Smarty Pants

Is it just me or has anyone else noticed how cliches are overtaking our language, culture, and thinking? No matter where you are or who you're talking to, words like "sustainable," "green," and "organic" fly out of people's mouths like watermelon pits at a picnic.

And suddenly everyone who is anyone is savvy. So far today--and it's only lunchtime-- I heard a "savvy young writer" being interviewed on the radio, read a Q & A with a "savvy broadcaster" in the newspaper, saw a "savvy chef" on one of those moronic morning TV shows, and just now, came across a  review of a book by yet another savvy writer, although this one is also "up-and-coming," online.

Ditto for Elena Kagan, the woman just nominated by Obama to be the newest justice of the US Supreme Court. Were I fixing her up with a friend for a blind date, I would describe her as short, smart, fat, and dykey-looking with bad hair (oh relax, she is NOT reading this!), but according to today's Portland Press Herald, Kagan is "sharp and politically savvy."

Just to be sure, since I thought maybe I'd missed something, I checked the dictionary and confirmed that savvy means someone who years ago would have been called "a regular Einstein." But in today's hectic, fast-paced world, it isn't enough to be just knowledgeable, or even smart or brilliant; these days, you gotta be savvy.

I'm not sure, but I think I might be too old to be savvy since everyone who is seems to also be young. Even fat Elena Kagan, who at 50 would be the youngest justice on the court, is a mere baby while I am suddenly "a woman of a certain age."  Which makes you wonder: why are there no men of a certain age?

Imagine Waking Up Here

I stole this photograph from another blog! It's so beautiful, I wanted to share it with whoever stumbles upon my page. That's one of the good things about the Internet.

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.