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Free speech stands at a precarious crossroads, and Jimmy Kimmel's return to late-night television represents far more than just entertainment—it's a barometer for democracy's health. As he steps back into the spotlight following controversy, the fundamental question looms: Will he continue his trademark political comedy undaunted, or will pressure from powerful figures cause him to self-censor? The answer matters for all of us.

The timing coincides with Libra season, traditionally associated with balance and justice—fitting symbolism as we weigh the scales between courage and compliance. As someone who received opportunities from Kimmel's show later in life, I'm grateful for platforms that amplify diverse voices. At almost 78, finding work as "a crabby old lady" reminds me that authenticity matters, whether on screen or in civic life. There truly "are no small parts, just small actors."

Patriotism itself has become contested territory, transformed from simple national pride into something weaponized and exclusionary. When government agencies threaten journalists and politicians target perceived enemies through social media, self-censorship becomes the first quiet surrender before more visible freedoms fall. If celebrities with wealth, influence and platform privilege cannot speak freely, what hope exists for average citizens? Tonight's show isn't just about laughs—it's about whether we still believe in Franklin Delano Roosevelt's wisdom that "we have nothing to fear but fear itself." Watch closely, because this moment reveals whether we'll stand tall or bend to intimidation.

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The passing of Hollywood legend Robert Redford at 89 has unleashed a flood of memories about the golden-haired heartthrob who defined an era of cinema. From his early appearance on The Twilight Zone playing Death to his unforgettable performances in classics like "Barefoot in the Park," "The Way We Were," and "The Sting," Redford embodied the quintessential American dreamboat that captured hearts across generations.

For a Jewish girl from Brooklyn, Redford represented something particularly special – the ultimate "shaggitz boy" fantasy with his striking blonde hair and mesmerizing blue eyes. That archetype of the non-Jewish heartthrob extended to other stars like Paul Newman, Troy Donahue, and the handsome faces of Warner Brothers productions like "77 Sunset Strip." When Redford and Newman appeared together in "The Sting," it created a perfect storm of charisma that left audiences swooning. The 1973 release of "The Way We Were" opposite Barbra Streisand further cemented Redford's status as the golden boy whose mere presence was magnetic.

This heartfelt tribute explores how celebrity crushes shape our understanding of desire and attraction – how the fantasy of blue-eyed, blonde-haired leading men informed not just entertainment preferences but personal dreams. Redford's legacy lives on not just in his impressive filmography but in the hearts of those who dared to dream about him from the darkness of movie theaters across America. His passing marks the end of an era when movie stars truly felt larger than life, leaving behind memories of a man who was, without question, truly loved. What actors captured your heart and imagination during your formative years? Share your memories and join us in celebrating the dreamboats who defined Hollywood's golden age.

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"My Bubbie was my real mother," I share, reflecting on the profound legacy of my grandmother Gertrude who emigrated from Poland in the early 1900s. Her unconditional love created a foundation that shaped my entire life, especially meaningful since my biological mother struggled with what I now recognize as borderline personality disorder.

Grandparents Day awakens bittersweet emotions as I navigate the complex reality of being a grandmother myself. While I cherish memories of my three grandsons, I've been denied access to them, including my youngest whom I've never met. During our time together, I channeled my Bubbies spirit, offering the same acceptance and love that was so transformative in my own childhood. These experiences highlight how grandparent relationships can be both healing and heartbreaking.

At nearly 78, I'm also navigating health challenges, including recent COVID and flu vaccinations that left me with significant side effects. With asthma, these preventative measures remain essential despite temporary discomfort. Throughout life's difficulties—whether family separation or health concerns—I carry forward my grandmother's legacy of unconditional love. That's why I always remind my listeners: "If nobody told you they love you today, I love you because you're you." Join me next time for part two of "I Hated High School" as we continue exploring life's meaningful moments together.

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Remember that crushing feeling of not belonging? That's what my high school years felt like—every single day. Standing at just 4'10" and weighing 98 pounds, I'd schlep my heavy art portfolio on the D train to a school I never wanted to attend, desperately hoping someone would see me.

My mother forced me to attend the High School of Art and Design despite my acceptance into a performing arts school. "You could always be an actor, but you'll be an actor who pays," she insisted. Meanwhile, my handsome brother was the "big man on campus" while I remained invisible. I perfected sneaky tactics like manipulating thermometers to fake fevers and escape school early. When a senior boy finally showed interest in me, it was only because "he liked very skinny girls"—and his girlfriend quickly warned me to stay away.

