Mother Make It Stop!!!

I cringe for these so called ‘third wave campus feminists’, who’ve turned hating men into an embraasing art form.  They find triggers in everything that reminds them of the reason why they despise men so much—and usually the reason is more than likely, their own reflection in mirror staring back at them.

Please…I beg of you, don’t allow daddy issues, broken-heart syndrome, abandonement issues, a bad prom experience, obesity, your sexual orientation and the loneliness you feel, feed your psychosis.    If you have legitimate PTSD, or other emotiona matters,  please seek help.  Therapy is your friend….the safest place of all.    Otherwise, think before you shout.

The worst thing I’ve seen in all the sad and futile points you try to make, is to scream rape where there was none.     You demand to be treated fairly and with respect, yet when you don’t get your way you scream rape.  How dare you!!!!  That’s such an insult true victims of this heinous crime.   And not only that your necessary needless bitching and delusion are slaps in the faces to me and every  woman, especially those like me,  who have worked our asses off in some of the more misogynistic work places ever, yet succeeded in spite of every obstacle.    Read your history.    See the iron shackles used to stifle the suffragette movement.    Smell the burning bras, the real angst caused by denigration and dedrigation felt by those woman who fought so damn hard to get the Equal Rights Amendment passed.

It’s interesting that in so many accounts, being told no after you try to strong arm a situation,  you view it as assault.   It never got physical in my day, I would never have allowed it.   It was a mind game I gladly accepted as a challenge.   For you and this  bastion of FemDom with an attitudinal whip is so silly.   If a man walks by and coughs, you consider that an offensive salvo of some sort.    A cough is just a cough.     Stop getting  offended and screaming, raging at a man  if he greets you politely, tips his hat to you or opens a door for you.  None of these things warrant an emotional metdown which requires a Thorazine drip.     Common courtesy is not an offensive slap to your womanhood.  Trust me, if you took science in school and were assigned as a partner, a very pretty, petite young, feminine, class mate, the rage will rear its ugly head, as well.    It’s not a pair of testacles  you fear.   It’s anyone who has anything you don’t.   And you like things as they are because victimhood is the easiest role to play.  You are intimidated and triggered by everything and this is a hair trigger to the inch degree.

You verbal disrespectful man-haters are mad at the world, really.     If you’re not where feel you ought to be professionally,  have a meeting with your boss and bring with you intelligent reasons that successfully argue your point for a raise. And promotion.   If you’re lonely and want to date, try being a decent human being.  If your overweight, lose the weight.  If you’re a lesbian, seek comfort in your friends.   Help is out there.    But whoever you are, whatever your beef happens to be, stop imposing your will down the throats of people (men AND woman) whose ability to swallow as been diminished by being force fed so many ludicrous things in our current society.

As you’ll see in this cringe-worthy video, sometimes an orange flag is just an orange flag staked into the ground,  indicating where foliage is to be planted, or that tire-busting  curbs lie hidden under snow.     It is not a sign of oppression at the hands of white entitled men.    A male US Postal worker is just doing his job and a pro-life activist, shouldn’t have to suffer your psychotic episode because you have  a uterus and he doesn’t.  He, like is you. expressing is right to protest the issue of his choice.   These  particular episodes in the video below will make you hide your eyes are reach for the button that will stop the insanity on your screen.

And quit feeding  this insane narrative that women are victims.   We aren’t.    Do you know how self defeating this is?   I resent that I, as a woman, must have rights and my uterus brought up as part of a politician’s campaign platform every four years.   Nothing ever gets done in the interim..   If women MUST be part of a campaign, let’s talk about about finding cures and affordorable, realistic treatment of breast, ovarian cancer, cervical cancer And yes, all thof other ones that give a damn about sex.   As it stands now,  the rhetoric is so go nowhere and do nothing.   Empty promises.

Honestly ladies, you’re doing this wrong.   Women have choices of all kinds, allow them to stay  at home and raise children if they have that luxury.   And if they have to work, support them as well.   You’re not accomplishing anything but giving men a reason to hate to create more videos that make you look like crazed asses.  You discredit our gender.    Ladies, please fix this.  You’ve got a major branding problem, especially since you’re barely clinging to the butt of a long extinguished Virginia Slim cigarette metaphor.

Now, don’t get me wrong,    There is inequity.   Pay scales are skewed.   Equal access to job opportunities should be more important and on par.    Domestic violence is real.  There is disgusting genital mutilation in parts of  Africa and women ar treated as chattle in many developing countries because that is their culture and make no mistake here—I’m saying rape is very real, but lying about an experience to garner sympathy or maintain the very real  excuse of victimization” will only continue to make woman more vulnerable.    Why?  You’re disavowing strong women who were brave enough to report their rapes to the authorities, sit in court every damn day and watch as the perp’s  sentence is being handed down. It might not serve as complete closure for you, but your brave actions will  keep the bastard or bastards from raping any other women for a long time

So, come on!!!!    Think!!  Your  women’s studies prof is doing you a dissservice.   She’s producing angry women who’ll eventually all have police records.     Your point is and always will be moot until you learn how to debate an issue without screaming and slapping and ask for what you want and need while demonstrating you’re capable and worthy of the ascension you desire.    You can’t be a swimsuit model and say you loathe the objectification of women.    The hypocrisy is mind boggling.

