Wednesday, December 28, 2016


The Satyr Marsyas being flayed alive by Apollo
because his talents challenged a god.
Truth to power of the artist
by Titian

Under pressure from his liberal masters, Andrea Bocelli has refused to perform for the Trump inauguration. Mark Steyn was talking about Bocelli and the Rockettes on the Rush Limbaugh show this morning opining that liberals were trying to delegitimize Trump but had delegitimized themselves. He’s right. But the truth is much uglier. The liberal media and academically sanctioned culture has delegitimized American culture itself.
The most important qualification for success as an actor, musician, performer, writer, director of any kind in Liberal Kulture is that they be certifiably free of talent and show absolutely no discernible inclination whatsoever to develop any. This must be understood by all conservatives from the past and all future Americans. All real artists have been condemned to the liberal gulag.
Complete lack of talent is the first and most important qualification for any artist that the Liberal masters will support, because any scintilla of talent is liable to arouse a true feeling or thought in an audience, and that is anathema to Liberal Kulture czars. The “common herd” must learn to feel only what Liberals want them to feel and think only what Liberals want them to think.
I am not saying that Bocelli hasn’t got a certain very pleasing facility in his vocal accomplishments. He is certainly skilled and it’s a pleasure to hear him. He’s mildly entertaining and wouldn’t detract too much from the scenery at an event like an inauguration, but he’d never upstage a Donald Trump. He’s a small loss. Surely if Trump really looks he can find someone whose talents will actually enhance the event.
But to understand my point you have only to compare him to the true talent of a Pavarotti, whose voice and the feelings he used that voice to convey cut a path to the human soul and ennobled anyone who could listen. He challenged his listeners to feel life as deeply, as powerfully, as delicately, as subtly, oh for heavens’ sake I could go on forever about Pavarotti, but there it is. PBS needed Pavarotti, he never needed them. He donated his talent to them because he knew a gift like his was from God and meant for all mankind.
Real music lovers would have mortgaged their homes, walked across deserts, swum the English Channel to hear him sing one verse of Nessum Dorma. Why? Because if you loved music, opera and the human voice, his singing filled you with ecstasy of the kind described by Teressa of Avila in her vision: “the sweetness of this intense pain is so extreme, there is no wanting it to end, and the soul isn’t satisfied with anything less than God.” Yeah. I heard him sing and he was that good. You never really recover from hearing Pavarotti if opera is your thing.
Here’s what Vaclav Havel, (the famous dissident playwright/president of the Czech republic jailed by the Soviets when they put an end to the Prague Spring) has to say about the importance of culture to society. “The main instrument of society’s self-knowledge is its culture… It is culture that enables a society to enlarge its liberty and to discover truth.” Liberal censored culture is careful “not to excite people with the truth, but to reassure them with lies… the aesthetics of banality.” “Hamiliton”, Rockettes, Bocelli and Meryl Streep, I’m looking at you.
Havel on liberal induced culture and their power: “it’s a power that sees society as an obedient herd whose duty is to be permanently grateful that it has what it has.”
How important is a belief in the value of art to Western Civilization? Here I make reference to Kenneth Clark’s wonderful BBC series on Civilization. In that series, he speaks of the Abbey Church of Saint Denis in France and Abbot Sugar’s views as he lavishly remodeled the Twelfth Century Gothic Cathedral. Abbot Sugar wrote that “the dull mind rises to truth through that which is material.” This is the first time that the value of art to Western Civilization had ever been written down and acted upon. It is the belief that, as Lord Clark states it, “we can only understand the absolute beauty which is God through the effects of precious and beautiful things on our senses.” God and art are inextricably joined in Western Civilization and fundamental to its survival. Christianity provides the religious and philosophical foundation for the value of all art to humanity. Thus, the suppression of art is agnostic in intent and effect.
My old buddy Vaclav sums up how I feel about Trump’s election perfectly when he says: “But chiefly, I suppose, it was the exciting realization that there are still people among us who assume the existential responsibility for their own truth and are willing to pay a high price for it.” The Rockettes, Bocelli and all Liberal approved culture are nothing but cheap thrills.

Friday, December 23, 2016


An Upper West side Must Have in the Sixties

(Apologies to whole Portlandia crowd because a racist, anti-Semite, islamophobic, sexist, homophobic, misogynist, scary, scary, fiendish monster, horrible, terrible, mean, vicious, hating everyone by merely being a Trump voter watched your show and sullied your pure self with my eyes. Okay, feel better now you jack booted snowflakes?)  

As you already know, if you read this blog, I had my son so late in life that we called him the grandchild. In an effort to breach the huge generational cultural divide, we watch stuff together over brunch and compare perceptions.

The other day, he particularly wanted to share an episode of PORTLANDIA with me. At his suggestion, I had watched many PORTLANDIA shows previously and had enjoyed them immensely. What a funny, inventive pair of comedians the two people who do this show are. But what always strikes me is that even though I've never been there, I feel right at home in Portlandia, because it reminds me so much of where I spent twenty of the best years of my life: the upper west side of Manhattan in the Seventies and Eighties.

