Thursday, July 5, 2018


Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

Yes, I know yesterday was July 4th, but I'm writing this yesterday so my title is appropriate.

Here's what I've decided to do about Woody Allen movies:

I'm not going to stop watching the movies he made that I love, such as Annie Hall, Manhattan, Radio Days, Hannah and Her Sisters, and Midnight in Paris. Art can transcend the artist.

However, I'm not going to watch any movies that he makes in the future. I'm also not going to purchase any of his movies on DVD.

I believe Dylan Farrow, who has a very specific recollection of him molesting her when she was a child. I don't care that he was acquitted. So was O.J. Simpson.

Her brother Ronan also stands by her, and he played a big part in breaking the Harvey The Rapist news (I'll be writing more about that very soon).

I'm going to continue watching movies made by Harvey Wienerstein's company because I don't think he'll ever make another movie––may he rot in prison with Bill Cosby.

Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

Franklin, Penelope, and I are quite miserable because of the fireworks.

Wednesday, July 4, 2018


Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

Don't get upset or worried. I've never been raped or attaacked.

When I was younger, I got a lot of catcalls. Men came on to me in the grocery store even when I had a toddler with me and was wearing my wedding ring.

The "interest" from men was the worst when I was a reporter. Sometimes men I interviewed made suggestive remarks. A couple of guys followed me out to my car and didn't want to stop talking, apparently in the hope that I'd be so interested that I'd follow them to their beds.

A publisher once grabbed me by the arm––roughly––and I gave him holy hell in front of the entire newsroom and told him to never touch me again. He was quite respectful and careful after that. However, this anecdote doesn't mean that I think all women can get out of such situations as easily as I did. I wasn't worried about losing my job. I wasn't worried that I wouldn't be promoted.

In fact, when I applied for a different job several years later, the office manager called that publisher, who told the office manager that I had more integrity than anyone else he'd ever worked with.

My mind is on #METOO and it has been for quite some time. I have no problem with giving up reruns of Bill Cosby's sitcom because I didn't watch them anyway, but what do I do about the Woody Allen movies I love? What about Harvey Weinstein movies? Am I still able to separate the artist from the art?

On that note, I want to repeat a post I wrote a long time ago. I'll also be following up on this subject, so my #METOO will be continued. And if you'd like to share #METOO stories in a guest post on my blog, please email me at

Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

I promised you a work of art that achieves transcendence despite its creepiness factor and here it is: Manhattan, starring Woody Allen, Diane Keaton, and Mariel Hemingway.

LOVE this movie.

The glory of Gershwin, the sweet loveliness of young Mariel Hemingway, the skyline of our beautiful city. This film is a love affair with New York, in glorious black and white.

Its creepiness factor? Woody Allen's character, Isaac, is having an affair with 17-year-old Tracy, played by the oh-so-innocent looking Mariel. It become even more creepy knowing that Woody had an affair with his now wife when she was quite young (she's still very young), and she grew up with Allen as the father figure in her life. 

Who has an affair with the daughter of his longtime girlfriend with whom he's had a child and lets Mama find out when she discovers nude photos of her daughter in her "husband's" apartment?

Woody Allen.

We all know it. We know it's wrong. But somehow most of us look past it (it's o.k. Mia we still love you) and we still love his films.

I am extraordinarily fond of Annie Hall. Was Diane Keaton ever more beautiful? La di da, la di da.

But it's Manhattan that I truly adore. 

It's magic.

I read on IMDB that Woody offered to make another picture for free for Universal if they would shelve Manhattan. He supposedly thought it was terrible and the worst thing he had ever done.

I hope he got over it, and if he didn't, then I disrespectfully disagree with him.

Isaac Davis: Chapter One. He adored New York City. He idolized it all out of proportion. Eh uh, no, make that he, he romanticized it all out of proportion. Better. To him, no matter what the season was, this was still a town that existed in black and white and pulsated to the great tunes of George Gershwin. Uh, no, let me start this over. 
Isaac Davis: Chapter One: He was too romantic about Manhattan, as he was about everything else. He thrived on the hustle bustle of the crowds and the traffic. To him, New York meant beautiful women and street smart guys who seemed to know all the angles. Ah, corny, too corny for, you know, my taste. Let me, let me try and make it more profound. 

It's profound, Isaac.

Splendor in the skyline, glory in the concrete. I love New York. And it just doesn't get any better than Rhapsody in Blue.

I published this post on Sept. 21, 2010. Prior to writing this defense, I wrote a post about One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest that you can read HERE if you're so inclined.

Mariel Hemingway in Manhattan

Monday, June 25, 2018


Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

Remember when I told you about The Great American Read?

No? Then check out this post.