Your failure in any aspect of your life is your own responsibility.  Use your pain and anger for good, to better humanity.  Stop pushing us back  a century.  And if you really think that having a pair of ovaries in The Oval Office will make much of a difference, ask your Black brothers and sisters how much different and better their lives are and aren’t, after eight years of Obama in power.

In closing, I’m embarrassed by your behavior.    In fact, a part of me dies every time I watch videos of  these sad, angry, and misguided women who insist on humiliating themselves this way.    I extend my heartfelt apologies to all the real crusaders, including Betty Friedan, Sojourner Truth, Bella Abzug and Rosa Parks.    Yes, Rosa Parks.    She said and humanity agrees, she shouldn’t have had to give up her seat on the bus, because she was black….AND she also said  (and this is rarely included in the retelling of her historical account) that she shouldn’t have to give up a seat to a man simply because she was a woman.

Click here.











She’s Jewish and Black

I heard a story recently. It’s about a woman whose mother was of European  extraction, her father is Black and Protestant, in name only. She was raised as her mother wanted, as a Jew in what she describes as a “progressive synagogue’, which I suppose means Liberal and to her memory, very inclusive.

Her mother, who was actively involved  in the synagogue, died while this woman was in her teens, some 30 plus years ago and her father, who really wasn’t all that involved in her rearing, had little to do with her merge into adulthood.  She grew up despite that fact, went to college and because of her darker skin color, identified as African American then, as she does today. But she’s also Jewish by traditional birth rite. She went to Hebrew school, had a Bat Mizvah, the whole nine yards.

And she did what most kids do when they leave home–they explore, read, meet people like them and unlike them.  Very often that means they graduate with an ideology that’s 180 degrees different than what they had when they entered school as a Freshman.  And when they get out in the workforce, that’s a whole different educational process altogether.

So, all these years later, this woman decides as she watches the life intrusion of her 50’s thrust upon her, it’s time to find an ecumenical home, one she used to know quite well.  Her partner isn’t Jewish, but he is white and grew up in big city with a large Jewish population, making him hip to all things Hebrew.

He, she says, is all for her return to Judaism, but he loves ham sandwiches and shrimp scampi way too much to convert no matter how reformed the congregation is.   But he agrees to go with her to find the kind of synagogue in which she grew up more than three decades ago.

They find a reformed synagogue and attend services.   Everybody is nice, but they assume her gentleman friend is Jewish which he isn’t and that she isn’t, which she really is.  She’s bothered by the fact that she’s asked in a variety of ways, “So, what brings you here tonight?”

She found these questions racist.  I understand that and then again, I don’t.  Perhaps I don’t want to.   Keep reading.

I get it because of the obvious facts of this story; she’s a woman whose half Black and identifies as such, and she’s Jewish.   Unremarkable in the grand scheme of things, but we have to keep in mind that members of this congregation didn’t know her or anything about her specifically  and her religious bio isn’t all that common, generally.

According to fairly recent articles in the Encyclopedia of Black America and Ascent Magaxine, it’s estimated  that there might be as many as 500,000 Black Jews in this country, including converts.  When you compare that to the number of the five  to  eight million‎ ‘other’ Jews who  call the U.S. home then yeah, Black Jews might be a bit rare.   Then again, wouldn’t Jews who are aware of the world know that there are more Sephardic Jews (dark eyed, darker skinned) than lighter skinned, light eyed Sephardic Jews?    Not necessarily.   The Jewish community here is composed predominantly of Ashkenazi Jews, which according to stats, make up about 90% of the  entire Jewish American population.  And while Ashkenazi Jews include Blacks, lighter skinned Jews with black hair and brown eyes are predominate.

So with that said, should this seemingly well educated and worldly woman have known better, especially in a setting in which she was as unfamiliar with the members as they were with her?  And as for the congregants, shouldn’t they have been more open and less speculative of her beliefs based solely on skin color?      Well pets, it’s far more complicated then that.   We’re talking about human behavior beyond my grasp, but I will say from the most basic level of understanding, people only know what they know.   I speak from experience.

Confession:  I grew up as a Catholic in a small town in the southern half of Texas.  Our church was a fair representation  of the community’s population; a number of Hispanics, several Czechs and Polish folks and a few Anglo sounding names of clans from ancient  Brittania that just couldn’t hack Henry the VIII’s decision to break from The Church.  So, when I went to New Orleans many, many years ago, I’d never before seen a Black Catholic much less a Black priest, but there I was, genuflecting as a minority in this particular NOLA congregation.   It was eye opening, but not life altering, because when I thought about it from a historical perspective, it made perfect sense.    The Old South, French and Acadian settlers and that nasty, nasty  S-word: slavery.