The cultural ethos is exactly the way I remember the Upper West Side. I moved to the Upper West Side of Manhattan as a college student at Barnard College, then the women's college of Columbia University. BTW Barnard was much harder to get into than Columbia in those days. Far more applicants, far smaller college. So there, you sexists, in case anybody doubted that women are as smart as men because they're too smart to let men know it. But I digress.

What a wonderful place the Upper West Side was in those days. There was a tiny candy store run by an elderly European couple who made their own incredible candies. There was a crazy man who stood on the street corner singing imaginary opera all day long then yelling, "Hey, Yumke Yumke!" with his hat on the curb for donations. Sometimes, you could find him outside Carnegie Hall.

There were grocery stores with their fresh fruit and vegetables spread across the sidewalk, a fresh fish store, several art house movie theaters, dance studios for classes, small theaters doing all kinds of experimental theater, as well as classical productions on the cheap, and many small, funky restaurants that served highly inventive and unique cuisine. A particular favorite of mine was a Cuban Chinese place. There was Murray's for the best fresh bagels, lox and cream cheese.

There were lots of funky shops with hand made jewelry of intricate leather and beads and strange exotic clothes from far off places. I lived in an Afghan goat skin jacket in the winter. It smelled a bit gamey when it was by a radiator, but it was the only coat that cut the brutal chill wind that seared off the Hudson River in the winter. You know, other than a mink coat, which no one on the upper west side would have ever been caught dead wearing, even if they could afford to own ten of them. Showing off was declassee. 

The entire moral universe on the Upper West Side in those days was the same as I see in Portlandia and I loved it there, never wanted to live anywhere else. It seemed like paradise to me. It was delightful to walk on upper Broadway and visit all the small and interesting shops. The restaurants were filled with professionals of every type who were always genial, polite, family people who believed in patronizing the arts, self improvement, good food, good fun and good company.

So what the heck happened to these liberals? These were people I liked so much and who taught me so much about the value of the good life well lived. They really were tolerant, gentle people who respected culture and were accepting of everyone.

I think the same thing happened to them that happened to the Barry Goldwater Republicans. No one but me seems to remember that Goldwater was against the Vietnam war. He was the guy who said it was wrong to fight these small wars. If you're going to ask men to die for their country, then the whole country goes to war and sacrifices, otherwise fogettaboutit. Yes, he really said that. I remember it well because all the young men in my high school were terrified of being drafted and sent to Vietnam. But no one voted for Goldwater. No one. I don't think anyone even remembers that he ever ran for president. He was a great guy. What a crush I had on him! He was such a tall, elegant, western cowboy kind of guy and a very successful business man.

I just sometimes wonder what the heck happened to everybody in this country. How did we reach the point where the PORTLANDIA crowd has turned into rabid haters and Republicans are welfare state bureaucrats and war mongers. I mean, am I just getting too old to get it?

Thursday, December 22, 2016


Communism, fascism and so many religions and belief systems are so perversely and willfully joyless, and in fact absolutely and tyrannically forbid joy, that Christianity and Christmas stand out in stark contrast by comparison. Christmas is earthly joy of every kind celebrated in every way: generosity to friends and everyone you deal with, singing, rejoicing, feasting and being with family. Even the angels are filled with joy at the birth of Christ.

It took me years of therapy to be able to experience joy because I was always anxious, frustrated and angry. Once I understood myself better and learned to love and forgive myself and others, I begin to experience real joy. How wonderful it was for me to discover that the religion I'd been raised in worshipped a God who also wanted me and everyone to be joyful.

The real and innocent joy of life and joy at the birth of the child in the manger is part of my celebration of Christmas that I try to share with my family and friends.

Sunday, December 11, 2016


Frankenstein and Bride- Is this marriage doomed to fail?

Rush Limbaugh and Oprah Winfrey are the two pleasantly plump, (see, I'm not fat shaming) over opinionated talk show hosts who defined an era. They are the ying and yang of political sexual hysteria. I respect and admire both Rush and Oprah and have greatly benefitted from both their opinion shows over the years, as I know we all have. But Oprah leans toward the manhating side of things and Rush leans toward misogyny.

Like a bad marriage, Oprah, the epitome of a Democrat, and Rush, Mr. Republican, have been yelling loud and long at each other, with increasing hysteria, for the last twenty-five years. We the public have unwittingly been caught in the middle of this shouting match. Isn't hysteria the result of unresolved sexual problems? Hum.

And here's the kicker. If you had to imagine that unholy marriage producing a talk show child, wouldn't that poor child be a lot like Ellen DeGeneres? How could those two produce anything but a person who seems uncomfortable with the trappings of either sex, but has a terrific sense of humor? And very surely with those two warring people for parents, their offspring would need a superb sense of humor just to survive. It's all makes perfect sense, in an American talk show way.

Trump has been the ideal antidote to both. The primaries were the Rush Republicans having their hissy fit and nervous breakdown. And what a bunch of pantywaist, preachy, chicken hawks they turned out to be, once Trump upset their apple cart. Has a country ever in the history of the world been presented with fourteen sadder creatures running for the highest office in the land?

The Democrats presidential candidate was a woman who seemed to be auditioning for the role of Zombie dictator in the Walking Dead series. Now, they are showing their hysterical true colors. Whipped into a frenzy, the MSM has morphed into the cartoon network, where Boris Badenov has stolen the election for Donald Duck. Next they'll be hunting Elmer Fudd dressed as a Nazi hacker in Argentina as the culprit who stole their imaginary votes.

