If You're A Robot, Don't Call Me

I woke up feeling suicidal and not in the mood for my dental cleaning scheduled for 1 pm today. The dentist's office being a 30-minute drive away, I'd have to stay focused long enough to get there and then keep my mouth open for 45 minutes. No way I was up for that unless I was shoving a Nathan's All-Beef Kosher hot dog into it, on a bun with mustard and sauerkraut.

Wondering how long I'd have to wait for another appointment if I skipped today, I called the office. Naturally a recording answered, even though this particular office charges so much for their services they could afford a uniformed staff of ten with nothing to do but answer phone calls. But no, it was a robot asking me to leave a message, which I did.

After half an hour with no call back, I tried again and this time got a human being, or a better-sounding robot claiming to be Nicole. She said I was not on the schedule for a cleaning, or anything, today. "That's crazy," I said, "since I have gotten two reminder emails, one text and two phone calls over the last three weeks asking me to confirm. Which I did each time, and by the way that's pretty annoying."

Nicole didn't know much -- her words not mine -- but she was certain I had no appointment for today. The next opening would be December 27th. I said I'll be there unless my teeth fall out first.

I will tell you this: they can call, e-mail and text all they want, I will not confirm that appointment unless a living, breathing person asks me to. I am done with robots. They think they're so smart but they're not.

Anyway, my suicidal mood only got worse after that.

Inclusive Art

A small art gallery here in town is offering the entire space for week-long rentals next year. The application form includes the stipulation that the show must "focus on community inclusion." I'm not sure what that means but I am going to start inserting a black or brown person somewhere in every one of my paintings, just to be sure. Maybe a Native American and someone in a wheelchair too.

Film Review: LEAVE THE WORLD BEHIND

Julia Roberts sinks to a new low in Leave the World Behind, just starting a run on Netflix. Not only is her performance amateurish, but she looks like a haggard crone in this depressing tale of a war waged by some unknown entity that destroys the country's power grid in a far-reaching cyber attack.

Julia Roberts having a bad time.

Amanda (Roberts) and Clay (Ethan Hawke), a harried married couple living in Brooklyn with their two kids, rent an extravagant Long Island beach house for a long weekend. On day one their getaway is interrupted by the late-night arrival of a black man named George (Mahershala Ali) and his young daughter, who claim to be fleeing an unsettling event in the outside world and have returned to the safety of their own home. 

Amanda's loathsome racism surfaces as she doubts George could be the homeowner, despite his impeccable attire and sophisticated demeanor. Clay, more trusting and forgiving, says sure, come in, we'll talk about it in the morning. So George and his daughter go sleep in their own basement for the night.

But the morning brings a whole lot more to talk about. Like airplanes falling from the sky, oil tankers going aground on the beach, herds of deer surrounding the house and the loss of power cutting off all news of world events. No internet, no radio or TV, no nothing to explain the loud booms coming from the sky and the flock of flamingos in the swimming pool. What's happening? They all try to figure it out, to no avail. 

A cameo by Kevin Bacon as a prepper neighbor brandishing a shotgun is almost comical, since his perfect Hollywood-white teeth are blatantly at odds with his rustic, lumberjack character. (Oops, whoever responsible for that was probably fired.)

The ending, like the whole movie, is unclear. It's either the Russians or the Iranians or the Chinese out to get us. Whoever, someone dropped leaflets from airplanes that say "Death to America." Best advice: Don't watch right before bedtime.

Film Review: MAY DECEMBER

Moore and Melton as the happy couple.

Now streaming on Netflix, MAY DECEMBER sounds better than it is. It is loosely based on the scandalous 1996 incident when a married teacher had an affair with her 7th grade student, got pregnant by him and went to jail for more than seven years, then came out with a baby and married the boy. And they stayed married until, well, forever. Despite a few laughs, I found it creepy from beginning to end, which was clearly the intent of director Todd Haynes who has dallied with oddness in all of his past films.