So, in all good consciousness, I can’t speak  for or even pose questions of this Jewish woman’s experience.  She wrote what she wrote, true to her feelings.  She felt like an outcast at a new synagogue . I don’t know if  it’s members  hadn’t seen many Black Jews or if they’ve ever given a second thought to their existence.   See above.

But by her account, she wasn’t mistreated by them  either.     She simp,y wasn’t embraced as she had wanted, as she had been in the synagogue of her youth.   The one she knew, the one that knew her.

This particular race-based religious conflict is a tie, as I see it.   My reasoning? Experience and the lack thereof.    No one is to blame, yet everyone involved is accountable.    Faith is fair game, like a 24 hour drive through, open to everyone. If you’re hungry and willing to  wait in line before reaching the window and paying for your order, fine.  No one is refused service.   And it goes without saying, your involvement and adherence to any religion, any job, any community or relationship of any kind, is entirely up to you.

I’ll wrap things up with this patently pathetic and terribly hackneyed sentence, but one that’s required for this blogpost—labels can be wrong.   Blah, blah and blah.   But it has to be said.   Yes, there are a few people with all kinds af varying amounts of melanin in their skin who do look and act like their stereotypes, which exist because of exaggerated reality.   Then again, no one ever looks at me and learns of my Catholic roots then declares I look more Baptist.

During my years in broadcasting, in radio to be exact, I was always amused that when sone people met me in person after years of just listening my FM filtered and processed voice, they would express surprise.    They said I sounded much taller and more brunette—I’m 5’1″ and blonde, which to be honest, was already becoming a fading hair color memory even all those years ago.    I didn’t know how tall brunettes were supposed to sound,  or if there was a specific tonal quality belonging exclusively to short, women with blond hair (and black roots only Alex Haley could appreciate).

But we should never assume anything, but we do, and we always have and always will.   It’s like mental bedrock.   It’s our easiest,  ‘go to’ response.   It’s what we think we know when we don’t take the time to learn anything different.

And actually, THAT just might just be the most pathetic sentence of all.

A Toothache Can Be An Allegory

The second presidential debate is now history.   I refused to watch it, because had I done so, my death would have been imminent.   You see, I have no patience and intense short-fuse rage issues these days.  The culprit is an abscessed “wisdom” tooth which has to be treated with antibiotics before the wretched thing  can be pulled.  Proximity to the brain, dontcha know.

Pain above the neck is acknowledged through a short,  very direct route to the brain.    Below the neck, it all has to go through the spinal chord.   Make no mistake, if I stepped on a nail. I’d feel it immediately, but feeling the intensity can be slightly muted by distance, mere inches in some scenarios.   As my layperson’s mind perceives it, it could be compared to booking a non stop flight versus one with a lengthy layover in Denver.   There’s always a layover in Denver.

I finally got tired of burping up insane amounts of oral pain gels and faced my fears and  went to my dentist, an occupation that has scared me since seeing The Marathon Man as a kid.    The  kindly dentist took X-rays which revealed I had  a rather odd wisdom tooth that was quite infected.     He knew it was painful.   I confirmed that it was.  I was quietly praying for a script of Fentanyl; he suggested Naproxen.

I have to wait three more days for it to be pulled.     I’ve had a migraine, an earache, a sore throat and as mentioned, rage issues for the past week and a half.   Chronic pain, which I’ve lived with daily since a car accident on 1991, can wear on your heart and soul.   I was precribed an antibiotic which began working, but I only felt its defense forces for the first time this afternoon.  It was only then that I had an appetite, could chew and be civil.   It was the first time in a long time, I didn’t want to yell at those  pesky kids to get off my lawn, even though I have no lawn and I live in a gated community.  I’m the youngest homeowner here and I’m still south of 60.    I can remember “Let’s Make A Deal” while my mostly senior  neighbors can barely recall Roosevelt’s New Deal.

Age schism.   And many of my neighbors are of the nosey, gossipy variety, who hate my dog’s entire elimination system.    I responsible in that I pick up where he leaves off, but I’ve  been written up in the past and for another pet owner’s lack of duty regarding dog doodie.

Pets are barely tolerated, but I’m afraid children aren’t allowed here.  Of course,  no where is that mentioned anywhere in the contract with the builder or in  the HOA by-laws because well, it’s completely Illegal, but here, I get the sense it’s unspoken.  If there are any local kids missing,  authorities might want to check out some of my neighbors.   I walked by one house recently and got a strong whif of gingerbread.

I’ll move soon, and rebuild  and do as the late John Denver once warbled, come home to a place I’ve never been before.  Like an old Etch-A-Sketch from my childhood, I’ll erase a good part of my past.    Well, maybe not erase,  but I’ll make the bad stuff of memories far less retrievable.