Trump seems a person happily free of political sexual hysteria. He never uses science to frighten the uneducated, neither global warming nor evolution are boogie men he pops on the unsuspecting. His libido seems in harmony with his biology. And he doesn't care a fig leaf about anyone's sexuality, no matter what it is, as long as they get the job done. He's so friggin American, this guy. Brash, honest, unapologetic Mr. Can do.

What a relief to turn off the howling hysterics. Now I just want to live my life in peace and freedom and make up my own mind about things.

Friday, December 9, 2016


Scrooge and the ghost of his dead partner Marley

As I do every year, I drank deep from the well of sentiment, accompanied by a few draughts from the well of gin, and watched A CHRISTMAS CAROL starring Alastair Sim, again. In spite of my best efforts, I have become an unrepentant sentimentalist, but true sentiment resonates very deeply into our souls, as does this movie.

How do you keep Christmas? It's a question Scrooge is asked several times, and he responds in a way that many of us can relate to, "Christmas is in the habit of keeping men from doing business." And I believe that is exactly the purpose of Christmas, to keep you from doing your usual business.

How you keep Christmas tells so much about a person. Midwinter festivals and merrymaking are as old as mankind. The Romans had Saturnalia, with religious rites and feasting for seven days. Slaves were freed for the period, only cooks and bakers could work, and a mock king was elected.

The Vikings had their Yuletide in honor of Jolnir, father of the gods, and fertility rites to insure a good harvest. There was feasting and food was sacrificed to the ghosts who came back to haunt the living at this season.

There are many customs and celebrations at this time of year, because in agrarian societies, there is not as much work to be done in winter.

Christianity adopted, adapted and refined many of these traditions into their own celebrations. The movie A CHRISTMAS CAROL plumbs the depths of the Christian miracle. Four ghosts visit Scrooge and provide a Pilgrim's Progress for his lost soul to follow to redemption.

The first ghost, his dead partner, comes back in chains, the chains he made himself in life because he didn't allow his spirit to roam free in this world; it was chained to his self obsessed greed. Mankind was his business, but his spirit never rose to that realization. He is sending three ghosts to help free Scrooge from the same fate, while there is still time for him in this world.

When the Ghost of Christmas Past visits Scrooge, the movie and Dickens become unmistakably Freudian. Scrooge endured tragedy when he lost his mother and sister, and his heart became captive of his financial successes. He became a miser. But the ghost revisits his past, much like a modern day therapy session, to reveal to Scrooge that he did have finer feelings for those around him until his greed turned him away from them.

The second ghost of Christmas Present arrives bearing revelry and feasting, showing that even those in poverty are warmed by the spirit of Christmas. He witnesses the happiness of Bob Cratchit's large and quite poor family. Cratchit is a man who Scrooge despises and whose happiness he cannot understand and resents as stealing money from his pocket. Here Scrooge must face the man he is. This is a bitter man who cannot keep Christmas because his heart has become hard.            

He prefers his porridge without the extra bread because he won't pay for it. Here is the very essence of Christianity: to receive the blessings and the bread that is Christ's love, we must forget about the costs and open our hearts.

The third ghost of Christmas Future is one whose face we never see. He shows Scrooge the future and it is very bleak. But the event in the future that most moves Scrooge is the absence of little lame Tiny Tim by the fireside. Here, again, is another essential Christian message. Scrooge must use the wealth his talents have brought him to do good, as best as he can.

Of course, it is the riotous, mad joy of Scrooge when he wakes up Christmas morning, a new man, a man full of the spirit of generosity that is the triumphant climax of the film. He literally dances for joy and for the joy of being able to give freely, without bitterness, envy or selfish motives, to others. After that, Scrooge became "a man of whom it was always said, he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us and all of us. And so as Tiny Tim observed 'God bless us, everyone.'

So how you keep Christmas says a lot about the state of your soul. I confess to having been a Christmas hater for many years. When I met my husband, I hadn't had a Christmas tree for ten years. I felt the sentimentality was a swamp of over emotionality that I preferred to steer clear of. The incessant red and green, and happy songs and bells drove me nuts. Like Scrooge, my spirit had a lot to learn and a lot of bitterness to overcome before I could experience the joy of Christmas. Wishing you the same.

Tuesday, December 6, 2016


Old time sports bar with swell radio. Spencer Tracy in the mirror.
Like just about everything in the world today, from motherhood, (the tyranny of the patriarchy) to apple pie, (but is it non GMO?) all of classic Hollywood, or Hollywood back then, should have great big yellow crime scene tape trigger warnings all over it.

When I was a teenager, we had a TV show called Million Dollar Movie in the afternoons, just when we'd just gotten home from school. If there was nothing better to do, we watched the old Hollywood classics in black and white on TV. We didn't have color TV. My father despised TV as an animated Hallmark card punctuated with arrogant talking heads. Joe was his name. Irreverence was his game. He'd honed his craft driving the nuns in Catholic school crazy. But they had their revenge by forcing my left handed father to write with his right hand.

But those stolen afternoons watching old black and white Hollywood movies defined my world and my ideals. Later, I sought them out in art house movie theaters on the Upper West side of Manhattan. Now, I own them. Yeah. Sometimes life is magic like that. Get used to it, young 'uns.

