"And Just Like That" My "City" Was Gone

 

bibulous - adj. - excessively fond of drinking alcohol (Google)

In case you live under a rock, you already know that HBO's "Sex and the City" is a chancy cable series. When it premiered in 1998, it reconfigured the notion of women's lib. Decades later, it is still an adored television staple that never ages for us broad-minded women, gays and a few metrosexuals with a sense of humor. Unfortunately, the original has graduated to MAX's "And Just Like That," an often painful spin-off featuring three of the four formerly lovable characters: Carrie, Charlotte, and Miranda, who ironically pronounces on the third episode of the new season, "I have actually experienced the joy of hate-watching." Exactly. Miranda, when it come to "AJLT," we know what you mean. Why? Nearly thirty years later, the landscape of the "City" has changed so drastically (which is also true regarding the real New York) that it is barely recognizable. And neither are the three main characters. 

A now cult classic, "Sex"went from featuring four urban, bibulous, thirty-something, white single women with no filter when it comes to sharing their sexual conquests to the same-but-different three surrounded by the woke ideal: friends of color with dashes of LGBTQ correctness. Which just seems forced as though extreme liberals had emailed the writers informing them that if they didn't include every possible politically correct angle, the show would be put to rest permanently. My thirty-four-year-old daughter who as a pre-teen had learned about the birds and the bees from secretly watching the show on DVD, pretty much hit the nail on the head when she commented, "The characters are in an alternative universe wherein the only character who is consistently himself is gay Anthony, but he was never fully developed in the original."  

Just in case you don't already know, at the sequel's premiere, "And Just Like That," Samatha (real-life confederate Kim Cattrall) has retreated to life in London disappearing like gay, Shinto monk Sanford (the deceased Willie Garson) in a new world–in his case, Kyoto and culture (Japanese). Miranda transitions from steadfastly heterosexual to a fully realized Lesbian; the former Ralph Lauren teen model, Upper Eastside Charlotte becomes ensconced in the expectations of severe maternal materialists: New York upper class soccer moms. Yuck. 

Every fan's favorite, Carrie has gone from funny, fabulous, and flawed–just F.I.N.E."(fucked up, insecure, neurotic and emotional) to goody-too-many-shoes as proven by her reunion with twice-ex Aidan Shaw (John Corbett, famous for marrying Bo Derek). Although pseudo-redneck Aidan is universally likable, he has never been the right match for our "material girl," who still has the nerve and impracticality to wear six-inch sandals and a frilly, low-cut, tight-tube designer dress in her fifties while visiting Aidan and his adolescent sons (at least one of whom is in his sexual prime) on the family farm in Virginia. The reason why she broke up with him in the original series was because the two were just like oil and water, meaning they had nothing in common. And now in "AJLT," they still don't, which at least is consistent. Even though Carrie has always loved Aidan, it doesn't make sense that she would graduate from whiney selfishness to understanding selflessness. Technically, nobody (especially not Aidan) should get away with putting Carrie in the corner of a guesthouse without her unfairly overanalyzing the move and motives and abruptly breaking up with him on the spot. The new Carrie is just too perfect to be entirely sympathetic. Audiences used to be able to see their own imperfections in vulnerable Carrie. She was the more "real people model" whom we viewers related to on a gut level, admiring unconditionally as if she were a best friend or sister.

Of course, it remains to be seen whether or not the writers of the current show will somehow come to the conclusion on their own that their reimagined, formerly beloved "Sex and the City" characters are just not attractive anymore. Perhaps they will be forced to watch the original series in full so as to become reacquainted with the fictive women who did so much for the televised sexual revolution in the early 2000s. Or maybe not. Maybe they think those days are over and the New York woke present is the only validity that makes sense. I don't know about you, but I'd like to see a bi-sexual Miranda forget about her lust for unattractive women and fall back in love with Steve, an exhausted Charlotte send both of her kids to board at the Lawrenceville School in Jersey, and "Tiffany-twisted" Carrie dump agrarian Aidan and run into Big's stunt double at LeCirque. And perhaps an impersonator can do a close Samatha on the smartphone to Carrie every once in a while. I'd even take a text message from jolly ole Ms. Jones. The new gal pals may slip in on occasion but perhaps by chance. I'd be fine with all of this. But then again, I've always been a purist. What can I say? When it comes to TV comedies, I just don't like change. 