Here’s a tip for you:  when God…the Universe….Putin tells you over and over again,  your life and everything in it isn’t working, acknowledge it don’t ignore as I did, cut your losses and run, don’t walk to the nearest exit.    Don’t sit there hoping things will change as you maintain the same currupted mindset that only served a purpose when climbing the ladder, not while stowing it away.   Minding these no so subtle cues often means leaving what’s familiar, but not necessarily healthy.    Taking it further, it also means excising certain people from your past, not because they’re bad, but because one or both of you have changed to the point nothing in the relationship is salvageable.   These are people I once knew from my childhood, a million years ago, from cities large and small,  a million miles away.    Depending on perception, we were victims and/or the fortunate ones to be where we were, when we were.    But nothing lasts, nothing is static.    Many people remain loyal to things which they have every right to do, but these are things I can no longer believe in, creating  a schism of a different kind.

I’ve recently spoken with some people in the psychiatric world about the changes I feel within and around me.   I wanted to know if this need to separate who I am with who and what I was is normal, given all my circumstances.   They each replied in their own ways, assuring me that shedding is perfectly normal and natural.   Dogs do, it; as evidenced by the fur on everything in my house, cats do it and people do it.  We shed dead skin cells to make way for newer, healthier ones.  The White Coats say what really matters is what’s really about the intention behind the mental aspects  of shedding.    Makes sense, so I’ve thought about, lost sleep over it, allowed guilt to eat at my being and arrived at this point.   It’s time to remove  things, leave things, and think differently about things because for me, it was and continues to be in in my best interests to move forward and stop looking back.    I had to remove myself from the things that hurt; which had become painful; which to due to impulse, neediness and bad choices, I allowed to become painful.

Not unlike my abscessed wisdom tooth.

An Untitled Ode

If I were asked to name a new rock band, I’d call it Ava’s Gardner.

I thought about that while waiting in line at the Walgreen’s in my hamlet.   I know it would only be effectively funny to ‘people of a certain age’, still,  I found it funny.

Then, I pulled up to the clerk behind the bullet proof glass and the metal drawer that when fed various forms of negotiable currency,  magically dispenses all kinds of drugs that are supposed to help combat issues associated with ‘people of a certain age’.    If only the drug dealers of my wanton youth were as attentive accommodating and NOT under DEA surveillance.   My bedside table looks like a crime scene photo from  Marilyn Monroe’s bedroom.    Like hers, my bedside table is littered  with amber hued plastic pharmaceutical bottles.  Unlike Marilyn’s collection of Big Pharma,  none of the fun stuff.   Aging it seems, is a condition that must be treated medically.

In 1973,  when I transitioned from an  8th grader to a high school Freshman, I discovered FM rock stations.   What a concept.   No AM static or hiss or loss of signal when you drove under an overpass.   Even standard songs that ran amuck on AM station playlists sounded better on FM.    I remember one of the first songs I heard on this amazing new format–’twas aural splendor.  It was an Elton John tune that was a few years old and rarely played then, much less now.  It was entitled Friends, from the French movie of the same name, about two young teen lovers (a term I loathe).  The beginning of the second verse is as follows:

“It seems to be crime that we should age….”

Turn 14 and all that that implies, and listen to those lyrics and try NOT to experience new-found teenage angst and existential doubt.

Back then I swear I felt like Atlas with a better rack.

Funny how amplified a pimple, a break up, an unrequited crush, a mid-term exam, the prom, being popular or not, can be everything at one point in life.  How small the world is in the life a young teen in a free society circa 1973

In those years, all I wanted to do was experience what my new masters, the surges of estrogen, were commanding me to do.   But mother didn’t like it.   To her, I’d become  a problem vhild.    I proclaimed  her “pubic” enemy #1.   I matured faster than my two older sisters who were more demure and feared her.   I didn’t.  The fact that I would  argue and debate points  WHY should be allowed to attend a senior party, were lost on her.  She didn’t see it as burgeoning negotiation skills.  It was me being a sassy.  A smarty pants.      It’s as if she viewed my larger boobs as dousing rods that would lead to bad behavior.   She was very strict based on reasons she couldn explain.   I was actually very normal for my age, but she was intent on coloring me abnormormal, compared to the two daughters she’d previously raised.   I was constantly threatened with being sent to a convent school and forced to see priests and shrinks because she couldn’t understand me.

It wasn’t long before I realized our mother/ daughter dynamic was textbook skewed.    She knew it too.  The truth is, she was hardly the mother that a girl like me should have had and I wasn’t  the daughter that  a woman like her should have had.    We’re were misplaced in each other’s lives.  We were a living conundrum–very alike while also being polar opposites.

She was short in stature and even shorter now, and even though I surpassed her in height decades ago, she has always nine feet tall,  completely imposing in her very counteneance.   I saw that as a challenge.     I’d get grounded, but felt it worth it if I got a good lines in as my two week sentence was being handed down.

