The Internet of Things

Last night, home alone eating applesauce and watching a movie on Netflix, suddenly everything went black. My first thought was that I had died, but since I was still holding the dish of applesauce I thought probably not. Next guess: the power was out, which was odd since it was a beautiful night, lacking rain, wind or disturbances of any kind.

Remembering that blind people go out to the market or a job or take the subway or do anything at all aided only by a stick, I cautiously groped my way around the furniture to the nearest box of matches and lit a candle. Then I lit some more and, grumpily accepting that I wouldn't find out how the movie ended, at least not right away, went to bed. A few hours later, an intense beeping woke me. The power was still out, but our bedroom plug-in carbon monoxide detector was screaming for me to get out of the house!, flashing GAS, GAS, GAS, GAS, over and over in bright red neon. No dummy, I got out.

So there I was, standing in my driveway in the pitch black outdoors at one in the morning with a furiously beeping carbon monoxide detector on my hands. By chance my cell phone was in my bathrobe pocket, so I called my husband somewhere where it was two hours earlier. He assured me that there was no gas in the house, that the thing was probably beeping because of the power outage, and that I should go back to bed. I wrapped the beeping thing in a blanket and left it inside my car, then trudged up the stairs to die peacefully in my sleep.

This morning the power was back on and I was alive. All the digital clocks on all the appliances were flashing RESET. When I opened it, my refrigerator beeped and flashed the words Power Outage in case I hadn't noticed. Our land line telephone with built-in voicemail intoned, "Your outgoing message has been erased..... Your outgoing message has been erased.... Your outgoing message has been erased.....

A call to Maine Central Power revealed that an animal -- no mention of species -- had come in contact with some wires at a power sub-station, causing a shortage that plummeted four adjacent towns (Total pop. approx. 37,000) into darkness for eight hours. So much for all that technology.

Color Blind

I am not color blind. Face to face with someone whose skin color is different from mine, I notice. If that makes me a racist, which these days is considered to be the worst thing you can be, then I'm guilty. To people of a certain age, raised at a time when segregated water fountains were seen in public spaces, it just happens. It's like looking at the sky and noticing that it's blue: I can't NOT see the blue. Yet we are all supposed to pretend that we are color blind, since that makes us better people. Some fortunate souls among us truly are, no pretense necessary. My son is one of those.

I learned this fact about him when he was a teenager. I had driven Zack to the Department of Motor Vehicles in Washington, D.C. for his driver's test. Back then it was located in "a bad neighborhood," which is what the white residents of the Northwest quadrant of the city called all black neighborhoods, or basically the other three quadrants of our racially divided nation's capital.

As it happened, on that particular day we were the only two white people in the waiting room, along with about a dozen or so others there for the same purpose. We signed in and sat down. I stared at my lap and tried to look ethnic. After about fifteen minutes, it was our turn. Someone shouted "Next!" and both Zack, a thin, white 16-year-old boy, and a tall black man of about 25 (who could have stunt doubled for The Incredible Hulk) stood up at the same time and stepped forward.

Fearful the other guy would become angry or violent or who knows -- maybe pull out a knife -- I whispered to my son, "Let him go first, honey." But Zack was unperturbed. Smiling, he approached the man and said, "Dude, no disrespect but I'm pretty sure I'm next." The guy smiled back and said politely, "Sorry man, you're right. My mistake."

Later, driving home with his new license in hand, I asked Zack if he had been at all afraid of the guy. His answer was, "Why would I be?"

Happy Monday, You're Going to Die

Often teetering on the edge of depression due to a genetic tendency towards anxiety heightened by one or two annoying health issues, it's a constant battle for me to remain upbeat. This might apply to anyone who reads the news every day, what with all the death and destruction, murder and mayhem, and political mudslinging. So you can just imagine how much harder it is when the person you live with, in this case my spouse, ruins breakfast with the declaration, "Being over seventy is like being engaged in a war. All our friends are going or gone and we survive amongst the dead and dying as on a battlefield."

