Annoyed but hungry I ate it anyway, not wanting to drive the six miles back and wait another 20 minutes for it to be made right. (I bet the carnivore who got my sandwich was more disappointed.)

Anyway, what's wrong with people these days? On my car radio I heard a talk show host marvel at the fact that, "We've come so far in the 66 years since the first flight of the Wright Brothers at Kitty Hawk." I thought that sounded wrong, since that would mean that flight was invented when I was nine, and I knew that wasn't so. When I got home I checked online and learned the correct date of the first flight was December 17, 1903, or 118 years ago.

There's no punchline. But maybe Covid isn't the only scary thing going on these days.

Reading the Bible Beats Facebook

Where do you turn when reading The Holy Bible bores you? That's the question I am grappling with right now. Having never read it before, much to my husband's ongoing chagrin, I decided to hunker down with THE BOOK and see what all the fuss is about. An hour each morning instead of scrolling Facebook should improve my mood, at the very least.

So far I am deep into the first chapter called Genesis, which is all about how we got here. God made everything and then took a day off. Adam and Eve and the apple, the talking serpent, which honestly I find hard to believe. Anyway, I've heard all that before. Noah and the flood: saw the movie. Cain and Abel, ''I am not my brother's keeper," also old news. Then it's who begat who, as if I care that Jessup begat Shem who begat Twillah who begat Munch who begat two sons, Medill and Halem, who then begat Chorem and Bedillah, who bore Avila and Kanchev, not to mention Lamech, Ham, Kushra, Nizram and Phut, etc., etc., etc. 

What I have learned so far is that they had some crazy names back then. Also, scads of people lived to be 250 or 700 years old, while others kicked the bucket at 27 or 35. Why? Was it their diet? Exercise? There is no explanation, which is disappointing. 

It's rough going, nevertheless I will continue with my daily studies until I get to the part where God spouts words of wisdom, because I sure could use some divine inspiration. Otherwise I might switch to Virginia Woolf's To The Lighthouse, another book I've never read (despite several attempts) and keep hearing is fabulous.

Netflix Series Review: THE KOMINSKY METHOD

Douglas and Arkin, old friends on park bench, with bonsai.

Simply put, this offering from Netflix is perfect in every way. The Kominsky Method stars Michael Douglas and Alan Arkin, two seasoned actors who just keep getting better at their game as they age. It's delicious watching them bicker and banter as old friends clinging to one another in their golden years, awaiting the Grim Reaper with wry humor and a couple of stiff drinks. Adding to their impressive talents is a script (by veteran sitcom writer Chuck Lorre) worthy of reading in book form -- about life, love, parenthood, aging and the inevitability of death. It's partly serious, mostly hilarious, and all so relatable.

Douglas plays Sandy Kominsky, an actor whose career went downhill after the Tony Award he received in his youth. Now in his mid-70s, he ekes out a decent living as a coach for a group of engaging young actors in downtown LA. Arkin is his best friend, Norman Newlander, a fabulously successful and very rich (there's a Hockney hanging in his dining room) talent agent several years older. Norman is basically retired, living large off his established agency's earnings without lifting a finger. 

Also on hand are their two grown children: Sandy's daughter Mindy (Sarah Baker) who manages his acting school, and Norman's daughter Phoebe (Lisa Edelstein), a drugged-out alcoholic who goes from one rehab to another, sober until her next beer.

Various new girlfriends, dead wives, ex-wives and a boyfriend appear from time to time, staying for a season or two. Several of these are notable: Jane Seymour as an old flame of Norman's that gets rekindled, and Kathleen Turner as Sandy's ex-wife who shows up to attend Mindy's wedding to a tubby, pony-tailed hippie 30 years her senior (Paul Reiser). And finally, what movie, stage production, TV show or inane commercial doesn't have Morgan Freeman in it? (Not this one.)

Despite all the show's obvious charms, ultimately you'll stay for Douglas, who has gradually morphed into our greatest living actor. Sadly the series runs for just three seasons, but there's no law against watching it over and over again.

President Yokel*

He might just be a bumpkin.

Okay, I'm over it. The rain stopped, the sun came out, and I'm ready to say bad things about someone again. This time it's Joe Biden, the lying, cheating scoundrel who promised during his campaign for the presidency that he would "bring the country together." All I can say about that is, "Ha!" and "Ha, ha ha!" Yesterday he declared that all of America is "systemically racist," and that includes you. And me. And in order to make up for this abominable situation, reparations must be made. That means money. Moolah. The green stuff.

And just which black people are supposed to get this money? Certainly not any of the numerous black millionaires, I hope. Or any past presidents, one of whom happens to be black in this so-called racist country. And surely not any of the Trump voters, of which there were many, since Joe Biden himself declared not long ago, "If you voted for Trump then you ain't black!"

Well guess what: I ain't no racist and I ain't paying no money to no black people just for the color of their skin. (Way to drive the country further apart, Joe. I know -- Barack made you say it.)

*Yokels are depicted as straightforward, simple, naïve, and easily deceived, failing to see through false pretenses.