On days that I'm extra busy––which is almost everyday––I only vote for my all-time favorite:

However, I've also voted for


Additionally, I've now read another book from the list of 100, which brings me to 44 of the books. I don't know why I never read this great book before:

I still hope to read 50 of the books by the time voting ends on Oct. 18. I have my next book picked out. It's by an author I really like, so I should have another update on my reading in a few weeks.

Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

Thursday, June 21, 2018


singing: O, Canada, our home and native land . . . oops! Sorry. I was practicing.

Canadian Sisterhood . . . and Maxwell,

I have some questions for you. I've wanted to move to Canada for quite some time, and my longing has only grown stronger as the bupkiss in The White House does one stupid thing after another. He's so awful that he's not even a joke anymore.

So what do you think about me joining you in Canada? I know it's very different from Florida, but I've lived with ice and snow before. I just need to buy a coat and some mittens.

I do have concerns. First, I know that to get into Canada legally (and I would never ever do anything illegal) that I need to be able to get a job. I don't want to reveal where I work or exactly what I do, but I think I can tell you that the biggest part of my job is listening to people whine. You don't seem to be a nation of whiners, so do you think I have a chance of finding a job?

Second, where should I live? I've been to Montreal, Vancouver, and Victoria. They're very nice, but I have a bit of a hankering to live in Nova Scotia. Is that a mistake? What part of the country if the most affordable?

Finally--and this is a big, very important question--am I nice enough to live in Canada? I know that Franklin would be welcome because no one is nicer than Franklin. Penelope is a bit persnickety, but once you see how cute her underbite is I know you'll fall in love with her. It's me that I'm not sure about.

I floss and brush. I bathe and deodorize. I don't have weapons of mass destruction. In fact, I've never had a gun and I never will. I oppose the death penalty. I think Justin Trudeau is as cute and bright as a new (American) penny. I'll help you keep Justin Bieber from returning.

But is that enough?

How will I know if I'm nice enough? Can you tell me? I really, really need your help.

And for those of you in the U.S. who are tempted to leave comments that say America: love it or leave it, you can bite my pink butt. I do love my country, but I don't have to love what's happening to it.

Let me know, please, my Canadian sisters: Am I nice enough to be a Canadian?

Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug, who isn't really going anyplace

I think I should mention that Favorite Young Man will probably come along. He'll fix your cars. And we can learn to say "eh." I'll add the letter "u" to words. Whatever it takes, I'll do it.

Friday, June 15, 2018


Hello. It is I, Penelope.

Mom Mom has a new nickname for me. I am "Killer Queen."

I bet you can't guess why.

One evening Mom went to get the laundry from the dryer. She was gone for about five minutes. When she came back, this is what she saw on my chair:

I found one of the bugs that Mom Mom hates, and I tore it to pieces. The thing next to it is my chew toy.

Mom Mom wanted to photograph me next to my kill. I declined. I felt shy about sharing my power.

But I know Mom Mom is proud of me.

I am, indeed, Killer Queen.

That is all. Goodbye.

Maybe another name for me can be Penny Mercury.

Wednesday, June 6, 2018


Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

I am immersed in The West Wing. I never watched it when it was on TV. Now I have a date with Netflix for every available minute in my day.

The Silver Fox, who blogs from his lair (where else would he blog?) told me that I would like this show and he was right.

However, The Silver Fox is not always right. We are in the middle of an argument concerning Woody Allen. No, I'm not telling you about the argument, at least not right now, so don't ask me.

At one point during this argument, I told him that if he is ever charged with a crime. then I will arrange to be on the jury so I can vote guilty.

He said, I know you would.

I am a woman to be taken seriously.  In fact, they call me . . . The Jackal.

Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

Friday, June 1, 2018


Small balls, big balls.
Short balls, tall balls.
Some people have more balls than others.

But the biggest balls of all,
The balls that make me laugh until I fall
Are the balls behind the newest book on my wall:

Congratulations to author Robyn Alana Engel and illustrator Steve Ferchaud, who have a new book coming out on Monday (cover designed by Bryan Pedas of A Beer For The Shower fame). I had the privilege of a preview and thought it quite clever, which is no surprise since it comes from the insane brain behind Life by Chocolate.

Here's a little taste of what you'll get when this book belongs to you:

One of the King’s most favored
things of all
was to swing
long rods at tiny balls.

Clueless Clan fans cheered him on.
“You win, feared Man!
You do know wrong!”

The King replied,
“I no good, it’s true.
I wrote the

Star Scrambled Egg song too!”

The Trumpeter's New Clothes is a short book, about the length of a young child's book, but it's an adult read. The illustrations are excellent and made me laugh out loud. This is a book you'll want to take to parties to share with your friends.

The Trumpeter's New Clothes earns The Highest Balltastic Janie Junebug Seal of Approval.

Note: The book begins with a warning that it's not for those who lean orange,and watch out if you have a case of sandarakinophobiatoo.

The book is now available on Amazon at