I had a son so late in life, we called him a grandchild. He's so much younger than I am that he thinks I make things up when I talk about telephone booths, TV with only three channels and no seat belts. But I've tried to educate him about what America used to be like by showing him those old movies that taught me so much. Whenever he can spare an hour or so away from work or Zombie killing sprees, he comes by and watches one with me.

What a shock I had at his response when we sat down to watch WOMAN OF THE YEAR starring Katherine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy, their first movie together and where they began their thirty year love affair.

Here's the opening scene: It's a bar where reporters are drinking and listening to the radio. You know, an old fashioned sports bar; for the mega screen TV substitute a really swell radio turned up loud. So the guys downing booze hear this hot shot female reporter answering impossible questions on the radio. She's Tess Harding, who takes meetings with FDR and speaks Chinese, and seven other languages.

She can answer all the impossible, obscure questions. Then they ask her a sports question and she flubs it. Sam, (Spencer Tracy) the sports writer sipping scotch, knew the answer. But not only does Tess flub the question, she then pompously declares that playing baseball should be abolished while we are at war with the Nazis. Okay, so far my son is bored. Katherine Hepburn is just another feminist know it all girl, the only kind they produce in his generation.

Sports writer Sam is appalled and angrily argues back to the radio for the benefit of his bar buddies, "We're concerned with a threat to what we like to call our American way of life. Baseball and what it represents is part of that American way of life. What's the sense of abolishing the thing you're trying to protect." Then Sam dashes off to write a stinging column in reply.

However, my son grabbed the remote and played that short scene again, telling me he couldn't believe what he'd just heard. What? What? What did I miss? We were less than five minutes into the movie.

"I can't believe he said that." he said, replaying the scene several more times. I was completely mystified about what he found so unbelievable.

"Didn't you hear what he said?" my son asked me incredulously. "You could tell he really loved this country and he wasn't ashamed or embarrassed. You could never say anything like that in a movie today."

Really? I guess I don't get out enough.

But I will tell you one thing. I kept telling him Trump would win. He very gently and sweetly told me that that was never going to happen, so I shouldn't get my hopes up. He was trying to take care of his old mom. Now that crazy old optimist mom turned out not to be so crazy, I just think, get used to it young 'un, sometimes the world hands you a miracle, and all you've got to do is take the ball and run with it. It's your turn to make a grand new world. I think it's gonna be one where it's okay to talk about protecting the American way of life.


Just read a great think piece at  ( Political Correctness and The Destruction of Social Order  ) by AWR Hawkins about one of the most egregious patriarchal, white supremacists, evah. This is a guy who would find more dark and devious implications in Pepe, the phallic little green frog, than Hillary ever dreamed of. Or perhaps she does dream of little green frogs. I am referring to and jesting about good old Siggie Freud. I think Freud is terrific and a genius who looked quite a bit deeper at his fellow man than their skin color, although sex interested him strangely. So, patriarchy, but I'm the aristocrat here and will benefit from his best ideas.

The article is about the book "Political Correctness and the Destruction of Social Order" by Howard Schwartz. As I understand it, and I have only read Hawkins article, (the book itself costs a Benny, too rich for my budget.) Schwartz's theory is that the Snowflake generation's problem is that they have a "pristine self" a "self touched by nothing but love." The world and other people exist only to fulfill their desire to be loved and elevated.

Schwartz: "Freud tells us that, in the beginning of psychological life, we do not experience ourselves as separate from mother, but as fused with her. In this state, life is perfect. Mother is the world to us and loves us entirely. We thus experience ourselves as the center of a loving world, a condition Freud refers to as primary narcissism, and whose appeal is obvious. The advent of any degree of separation has the result that we desire to return it. Mother, then, is the unique object of our desire. We want to marry her, as Oedipus did."

Having to leave this paradise results in rage. It seems that Schwartz is saying that Snowflakes rage at others and the social order because they are forced to leave their childhood paradise. My question for Schwartz is when were these Snowflakes ever fused with their mothers and the center of a loving world? "The advent of any degree of separation has the result that we desire to return to it." What child for the last fifty years has not been separated for 8 or 9 hours every single weekday from the unique object of their desire from six weeks old on, so mother can go and have an important career?

Maybe Snowflakes never had the perfect state of life with motherly love. Maybe mother was always too busy running off somewhere, and ignored their needs and desires. Maybe that's why the Snowflakes are in a rage at social order.

And looked at that way, danged if I don't think they're right that the social order has to change. Every child needs to be the center of a mother's love and to have a chance to develop primary narcissism. If your mother doesn't love you, it's going to be very hard to believe that anyone else does. Certainly no caregiver at a daycare center will love you. You're just a job to them. 

Belated trigger warning for Snowflakes, although I hope they realize I've got their back here. They need some serious mother love from some darn body.

Monday, December 5, 2016


Here is my new short book. It's a Christmas story. I've wanted to write about Mrs. Santa Claus for years, but I couldn't figure out who was good enough for Santa. Then a series of unlikely events crystalized into this story. I hope you enjoy it.