It took a number of years before I understood her as a woman with issues of her own.

She turned 86 in June.   She is slow and doddering, her memory will lapse, she searches for words and can stand someplace with vacant eyes, her mouth agape until what ever synapse starts firing normally again.   She’s now at that point where if she can’t remember it, it didn’t happen.    “Damn liar!”,  I’ve decided, is a term of endearment.

It’s taken years to understand how unkind onset of senility can be.   

She has good days.   She has bad days.  She has aches and pains.   She’s deaf and refuses to wear her hearing aid.   She’s often grumpy.   Her front and back bumpers of her car are mosaics of colors from things she’s  bumped into.    The familial discussions about additional care and imposing new restrictions such getting behind the wheel, are becoming more frequent.     It’ll will enrage her to learn she can longer drive. But we would do it for her own good….she’ll compare to a stint in Abu Graib?

It was fear choice to move into a lovely semi independent home earlier this year, though  she doesn’t socialize with her fellow residents.   She talks more openly about her death, a topic I hate, but I know it’s my duty as her daughter my is to remain quiet and absorb everything she says as opposed to denying her the priveledge.   After growing up in The Depression, after watching friends and brothers  leave to fight in World War II or Korea and never return home; after all she’s witnessed, such as  the advent of TV, astronaut Neil Armstrong take one giant leap for  mankind…and after giving birth to two compliant  daughters and one ABC After School Special (aka me), she’s earned that right to talk about her life and the end of it.

It’s taken a few years to appreciate aging along side my mother.

It’s odd that we’ve finally reached something akin to a canvass  of common ground that’s painted as gray as our hair and on a landscape of  mirroring wrinklles.

My two sisters see her once a month.  Her decline is more obvious to them.  But I notice it too.   Often, from day to day.

But despite that, life goes on thankfully and I’m renewed in some way that we still argue, we still have distinctly different views on almost everything but we have a better understanding of each other which remains unacknowledged.    And that’s okay.   We’ve never been demonstrative in word or deed.  She told me she loved me by giving me coupons for products I liked or  highlighting newspaper articles about weight loss, a knee with encroaching arthritis or how  to find THEE man of my dreams.    I’m emotionally awkward too, though I can say I love you easier than she can.  She’ll say it in return if told first, but she never initiates it.

And that’s okay, too.

I understand so much more than I did at eight or 18 or 38 or 58, which if you must know, staring me down in a matter of months.

The reality is my time with her grows short.   Someday, sooner rather than later,  the phone will ring and life as I’ve known it, will cease.  One day, I know I’ll miss being told no with a hand slap,  or that what I’m wearing, watching, reading,  driving, drinking and thinking is all wrong for me.   I’ll miss hearing  my hairstyle is 20 years too young for me and there no more be questions about the  eye liner I’ve applied being a Maybellibe producer,  or something from the Slut Line of cosmetics.    She’s old, but still biting.

I’ll even miss being called a Communist spinster with a bad attitude;  the constant criticism that comes with wearing bra that’s completely ill-fitting for a woman with what she calls, some “heft”.

Someday, she’ll be gone.

And it will take years for me to get over it.









AHS Season 6 Episode 2

Well, “My Roanoke Nightmare” continues to entertain…and provoke and remain Swiss cheesy in terms of logic.

It starts off kind of where last week’s show left off, but not exactly.    Last week’s show ended with Shelby is running amuck in the woods in pursuit of Kathy Bates’ character who literally bounced off Shel’s car when she was trying to escape the house.     She gets lost and is confronted by a man with the top part of his head missing;  he sees her and falls to her knees.  The end.

This weeks show starts of with her still lost in the woods but she walks upon a crucifixion or purification  scene in which.  The scalped man is tied and nailed, chest first to  a much larger version of one of those Blair Witch looking twig figurines we we were introduced to last week.      Kathy Bates’ character is the head of this puritanical coven, is it?…. and she has has Igor hunchback counterpart which looked something like Lady Gaga in bloody make up.    And whoever or whatever this person represents she’s egging on Kathy Bates’ urging of these angry, torch welding phantasmas.   He died something illegal with a pig  and the villagers slap on pig’s head (a fresh kill by the looks of it) and  then he’s not crucified, rather large figurine is turned into a spit and the man is burned alive.

Shelby screams, allerting Kathy Bates and company to her presence, a chase ensues and Shelby runs into the driveway and almost into a car, driven by her sister in law, Lee.

Shelby is rushed to the hospital and checked out.  She’s okay. Matt comes to see her; tells her that the cops were called…once again…searched the woods and found nothing.     They are becoming a total pain in the ass for this  local jurisdiction.   Anyway, Shelby still thinks its the local yokel inbreds who placed a low bid on the house during episode one.