My husband now talks about death constantly thanks to his iPhone app called "We Croak," which reminds you five times a day that you are going to die. Supposedly this will help you live in the moment and enjoy life to the fullest. All I have to say about that is, "Ha!" I wrote about it in this very space exactly ten days ago when it was a new thing around our house. Now it's an old thing and it's driving me nuts.

For example, we're out somewhere having a good time, like walking in the glorious autumn foliage deep in the Maine woods, when Mitch's phone pings and he shares the message, "Life changes in the instant. You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends." Or we might be out at the movies, chomping on popcorn waiting for the feature to start, when suddenly he intones,"When you're dead you're dead. That's it." 

If you know anyone who is considering getting this app, don't let them.


 


 

Film Review: FIRST MAN

Gosling channeling Armstrong.

People over a certain age have surely heard and seen enough details about the 1969 Apollo 11 moon landing by now, but not so much about the lives of the men who accomplished the feat. First Man, directed by Damien Chazelle (most recently known for La La Land), takes us into the hearts and minds of the people inhabiting those puffy moon suits, especially flight commander Neil Armstrong (Ryan Gosling).

It also depicts with amazing clarity and impressive special effects just what it feels like to be imprisoned inside a rocket propelled at Warp speed to parts unknown. We see the training involved, watch the test flights, and mourn the deaths of more than a few pilots. It's scary stuff, bringing into sharp focus the immense bravery required of our astronauts.

Besides all the men in suits who huddle together smoking cigarettes (this was the 60s when it was an acceptable activity) and making big decisions at NASA, there are gauzy flashbacks concerning Armstrong's deeply scarred personal life. A family tragedy early on impacts his marriage, and his lovely wife Janet (Claire Foy) suffers through her own private Hell while watching her husband, "Slip the surly bonds of earth," as America's anchorman Walter Cronkite famously said at the time, paraphrasing a line from Air Force fighter pilot/ poet John Magee's "High Flight." 

Although the dialog is sparse in the extreme, almost annoyingly so, the apt soundtrack and stunning cinematography more than compensate. My Personal Oscar Prediction: Gosling will at the very least be a Best Actor contender, if not the winner. His performance as the stoically tight-lipped Armstrong, ridden with unrelenting personal grief while attempting to make history, is nothing short of miraculous.

Make Room for Your New Roommates

I have an absolutely fantastic solution to the housing of all the so-called "Caravan" of approximately 7,000 people who are fast approaching our southern border. Once the hordes of disillusioned, distraught and unemployed Mexicans, Guatemalans and Hondurans cross into the US, each individual or entire family should be assigned to the home of a registered Democrat. That would solve all our problems, and I'm sure the impromptu hosts will be thrilled to see some new faces around their Thanksgiving table this year, and for years to come.

"Hi Nancy, we're your new roomies!"

Some of the lucky immigrants would find themselves settling down in the sprawling mansions of Hollywood celebrities like Jim Carrey and Alec Baldwin, or the glorious high-rise apartments of Manhattan -- Chelsea Clinton's Park Avenue pad has nine bathrooms! --  and even the houses of former presidents, like Obama and Clinton. And Nancy Pelosi has multiple houses and a vineyard, so she'd be able to handle several dozen new roomies, at the very least! (If I know that Nancy, she'll have them harvesting her grapes in no time.)

Someone should tell the president about my plan, since I don't know him. This is definitely a win-win for all!

I'm in the Wrong Galaxy

Let me state emphatically at the outset that while I've had a suicidal thought or two in my deepest, darkest moments, I would never do anything to hurt myself, mostly because I'm such a baby when it comes to pain. For example, I fainted when I had my ears pierced. And besides, life is simply too interesting to leave early. All that being said, if it turned out that one absolutely had to commit suicide in order to transcend to a higher and more wonderful State of Being, I now know how I would be able to do it: Just sit me down and force me to watch Guardians of the Galaxy (Vol.1) all the way through, and I'd surely figure out a way to end it all.

