Vaughn plays Joe Scaravella, a single sad sack who lived with his mother until his late forties. We meet him right after her death and he's an emotional, unmotivated mess. Friends suggest he do something new to move on with his life, so he uses his inheritance money to open a restaurant in his mother's memory. To be authentic, and as a unique hook, he hires Italian nonnas (grandmothers) to do the cooking.
The eponymous grandmothers are played by Susan Sarandon (78), Brenda Vaccaro (85), Talia Shire (79) and Lorraine Bracco (70). The most fun comes from seeing these four dynamos in action as they first reject, then accept and finally come to love one another as family. Two other standouts are Bruno (Joe Manganiello) and Stella (Drea de Matteo) as Joe's best friends. (I was very happy to see Stella a.k.a. Adriana alive and well after Silvio, at Christopher's behest, killed her in New Jersey's Pine Barrens on The Sopranos.)
Most problematic is the script. For example, Joe doesn't hire any waiters but somehow all the food gets from the kitchen to the dining room. He opens a fabulous restaurant -- look for the backlit wine rack behind the bar -- with almost no money. Not one customer shows up for an entire month and so Joe decides to close the place, but first invites all his friends for a big party to use up all the food and a crowd of people arrive. Why didn't he invite them on opening night? That was stupid. But not as stupid as the food fight in the kitchen -- you'll know it when you see it.
The bottom line: Nonnas employs every cinematic and verbal cliche in the book, including musical ones, to tug at the heartstrings of a willing audience seeking to escape the harsh realities of everyday life. It doesn't succeed.
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| "David" |
All I can say about that is "Ha, ha -- somebody get that man some glasses!"
So is this how it's gonna be for the next four years -- the bratty Democrats throwing daily tantrums over not getting their way, just like the last time they lost the election? I'm afraid so.
They famously invented the "Russian collusion story," which turned out to be a hoax funded by Hillary Clinton's campaign staff. What was not a hoax was the fact that Hillary had smashed her cell phone with a hammer and wiped her several personal computers with bleach to avoid having her crimes discovered. (Oddly enough, the Democrats in Congress and those who run the media had nothing to say about that.)
There was more, which honestly I have forgotten by now. Lawsuits involving his alleged womanizing, his alleged unsavory business deals and his alleged desire to end democracy and shred the Constitution all went up in smoke. What remained was his just plain breathing in and out, which pisses off the radical lefties to this day.
Try to imagine how great our country could be if everyone worked together to achieve peace and prosperity for all, regardless of who occupied the White House. Who knows -- maybe Trump would do an even better job if people weren't always trashing him.
Since Lurch never spoke English to begin with I haven't had to mourn the loss of us sharing deep conversations, but there are other symptoms that are blatantly disturbing. First of all, he seems to never know what to do with himself, and so sits in one spot staring into space for perhaps 20 minutes. Truth be told I do this myself quite often and call it "meditating," but I'm pretty sure Lurch is not repeating a mantra to himself.
He also seems to have lost his appetite, yowls mournfully for no reason, and is no longer very affectionate to his human roommates. He hasn't hunted a mouse or a chipmunk in more than a year and even fresh catnip bores him. Another odd thing is his crying to get into the basement, which used to be his favorite place to hang out. He still cries at the door to the basement, so I open it and he walks down a few steps and then comes right back up. Still, he will cry to get down there again a few hours later.
But worst of all, and most Biden-like, he still demands to be treated like royalty. So we brush him and spoil him with treats and try various brands of expensive cat food and bring home new toys, all to no avail. I'm not proud to admit it, but despite feeling immense sympathy for him I am looking forward to his successor.
"I hate her bangs."
"I had hair like that when I was seven."
"She looks like the Little Dutch Boy."
"I wouldn't leave the house looking like that."
"Who is Pamela Anderson?"
"Her stylist needs to be fired."
"Very dated hair and eyebrows."
"I thought she was Mia Farrow."
I was hoping someone might know.
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| It's so sad to hide. |
According to a psychologist at Australia's University of Queensland, "Some of those who choose to remain anonymous -- these so-called ‘keyboard warriors’ -- appear to be motivated by toxic behaviour.” So, in the interest of my mental health which is already a bit shaky, I have temporarily shut down the comments feature for The Daily Droid.
This is actually no big deal since my most prolific commenters have been my husband, who can say what he wants to say to me in person, and my best friend Debra who was killed in a car crash almost three years ago and who since then has only communicated with me via digital clocks. Deb has never mentioned my blog, so I assume there's no Internet in Heaven. (Thank God!)
My hope is that this particular Anonymous isn't someone I know personally, although he/she certainly could be. My past includes many now-militant Democrats who are surely angered by my constant trashing of their party leaders, so you can't blame them for retaliating. Or could it be a waning celebrity, like Whoopie Goldberg, Joy Reid, Maxine Waters or Joy Behar -- the most common targets of my vitriol? At least when I insult them I sign my real name.
So, dear reader, if there's anything you feel you must say, contact me via Facebook or email.
The words above come straight from the website of Magnolia Bakery, which was once a magical sort of place fit for a fairy tale. I was among the adoring acolytes waiting on long lines that snaked around the corner and down the block from the bakery, no matter the weather. If it was snowing, you bundled up. If it was raining, you brought an umbrella. The cupcakes were that good.
Once inside the tiny shop, in view of the glass cases displaying the goodies, you got busy deciding what flavor cupcake topped with which kind of frosting. By the time it was your turn you ordered enough for a small army since it had taken you half an hour or more to get there, and who knew when you'd be back.
In the early days, when there was just one store in the Village, the cupcakes were literally to die for, topped with ethereal frosting that swirled a few inches up to the heavens. They were epic, unlike any other baked goods anywhere. So a trip to Manhattan to visit friends and family always included a stop at Magnolia Bakery.
Sadly, these cupcakes look nothing like those cupcakes. Now they are supermarket quality, half the size of the originals and grimly packaged for a long shelf life. Worst of all, the list of ingredients one cannot pronounce is distinctly unappetizing. So far I haven't tried one, whereas in the old days I had scarfed down two in the car before we'd even gotten to the Bronx.
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| Internet ad for adult diapers. |
An elected official responds to a reporter's televised question by saying, "Fuck off."
Movies and TV shows regularly shock viewers with people sitting on the toilet wiping their butts, or having oral sex, or writhing naked in strip clubs, or conducting nauseating and gory surgeries, both actual and pretend.
When did private life become so indelicate, indiscreet, uncivil, and worst of all, public? And why? I have no answers, only questions. As someone old enough to remember when the word "cancer" was always whispered, and then only to a few close family members of the stricken, I can only shake my head in disbelief and wonder what's coming next.
Since when is it acceptable to tell a reporter to fuck off when he is just doing his job by asking a question, and not a snarky one like I would ask, like "Why do you wear a head scarf, do you have some sort of condition?" Or maybe, "Did you really marry your brother?" Instead it was a perfectly legitimate question: "Do you think more of your colleagues will be going to El Salvador to visit that POS gang member imprisoned down there?" Only he didn't say that, he was very respectful and used the guy's name which I do not know. (I guess it's Kilmar something based on the photo above.)
Good thing I am no longer a reporter.
Two days ago I fell asleep at the wheel of my car and crashed into a mailbox. I lived and my brand new car sustained damages in the thousand...