Lee decides she wants to see her daughter, Flora.  So the eight year old ones for a weekend visit and of course immediately, befriends a ghost bonnet wearing ghost child named  Priscilla Flora who  during a game of hide and seek at the end of her visit, tells her that she’ll kill everyone in the house, and keep Flora alive until the very ends.  This enrages Isaac Hayes who  has come back from the grave to play Lee’s ex-husband who wants total custody of the child, due to Lees/ boozing fired cop way.  He takes Flora off in a heart wrenching good bye scene….child screaming for her mother, mother screaming for her child.    Then Lee falls off the wagon and drinks all night long.  Matt and Shelby awaken  to the all too familiar sound of glass breaking.   It’s Flora in the dining room just coming off her bender she’s drunkenly broken a bowl.    Everyone looks up and there are knives thrown into the ceiling.  Matt and Shelby assume Lee did that, too, but she denied it.  Matt takes her upstairs to sleep off the rest of it.   She’s awaked a few hours later the image of two 60’s looking nurses staring at her in bed.    She shakes her head.   They’re gone.  Then she hears a noise….runs towards it anyone scared shitless is inclined to do and she sees a bunch of blood pig tails nailed into the wall.  She shakes her head.   They’re gone.  She looks into a mirror and sees the man with the pig head on coming towards  her.  Again, she shakes her head and  he’s gone and apparently Lee is gone too because we don’t see her for a while.    More on Lee in a sec.

Its the middle of the night and Matt and Shelby are sleeping.   we hear a phone ringing.     Loudly.  Shelby sleeps through it, but Matt but go down three flights of stares to answer a desk phone that was outdated in 1985.   On the other end is a woman moaning.  He looks down and sees the phone isn’t even connected to the wall outlet.   Then, the moans start coming from the kitchen.  Matt turns around and sees a residual haunting of when the house was a senior care facility decade earlier.     He sees  are the same two nurses that Lee saw by her bed, that Shelby saw cross the hall in front of her that, that went unmentioned in the last last episode.   They are oblivious to his presence and they stand around a bed with an elderly woman in it, refusing to take her medicine.   One nurse accuses the patient of having a sassy nought so she pulls out a handgun and shoots granny right between the eyes.  This elates the sisters who revel in the fact that the patient’s name was Margaret, so they gleefully spray paint a large M on the wall.

The cops are called.    Nothing is there.  The ugly wall paper chosen to refurbish the house is undisturbed.   Matt, says the officer, had to have been having a vivid dream.

Then the next night, they are awakened once again to the sound of that damn pig.   Shelby and Matt grab his and hers flashlights and head into the wooded acreage that came with the house, in search of a pig.   They get separated and a pig comes out of no where and runs by Matt’s feet and he says nothing.  They meet up once again to find the greasy, dripping, gross remnants of the grilled man….but no Kathy Bates lead villagers.  The cops were called once again , but this time, the cops see the remnants, but they also think its the handiwork of Papa Hayseed, Ishmael Polk and his odd progeny.

Then one afternoon, Matt and Shelby are looking outside and see a pilgrim looking woman standing there.  They of course, run our to see who o what she really is and there’s nothing there, but she was standing on the entrance to a fruit cellar.    What do they do?   Run down the step ladder and into the old cellar, which is oddly free of cobwebs, spiders and or critters.  All they find is a video camera.   They take it to their VCR and play it.  Its an extreme close up of  bearded Denis LO’Hare  portraying a academic and author, namedDr. Elias Cunningham, who lived in the house in order to write a Charles Mansonesque murder mystery, based on a pair of pure sisters who were homicidal sociopaths.  They took pleasure in killing off old people that had become a burden to their families.


Dr. Cunningham explains in the tape that the women only took boarders whose first names could spell out one word M-U-R-D-E-R.    But they hadn’t gotten to the R yet.  It was just MURDE.   And apparently, the five letters couldn’t be covered top by paint, so we see extras placing ugly green floral wall paper over it. The professor on the tape says there are demonic things happening in the house and that he’d been in the fruit cellar for days and didn’t want to step foot back in the house, but somehow, he finds the courage and takes his camera with him.     He walks through the darkened youse, demanding that whatever is in the house show itself, well, it does…in a big way.

Think “The Ring”.   I know….I don’t get it either.

Matt and Shelby freak and call the bank wanting their money back.     A representative comes to meet them .  They accuse him of nondisclosure, regarding specific aspects of the house’s past.  He claims he’s no real estate agent and can’t help them; the house is theirs until they choose to sell.

So, they’re stuck with the house and the pig noises and Kathy Bates who only roasts by night.

Oh yeah and Lee kidnaps her daughter and brings her back to the house.   Really?

There are a couple of other things I should add.    A bloodied meat clever is left in their front door and yet another window is broken.  It takes down a vase filled with flowers in  and mixed with all the flora is a small dirty bonnet….described by the human Flora, who’s new imaginary friend Priscilla said she’d make for her,  IF she helped Priscilla stop.

Stop what, we ask.

Flora  explains “all the blood”.

