The Sound and the Fury

Out, out, brief candle!

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

And then is heard no more. It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.--(from Macbeth, spoken by Macbeth)

Early this morning I risked life and limb by going to the end of our ice-encrusted driveway in the freezing rain to rescue our once-hallowed New York Times. As it turned out it was hardly worth it, riddled as it is these days with biased articles written by holier-than-thou Democrats about how shitty the Republicans are and (of course) how Trump must go. I knuckled down and gave it my best effort,  making my way through four or five stories despite noticing my sensitive blood pressure begin to simmer.

Finally, after absorbing the opening graph of an appallingly personal confession of a man "in transition" sharing his/her excitement over the fact that in just seven hours he/she will finally be getting a vagina that will hurt for the rest of his/her life, and how happy that makes him/her (which is odd because I happen to have a vagina I was born with and I hate it when it hurts), feeling slightly disgusted I turned to the crossword puzzle and settled in for a good time, putting aside the remainder of the paper for future kindling in the barbie.

Then my husband showed up, muttering his dismay over a Facebook diatribe he had received from a rabid liberal who foamed at the mouth (in print) for approximately 800 words over how much that "pussy-grabbing Trump" sucks, how FOX News isn't news at all, how dumb every last fucking Republican voter is, the evil of separating parents and children at the border and putting them in cages(!), and more like that. (Talk about your sound and fury signifying nothing.) Mitch was doubly distressed by the fact that his identical twin brother, with whom he had shared tight living quarters for nine long months inside their mother's womb, had publicly agreed with every hideously twisted word. ("Baa, baa, baa," Neil had essentially written.)

How did this happen, I wondered, thinking back to my working days at the Democratic National Committee where half the staff including several higher-ups were literally making deals in actual back rooms while snorting coke, and to my rich liberal Chevy Chase friends who hated blacks and Jews (except not me because I was "one of the good ones"), and my super-liberal Takoma Park (a "nuclear-free zone" D.C. suburb) friends who one day realized with shock that they had never invited a black person into their home despite attending numerous protests for all the right causes.

If it weren't so depressing it might be amusing to watch all of them scramble onto their high horses, even while their hearts and minds are down in the muck with the rest of humanity.

Why I Can't Be President

Yesterday marked the 55th anniversary of the assassination of President John Fitzgerald Kennedy. Nobody in my circle of family and friends mentioned it; instead the political discourse, if you could call it that, centered on how much Trump sucks, something many people believe. Yet thus far nobody has assassinated him, or even tried. I find this odd.

Okay, calm down; I am not advocating this, unlike Madonna who announced at the 2017 Women's March on Washington rally that she had "thought an awful lot about blowing up the White House." In fact, quite the opposite: I personally find the man a total hoot and hope to God he gets out of office alive. (I also hope he gets out of office, but that's another post.)

I'm talking about the confounding situation whereby he is hated as much as Adolf Hitler, yet nobody takes a shot at him. Even Gerald Ford, a wimpy wuss who never hurt a fly, garnered an assassination attempt in 1975, by a mentally disturbed young woman who blamed him for our planet's bad air and filthy water. Yet Trump sails along with nary a scratch on him, tweeting his nasty declarations with little penalty beyond a smug smirk from Rachel Maddow and a frowny face from Anderson Cooper, night after night. And while we're on the subject of assassination and obnoxious journalists... oh well, don't get me started, I've been down that road before.

Thankfully the country has not been catapulted into that particular horror again, and likely will not ever. As my husband says, "It's hard to assassinate a guy these days. The Secret Service has gotten much better at protecting." Still, it's peculiar that someone so universally hated has the guts to leave his house every day and appear in front of enormous throngs of people, many with hate in their hearts, whereas I, a total nobody, find it unnerving and a tad risky just going out to pick up the mail at our rural post office, which is one reason I could never be president. (Also, I don't tweet.)

Blame It on Bill

I was born a Democrat. My parents were Democrats, and their parents before them. Once I was of age, I always voted Democrat. As a teen I worked for the Democrats at the grass roots level, knocking on doors and hanging political posters. Eventually, I was hired as a graphic designer by the Democratic National Committee, attending the 1980 Democratic Convention in New York City.