#personal essay, #opinion, #Sex and the City, #And Just Like That, #blog, #blogger, #TV series, #MAX

Nepo Babies and Claims to Fame

 

nepotism baby (nepo baby) - noun - term used to describe a person often in the entertainment industry who benefits from their parent's fame or connections, suggesting that their success is partially due to those connections rather than solely their own merit or talent. (Google)

A couple of weeks ago, I found myself in the auditorium of the Academy Museum of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences listening to legendary actor Goldie Hawn, whom I have always respected, mainly because she, unlike so many in the industry, is not a nepo baby, one who benefited from her parents' connections. Although she had a lot of information to share, mainly about her own career, she mentioned in passing that she never outright helped her children Kate Hudson, Oliver Hudson, and Wyatt Russell get to where they are today in show business. Albeit honest, the statement struck me as being ironic as she has never needed to lift a finger to assist them. Everyone who is anyone in Hollywood knows her and recognizes her children, giving them a clear advantage over actors who aren't related to celebrities. Although many in the biz will insist that the wielders of power in the entertainment sector don't like the idea of nepo babies, they clearly have a leg up and always have. Remember the adage: "It's not what you know, but whom you know"? I do. 

How many nepo babies can you name? There are just so many. Hmm. Other than the aforementioned, there are Miley Cyrus, Dakota Johnson, Drew Barrymore, Jennifer Aniston, Nicolas Cage, Lenny Kravitz, George Clooney, Nancy Sinatra, Liza Minelli, etc., etc. Some nepo babies have considerable talent while others don't. All grew up in the shadows of their famous parents, not knowing much of anything but privilege and all the right moves that might make them some money in the entertainment world.

Those who have been in show business all of their lives and have never been given much in the way of breaks via their parents or anyone else know that luck and talent need to work together to create success. For example, although Cher's mother was an actor who appeared as an extra in many films, she never got anywhere because she refused to use the casting couch (big in the forties and fifties) to obtain roles. In her recent memoir, Cher writes that she is aware that there are thousands of performers out there who have way more talent than she does, but Lady Luck has not been on their side. And she is absolutely right. She just happened to be in the right place at the right time and met the right men who promoted her to super stardom. Serendipity always makes for a better story than nepotism in my opinion anyway. The rags-to-riches yarn is pretty much the definition of the American Dream.

Interestingly enough, the celebrity of the moment, Taylor Swift enjoyed luck of another kind. Her parents, notably her dad, possesses sumptuous quantities of money to finance her career. Emotional as well as monetary support can result in fame. Talent, although generally natural, can be enhanced via the right people. In the music business, it is usually the producers that make the difference, and Swift has had many. 

Although there are times when I wish I were a nepo baby or just had parents who had the motivation to be stage parents, I am glad that I remained a hardworking G.D.I. in show business. Lady Luck shook my hand momentarily, but the timing just wasn't right. And as we all know, timing is everything. Besides, who wants mega attention anyway? It involves so much responsibility and very little privacy. Heck, the Internet thinks I'm famous. What more do I need? 

If you aren't a nepo baby, don't despair. You are probably way more content than they are. 

#nepotism, #nepobabies, #Personal Essay, #blog, #blogger, #society, #spilled thoughts

Telltale Texting

 

telltale - adjective - revealing, indicating, or betraying something. 

