Some People Never Die

On the porch at The Island Inn, Monhegan ME, 1970

Today is my dead ex-mother-in-law's birthday. Why I remember the date confounds me, especially when I cannot remember what I had for dinner last night. But then, she was an exceptional person who left a mark. Most people do not.

To begin, Francis Swett Whiting was a fabulous cook. Her idea of a tuna salad sandwich involved first grilling a filet of fresh tuna, then whisking up some homemade mayonnaise and serving it on melba toast she baked from a loaf of extra-thin Pepperidge Farm white bread. 

With that in mind, you can imagine what Christmas was like at her beautiful home in Bedford Village, NY. She got started in mid-September, beginning the long process of making hard sauce for the plum pudding and hand-stringing garlands of popcorn and cranberries for the tree. Fran loved to knit, so each year she created fabulous gifts for her entire family. One year she made cable-knit fisherman's sweaters for five people, myself included.

Besides being very beautiful until the day she died at age 64, Fran was super-smart. Her Smith College education benefitted all who knew her, although she never had a paying job. She won every Scrabble game and finished the daily New York Times crossword puzzle in record time.

She was hysterically funny, with a dry sense of humor that was lost on many. I visited with her a few days before she died of stomach cancer, and she gave me the following instructions: "The day after I die, Lucia Faithfull (widow of her husband's deceased law partner) will come to the door with a casserole for Dick, to console him. She's been hoping for years that I would go first so she could snag him. Don't let her in. And whatever you do, certainly don't eat that casserole -- she's a terrible cook!" Sure enough, Lucia showed up around noon the day after Fran died, casserole in hand. I politely took it from her and said that Dick was resting and not seeing anyone. She left unhappy.

Happy Birthday Fran, wherever you are! I still miss you.

Tell Me Something I Need to Know

I'm so confused. I need answers to the following questions: 

Why should I care about the habits of Jeffrey Epstein, a man who died in prison six years ago and never even held public office? 

Why should we all fret over his private island, his private jet, his sexual deviance, or his friends, whoever they may be? 

Why does a sexually twisted dead man dominate the news, on TV and in print, when so much unrest roils the globe? 

Who cares if anyone at all had sex with underage girls, yesterday or decades ago, besides the parents of those girls? 

How does this story impact the world or our country's national and international policies? 

How does knowing the names of Epstein's associates feed America's starving families, pay their rent and medical bills or further their education?

Looking On the Bright Side

For the past couple of days my husband and I have been moving things out of our bedroom in order to have new wall-to-wall carpeting installed. Included are two large closets full of our clothes and shoes and other stuff we didn't know what to do with. Our son helped us move a queen-sized oak bed, two heavy wooden dressers, two wooden end tables, a large easy chair with ottoman, a TV and a bench. And of course all the art on the walls, not only in the bedroom but up the stairs and along the hallway to our bedroom -- perhaps 50 pieces in all, plus a few mirrors. (We're into decorating.)

This all took a heavy toll on us, specifically our arms, legs and backs. But hey, the old carpeting was stained and starting to buckle, and the new one would be much nicer.

This morning at eight the carpet people arrived to start what was sold as a job that would end tomorrow morning. We planned to sleep in our small guest room, along with clothes and pillows and lamps, etc., just for tonight. But no. What happened instead was the carpet guy, who looked old enough to be somebody's great-grandpa, causing me to question his suitability for carpet-laying, worked for 90 minutes laying down the soft pad that goes under the carpet before going outside, getting in his truck and driving off without a word, never to return. 

We received no phone calls explaining his mysterious departure, but through our constant calls to the Paul White Company in Portland, Maine, we finally learned that the installer left because he had or was having or was about to have a heart attack and is now in the hospital.

Apparently Paul White had no backup plan so there's no telling when we'll ever get back to our regular life. Until then we'll be in the guest room on a smaller, full-sized bed with Mitch's feet hanging off the end. It's not fun and we are pissed about it. Looking on the bright side, I went for a chest x-ray two days ago and learned that I do not have lung cancer, or even pneumonia -- just a lingering cough from the bad cold I had about six weeks ago. 

The Little POS Called Mamdani

Zohran Kwame Mamdani was born into a $28 million trust fund, grew up on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, and attended high school at the fancy preparatory Dalton School, which has a tuition of ranging from $61,000  to $64,000 per year. He then got a free ride at Bowdoin College in Maine because of his ethnicity. 

His rent is free as his rich mother pays for the $14,000/month Tribeca loft. His private security is provided by two off-duty NYPD police officers-- the same ones he wants abolished -- who stand sentry outside his door 24/7.

In 2024 he flew in private jets 47 times while lecturing subway riders about climate change. Just last week he said, "No one should own a second home," in a video filmed inside his third Hamptons property.

Film Review: PICNIC AT HANGING ROCK

What they wore to school in 1900 in Australia.

Quite possibly the absolute worst movie I have ever slept through, Picnic At Hanging Rock defies further description other than the words I just wrote, except that the music is so horrible you've got to keep the sound down low. Or better yet, just shut the damn thing off. There is no reason at all to see it, yet it has been named the best film of all time in Australia where it was made by director Peter Weir and released in 1975, winning all sorts of awards at the time. 