I never liked any Republicans. I never even listened to a word they said, since I was, well, you know, a Democrat, so why would I? Then Bill Clinton got elected and everything changed.

Bill Clinton, reptile, pounces on a victim while his reptile wife looks on.

He was a known scumbag even before he became president. He went on national TV and admitted to having a 12-year long affair with a stripper or pole dancer or whatever the heck she was, and somehow this was enough for people to forgive him. But I never forgave him. In fact, I hated him on sight. He was a scamming bullshitter as far as I could tell, and that was long before all the other things came to light: the affair with an intern while he was president, the sexual perversions while he was governor of Arkansas, the payment of hush money to one of his accusers, the totally believable accusations of rape by more than one woman.

And guess what: The Libs LOVE HIM! They worship the ground he walks on -- always have and still do -- paying him very big bucks to open his very big mouth and spit out his phony-baloney words of wisdom, famously earning $500,000 for a 45-minute speech to a group of suckers in 2013.

Now let's see how the Libs feel about Supreme Court Justice Brett Kavanaugh. A brilliant man with a sterling reputation and an impressive legal resume, he was accused by an unknown lunatic of "groping" her when he was a 17-year-old boy and she was a 15-year-old girl, but she can't remember where or when it happened and nobody else could either. No matter, that was enough for the Libs, who to this very day are still running around calling him a RAPIST! "The Republicans put a rapist on the Supreme Court," they say.

So no, I'm not a Democrat anymore. Not sure how anyone is.

A Day of Dirty Eating

It's almost time for that annual holiday celebrating nature's bounty by sacrificing approximately 46 million turkeys, amounting to 17% of their population, and then eating them. In fact, the cooking and eating of these dead birds is the central activity of the day. (Okay, and basting.) For the average citizen it is the only activity, unless you take your kids to the Macy's Day parade in New York City or are a wealthy WASP and play touch football with your progeny on the south lawn of your estate, weather permitting.

Lacking an estate or the funds to get to New York, or kids for that matter, still you will eat. A lot. So much that afterward you will feel headachey, tired and nauseous and go rooting around in the bathroom cupboards for some Pepto-Bismol, or at the very least a half-eaten roll of Tums from last year's feast. Welcome to Thanksgiving, where the consumption of food per person rivals the hot dog eating contest at Nathan's Famous in Brooklyn.

Yesterday, in preparation for my own attempt to feel like part of something bigger, I entered our small, all-organic neighborhood market that is usually as quiet as a church service and found it alarmingly abuzz with activity. Not over-the-top crazy like Whole Foods, but almost. The stuffing fixings were sold out, ditto the canned pumpkin for pies, and the clerks behind the meat counter were frazzled as they juggled last-minute orders for the happiest and purest of the dead birds, each of whom probably ate better than any of us. As expected there was a traffic jam around the yams, with frantic villagers stocking up for that paradoxical favorite -- a healthy vegetable with sugar added and candy melted on top. Naturally the marshmallows were on display nearby. I toyed with grabbing a bag but I just couldn't do it, despite having been asked to make that gross mess by my beloved only child. (Oh well, now he'll have another reason to hate me; that should compensate.)

Begun in this country around 1607 as a day to give thanks for one's blessings while preparing feasts to celebrate the harvest, Thanksgiving certainly meant well at the start. But leave it to the purveyors of processed foods and the admen, ad-women and ad-non-gender-conformists on Madison Avenue to turn it into a food fiasco, the very opposite of clean eating. It's tough for me, a heart attack survivor (which I know pales in comparison to being a sexual harassment survivor like Dr. Christine Blasey Ford, the poor woman), to stay true to myself, not to mention the two stents in my right coronary artery, while somehow making my dinner guests feel officially grateful and adequately nauseous. Wish me luck.