Later, we learn that Lee has kidnaped Flora and brought her back to the house and the episodes ends with Flora running into the forrest,  at the behest of a ghostly John Smith looking mother fella.      Matt, Lee and Shelby run after her and they find her yellow sweater tied atop a newly de-branched tree….a very tall tree….with no sight of young Flora anywhere.

This episode?  Intriguing to make me look forward to episode 3 next week.

Now, there are still major plot holes, and scary things that happen this couple won’t tell people., much less each other.   I’m finding if I watch this show as a civilian and throw logic out the window one of the few windows unbroken in the house. And don’t I wish I were the window and glass purveyor in that vicinity.    And lastly, we do know that they, whoever they are, are looking to kill someone who’s name begins with an R to complete the word “murder” which lies behind wall paper that’s the easiest to remove in the history of mankind.

As for Lady Gaga character as the Igor character?    Maybe I’m right.   Gaga’s name was featured as a guest star in the closing credits.    Now, I don’t know if that means that she’s there as part of the general cast or if it was specific to this episode, but it was there.






AHS Season 6 Episode 1


Very interesting.

The episode, entitled My Roanoke Nightmare, harkens back to season one when uttering the word, Croatan would make the ghosts of Murder House go away.   Well, when the early settlers of Roanoke disappeared, the only clue remaining was the word Croatoan carved in a tree.

OK, now that we’ve established that .

The story is being told like a one of those police/crime stories on the ID Network.    Actors recreating the stories often told by the real victims or depending on the cheese factor, actors as the narrators, too.

This is a story about an interracial couple played by two separate couples.   I don’t recognize the actor narrating Matt’s account of the story, but his wife, Shelby is played by the wonderful Lilly Rabe. The couple acting out Matt and Shelby’s account of their Roanoke nightmare is AHS regular, Sarah Paulson and series newbie, new Cuba Gooding, Jr., who supplied us with our first naked male ass shot in the season premier .

They’re young and in love and living in Los Angeles.  Shelby is a yoga instructor and Matt is a rising star win the world of pharmaceutical sales.     He just got a promotion, Shelby just learns she’s pregnant and everything is hunky dory until while out celebrating, Matt is knocked out cold by a gang initiation.     He’s rushed to the hospital with a broken orbital socket crushed to the hospital where he” have surgery and she loses the baby.   Miscarries the right by her husband’s hospital bed.

Thanks to the magic of Hollywood, Matt is healed two minutes later and Shelby seems to coping but they decide to get out of Gotham, seek a small, simpler place.   He suggests they go back east to his home state of North Carolina.

They’re picnicking in the woods (with very odd looking mountains in the background), and happen upon a 200-year old farmhouse that, with 12 adjacent acres, is for sale at auction with a starting price of a mere, $21,000.    Matt and Shelby eek in delight then  scope out the property , which is massive, old and scary, but of course they want it and show up for the auction which along with three inbred YOU SURE HAVE A  PRETTY MOUTH hicks.   They tell Matt and Shelby that they don’t want this house, then Matt remembering this is the the South, defiantly ups the bid to $40k.     The hillbilly men are pissed and they grunt in anger and pile in an old pick up.     The auctioneer cant get the hell out of the place fast enough.

They move in and start redecorating.    It would cost six figures just to furnish one of the three stories, but they take paint brushes in hand and DIY as much as they can.  The house is cleaned up, modernized but still sparsely furnished.    Then they start to hear weird noises outside… a lot of people walking and a pig squealing.      Matt runs outside and sees that their garbage cans have been vandalized.    Just as he’s assuming this is the handiwork of the ZZ Topp wannabes, another can is hurled at him from 30-feet away.

Police are called.   An officer arrives played straight—not an inkling of Barney Fife in the portrayal—he seems nonplussed by the story but seems to know Hillbilly guys Matt whom Matt has accused.

Over the next few days more noises which result in a skinned pig on their front porch.  Matt decides not to tell Shelby whose already freaked out.   He buries the pig somewhere on the on the property.    The next day, Matt runs into town on errands and Shelby stays home yoga-ing  in  one of the house’s many unfurnished rooms and  it starts to hail.  Shelby walks outside and realizes the hail is human molars .   As in teeth.     This freaks her out more, especially since Matt is leaving the next day for an out of town trip.    She frantically calls him and he comes home and she takes him to the back where minutes early it was raining teeth.    And they see nothing.

So, Matt leaves and Shelby decides this night, despite seining the ghosts of twin women cross the hall in front of her, is the perfect night to go take a dip in the hot tub we’ve never seen before,.   As she’s lying in the water, eyes closed, a glass of vino an arms length away, suddenly she’s forced under water and held there and from the camera shot, it looks like this small hot tub is a small swimming pool.   She looks up and sees a face which I thought was one of the hillbillies.     She’s released, rises up from the water and catches her breath enough to call the same nonchalant cop  and Matt.   He rushes home and the cop says  Shelby told him people in period clothes, with torches were the offenders.    Again, I thought I only saw one face above the water and it looked like one of the hicks at the auction.