Starring Natalie Portman and Julianne Moore, two fine actresses, the plot is strange, disturbing and ultimately pointless, offering little useful information besides how to raise butterflies -- more on that later. Ominous music accompanies a variety of sub-plots, as if that scandalous affair wasn't strange enough. So we get to see a few odd fetishes and a whole lot of Natalie Portman staring into the camera for an uncomfortably long time, more than once. (She's pretty, we get it, but enough already.)

The hunky kid grew up into a hunky actor I never heard of but is apparently adored by a younger audience, Charles Melton. His character is the only decent one in the movie, and except for his sleeping with a woman 24 years his senior when he was 12, is very likable. Apart from all that, his hobby of raising Monarch butterflies from eggs to adults is lovely to see, and also interesting.

The Biggest Scam of All

The lie that going to college after high school is necessary in order to succeed in life has been disproven over and over. As most people know already, our richest business leaders all dropped out of school after a year or didn't attend at all, giving further evidence of their native intelligence.

As an art major at New York University in the 1960s, I had to read all of Shakespeare -- every last word he wrote, including the Sonnets. I also was required to study physics and calculus. Somehow I passed those classes, but don't ask me today what the word calculus even means. With a major in Fine Arts, after graduation I became a newspaper art director, graphic designer and eventually a feature news writer and painter. 

I could have done all of it without attending college, as never did any job interviewer ask for proof of anything beyond the contents of my art portfolio. Still, it took me from 1969 to 1986 to pay off my considerable college loans.

Colleges and universities are big business, employing thousands of people and raking in many millions from wealthy donors seeking to have their name emblazoned on a dorm wing or a gym or an arena or a  bench or whatever, god knows why. My own husband, sap that he is, still sends money annually to his alma mater since graduating 45 years ago despite knowing that it is the largest recipient of cash from foreign investors. Why does Russia give money to Carnegie Mellon University? Who knows.

I can still remember the glee in my son's best friend's voice when he got into a class at the University of Vermont, the school they attended together: "Introduction to Motown." And that was just the introduction! I imagine if you went forward you could major in Aretha Franklin or maybe Quincy Jones. Today's college students are even worse, and by that I mean dumber. They take classes in "The Music of Taylor Swift." Then they go out and join protests chanting anti-Israeli hate, clueless about what they are saying. Many of them have never heard of the Holocaust.

Save your money and let your kids go out in the real world instead of sending them to a four-year minimum-security prison where they will be indoctrinated and brainwashed by the powers that be.

Beam Me Up, Scotty

Only people of a certain age will understand the title of this post. That's fine, since those are the people I want in my life, in my world, and on the planet. I am so ready to leave planet Earth, to one where there is no Taylor Swift, no tattoos and snot-ring nose piercings, and especially no ignorant children who gather together and blithely chant, "To the river from the sea, Palestine shall be free," yet have not the slightest idea what river, what sea, or even where Palestine is.

Kids today are dopes, plain and simple. Maybe it's because they smoke too much dope, or their parents did, but whatever the cause, I'm sick of hearing about them and looking at them and listening to their dumb, so-called music.

I am sick of racism and gender identities and pronouns. On my planet, there will be men and women and that's it. Gays are fine, but no trannies allowed! So, no women with beards and men with mastectomy scars. Best of all, no Michelle Obama, and what a relief that would be!

Free Speech at Harvard

Now showing at Harvard University

Earlier today I watched part of a televised congressional hearing, during which Harvard University's president was questioned about the school's response to and policy concerning anti-Israeli protests held on campus when students chanted, "From the river to the sea, Palestine shall be free" and "Globalize the intifada," both of which mean "Kill all Jews."

The answer from Claudine Gay, Harvard's first black president in its 368-year history, was that the school prides itself on being a bastion of free speech, so anything goes as long as it does not turn into action. She repeatedly and doggedly refused to condemn the antisemitic protests that had many Jewish students terrified and hiding in their dorms, insisting proudly that Harvard believes in free speech.

So at Harvard you can say "Die, nigger, die," but you can't punch one, or hit one or run one over with your car -- nothing like that. You can also call someone a "retard," but don't hurt them or smack them in the head, or actually any part of the body. Ditto for saying midget, dwarf, wop, guinea, kike, hebe, sheeny, spic, faggot, cripple, coon, muff diver, cracker, jungle bunny, pickaninny, tar-baby, Aunt Jemima and the like. Those words are all okay to say at Harvard University. Who knew? 