It's Never Too Late to Get Old

I'm not a fan of plagiarism, but there are exceptions and this is one of them. Today I came across an article online about a book entitled "The Blue Zones Solution," in which author Dan Buettner reveals the eating and living habits of the world’s longest-lived people. For over a decade, the author and a team of researchers studied five locations around the globe -- the so-called Blue Zones -- that have the highest concentrations of 100-year-olds, as well as exceptionally low rates of cancer, diabetes, obesity and heart problems.

Hoping to help anyone struggling with food issues make positive choices, I am passing along the wisdom of Buettner's findings. Following is his simple plan of what to eat to live a long and healthy life, although if you ask me by the time you're that old, what with robots running the world and some rock star or other goofy celebrity as our president, you may want out. Still, if you'd like to be around to celebrate your 100th birthday, enacting a healthy eating plan today can only help.

 The Best Foods-- Include at least three portions of these daily:

• Beans (black beans, pinto beans, garbanzo beans, black-eyed peas, lentils)
• Greens (spinach, kale, chard, beet tops, fennel tops, collards)
• Sweet Potatoes
• Nuts (almonds, peanuts, walnuts, sunflower seeds, Brazil nuts, cashews)
• Olive Oil (green, extra-virgin is best)
• Oats (slow-cook or Irish steel-cut are best)
• Barley
• Fruits (all kinds)
• Green or Herbal teas
• Turmeric (spice or tea)

The Best Beverages:

• Water
• Coffee
• Green Tea
• Red Wine (no more than 2 glasses daily)

Foods to Minimize:

• Meat (eat meat only 2 times per week or less; meat servings should be 2 oz. cooked or less; fine to eat up to 3 oz. of fish daily)
• Dairy (cheese, cream, and butter; Goat’s and Sheep’s milk products are acceptable)
• Eggs (no more than three per week)
• Sugar ( opt for honey and fruit instead)
• Bread (If you must, choose 100% whole wheat, true sourdough, sprouted grains, whole grain rye or pumpernickel)

Foods to Avoid:

• Sugary beverages (sodas, boxed juices)
• Salty snacks (chips, crackers)
• Processed meats (sausages, salami, bacon, lunch meats)
• Packaged sweets (cookies, candy bars)

Diet Guidelines for Optimum Health:

• 95% of your food should be plant-based
• Eat your largest meal at breakfast, a mid-sized lunch, and small dinner
• Stop eating when you’re 80% full
• If you must snack, choose a piece of fruit or handful of nuts
• Cook most of your meals at home 
• Eat with friends and/or family whenever possible

How to Feel Better, or Worse, Fast

Suddenly, the fact that we die is all up in my face, and I must say it's been kind of annoying. It started with the death of my oldest friend/former husband about a month ago, maybe two. (Today's his birthday, or would have been, so he's on my mind.) We were the same age, so his passing makes it very clear that, well -- you know. Then there's my present husband's pain-in-the-ass cell phone app called WeCroak, which he got to remind him, and of course me since he tells me about it each time it reminds him, that well -- you know.

Adding to my recent wistfulness, last night I watched a movie called A Serious Man. Released in 2009, it's a product of Joel and Ethan Coen, those talented brothers who make a living from being depressed. Like many of their films it is considered to be a comedy despite it being all about how much this life sucks, how meaningless it all is, ending as it does in death for all of us so what's the difference what happens. Despite the undercurrent of despair it's an absorbing film, though certainly not a "must-see." In fact, if you're looking to be depressed I'd say go with The Pianist, which I have watched countless times. It doesn't try to be funny and never fails to bring me down.

On the other hand, if you're hoping to to feel happier, according to the experts in such matters there's a quick fix: Make your mouth into a smile, and even if you are feeling sad, the muscles in your face will activate certain brain cells and you will actually feel happier, as you would if you were sincerely smiling. Try it; it works. (You have to hold that smile for a couple of minutes.) 😊

Film Review: CAN YOU EVER FORGIVE ME?

Lee and Jack engaging in their favorite pastime.

