Or star gazing while stars' narrate. 

Okay, Thomas Wolfe, you're right, "you can't go home again." Have you been to the Planetarium recently? 

The first thing that struck me, upon entering the first floor, were the lyrics from Baz Luhrmann's Moulin Rouge, as the ringmaster and chorus welcomed the unsuspecting to the show….

it will be… Spectacular, spectacular!

No words of the vernacular

Can describe this great event

You'll be dumb with wonderment

It was spectacular. And you did feel dumb, as there wasn't any way that you could really wrap your head around "the journey to the stars", as you were spending a disproportionate amount of time trying to figure out, "who is narrating this????" Star gazing faux pas number one, it's Whoppi Goldberg. Without nary a snarky comment or joke to compliment the incomprehensible explanation of the gases, planets, stars and ultimate creation of planet Earth.

Clear that when we must have taken a wrong turn when we found ourselves staring down a humongous dinosaur we weren't in Kansas anymore. There is a corridor that connects the museum and planetarium, and since they made me check my GPS at the door…Why not go into the theater there, for just a sec, and see if Whoppi was a momentary aberration, or not.

Not.

Meryl herself, sans any drama or accent, took us through a 5 billion year, but only 4 minute talk, as to the origin of the species. A performance, better, I might add, that the one she delivered in "Momma Mia." 

And, lastly, now back in the Space Odyssey, it was Maya Angelou's turn to explain the "big bang theory." With all the gravitas that she commands. Yet again, who really listened to what she was saying. We guessed and challenged each other with, "who is that" missing the bang, big or otherwise. 

So, for me, I want what I remember from my childhood. I want the droning, flat, decidedly dull voice of a narrator who does not distract me from the situation at hand. Not understanding a word of what they are saying.

That's it. You get to be 68 and they close the doors, shut you down, turn off the ovens? Apparently, as that's what Conde Nasty did to Gourmet magazine.  Oh dear.  What's Ruth Reichl going to do now?

I didn't read Gourmet, or Bon Appetit, or Making Do with Scraps, or any of the other foodie publications. I get Food and WIne, but that seems to be something I get suckered into because of my American Express card, not seeming to be able to remember, at any given time, that I don't want to be receiving it. So I have a collection of dust covered, hard copies, from the last millennium languishing in my kitchen.

I do like to cook. I think I like to cook. I cook in fits and starts. Mostly I order in.

But when I do cook, I apparently, like others if the reason for Gourmet's demise is justified, get my recipes from the web. Or clog up my bookmark bar with recipes from the web. Or, have a folder of yellowed, oily, slightly ripped, dog eared recipes that I dutifully rip from the Times every Wednesday, never to be seen again.

Along with the mystery wrapped leftovers that live in my freezer.

To both, I bid, farewell.

How's your moral compass?

A friend, in response to my thoughts on contemplating what my future sins might look like said, "Sinning has got to be spontaneous. You can't plan these things. If it's too contrived, you'll look like a disingenuous sinner, which has very negative affects. I double checked the handbooks on debauchery and hedonism and they pretty much confirm that."  He's right. And funny. Of course, what he didn't know was that my idea of sinning runs along the lines of still wearing white after Labor Day.

But, if I ever conduct myself really amorally, I am pretty clear that I'd want to be an "artiste" as reported in  the NY Times "a gallic shrug, preserve of artistes" that, or gap toothed.  I actually was gap-toothed once, but a fortune was spent to correct that condition. Anyhow, it appears that those two criteria might be enough to excuse "totally unacceptable" behavior.

I did a quick survey of some folks to hear their points of view. Those I queried seemed  to be pretty clear about was acceptable and non acceptable codes of behavior. Sex with a minor—that's a no. Sleeping with people who work for you—not acceptable. (This one though, had many varying points of view…) Work for you, that's a no…work with you, that's okay…while married or in a serious relationship, uhoh…not married, maybe. Think these various and assorted qualifiers had to do with personal experience?

Yet, some of those who were clearly adamant about how wrong it is to have sex with a minor, when asked whether Mr. Polanski should do jail time, were uncertain. "It was a lifetime ago, the victim has forgiven him, he has suffered enough in his life" were a few of the responses I heard. As for Letterman, "he wasn't married at the time, the women he had sexual relations with appear not to have been coerced for fear of losing their jobs and, that gap tooth thing is pretty sexy."  (See, my parents could have not made that correction and I might have had the life experiences of Madonna and/or Lauren Hutton and/or Omar Sharif).

Of course, others thought it quite odd that it took the authorities so long to "apprehend" Polanski. He should be tried, found guilty and serve time, they said. Letterman's behavior should, they continued, be assessed for the possibility of sexual harassment in the workplace. Or, he could be made to listen, on a continuous loop, all the Clinton, Edwards, Spitzer et.al jokes he made, as well as being fodder for other talk show hosts and stand up comedians. But then again, there might be a cast the first stone conflict here…

So, if you'd like, add to my informal survey. Or admit to your transgressions. Either one works.

So sad, just when I was thinking about becoming a Matador (Matadoressa?) it appears that the art of the bullfight is circling the drain. Tis the twilight of the matadors, ah me.

Which, of course, probably is a good thing. Not only for the bull, but for those of us with such aspirations. 

Really, have you considered how you'd look in those outfits? Toreador pants are leggings without the benefit of knee high boots. And, the bolero jacket. Sparkly or otherwise it just doesn't flatter the body. It's too short to cover any waistline bulges that might make their presence known after a paella and sangria lunch. 

I strongly suggest if one is going to pick a sport to participate in, then one should take some serious note of the accompanying outfit.

Which explains, other than a profound fear of panicking and drowning, why I don't scuba dive. Lloyd Bridges looked good in a wet suit. Most others, don't. Even if I could make do with the suit, the hood and goggles look is simply not flattering. My hair and eyes, you see, are my best features.

Fly fishing is a good one. A simple shirt and slacks accompanied by a humongous pair of waders held by suspenders, while not a fashion statement, does seem to leave the body image intact.

I will continue to consider my options. 

Bowling, badminton and shuffleboard are, right now, high on my list.