Available on Amazon Kindle
The Secret Biography of Mrs. Santa Claus

Sunday, December 4, 2016


Classic Bell Curve

There are teachers who teach us so much more than just the subject of their specialty. Professor Gooch was such a professor. She taught Econ 101 at Barnard College way back when Christ was a corporeal and I was a freshman. A large woman in every way, tall, broad, with a mind that encompassed centuries of economics, history, philosophy and even fashion.

I remember the first day of class when she announced that though she would assign reading in our economics textbook and she hoped we'd read it, but she would teach the principles of economics with class discussions.

Each class covered a certain economic topic like market forces, price, cost, and all the other basic concepts we had to master. But each discussion began informally when she would ask a student to talk about what she'd done yesterday. One discussion I particularly remember was a girl who'd bought mascara the day before. Now Professor Gooch eschewed mascara and all that went with it, but nevertheless it was a topic that interested her greatly. How did the young student decide which mascara to purchase? Magazine ad. Advertising costs and returns on that investment. Advertising industry. Where did she buy the mascara? At a discount drug store. Discounts and how and why businesses can achieve them. Where was the mascara manufactured? It was enthralling to think about all these things.

Well, her classes fairly flew by. We young students were preparing to run the world merely by purchasing mascara. The excitement in Gooch's classes was palpable. No one ever missed her class.

And now we come to Brexit. Clearly the EU bureaucrats never sat in Professor Gooch's classroom or the reason for Brexit would be obvious to them. Economies of scale. This is the principle which shows that you can often achieve great benefits by growing a company larger, benefits mainly like lower cost and more efficiency. However, the economies of scale typical simple graph is a bell curve, which indicates that up to a certain level, yes, bigger is better, but beyond that point, bigger is worse. Past the top of the bell curve, cost goes up and efficiency goes down. It's called the Law of Diminishing Returns.

What the EU and the Globalists haven't noticed is that they've gone way over the top of the bell curve into deep, deep debt. Evidently Globalism is too big to succeed. But the people in the British economy have noticed that they are deriving no more benefits from Globalism's gigantic corporations and want to scale back. This is a very prudent, rational, intelligent decision. One which any of us Gooch students would have reached from our mascara discussion in less time than it took to blow dry our hair. And don't you doubt it. Thank you Professor Gooch!!

Tuesday, November 22, 2016


Eli Wallach and Anne Jackson

For many years in my youth, like a good little culturati, I sent checks to PBS during their funding drives and felt good and virtuous.

Then, after I married a professional actor, my husband Tom O'Rourke, we took a harder look at PBS and both became FURIOUS LIVID AND INCENSED. We never sent them another dollar, and I will tell you why.

Every time we tuned into PBS, we saw our hard-earned acting tax dollars being lavished on buying BBC productions. What a resounding slap in the face to every American actor, writer, director and what an insult to America's cultural history.

There we would sit, short on cash, like all actors, working in a business where good jobs are impossible to find. No one becomes an actor so they can watch themselves on TV hawking sausage and cosmetics. You become an actor to do good work in productions of interesting and memorable comedy and drama. Your calling is to bring to light some truth about the human condition.

What part of the PBS budget was spent on great American actors doing the great roles? How about FRIGGIN ZERO dollars.

Think about it. Would Jack Nicolson have said no if he'd been offered the chance to do a production of KING LEAR for PBS? I'll bet he'd have loved to have done that and done it for free. And what an incredible treasure that would have been.

Tom and I attended an immensely popular and well reviewed production of OTHELLO on Broadway starring James Earl Jones and Diane Weist. Why wasn't some deal made to bring that to PBS? Two incredible American actors in a brilliant production of a Shakespearean classic was pure gold. Would the Broadway producers have turned down all the free publicity and the acclaim they would have enjoyed from being filmed for American PBS? Gee, that's a tough one.

We were privileged to see Eli Wallach and Anne Jackson in an hilarious and unforgettable production of Anouilh's WALTZ OF THE TOREADORS. Where was PBS to capture two of America's most talented actors working at the top of their game?

Where are the productions of great American dramatists like Eugene O'Neill, Thornton Wilder, Kaufman and Hart, Ring Lardner, Garson Kanin, Booth Tarkington? I could go on and on, except my blood is already boiling. And frankly the loss of the opportunity to preserve so much talent and dazzling brilliance sickens me.

Most actors will work very cheap for the chance to be in something good and be able to really stretch their acting muscles. It was infuriating for us to see the American PBS shun everything American in favor of the BBC.

Now, post Trump election, I see the deeply dyed contempt the elites have for ordinary Americans. I believe the people running PBS shared this ingrained and insensate hatred of everything American; it  goes a long way to explain their policy of no American drama, ever.

I also believe the management at PBS was ignorant and lazy. It was so much easier to buy the BBC shows, than to put themselves on the line and do something original. 

Most of the elite are completely ignorant about American culture because they have been educated by other Liberals, who also despise America.

You can now return to your regularly scheduled programming. Thank you for reading my rant.

Saturday, November 19, 2016


John Wilkes Booth and the Devil

As someone who is a theater lover and whose husband made his living as an actor, I want to thank the Vice President and his wife for their interest in one of the greatest and most important art forms humanity has ever created. That they took the time and energy to attend a theatrical performance means so much to me and to all of us who truly love the theater.