If Melissa McCarthy doesn't win the Oscar for Best Actress for her portrayal of a frumpy, foul-mouthed, alcoholic, unemployed lesbian writer with a soft spot for cats in this absorbing period piece showcasing New York in the 1990s, I'll eat my hat. (Not really, but I'll certainly throw in the towel.) I was never much of a McCarthy fan, she of the crude fart jokes and silly slapstick shticks, until now. Put simply, I was stunned by the depth of her performance.

Can You Ever Forgive Me? is a very small film that zeros in on a very small life, one that was actually lived. Lee Israel was a freelance writer who enjoyed a modicum of success in New York back in the day, publishing two books with esoteric appeal and numerous magazine pieces profiling popular celebrities. But tastes change, and we meet Lee at a low point: out of work, deeply in debt and drinking her worries away, her cat her only friend. Spoiler alert: It's all pretty depressing. (On the up side, it's not your life.)

Through an accidental find inside a library book, Lee stumbles on a nefarious way to earn a living that involves forgery, stealing and lying, all things new to her. Still, her precious cat needs medicine and the rent is three months overdue due so she plows on, and we in the audience root for her to get away with it. After all, what's so terrible about robbing the rich to feed the poor? Robin Hood did it and became a much loved character.

But it's not all about her. Lee meets Jack (Richard E. Grant), a kindred spirit in the form of a flamboyantly gay, alcoholic drug dealer who is apparently homeless. I know that sounds bad on paper, but he's quite charming in the flesh and breathes some life into Lee's dreary existence. The two form a caustic friendship that's short on warmth but long on connection, and eventually Jack joins her literary scam, selling Lee's painstakingly created faked letters of the rich and famous to collectors of such memorabilia.

Another star of this film is New York City in the nineties, before Amazon wiped out all the small bookstores and The Disney Store robbed Times Square of its true personality.  It's quite appealing, especially on dark, rainy days and despite the scourge of AIDS that shows up in the very last scene.

Ode to Netflix

The Small: Still big enough for two.

My recent trip to the movies was fraught with petty annoyances, enough to make my repeating the outing less than a sure bet. I'm certain countless other patrons do not share my feelings, which is why Hollywood stars earn millions to appear in even mediocre films. To see them, fans purchase 2.6 billion tickets annually. Anyway, back to those annoyances. First off, a small popcorn cost $7.50. (The ticket price for the film was $8.25.) The clerk happily pointed out that the medium, enough to feed a family of four farm animals, cost only 75 cents more. We went with the small (see photo).

Next, the fact that movie theaters now run product commercials just like on TV pisses me off to high heaven. Really? After forking over a total of $24.00 we still have to sit through Coke ads? Even weirder, Coke has to advertise? And the ads are so touchy-feely and embarrassing, showing how Coke unites the peoples of the world and everyone loves guzzling the so-very-bad-for-you beverage while they feed hungry children or dig water trenches in some godforsaken, disadvantaged country. How about we skip the Coke and just tell me where I can send my check.

And finally, if a movie is scheduled to start at 6:10 and we have just about broken our necks to get there in time, skipping dinner which is why we needed that bag of popcorn in the first place, it damn well better. The other night, miffed about the overpriced popcorn and tired of checking the nearest exits and making sure my cell phone was turned off, by 6:14 I was plotzing, so I went out front and queried the theater manager who said they always start the film five minutes later than the posted time, to allow for latecomers. Oh great, so now latecomers are a protected group? Next thing you know they'll have their own bathrooms.

It's so much more pleasant to stay at home and watch movies on Netflix, make your own popcorn and not worry about the exits. Plus you won't get roped into buying Mike & Ikes for an arm and a leg. The last box I had was called Tropical Delights, with odd flavors like tangerine, watermelon and pineapple. Yuk! Give me those good old-fashioned red, green and yellows that taste like sugar and corn syrup any day.

Reflections on Paradise

Three weeks from now I am scheduled to undergo an unpleasant medical procedure that has had me worried for days. This is of course a ridiculous waste of precious time, since for all I know I won't even be alive three weeks from now to undergo it. Clearly life is too short to hop on that train of thought. Nothing clarifies this truth more than the recent devastation of Paradise, California, a town totally obliterated by a forest fire a few days ago, killing some 48 people with the death toll mounting. The irony of the town's name is surely not lost on any of us; at least one newspaper editor took the cheap shot in a headline, writing "California's Paradise Lost." (I would fire that guy.)