Thank God there's one place left where people can speak openly and honestly!

Watch Out for Those Garbage Compactors

As if we all don't have enough to worry about, what with wars, climate change, Covid and RSV, rampant crime, a demented President, a mentally challenged Vice President and a wholly moronic populous, now inanimate machinery is out to get us! Perhaps the result of recent advances in AI, or it could be the work of aliens from another planet (proof of which our  government has in its possession). Whatever the cause, the following news item from USA TODAY appeared on my computer's home page this morning:

"A 24-year-old woman, who went missing after leaving work on Friday, was found dead in the garbage compactor in the basement of a luxury condominium building, the New York Police Department said. The police said that no foul play is suspected as per initial investigation.

The woman, a resident of Brooklyn, was found a little after 2:30 p.m. on Friday, when the police responded to a 911 call at a condominium building in Manhattan. Upon arrival, NYPD officers discovered a 24-year-old female unconscious and unresponsive in the garbage compactor in the basement of the building. Authorities said that medics pronounced her deceased at the scene. Police did not specify how the woman ended up at the building, as she was not a resident there."

Evil Knows No Boundaries

"In recent weeks, detailed reports of widespread rape and violence against women on Oct. 7 have begun to emerge. A report published in the U.K.’s Sunday Times relayed one man’s firsthand account of witnessing gang rape at the Nova music festival. An Israeli woman who was being raped by 8-10 men, the witness said, “was screaming, ‘Stop it already! I’m going to die anyway from what you are doing, just kill me!’” When the terrorists had finished raping her, the witness said, “they were laughing, and the last one shot her in the head.”

So go ahead -- cry for the Palestinians. Someday they will come to your house. Telling them you hate Jews too won't save you. But before they get here, while there is still time, watch the 2002 biographical war drama, The Pianist. Just so you're ready.

Finally, A Reason to Read the New York Times

Brenda Lee today, at home in Nashville.

Every Sunday morning my husband goes out to buy the New York Times, a newspaper so biased and smug it almost makes me throw up my breakfast, in order to do the crossword puzzle in the Magazine. I try to cover my eyes to avoid seeing the poison dripping from its opinion pages, like the start of this opening sentence from that bilious Michelle Goldberg (see photo below), one of their writers: "Should the blessed day arrive when Donald Trump is sent to prison....."

Michelle Goldberg

How nice. That's what you want from your newspaper. Anyway, in today's edition of lies and claptrap there is finally an article worth reading. It's about Brenda Lee, the wondrous force of nature who brought us that song you'll be hearing all month long, "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree."

Elvis Presley loved her! John Lennon said in a Rolling Stone interview that she has "the greatest rock 'n' roll voice of them all." It was true when she ruled the airwaves back in 1958, and it's still true today.

Brenda started singing when she was three, and by the age of ten she was the sole support of the family, her father having died when she was eight. Today, retired at 78, she's still got that magic voice. Recently she went viral after surprising passengers on a flight by belting out a song over the plane's intercom.

Why Americans Are Fat

A few nights ago I attended a meeting of the Freeport Republicans held at the local Masonic Lodge. As is always the case, there for the taking were coffee, bottles of water and an array of treats, like brownies, cookies with colorful sprinkles on top and little gingerbread people, gender unspecified. I ate them because A, they were there, and B, so was I, and C, it was all so boring. I think this is why America ranks as the world's fattest nation: too many meetings.

Meetings in themselves may be fine, but often they are repositories of platters filled with donuts, cookies, cakes and the like, as if there is an unspoken understanding that nobody would be able to stay awake and focus on the agenda without a whole lot of sugar coursing through their bodies. And this being the Christmas season, there are many more of these platters showing up in unexpected places, since in small towns across America the ladies like to bake, and what fun to share.

My advice for those hoping to lose weight or at least not balloon up to Lizzo-proportions is to steer clear of small towns at least until January, and then again in February around the 14th.