About how many text messages do you send and/or receive daily? I am guessing you don't count them. Neither do I. I'm probably afraid to as I am the type who still appreciates the simplicity of antiquated means of communication despite the fact that they are rarely used. You know, like the long lost art form known as letter writing and talking on a landline phone. If I didn't have a hip, thirty-something daughter, I'd probably still be an analogue "artist." During the pandemic after my flip phone flipped out, she's the one who convinced me to get an iPhone, a device that has definitely changed my life just as it has altered the myriad users of it internationally. Sure it has its advantages, one of which is a glorious camera that I use just about every day. The other is–dare I say it? Texting.

Texting is not what it seems to be. But as you already know, nothing is. What it seems to be is a modern alternative to what we used to do in high school in the 1970s: pass each other messages scratched out in pencil on torn-off looseleaf notebook paper folded in half at least four times for privacy. When the classroom teacher wasn't looking, we would toss the notes that sometimes looked like miniature footballs to each other. It definitely was the forerunner of today's texting, only it was much cheaper and, in some cases, faster because we could write quicker than type and also were forced to relay the communication within seconds before we were caught and given detention for passing notes. Because there was no such creature as spellcheck, we could spell fairly accurately (which few know how to do at present as we don't have to) or use shorthand (specific abbreviations) in order to get our gossip across. The verboten "bad habit" sure made some of our dull classes tolerable. 

Fast-forward to the present: what I find interesting is that texting or telltale texting can be a reflection of the writer's personality. For instance, unselfish people-pleasers tend to worry that they have texted too much or too little. They always respond to texts within seconds of their receipt. On the other hand, those self-centered types whose attentions lie elsewhere (such as Instagram, Facebook, TikTok, whatever) instead of on you will procrastinate, often forgetting completely to answer a text message. Days or weeks or months might go by, leaving the sender frustrated, wondering what he or she or they texted that could have possibly have affected the receiver negatively enough to ignore it. And then there are the inexplicable, idiosyncratic types who will send a lengthy text, prompting one in return, but then the conversation will end there, leaving unanswered questions. I know of friendships that have dissolved because of unanswered texts, which has come to be known as "ghosting." But is the ghosting intentional or not? Sometimes we never quite know for sure. The tenacious few resend and hope that the message won't go unanswered a second time. Those who feel secure might just move on to text another, more responsible friend, a reliable first text responder for instant gratification.  As for me, I'd like to go back to what we did in high school :). 

With the aforementioned in mind, I can't help but think that more relationships could remain in tact if we gave up texting altogether and just emailed each other. Or we could use the call feature and actually have a conversation or at least leave a message. Maybe the parties queried will return the call? Maybe not. It's a crapshoot because human nature is just so capricious. 

#blog, #PersonalEssay, #texting, #blogging, #Society, #HumanNature 

The Journey by Jet

 

peregrination - noun - a long, meandering journey. Google

Although I fear that I might have blogged about this subject before, I am going to take a stab at it again since I might have been overly critical initially regarding the topic. And I am also thinking that some of you missed the original essay.

Journeying by jet may be the most expedient, safest means of transportation albeit it is no longer 100% enjoyable like it used to be, let's say, in the early 1960s when topnotch airlines, such as Pan Am and Eastern, dominated the skies. With the onset of People Express in the 1980s, practicality and affordability replaced stylishness and comfort. People Express gave passengers the options of paying for food and taking their carry-ons on board. It also employed men as well as women in the cabin so that the "sexist" label "stewardess" graduated into the P.C. "flight attendant." (There might have been other airlines that did this around the same time as well. I am just relying on my own memory, which may or may not be accurate.) 

It goes without saying that 9-11 made things tough at the airports. Before the terrorists attacks, security was loose and family and friends could accompany travelers to the gates or meet them there armed with affectionate signage as they disembarked their planes. I have to admit that this is the one thing I truly miss: the ease of entering and exiting air terminals with or without family and friends.