Most people got out in time. As for the victims who were trapped in their homes, I wonder just how that went down. Imagine it: You're standing in your kitchen peeling hard boiled eggs for an egg salad sandwich and you look outside and see smoke far off in the distance, way on the other side of the woods. No problem, it's far away, you think to yourself. So you mash the eggs, chop up some celery, throw in a few capers and add the mayo, then casually look out the window again and the flames are in your backyard. Is that what happened?

Where I live in Maine is not currently on fire, so I'll consider this a good day. Still, with temperatures expected in the teens tonight, snow on Friday and more coming next week, there's plenty to worry about besides being burned alive. Thanksgiving looms, and one of my guests has requested yams topped with melted candy (okay, marshmallows), a dish I have never made on principle but will do so this year since the requester is my own son who, denied this traditional treat for his entire childhood, now at age 31 says he wouldn't mind "just a bite."

There are miles to go before that horrid colonoscopy. Today I'm in paradise.

Whatever Happened to #MeToo?

So many things in our society make absolutely no sense, it's little wonder that every day 125 people choose to leave it, most often with a gunshot to the head. Common reasons include drug addiction and "lifestyle stressors," according to the experts who study such things. As for me, I'm sticking around, if only to see just how much weirder things can get.

For example, today's news is abuzz with the supposition that Hillary Clinton is planning to run for president in 2020. Now that's going to be some real entertainment. Another thing that I find amusing, albeit perplexing to the max, is the #MeToo movement, although I'm wondering if it's over already. I just made a quick trip to the supermarket for -- what else? -- cat food, and was stunned by several of the magazine covers currently on display, causing me to think that I must have missed something and that it's still okay to consider women as "sex objects." Take a look:

If you're as confused as I am, just consider how Harvey Weinstein feels, hobbling around New York and Connecticut (he's not permitted to go anywhere else) in an ankle monitor awaiting trial when nothing's any different than it ever was.

Film Review: BEETLEJUICE

Michael Keaton and a guy who talked too much.

Back in 1988 when Tim Burton's comedy classic Beetlejuice hit the theaters I was a new mother with little interest in going to the movies. Life intervened and I never saw it, even though the cast includes many of my favorite actors, among them Geena Davis, Michael Keaton and Catherine O'Hara. Now that it's been turned into a musical slated to open on Broadway next March, I figured it was time to check it out. I was glad I did. Despite the severe shock of seeing a young, thin and handsome Alec Baldwin not pretending to be Donald Trump, the movie was a blast from beginning to end.

The story revolves around a young married couple (Baldwin, Davis) happily renovating their rural farmhouse who die and return as ghosts. Besides accepting the bad news that they are dead, they have to tolerate the home's new owners, an obnoxious couple of wealthy New Yorkers (Catherine O'Hara, Jeffrey Jones) and their surly teenage daughter (Winona Ryder). Much of the plot revolves around the dead duo's attempts to scare the new owners away, with hilarious results.

Director Burton really lets loose with the craziness, creating a world of monstrous creatures from the Land of the Dead who turn into hideous giant snakes with teeth, or have shrunken heads, or eyeballs inside their mouths, or faces that pull right off, and more like that. Also showing little restraint is the off-the-wall title character (Michael Keaton), a clown-like deadbeat in the truest sense of the word who wants only to be freed from his grave in order to gross people out. This requires his name to be repeated three times in succession, which several people do and instantly regret.

If slapstick is not your thing see it anyway, for two reasons: First is a truly riotous dinner party scene wherein all the guests, including Dick Cavett, are suddenly compelled to sing and dance to the calypso hit "Day-o!" (in Harry Belafonte's voice no less; follow the link below to see it), and for Keaton's maniacally hysterical performance. It's easy to see why his long and celebrated career followed this early film, for which he won a National Society of Film Critics Award for Best Actor.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AQXVHITd1N4