Eat Before You Go

I read recently that Cirque du Soleil, the innovative Canadian acrobatics troupe, is planning to join the posthumous Michael Jackson business with two shows based on his music. Fine and dandy, certainly everyone agrees that Jackson's music was great. But the article went on to say that the show, scheduled for the Las Vegas casino, MGM's Mirage, would be "more akin to a theme park attraction" and would include a "nightclub and restaurant with a Michael Jackson theme." Got me wondering just what would be on that menu...

Let's see, after years of getting beaten by his evil father who used him as a cash cow from the age of three, Jackson spent his childhood on stage, in buses, on trains and planes. As an adult (sort of but not really), he was repeatedly accused of child molestation, causing his music to be banned from the radio and him to be blackballed by the entertainment community and his former fans for the last ten years of his life.  He took powerful drugs to lighten his skin, turning himself into a close approximation of a white woman through so many plastic surgery procedures that his nose all but fell off.  Ultimately he died at the fairly young age of 50 from an overdose of prescription drugs.

There was more: The fantasy compound he built for himself and named Neverland, complete with giraffes and amusement park rides on the property; his thwarted attempt to purchase the remains of the Elephant Man; his odd relationships that resulted in three children he essentially bought from their mothers who posed briefly as marital partners.

So now let's all take a moment to imagine that nightclub and restaurant with "a Michael Jackson theme." I'll tell you right now, when I'm in Vegas, I am not eating there.

Living the Dream

My dear friends in New York, D.C. and a couple in Florida have worried that there is little to do here in Maine, culturally speaking. To them, I offer the following proof that their fears are unfounded:

Today's Portland Press Herald lists two events taking place at the same time in two different locations, forcing me to choose only one.  A lecture on "What Solitary Woodchucks Can Teach Us About Family Dynamics" will be held in South Portland, while a seminar entitled "Overview of the Natural History of Common Loons" will take place half an hour later in Freeport, at least a twenty-five minute drive from the woodchuck lecture. Add to this the ongoing blood drives, bean suppers and firearm demonstrations and you'll have some idea of what I'm dealing with.

Anyway, since I've always wondered--and who among us hasn't?-- how much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood, I'm heading to South Portland.

Beyond Comprehension

I just watched a train wreck and I didn't even have to leave home to see it. It appeared in the form of a movie called "Beyond the Sea," which I passed on when it was playing in the theaters because I suspected it sucked, but rented on the strength of two strong endorsements. (Remind me next time never to doubt my instincts.)

The movie was a biopic of the life--and death-- of Bobby Darin, a truly great singer who I worshiped from afar as a teenager. He was a pop singer with tremendous talent who "crossed over" to win fans from all generations back in the 1960s. The tragedy was that he died at the age of 37 of a heart attack from an underlying heart disease. An even bigger tragedy is that this movie, written by Kevin Spacey and produced by Kevin Spacey, starred Kevin Spacey as Bobby Darin. Hey, Kevin Spacey passed 37 a long time ago, yet here he was trying to pass himself off as a 20-something heartthrob.

We got to see Kevin Spacey singing and Kevin Spacey dancing. (How embarrassing.) Oh, and Kevin Spacey acting, although you never for a minute bought that it was anyone but Kevin Spacey, certainly not Bobby Darin. In fact, I had to stop the movie halfway through and go watch some real Bobby Darin videos on YouTube to remember how cool and great he was. I finished the movie only to find out how he died, since I never really knew.

Long, boring fantasy dance numbers never made any sense. This was no "Thriller," which it was trying to be. It was also no "All That Jazz," a similar but million-times-better movie about dancer Bob Fosse that I might have to watch again just to get this bad movie out of my head. Making matters even worse, if that was possible, was a really obnoxious, unattractive and talentless child cast as the young Bobby Darin.

I'm sure you weren't planning to, but do not rent this movie. In fact, don't even watch it for free. It was such a mess that I ate almost a whole bag of Milanos, and I'm on a diet.