But despite the desperately disappointing changes, no one is staying home. On a recent trip to Raleigh-Durham from LAX, I had to change planes in Chicago. On a Wednesday in mid-May, all three airports were packed to the gills with travelers so that the flow of people reminded me of a salmon run in an Alaskan river. The planes themselves were also full so that tensions were high and the F-bomb bombings booming as extra space in the overhead bins was nonexistent. I also noticed that on the 737-8MAX jets, there is no such animal as first class, making me feel like I was on a city bus but with two additional seats per row. Squeezed tightly into our seats, we became unwillingly upfront and personal physically with each other. I actually felt sorry for the passengers with a few extra pounds as there was no room for them.

I know what you are thinking. Where is the part that includes the praise?  Okay, here it is. In the midst of the chaos, there is often calm. Every once in awhile, the stranger sitting intimately close to you is not only talkative, but interesting. On my Southwest return flight from RDU via Phoenix, a kind gentleman of approximately my age sat next to me and proceeded to fascinate me for the full hour and a half trip to Los Angeles. An international fish monger/importer (first I've ever met), he regaled me with pretty personal tales involving his Brazilian ex-wife, talented children, exotic girlfriends, place of birth, familial history, etc. T.M.I.? Maybe. But after going through the motions of driving two-point-five hours that morning, returning the rental car, negotiating stuffed airport terminals and security, hopping on and off and on planes traversing the country, I craved the diversion. And you know we authors love to draw any reality from life and then fictionalize it. Unbeknown to him, Mr. Fish might just become the romantic love interest in a salacious beach novel that I'm hoping to begin as soon as I sell the dramatic tome I just finished writing. Yes, there is always a silver lining in the clouds jets populate daily.

Happy trails and peregrinations to all who travel in the friendly or unfriendly skies more than they would like. 

#personal essay, #blog, #blogger, #jet travel, #air travel, #social commentary

Elegance on the Inlet

 

elegance - noun - the quality of being graceful or stylish

Although most of you know what "elegance" means, it is not a word that you hear much lately. Unfortunately, in everyday life, "elegance" has taken a backseat to "shabby chic" (another term that could just be outmoded). On the other hand, if you look hard enough, you'll be able to find it among the relics of the past. 

Yesterday, I had the pleasure of experiencing what elegance looked like in the 1930s. For Mother's Day, my daughter treated me to a tour of the Queen Mary, a seafaring vessel much larger than the fabled, ill-fated Titanic and much faster. Originally named Queen Victoria, the suffix ia in keeping with Cunard line's tradition, the ship was renamed after King George V's wife Mary ("Queen Mum"), not quite as grand a monarch as Victoria, but you couldn't sway King G; his queen was nonpareil. As the cruise ship is permanently moored in Long Beach, California, you can book a stateroom for as little as $130 a night, not a bad deal considering the high price of time travel these days. (Of course, I'm joking.) 

Our tour's docent, a retired history teacher, presented us with myriad facts, enough to fill the captain's quarters sans him in it. What I'll always remember pertains mainly to World War II. The vessel had been freshly christened when the U.S. military commandeered it to transport 800,000 soldiers and personnel to the battlegrounds of Europe from New York. (Churchill had quarters on the ship. His bed was terribly small, poor man.) The initial bunch of soldiers that were dispatched numbered over 16,000. Considering the ship was built for only 2,000 passengers, it was a tight squeeze for the men that had to rotate bunks every eight hours. Sheets were rarely changed. I kept thinking the whole time that my dad who had been drafted into the infantry of the U.S. Army in the early 1940s might have been one of the thousands who didn't have an opportunity to experience the original elegance of the ship as it had been stripped down entirely to accommodate all of the brave young and painted gray to camouflage it from German submarines. Even the murals were covered so that the anxious passengers would not be tempted to leave marks of immortality on them. 

At present, the overall tonal effect of the ship's interior is a subdued sepia like a tired photograph, which the wooden paneling and veneers, deep, albeit faded browns of fall, and tarnished golds create. The only bright colors emanate from a few oil murals depicting subject matter leagues from anything having to do with the sea. 