Last night, you walked into the belly of the beast because you had a curiosity to see what playing there. I applaud your courage and good will. Thank you from the very bottom of my heart.

Please accept my deepest and humblest apologies for the insolence, and disrespectful rudeness of the 'actors' to you and your lovely wife. Like everything else in this country, theater is and has been compromised for several decades by the corporatists until it is just another of the shoddy products the global elitists have shoved down our throats. HAMILTON is not real theater; it is the self congratulatory twaddle that passes for theater these days, New York Times approved, 100% pure hogwash.

To the absurd moral exhibitionist cast, I say, no, you will never be safe from the scorn of the working class people in this country who get up every morning and go to work to keep the lights on in this country and put food on the table for all. Nor will you escape the disgust of those who have been prevented from working by your ignorant, destructive regulations and divisive rhetoric.

Actors have an unfortunate history of getting swollen egos. The Player's Club in Gramercy Park, New York City, was formed by Edwin Booth to counteract the intense hatred that the public felt toward all actors and artists after his brother, actor John Wilkes Booth, assassinated the country's most beloved president, Abraham Lincoln. Creating the club was his attempt to restore the reputation of actors and rebuild the good will of the public to rescue the arts from the infamy that his brother had brought onto them.

I am so disgusted by the fools in the performance last night who call themselves actors, but who were so overcome by their own grandeur that they demeaned themselves and all actors in a shameful display of lack of professionalism and common courtesy.

They say history repeats itself. Once as tragedy, and once as farce. They were going to hang John Wilkes Booth; today, we must be content with haranguing these fat headed, ridiculous fools.

And by the way, a lot of the people who fought in the revolution were not immigrants. My own family had lived in the colony of New Jersey for almost a hundred years, when they shouldered their muskets and fought for freedom from the globalist power of their day, the mighty British Empire.

So rave on you talentless toads, you are about to be swept onto the ash pile of history by new actors who possess the fire of real talent, not the simpering smirk of a cheaply bought shill. You are part of the Mainstream Media and you are already irrelevant.

One more point about that "no White Actors" casting. From my vast experience in Hollywood I can tell you that this is called 'stunt casting'. If your show needs something a little extra to goose it up, because it just isn't coming together, you do some stunt casting. You stunt cast to draw attention away from the lack of excitement in the show. Like if there is a part for a wrestler, you get a real name wrestler. It's not important that he can't act; he is a wrestler and everybody knows  it and he draws his fans. Stunt casting provides novelty when the ideas are a little stale.

Hollywood and Broadway do it all the time. Having a show where everyone knows the real characters were white, and then you cast them everything but, is a way to try to make the show more interesting. It's almost always a desperation move.

I remember a show on the lower Eastside called "Matt and Ben's Big Adventure" many years ago, about how the script for "Good Will Hunting" fell out of the sky on Matt Damon and Ben Affleck. Well, the two guys were played by the two women who wrote the show, and that made it even funnier. The women really didn't try too hard to imitate Matt Damon and Ben Affleck, but they were surprisingly effective and hilarious.

Or one time I went to any NYU production of Moliere's "Misanthrope" done entirely in the nude. The audience figured out in about five minutes that nudity was just another costume and forgot all about it. Only one problem. One of the actors scraped his knee and it started bleeding. Watching someone bleed causes anxiety in the audience, unless you're an ancient Roman at the Coliseum. It was impossible not to worry about how soon he could get offstage and put some antibiotic on his knee. Now, if he'd been wearing pants.... Rediscovering the wheel. Clothes have a function.

But that's all stunting. Kind of punking your own show to make it SOMETHING, when something is missing and you don't know what to do. Always a bad sign.

Wednesday, November 16, 2016


The Mainstream Media is now the laughingstock of the entire nation. And they did it to themselves. There are videos all over Youtube showing all the talking heads in dumbfounded shock when Trump won the presidency, emphasis on the dumb. They didn't even have the brains to try to save face and look like they knew what they were doing; they just sat there in open mouthed shock.

And, Oh, By The Way, that's your job, news person: getting the story. That's why they give you those big paychecks, all that fancy equipment, provide news sources, research, camera and air time. You're supposed to be in the know, slightly ahead of the curve, and on top of the news, not behind it, you MAROONS!!@!.


Monday, November 14, 2016


No, I don't mean Madonna, although I've heard all the people with the vouchers for the free fellatio are going to be stiffed.

I mean the movie producers, yes those fiendishly competitive denizens who make the reels of Hollywood turn. Those whores. And what do those craven whores covet above all else? What would they consider quitting their cocaine habit for? Bragging rights! Bragging rights are pure oxygen in Hollywood. It's how you get in front of the line at all the best restaurants and whisked to the best table. It's who shows up at your kid's birthday bash. It's who takes your call. And it is more precious than Liz's diamond from Richard, more sought after than a liver donor for an over the hill director, more beloved than a movie with fifteen sequels, and more honored than a union lunch break.

And how do you get a taste of that sweetest of all caviar, bragging rights? Will Stars do it? Yes, and pay them more than they are worth just to show off. High brow artsy? Sure, and hope that no one shows up at the theater so you can prove you really were too smart for America. Talent? Naw, nobody really cares about talent, because no one in Hollywood will admit anyone else has more talent than they do. Special effects epic blowout? Works, sometimes. Nudity? Hey, we've already done the full frontal dongs of the most popular male stars, so that's over.