An Alternate Universe

Last night I played bridge. As the only one in our foursome who reached adulthood without learning this card game, I was at a distinct disadvantage. It’s sort of like being abducted by aliens and waking up on another planet where they all speak the same language and you don’t even know how to ask, “Where’s the bathroom?”

In fact, if you’re playing bridge, “Where's the bathroom?” might actually mean, “I have five hearts and the ace of spades.” But only if you play that way. If you play another way, it could mean, “I have many clubs and no diamonds,” or maybe even, “Where's the kitchen?” That’s the thing with bridge: Nothing means what it sounds like it means. (Of course, if you’ve spent your formative years indoors playing bridge, the ins and out of this private world are second nature to you. You can easily spot those people by their pallor.)  

For example, I thought bidding “one club” was the way to tell my partner that I had pretty good clubs in my hand. But no! In bridge talk, I was unwittingly asking if my partner had hearts or spades, and had nothing at all to do with clubs!  Of course, if you play “preferential diamonds,” a bid of “one diamond” means the same thing. But that’s a big If, and the only way to know is to....ask them. You can do this in regular English, unlike the rest of the game when you have to talk in Bridge.

Silly me, I didn't ask, and naturally I was the evening's Biggest Loser. And to make matters worse, before I lost I was very, very vulnerable! Which doesn’t mean what you think it means, but has something to do with rubbers and scoring tricks and being either above or below "the line."

For me, playing bridge is similar to, but more confusing than, arguing over abortion in Corsican. I’ll explain: I understand French, but in Corsica they speak a unique language, part French, part Italian. Many years ago, I was in Corsica and spent an evening with a group of people who were arguing over abortion, naturally in Corsican. It was all very complicated, but every once in a while I would hear a word or a phrase that allowed me to make some sense of it all.

I was more confused last night playing bridge with my husband and friends in my own home right here in America.  Which may actually be my way of saying, I love that game and can’t wait to play again.

Honk If You've Heard of Rhadamanthus

I try to be straightforward in my writing, which is why it makes me mad when others are not. A friend of mine, a fellow blogger and writer too, commented on Facebook that a friend of his was so great, "She's Rhadamanthus." I immediately thought, she's whatahoosis? Naturally I Googled and found out that Rhadamanthus was some big deal in Greek mythology, the wise son of a king whose opinion mattered, or something along those lines.

The whole thing got me wondering: Just what the heck did we all do before Google? And how much dumber are we now because we have it? Why read, why learn, when you can just go and Google it?

A few days ago I got into a conversation with a sales clerk who reminded me of the actress Helen Mirren. When I told her that, she confided that she always wanted to look like Sandra Dee. I said, "Well, at least you're still alive." She was shocked, and said, "Oh no, when did she die?" Meanwhile my husband, who never even heard of Sandra Dee because he was a mere tot when I was a teen and Sandra ruled at the box office, got his Google on and within seconds delivered the gory details of her death, her disease, her broken marriage, her bitter end, and every movie she ever made. End of conversation. 

Mitch is the fastest draw around these parts when it comes to his iPhone. On the one hand, he's good to have around during the Sunday Times crossword puzzle. On the other, he's always right.

Anyway, I'd rather be called Acca Larentia instead of Rhadamanthus any day.  At least she was a girl.

The End of Wonderful

(Spoiler alert: The following article is not funny...at all.)

Just two days after moving here from Washington, D.C. last March, I met a local artist who urged me to attend a meeting of a group called Freeport Creative Artists to be held the next evening. My husband and I did so eagerly, thrilled at the opportunity to meet some of our fellow artists so soon!

 

When we arrived the meeting was already in progress and we were greeted with silence. Odder still, when we finally blurted out our plans to open an art gallery and asked if there were any interest among the membership, we received only stony stares and a few mumblings along the lines of  “No, not really.” We left thinking we had mistakenly stumbled into a meeting of Psychotics Anonymous.

 

Only later did we learn that the owner of a rival pseudo-gallery just two doors away from my location was the president of that very group, and in attendance at that meeting! Instead of welcoming us and collaborating on a "Friday Night Art Walk," which might have increased business for both of our establishments while enhancing the town’s reputation, she blackballed my gallery and refused even to acknowledge me in public on many occasions. To this day we have never exchanged one word.