Australia is now off my bucket list.

New York, New York, A Helluva Town

Well, it's official: New York City is now Hell on Earth populated by at least 2 million miscreants, morons and malevolent Mamdani-loving mental midgets who voted for him. The city of my birth, once so glamorous and glittery, has fallen to a pack of snarling dogs bent on its deconstruction. I for one shall never set foot in it again until the newly-elected Muslim mayor leaves office, whether it be by the vote of the people or an act of God or someone who thinks they are God.

What I find most amusing is that the Democrats who elected him are the same ones wailing that President Trump is a "threat to Democracy," yet they have anointed an avowed, unabashed and untested Socialist. Following are two definitions to consider:

Democracy: A form of government in which political power is vested in the people or the population of a state. In a representative democracy, the people cede the authority to deliberate and decide legislation to governing officials. 

Socialism: A theory or system of social reform which contemplates a complete reconstruction of society, with a more just and equitable distribution of property and labor. In popular usage, the term is often employed to indicate any lawless, revolutionary social scheme.

Loners Anonymous Meeting 2025

Our Leader Tom Hanks in "Castaway"

We have not met for quite some time but I know you are all out there -- or rather in there -- and I salute you. While being a loner in today's world has a negative connotation, we all know that it's the only proper way to live. As William Shakespeare said, "To thine own self be true," and blah blah blah. Trying to please others is a losing game. So continue doing your own thing, and above all avoid reading the news, it will only bring you down.

For example, a letter to the editor in today's Wall Street Journal about the White House ballroom now under construction that is getting lots of negative press contains the following sentence: "I don't suppose a President AOC will complain about hosting galas in the new digs next store." It's very frightening to consider that scenario. Hopefully, should that come to pass I will be dead by then. 

Anyway, stay strong, stay home, don't answer the phone and especially the door, and Happy Holidays!

Ballroom, Shmallroom -- What About Mamdani?

The charred remains of the World Trade Center, September 1, 2001

I lived in Washington DC for 30 years. During that time I worked as a graphic designer and had many government agencies as clients. I dated a Secret Service agent for a brief period and a White House press photographer who took me as his date to the annual White House Press Photographer's Dinner. I also was employed by the Democratic National Committee for over a year and attended a barbecue at the official home of the Vice President at that time, Walter Mondale. 

Many of my daily interactions were with government employees. I often went to the Executive Office Building a few blocks from the White House for business meetings. My best friend worked at the Department of Health and Human Services, another one at the Department of Education. We would meet for lunch at their offices quite often.

I went to the Washington Monument, The Lincoln Memorial, The Jefferson Memorial, The Capitol, all the Smithsonian museums, the State Department and the Library of Congress countless times. Not once in 30 years did I enter the East Wing of the White House. I couldn't care less about the East Wing. It makes no difference to me what the heck happens to it. Surely all Americans who never even visited Washington, DC, who never had any doings with that building, feel the same way. 

The only people who care about Trump tearing down the East Wing to make much needed improvements to the White House are Democrats, especially those who work in journalism and in Congress, who spend every waking minute trying to invent ways to smear our President.

Ballroom, shmallroom -- who cares? All the Democrats who are currently wringing their hands over this apparently have forgotten a really bad demolition of a building, that of the World Trade Center in 2001 by Muslim terrorists, and are voting right now for another one to run their city as Mayor. Go figure.

What's Wrong With the Democrats?

I heard on the news today that the Democratic frontrunners for the presidency in 2028 are The Dumbest Loser, Governor Hair Gel and The Bartender From Queens. I'm sure everyone knows who those people are, but just in case I have included photos. (See photos.)

Please excuse me for saying this if you are not an idiot but still vote Democrat in this day and age -- and I know several who are quite intelligent otherwise. Holdovers from better days, they are mostly older folks who stopped paying attention to politics a while back and still think their party has some merit. To all of them I ask: Are you kidding? Do you know about nuclear weapons and that the President has the power to release them? What's wrong with you?

Loser

Hair Gel

Bartender

Staying Home

Before the Internet existed I had no idea how many stupid people there are in the world. Now it is all too obvious, and it's very depressing. Just stepping outside your home is opening yourself up to an encounter with a moron, or worse. 

If you have a home, you are a winner. Fix it up nice.

Potholes

Ira and me in the good old days, circa 1995.

The world today is so screwed up, it's hard to think of anything to write about that is not fraught with division. Apparently humor was banned long ago. (Although Mike Birbiglia is hysterical, check him out -- he has four specials on Netflix.)

 I recently lost a longtime, very close friend. When I say recently I mean on October 15 and this is October 23, so that's eight days ago. And when I say longtime, very close, I mean Ira and I met in 1986. The memories of all the fun times we shared since then are suddenly jarring potholes in the long and winding road of my past. 

I am waiting to "get over it" and will certainly find something amusing, or interesting, or stupid to write about soon. Like how everyone is up in arms because Trump is building a ballroom at the White House, when they should be considering the fact that everyone dies and their time will come, so don't sweat the small stuff. And if you ask me, ongoing construction at the White House is small stuff. 

I would like them to repave my road, however. I do care about that and it's really bad, with actual potholes, and frost heaves and the like.