So what's the best, most reliable way to get those bragging rights which will make all in Tinsel town bow and scrape? It's what no movie producer will ever admit, though it is literally the ONLY thing that matters. Whisper, shhhh, don't let the public know because then they'd think they own us. It's box office. BOX OFFICE. Getting bodies in those theater seats. Lines around the block for your blockbuster. Wow, that is a lung full of air to those producers drowning in debt.

Now, having done 10 years hard time in Hollywood, I have picked up on a few of the more obvious mores of that town. Consequently, I know for sure that, though they are still loudly rattling their sabers in loyal support of their beloved candidate Hillary, a new obsession has seized their greedy minds. When was the last time, oh, say, more than 200 people lined up at one am, on an hour's notice, to see ANYTHING from Hollywood? Probably Harry Potter. Yeah. And maybe a couple of hundred kids got to stay up late for the opening.

So they've noticed that there's this guy running around the country, a guy they all ostensibly loathe, hate and revile, and this despicable fella gives an hour's notice in a modestly sized town, and FRIGGIN 31, 000 people show up, just like magic. WHAT THE HELL HAS THIS GUY GOT THAT WE HAVEN'T? HOW THE HELL DOES HE DO THAT? AND HOW THE HELL CAN WE GET SOME?

As I mentioned before, it's a competitive town, so they'll all continue hysterically rattling those sabers for Hillary, but, in carefully guarded secret and very posh hideaways, without a word to any of their best friends or worst enemies, every producer in Hollywood will spend EVERY SINGLE GODDAMN WAKING MOMENT (and when you're on coke those waking moments can last for a week) frantically wracking their brains for a way to tap into that BIG FAT audience, because they know, just as God made little green apples, that the first producer to strike BOX OFFICE gold in the new Trump vein will rule HOLLYWOOD and have BRAGGING RIGHTS as big as KING KONG'S NUTS.

So I say, thank god for the whores of Hollywood. We may finally get some movies worth watching.

Saturday, November 12, 2016


Recently, I happened to be in an office where young, high school students were visiting on a field trip to discuss the candidates running for election in the recent American presidential election. They were uniformly well behaved young people, well dressed, attractive and alert. They asked the same tired, old political questions that had been repeatedly canvassed over the last year or so, receiving the same tired boilerplate answers. But, the event did give the students a chance to formulate a coherent question and speak in front of a group, which seemed to me a very worthwhile experience, no matter the triteness of the subject matter.

But, near the end, one student asked a question, and the way she phrased the question provided a startling glimpse into her mind and that of her fellow students and even of the political representatives who were there to respond.

This young lady wondered what the candidates were going to do about climate change. The politicians present preceded to list various measures they advocated to deal with climate change. It was like a charade, except it wasn't.

That a high school student could honestly believe that politicians can control the climate was shocking. That adults who presumably should and do know better told her their plans to control climate change was like watching theater of the absurd. Please, someone tell the children, politicians do not control the climate.

Then I remembered King Canute and the waves. Canute was the King of the North Sea empire, which included Denmark, England and Norway, from 995 to 1035 AD. 

From Wikipedia:

"In the narrative, Canute demonstrates to his flattering courtiers that he has no control over the elements (the incoming tide), explaining that secular power is vain compared to the supreme power of God. The episode is frequently alluded to in contexts where the futility of "trying to stop the tide" of an inexorable event is pointed out.

In Huntingdon's account, Canute set his throne by the sea shore and commanded the incoming tide to halt and not wet his feet and robes. Yet "continuing to rise as usual [the tide] dashed over his feet and legs without respect to his royal person. Then the king leapt backwards, saying: 'Let all men know how empty and worthless is the power of kings..."

Over a thousand years later, we ought to know that, even today, with all its scientific marvels, no power on earth, man made or otherwise can do something as simple as halt the tides, much less change the climate.

I am reminded of a quote by that frighteningly cynical journalist, H. L. Mencken who said:

"The whole aim of practical politics is to keep the populace alarmed (and hence clamorous to be led to safety) by menacing it with an endless series of hobgoblins, all of them imaginary."

I suppose climate change is a wonderfully effective series of imaginary hobgoblins to menace the public with and capable of providing the necessary alarm so that a politician can lead them to vote his party into power. Does that make me as cynical as H. L. Mencken? I sincerely hope not.

Wednesday, November 9, 2016


After spending thirty years in show biz, and doing a hard ten in Hollywood itself, the word schadenfreude is exactly what I'm feeling today, only that's too intellectual and too mild a word. Sweet revenge, divine justice, and the thrill of seeing the LaLa land bullies get their noses bloodied comes closer to the emotions welling up inside me.

“What the cool kids are upset about is that someone they don’t like and someone who is not part of the cool kids won."said an anonymous Hollywood agent in a piece in the Hollywood Reporter today. (Hollywood Reporter)

Well, sort of. Except Hollywood's rude shock was realizing they aren't the cool kids. No, there they were strutting their stuff in million dollar ads, all dressed up in their ridiculous costumes, trying way too hard to be cool for Hillary, only to discover they were the total rejects, the gross outs, the ones everyone who is cool avoids, tries not to see and is embarrassed by and for. In one terrible night, it was patently obvious to the entire global audience that Hollywood stars were creepy, pathetic losers, the opposite of cool. 