The most memorable room on the Queen Mary, an Art Deco ballroom complete with a stage for the privileged first class few, has been a favorite of Hollywood location scouts looking to recreate the time period. For example, on its teak floor slow-dance Robert Redford and Kim Basinger in "The Natural," a fantastic filmic ode to baseball based on Bernard Malamud's short story. A actor friend of mine, who was an extra in the scene, told me all were transported back to the romance of the time and held breathless for the hours it took to film the scene. I can only imagine how elegant the elegance of those recreated moments were.

After making sure we saw every inch of the ship, my daughter and I disembarked only to sail off in our Uber, glancing over our shoulders to hold the last few glimpses of the radiant black, white and red Queen Mary in all of her royal majesty in our minds. The tasteful elegance of the Queen Mary (1936-1967) will never be surpassed.  

#personal essay, #QueenMary, #elegance, #blog, #blogger

Anomalies: Nothing Is As It Seems To Be

 

anomaly - noun - something that deviates from what is expected.

Life is filled with errant anomalies. Just when you think you have it all down, you don't. The norm is no longer normal. Nothing is what it seems to be, especially not here in La La Land.  For whatever reason, Americans are in love with celebrity. The celebrated are placed on pedestals and worshipped like Greek gods; however, they aren't. Most of them run opposed to expectations. The more biographies and autobiographies of celebrated people I read, the more convinced I am that somehow these very ordinary folks have had to pay a high price for fame. And the more monetarily fortunate people I come into contact with in Hollywood, the more I realize just how true the adage is. 

Case in point, a good friend of mine, a former actor, is a storyteller, an award-winning one. Last week, I attended her one-woman show at what looked like a former gift shop in Laurel Canyon, a former bastion of musical creativity. A fan of truth, V. opened the flood gates and inundated us with honesty. A few short decades ago, her former husband had been a top Hollywood sitcom writer. He had one hit television show after the next. Soon his coffers were overflowing with extra capital, which he invested in race horses, trotters to be exact, not like the thoroughbreds you saw running through the mud for the roses today at Churchill Downs. The man had fifty, all housed at various stables throughout the country. But they weren't winners. Before he knew it, he was in debt almost a million dollars. He couldn't sell the horses, nor did he want to; so without a second thought for his young daughter who idolized him and his wife who pretty much despised him (for his selfishness mainly), he put an end to his Shakespearean tragedy in Greek fashion by taking his own life. All of the aforementioned V. exposed to us in sixty minutes of articulate, oral, literary prose, memorized painstakingly. As it has been said before, there wasn't a dry eye in the house. 

Another case in point occurred just last night as I was volunteering at the BeachLife music festival in Redondo Beach when I offered to assist a forlorn, albeit very well-dressed, woman in her quest for the VIP restrooms. After announcing for no real reason her unfortunate plight (she had lost her mansion in Pacific Palisades to the L.A. fires), she caught my attention and my sympathy so that I became her personal escort and unlicensed therapist for the next ten minutes. Apparently, she had been married and divorced from a very well-known, high-powered Hollywood producer who assuaged her resentment at his departure by buying her and her children the dream house lost in the conflagration. At present, she and her brood are renting an economical ranch-style home in Santa Monica, something she described as being quite the nightmare. (Most would not think so. I'm guessing.) Before leaving her to return to latrine duty, I hugged her, falling into the velvet softness of her black mink jacket that masked the fragility of her soul. She didn't seem to want to let go, poor thing. (In hindsight, I'm thinking she might have been a tad sauced. No matter.) As I pushed through the crowds toward the food court, it occurred to me that money and fame can't buy happiness. In fact, they often buy misery instead. 