Matt needs to leave again but he doesn’t want to leave Shelby alone so he calls his angry, resentful, ex cop sister Lee (played by the divine Angela Bassett) who was fired for abusing pain pills after being shot on the job.   She and Shelby never liked each other.     And that’s obvious.

They’re in the kitchen and Shelby is cooking dinner.     I see a pork roast in a pan and Shelby chopping vegetables.   She hears a noise in one of the home’s many hallways and when she returns, she can’t find her knife.      IT’S STUCK IN THE PORK ROAST!!!!!!     She accuses Lee of doing it, Lee denies it.    A few hours later, Lee is in bed when she hears more of that odd squealing sound and then out of the darkness comes a rolling empty wine bottle.   Lee thinks Shelby did this and goes to the library to accuse her.     They get into it and hear more noises, this time, coming from the basement.    They decide to Nancy Drew t and head down the stairs to see whats happening.    They find a video set up, from a security system Matt had installed and there’s a video playing.   It’s staticky, shows a large pig traipsing through the woods, like a man in  a pig costume.  then there’s a woman saying something and shots of trees.   Then the lights go out and Shelby frantically calls Matt and once again, he rushes home.      The next scene we see in a lovely homage to The Blair Witch Project, these odd twig figures strewn throughout the house.  Remember if you will, those twig images the trio of filmmakers kept encountering in the Blair With Project which just happens to be premiering in series form on FX next week.

Permit me to backtrack a bit here….in the moments before the arguing Shelby and Lee hear noises in the basement, the camera takes us outside and we see angry villager types walking close to the house and peering inside every window  because a home this big which has windows everywhere, are unobscured because I’m assuming window treatments for a house this size would also cost six figures.

OK, so were up to speed—-after the trio see all the twig figures hanging everywhere, Shelby loses it and jumps  in the car shouting she’s had enough.   Half a mile from Hell House, she hits what I thought was a scarecrow.       Well, whatever it is is, it breaks the windshield.    She grabs a flashlight from the glove compartment and checks out the area for a body.     And she eventually finds one—a portly woman dressed in period garb, is lying in the road, she slowly gets up, dusts herself off saying nothing and walks into the woods.  This wasn’t a close up shot, but to my delight, it was Kathy Bates.  I’d recognize that body shape of  of hers anywhere.   I was hoping she would come back for this season.  So, La Bates walks into the woods with Shelby following and Shelby ends up getting  lost herself .  She panics and runs and trips, of course, landing on the mulch-like ground which starts to undulate beneath her.   She  looks up and sees angry torch bearing villagers approaching her.    And then, out of nowhere,  what I think is a man, missing the top of his head runs up to her and falls at her feet as the torch wielding villagers merge closer, EL FIN.

That was it.    The end of the premier episode.   I wanted more, which is something I haven’t been able to say about AHS in years.

ONSERVATIONS:    In a scene when the villagers were surrounding the house, I thought I saw one man carrying a bloody machete.     Could that be connected to the headless man or could that have been a scarlet red kappa?    Perhaps all this happened on a Friday night.    Also, when Matt played back the security videotape , it looked to me like the big pig in his version was a large breasted naked women with a pig head.

I hate setting myself up for this season, but I like what I saw tonight.  I can handle weird and strange but its got to have some context and for me, the show hasn’t had any of that since the premier season.    And even then there were so many unanswered questions about Murder House.    Seasons two through five tried too hard to be too weird.   Last season had too many plot twists to be even remotely enjoyable.    But since this season ,which is supposed to be an homage to the collective works of Steven King, perhaps Ryan Murphy and his creative team will effort to tell a better story.

And yes, there were a few moments tonight that actually startled me and kept me glued to the set.   Bixby my dog needed to got outside to glorify the magnolias with bodily fluids, he had to wait .   I keep forgetting i have VTR on my system.     Based, on the amount in which the magnolias were glorified, I feel sure next week, his bladder will remind me .



American Horror Story: Season 6

I tolerated five shows of Season 5 and checked out early for Season 4 ,so Ryan Murphy, this is your last chance.

Mr, M is being very hush hush about this season.  We do know that Gaga is back (yawn)  back and so are most of his usual cast of characters, with newbie Cuba Gooding, Jr..  This season is supposedly dedicated to fear monger, Steven King.   I respect his body of work but, I’m not a huge fan.    I’ve never read  any of his books and I’ve only seen a few movies based on his books or screenplays and so far, Cujo has been my favorite.      Scary!!!!      It obviously did something to then child star, Danny Pintauro.        Not that he’s gay.  I think we knew that while watching him growing  up on “Who’s The Boss”, but he just seems like a strange cat..

So, if I like what I see during tonight’s premier, on FX at 10 EST/9 CST, I’ll review it.   If I don’t like what I see, well,I can promise you one thing, you’ll know about that as well