Last night, on the advice and consent of two people near and dear to me and in their company, I set out to view the aforementioned film, released in 2014, in the comfort of my own home thanks to Apple TV.  I lasted a full 25 minutes before fleeing the unrelenting noise, silly costumes, plot confusion, bad acting, stupid jokes, annoying soundtrack, amateurish makeup and general nonsense assaulting my eyes and ears. In a word, I found the film appalling. Even worse, my very own husband and visiting best friend stayed glued to the TV, laughing their asses off and loving it. "Oh well, there's no accounting for taste," I thought, writing them off as unsophisticated film simpletons.

This morning, still annoyed that such a movie had even been made, I checked online for film reviews, assuming they would all be negative. But no, every single one of the highly-paid critics had praised the movie to the skies, calling it a masterful masterpiece, witty and fun and even touching and heart-warming. To my horror, a sequel -- Guardians of the Galaxy Vol.2 -- came out in 2017, again to the welcoming arms of fans and critics alike.

I feel so alone. Now that's enough to make me end it all.

FILM REVIEW: A Star Is Born

Bradley Cooper and Lady Gaga

Despite all the hype about Lady Gaga's singing and Bradley Cooper's directorial debut, the true stars of A Star Is Born are those old favorites, Drugs and Alcohol. The very first scene features them and they reign throughout the film, ultimately killing off our hero. As usual the crowds love them, and thus far the film has grossed many, many millions at the box office since its release in early October.

Surely it's a great yarn, so great in fact it's been told on screen three times before: The doomed love affair between a rising star and one about to burn out. Even though we've heard it or seen it already, this latest version seems brand new, without a single stale or hackneyed moment. Great acting by just about everyone, authentic concert footage of screaming fans and memorable music make it a standout, equal in impact to the 1954 version starring Judy Garland and James Mason, a hallmark in film history.

Still, in the end it's depressing, and not just in the end but pretty much all the way through. Drug addiction and alcohol abuse are simply not fun topics no matter how much you dress them up. Anyway, I smell an Oscar or two (probably more), so if you want to be in on all the buzz, go see it.

Picasso's Cat

This morning my cat decided he wanted breakfast at 4:41. I know because I keep my cell phone next to my bed just in case. In case of what I'm not sure, but anyway I could see the time quite clearly when Lurch came in and started his meowing. Despite my throwing a pillow at him he persisted, enough to get me out of bed, down the stairs and into the kitchen. Naturally I stayed awake since it's impossible to go back to sleep once you've dealt with the contents of a can of cat food. Sadly this situation is not at all uncommon, which might explain why I run out of steam most afternoons.

Picasso and friend.

When I had a dog I would sometimes wonder how much fatter I'd be if I didn't have to walk him three times a day. Usually I had such thoughts while we were wandering around in a blizzard or a thunderstorm, just to give it a positive spin. (I find it helpful to consider dire situations as weight loss opportunities.) After Rufus died I found out: seven pounds fatter.

Now I'm wondering how much more I might accomplish in life if only I could get more shut-eye. For all I know, sleep deprivation is impacting my creativity. (Maybe that's why so few of my paintings sell.) I'm willing to bet that Picasso's cat let him sleep in.

Sez Who?

"Streisand can't act and Whoopie Pies suck!"

In order to write an article for my local newspaper column comparing  three versions of the same film, last night I tried to watch the 1976 version of A Star Is Born. I really tried, quite hard in fact, but after 50 minutes I grabbed the remote and shut off the horror. That was all I could take of the preening, screaming nonsense emanating from both of the leads, Barbra Streisand and Kris Kristofferson. Really, the military could use it to coax information from war prisoners.