The gossip tabloids pen what they want you to hear, and most of the time, the writing reveals the gloss only. Which is why readers formulate opinions that are inaccurate. No life is perfect; no individual is perfect. Celebrities feet touch the ground like those of ordinary people. Because of the complexity of their lives, perhaps they experience more pain. The takeaway here is that happiness is something that emanates from within and cannot be bought. The next time you feel envy for a celebrity whom you don't know at all, remember the theme of this blog: Nothing is as it seems to be. 

#blog, #blogger, #celebrity, #personal essay 

Duckology

 

duckology - noun - (a neologism coined by me) - the study of the fundamental nature of ducks. 

duck - noun - a water bird with a broad, blunt bill, short legs, webbed feet, and a waddling gait (Google).

I don't know about you, but I adore ducks. Definitely. If reincarnation is a reality, I'd like to come back to this planet as a duck. Why? Despite their somewhat awkward outward appearance, in terms of their abilities, they are the next best thing to Marvel superheroes. 

According to Google (a reliable source), ducks can walk relatively long distances, swim as long as they want, dive down 240 feet to catch fish, and then upon exiting the pond, dry off instantaneously just by ruffling their feathers before flying off. In fact, ducks can soar above most small planes, reaching an altitude of 21,000 feet and speed of nearly 60 mph, surpassing most biplanes. Although not all breeds of ducks mate for life (most mate for just the mating season, which is about eight months), the whistling duck, like the swan, mates for life. Not too many species, including humans, can pull that off. Ducks, like happily married persons, get so emotionally attached to their mates that if their mates die, they grieve the loss, often falling into duck depression. Which is extremely tragic especially as ducks have no way of connecting with licensed psychotherapists. Not that I or Google knows of anyway. 

Those who don't like ducks peg them as "dirty" and as "rapists," but since ducks act on instinct, the males' aggressiveness toward unprotected, virginal, single females is merely a means of guaranteeing that the species perpetuates. (Apparently, female ducks have complicated vaginas that are hard to penetrate. Yikes! TMI.) Obviously, ducks do not have the moral sense to understand that they are being sex offenders. And fortunately, neither the human legal system nor the law enforcement community considers them felonious. (Thank Goodness! Can you imagine male ducks sharing cells with convicted human rapists in prisons? Hahaha!) So why should anyone else? (Ah, give'm a chance! They are so cute!)

My idea to coin the term "duckology" came last week when I was about to take a dip in my apartment complex's heated pool. Atypically, out from behind the chaise lounge chairs waddled a handsome Mallard couple, making a beeline for the pool. Of course, I had to film their flight for TikTok audiences, not thinking they would have the gall to step into the pool with me around. Not only did they enter the pool (and rather delicately by putting one webbed foot in at a time), they had the audacity to remain floating around in the pool while I did laps. Eventually, though, I unintentionally managed to create a wake that started to make them seasick enough to exit the pool as elegantly as they had entered. After drying off doggy style (but with far less vehemence and flying H2O droplets), the two sauntered over to a cabana to rest–as anyone would–protected from the sun. 

From a safe distance, I became immersed in duckology (the fundamental study of ducks) via silent observation. I noticed that the female Mallard fell asleep almost immediately, whereas her male did not. He chose to keep watch vigilantly in order to protect her from me or any other human (or "rapist" ducks) in the vicinity. Although I was far enough away not to be threat, he wasn't going to take any risks. When I finally decided to leave, I couldn't help but think that we humans, possessing the ability to rationalize, could definitely learn something from these water birds with minuscule brains. 

Ducks can be benignly savvy. For one, the duck pairs treat each other with much more respect and genuine caring than a large cross section of the human population. They are also incredibly loyal to each other. Impressive. 

The older I get, the more aware I become of miraculous Mother Nature, probably because I take the time to notice. I hope the next time you are in a park, if you see any ducks, think of duckology and do a little observing yourself. You might just learn something that I didn't, something positive that you can apply to your own life to improve it. 

Just sayin'. 

#blog, #PersonalNarrative, #ducks, #SliceOfLife, #nature