As for press coverage, try as I might I could never get a write-up in the local paper, despite the fact that a new gallery opening right on Main Street in downtown Freeport was certainly news worth celebrating by both the art and business communities. 

In desperation after many months of slower and slower sales, and after hearing from several other gallery owners that marketing was important to our eventual success, we hired a marketing professional, or so we thought. Our $1,000 check got us nothing more than the suggestion that we “have plenty of paper plates and plastic cups on hand for art openings.”  Our hired pro couldn’t figure out how to do an e-mail blast for an upcoming opening, something allegedly included in the fee; eventually we did it ourselves. We also learned that the mailing list she gave us was pirated from another gallery in the very next town! Funny thing is, she quit after our complaining, and kept all the money. (Ouch.)

 

Finally, last month, we got the newspaper art review we had sought for so long and it was a bad one, poorly written by a freelancer who himself had suffered his own failed art gallery last year. His negative review was the final nail in our coffin. I thought, if this was the "press coverage" we so desperately needed, what could possibly help us now?

 

And so, because life is short and getting shorter every day, I have decided to stop wasting my husband's hard-earned money and shield myself from the cold hard fact that running an art gallery in Freeport is like throwing a bar mitzvah in Auschwitz: Who's coming?

Instead I plan to spend my days making beautiful art, enjoying the glories of Maine beyond my gallery's four walls, and writing my funny stories.  (This isn't one of them, but then I told you that right up front.)

 

 

The Bottom Line

There's a photo of Tiger Woods on the front page of today's Wall Street Journal. He's playing golf, and the caption says he's "back following a sex scandal." His picture is also on the front of the sports section of my local paper, the Portland Press Herald, under the headline, "Tiger's back, looking as good as ever."

Making me wonder: Why did they make such a fuss last Christmas when it surfaced that Tiger is a sexual predator, raking him and his countless mistresses over the coals for five months, only to decide it's no big deal after all? Could it have been to sell newspapers, perhaps? Even NIKE has taken Tiger back, using him once again as a spokesman and role model for young people.

Is this a great country or what? (Sometimes I think America deserves Sarah Palin...oops, I mean Governor Palin!)

MJF Seeks BLJ's for a Good Time

I’m from New York, and let’s face it, that’s a tough act to follow. But the truth is, after living here one year, I guess I’m sort of sick of this place.

It’s too white. No soul. All the people wear L.L. Bean clothing, which if you’ve seen any you know lacks style, fits poorly, and what the hay, is all made in China anyway.

If Mainers were food, they’d be bologna on white bread. And not just any white bread, Wonder bread: soft, pasty, and with no flavor other than from the mayonnaise applied liberally at every opportunity. (In case you’re wondering, I can say whatever I want here since after more than a year, I have no Maine friends who read this blog, or maybe even who read.)

Maybe it's because they're too busy scraping barnacles off their boat bottoms to do any learning, but I don't think these folks are all that smart. Think about it: there has not been one president who hails from Maine. The best they’ve got is a few actors (TV, not movies), a couple of poets and Ed Muskie. Of course there’s Marsden Hartley (Marswho Whatley?), a great painter you probably never heard of unless you majored in art.

This might be a giant leap, and an obnoxious one at that (I said right up front I'm a New Yorker), but I think what they need here is a few hundred thousand blacks, some Latinos and maybe a couple more Jews. 

Any takers? It's very pretty.

I'm Verklempt!

Today Mitch wanted to grill something for dinner, it being a beautiful Easter Sunday and us being Jews with nothing special to do like pray, hunt for colored eggs, or in any way celebrate the rising of Christ from the ground.

He went to the store for three items and three items only: charcoal, meat to put on the charcoal, and a vegetable to go with the meat that went on the charcoal. He returned with the meat, two bananas, a bottle of wine, a tomato, a dog cookie, a yellow squash and some rather tired looking Brussels sprouts, but no charcoal.

Discuss.