After switching from AT&T to Comcast, my Roku worked only when I highjacked another wi-fi signal, so when my TV died, I figured the tech dispatched to my place could solve both riddles with one visit. He rooted around and fixed the TV. The signal crashed again an hour after he left, but not before he advised me to buy the Roku its own router. Another tech is due soon. I can’t wait to hear his diagnoses. Meanwhile, I practice the Zen of Comcast, though I suspect even Buddha would despair were he currently in possession of my remote control.
When the name Edward Snowden comes up, I’m reminded of the movie, The Terminal. Tom Hanks’ character is holed up in an airport because he can neither enter the U.S. nor be returned home where a revolution rages. Obama’s recent statement on Snowden — “I’m not going to be scrambling jets to get a 29-year-old hacker” – adds one more layer of words to the standoff. Time to get real and call in the Israelis. Mossad would be delighted to do an “extraction” on our behalf. They might even bring along bagels when they haul Snowden’s ass out of Sheremetyevo Airport.
Think you’re depressed that Mad Men has again slipped into the abyss that marks this show’s hiatus? Think again. Even my cats are begging me to re-play episodes as we all suffer from MM Withdrawal. Producers don’t understand that extended breaks are especially painful for seniors. I frequently ask myself, “Will I live long enough to see the final season by the time it airs?” No answer is forthcoming, so my only recourse is to treat the situation the same way I deal with Illinois’ road construction season: I suck it up and wait. I can’t speak for the cats.
It’s about time a progressive Texas woman stood up. Thanks to State Senator Wendy Davis, the gutsy chick who stood for 11 hours without a bathroom break on Tuesday night, the latest attempt to close the state’s abortion clinics came to a swift end. Her weapon? No guns, thank you very much. Just her mouth. Wearing iconic pink tennis shoes, Davis filibustered until the clock struck midnight and ended, for the moment, chances that #SB5 could send woman back to the days of back alley abortions. I stand with you Wendy! I know lots of other women who do, too.
Taking a 25,000-word novella about a former post office temp job down to 5,000 words required stamina, but the worst part is the cutting – a.k.a., “killing the babies.” As a writer, I hoard my words like reality show subjects incapable of throwing anything out. In the end, I must cut if I’m to make the word count limit set by folks running the essay contest I plan to enter. It’s done. The new piece holds together at 4,985 words; 15 short of the maximum word allowance. With the deadline looming, now I must let my remaining babies fly the nest.
Some people just can’t catch a break. I recently read that the Italian courts have finally found 77-year-old former Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi guilty of being a creepy geezer as a result of his illegal relationship with exotic dancer “Ruby the Heart-Stealer.” She was under age. He was old enough to know better. For the next seven years, he’ll throw his infamous bunga bunga parties within the confines of a prison cell rather than the plush digs he favored in the past. No running for political office either – unless his fellow jailbirds name him the cellblock’s Head Bunga.
Kim Kardashian’s labor and delivery were over-the-top. Now the baby is burdened with the name North, thus her full name is North West. Assuming Kim can handle other children, can the names East and South be eliminated? Probably not. On the other hand, a second child also named North suggests a great new reality show title: North by North West, and as I look into my crystal ball, I see a themed birthday party based on the iconic Hitchcock film that ends when party guests are chased across the landscape by crop dusters. Just remember: You read it here first.
When the title appeared on my Netflix recommendation menu and I caught sight of the spelling, I wondered if The Intouchables suffered a translation glitch. By the film’s end, I didn’t care what producers called it! I was completely charmed and invested in the life of the wealthy French man paralyzed from the neck down and the street kid he hires to look after him. This story offers respite from a world that’s pathetically short on humanity these days, so it’s worth putting up with subtitles, even if you hate them, to treat yourself to two hours of pure joy.
Some people donate blood to earn extra cash. I’ve participated in numerous clinical studies over the years – and I’ve even written about them — but according to the most recent clinical connection website bulletin that just landed in my mailbox, I don’t qualify for a single one of the 2,004 nationwide studies currently seeking volunteers. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t want anything catastrophic, thank you very much, but I wouldn’t turn down a behavioral study. If anyone’s doing research into how Jewish women’s brains react to “Clearance” and “Half-price” signs at retail stores, please call. I’m your girl.
The Bradford Exchange is jumping on board the Judaica train! I worked there from 1980 to 1987. Had I suggested the best-selling Noah’s Ark menorah Roman produced 20 years ago, my Bradford bosses would have called me insane. Roman, on the other hand, welcomed my designs — even when a few bombed, like “Have a Ducky Chanukah.” “Doggies and Draydels” did fairly well. “Kosher Kitties,” renamed “Cat Menorah,” performed well and my “Sports Menorah” remains popular. Over the years, Roman believed in my wild ideas and let me create, which is why I’m grateful to Ron J. to this day.