After some googling, I learned that the movie had won four Oscars and that Kristofferson had won a Golden Globe for Best Actor for his portrayal of an alcoholic rock star, a performance I personally topped a few nights ago after two glasses of red wine. (Next time please remind me that one is my absolute limit.) Now I'm worried that I won't like the latest version which every professional critic has called God's gift to filmdom, and everyone who has seen it has also raved. Then what-- my deadline fast approaches. (BTW, the 1954 version starring Judy Garland and James Mason is possibly my favorite movie of all time, just so you know.)

So what's wrong with me anyway? Why I don't like things that so many other other people do? This question has plagued me my whole life. Are we all supposed to accept that something has value because others say so? That could explain so much -- like Whoopie Pies which are all the rage here in Maine, despite being just two giant cake-y cookies with super-sweet frosting slathered between them. Supposedly they are "wicked good," but I just find them nauseating. Ditto Whoopie Goldberg. And especially whoopie cushions, which are gross and immature and not funny at all. Even the very word, like shouting "Whoopie!" on New Year's Eve, irks me. Also the whole New Year's thing, with the parties and the drinking and the resolutions and the "out with the old and in with the new," even though it's just the very next day.

I suppose I need a support group.

Making Death Your Friend

According to a Bhutanese folk saying, "To be a happy person, one must contemplate death five times a day." Taking that idea and running with it, an app called WeCroak sends you random messages throughout the day in the form of quotes from famous people reminding you that death is inevitable and could come at any time. (Gee, thanks.)

Bhutan, the tiny South Asian kingdom tucked in the Eastern Himalayans, is best known for its innovative policy of "Gross National Happiness." Conventional wisdom says it's a place where contentment reigns, and was long considered the happiest country on Earth until recently when it fell off the Forbes Top Ten list. (Finland is now Number 1). No doubt the Bhutanese are certainly happier than most Americans, especially people living in certain parts of Chicago, or Philly, or Flint, Michigan. Still, if you ask me, that whole "thinking about death" thing sounds like a major downer, so how happy are those Bhutanese, really? Here are a few pertinent facts about the place; draw your own conclusions.

1. The first nation to ban all tobacco use, smoking anywhere in Bhutan is against the law. 
2. Homosexuality is illegal. Same-sex sexual acts, even when consensual and done in private, are punishable by a prison sentence of between one month to less than one year.
3. Polygamy, while not common, is legal.
4. According to 2016 data from the World Bank, Bhutan's citizens have a life expectancy of 70.2 years. (69.9 for males and 70.5 for females)

While I completely applaud the wisdom of facing my own mortality, if I could learn what Jane Fonda (80), Clint Eastwood (88), Mel Brooks (92), Tony Bennett (92), Betty White (96), Doris Day (96) Olivia de Havilland (102) and Herman Wouk (103) contemplate five times a day, I'd definitely do that.

Don't Mess With October

Here it is more than half over and I didn't know until today that October is "Breast Cancer Awareness Month." (Thanks a lot, Georgetown Lombardi Cancer Center, for your informative email.) I feel like such a fool. I have not thought about breast cancer once all month, nor have I been aware of it. I've thought about COPD, which recently took the life of a close friend. I've thought about heart disease, which landed me in the ER last week. And who's not aware of mental illness, what with Massachusetts Senator Elizabeth "Pocahontas" Warren releasing her DNA test results?

Until now I've always considered October as our most fun month, with crisp leaves crunching underfoot, the glorious colors of fall dotting the horizon, hayrides and corn mazes and farmer's markets, and of course Halloween, with bright jack-o-lanterns and festive costumes and lots of leftover snack-sized candy bars, and who doesn't like that? But from this day forward I'll have to add breast cancer and chemo and hair falling out and reconstructive surgery -- all things that will surely tarnish October's glow.

If you ask me it should be in April, which is already known to be the cruelest month because of the first line of T. S. Eliot's famous 1922 poem, The Wasteland: "April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain."

Certainly not October.