"Ads don’t work, polls don’t work, celebrities don’t work, media endorsements don’t work, ground games don’t work." (Hollywood Reporter)

Nothing cool at all about desperate losers. NOTHING.

"Truly, really, a new voice had spoken — but in a pitch so high and a language so obscure that none of us in the media picked it up." (Hollywood Reporter - Michael Wolff)

Yes, the pitch was too high for the lowlifes of Hollywood, and the voice too pure. The language was obscure to media moguls because it was the language of the human heart, that very special organ they are lacking. The yes men, sycophants and shills who pretend to create culture would need a grain of humanity to speak from the heart.

Thank God for Donald Trump and his family. The media slimed them with every insult they could think of, but what they missed was that the man is all heart. Not a fake plastic saint like Hillary, but a real, flawed, very human man who leads from his heart, but also uses his brain.

So Hollywood flatlined and is on the meat wagon to its eternal rest.     

Donald Trump's victory is very sweet for me personally. It is gratifying to see so many dimwitted fat heads get found out. Time for new blood in the entertainment world.

Tuesday, November 8, 2016


This is from a wonderful book MURDER FOR PLEASURE about the history of the murder mystery story written by Howard Haycraft, 1941

Published while the war was raging, well before June 6, 1944, D -Day, nevertheless, this post is my way of never forgetting the terrible sacrifices made that day so the world could be free.

"When Nazi Luftwaffe squadrons unleashed their wanton fury on London in the late summer of 1940, initiating to their own consternation a deathless epic of human courage and resistance, they also drove a city of eight million souls beneath the earth's surface for a nightly refuge. After the first shock of a kind of battle new in the annals of warfare had passed, life underground began to take on some of the aspects of normality. One of the earliest harbingers of rehabilitation was the appearance of books in the fetid burrows while the bombs rained overhead. What volumes, asked curious Americans from the comfortable security of their homes, could men and women choose for their companionship at such a time? The answer was soon forthcoming in dispatches from the beleaguered capital, telling of newly formed "raid" libraries set up in response to popular demand to lend detective stories and nothing else. The implications contained in this circumstance, as applied to the underlying appeal of the detective novel, might easily constitute a superior essay in themselves (and are perhaps unfathomable at that). But surely no more striking illustration could be found of the vital position which this form of literature has come to occupy in modern civilized existence, for whatever reasons.

"A few months before the outbreak of the Second World Was, press dispatches from totalitarian Italy announced to the outside world that the works of Agatha Christie and Edgar Wallace, the two English detective story writers most popular in Italian translation, had been banned from the country by decree of the Fascist party. No reason was stated for the decision. But early in 1941 a more explicit action was reported from the Third Reich, where the Nazi party ordered the withdrawal of all imported detective fiction from German bookshops. As spokesman for the party line, the Deutsche Allgemeine Zeitung was quoted in angry denunciation of this "illegitimate offspring" of English literature. Detective stories, the newspaper thundered, were nothing but "pure liberalism" designed to "stuff the heads of German readers with foreign ideas."

"These actions were dismissed by many citizens of free lands simply as further instances of the reasonless stupidity (once so amusing) of dictatorships. But those readers who paused to recall the genesis, history, and very premises of detective fiction found little that was surprising in the edicts. For the detective story is and always has been essentially a democratic institution; produced on any large scale only in democracies; dramatizing, under bright cloak of entertainment, many of the precious rights and privileges that have set dwellers in constitutional lands apart from those less fortunate."

"Detectives," wrote the late E. M. Wrong of Oxford in a notable dictum, "cannot flourish until the public has an idea what constitutes proof." It is precisely this close affinity between detection and evidence which accounts for the interrelation of the fictionized form and democracy. For, of all the democratic heritages, none has been more stubbornly defended by free peoples the world over than the right of fair trial -- the credo that no man shall be convicted of crime in the absence of reasonable proof, safeguarded by known, just and logical rules.

Monday, October 31, 2016


 On Friday, October 28, Comey faced the famous priest in “The Exorcist” who holds the cross and thunders “The power of Christ compels you!” When the devil was chased out of Comey’s body, he discovered he wasn’t one tenth the man he thought he was. But the power of Christ compelled Comey to do the right thing. The mere man who had been chosen by his fellow men to represent Justice in the greatest Western nation on earth, a nation whose ideals are not merely following the letter of the law, but JUSTICE as a sacred gift of God to mankind, that man became an instrument of God. What he did was nothingburger, but it was everything he could do. When the going got tough, he'd folded like a cheap suit. Comey is nobody’s idea of hero, but he’ll do.
He’d given the filthiest, most deceitful, most corrupt candidate since Caligula a clean bill of health. His vain hope must have been that the electorate would save him, because he very certainly knew what he was facing if he came out against her and she won. He’d lose everything and might even be Vince Fostered.
Comey tried to fudge it, tried to say she did wrong, but didn’t break the law. He parsed, he squirmed, he tried to have it both ways. His conscience reassured him it was above his pay grade to save the nation from the devil who possessed them. It took him from July till the eleventh hour before the election to face the boogey woman and do the right thing. The power of Christ compelled him. Praise God!