The pain of those years still feels fresh—I never attended my prom (though I pretended I did), threw out my yearbook, and endured disastrous computer dates that ranged from inappropriate comments to a literal car crash. Without guidance counselors or understanding parents, I navigated those turbulent years completely alone.

That's why I now reach out to teenagers struggling through similar experiences. You're not alone, and high school doesn't define you. Whether you're questioning your identity, dealing with rejection, or simply feeling lost in the social hierarchy, TikTok Bubby is here to listen. Life gets so much better afterward—I promise. If you're gay, trans, lesbian, drag, bi, or just feeling misunderstood, know that I accept you completely for who you are. Message me anytime, and remember: if nobody told you they love you today, I love you because you're you.

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The tragic news of someone finally taking responsibility in Matthew Perry's fatal overdose case has touched me deeply. Jasveen Sangha has agreed to plead guilty to federal charges for providing the ketamine that ultimately claimed Perry's life last October. As someone approaching four decades of sobriety, this case resonates with the harsh realities of addiction I've witnessed throughout my recovery journey.

My path to sobriety began in 1985, marked by early struggles, a brief relapse, and finally committing to recovery on November 12th of that year. Like many, I faced cultural stigmas about addiction—my father's dismissive claim that "there are no Jewish alcoholics" reflects misconceptions that still persist today. These attitudes can prevent people from seeking the help they desperately need.

What troubles me most about Perry's case is how it highlights a dangerous truth about addiction recovery: despite what advertisements might promise, no pill alone can maintain sobriety. Having battled my own demons—martinis and vodka that once fueled bar fights in my drinking days—I understand the allure of quick fixes. But lasting recovery demands more than medication; it requires comprehensive support and personal commitment.

To anyone struggling right now: recovery isn't easy, but nothing truly worthwhile ever is. Take it one day at a time. Matthew Perry's story ended tragically, but countless others find their way to lasting sobriety every day. If nobody has told you they love you today, I love you. You matter, exactly as you are. Stay sober today—just for today—and know you're never alone in this journey.

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Heroes shape our worldviews in ways that echo through decades. Robert F. Kennedy was that transformative figure for me—not just a politician, but a beacon of compassion in a turbulent era.

Through a reflective reading of a New York Times article, I share the story of RFK's tragic assassination on that fateful night in June 1968. What strikes me most was Kennedy's authenticity—how even in his moment of triumph after winning the California primary, he took time to acknowledge the kitchen workers, predominantly people of color who were invisible to most politicians. This wasn't political calculation but genuine connection. As journalist Pete Hamill described, Kennedy moved through "the sort of place where Puerto Ricans, blacks and Mexican-Americans usually work to fill white stomachs," showing respect to those society often overlooked.

The loss of RFK came just months after Martin Luther King Jr.'s assassination, a devastating one-two punch that left many baby boomers like myself questioning if meaningful change was possible. Kennedy had been the one who broke the news of King's death to a predominantly Black audience with rare vulnerability, noting his own brother had been killed by a white man. While cities burned following King's murder, Indianapolis—where Kennedy spoke—remained calm, a testament to his unique ability to bridge divides.

I can't help but contrast Robert Kennedy's legacy of humility and compassion with what I perceive as the disappointing trajectory of his son, RFK Jr. For those who revered the father, the son's recent political positions feel like a betrayal of everything the original RFK stood for—his love for "everybody, especially the poor and the weak." Between reflections on this political heartbreak, I share glimpses of my current life—cleaning my new apartment, embracing simple joys, and reminding you that if nobody told you today, you are loved just for being you.

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I'm moving to a smaller apartment in our building because we can't afford our current place. After 10 years here and decades in LA, another move at 77 while caring for my husband with dementia feels overwhelming.

• Need to find additional work beyond acting and TikTok to supplement our income
• My lighting business was successful before I gave it up to pursue acting full-time
• Recently experienced severe depression and thoughts of not wanting to live
• Today is my estranged grandson Jackson's 18th birthday - haven't seen him in 13 years
• Moving requires sorting through accumulated possessions and dealing with emotional attachments
• Taking life one day at a time and focusing on my recovery program

If nobody told you they love you today, I love you because you're you. Keep doing what you're doing.

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Baseball connects us to our past in ways few other sports can. Today, I'm taking you back to the streets of Brooklyn in 1955, where a little girl fell in love with the Dodgers while her family was divided in their baseball loyalties. My father cheered for Willie Mays and the Giants, my brother worshipped Mickey Mantle and the Yankees, but my heart belonged to Brooklyn's Boys of Summer.

The crown jewel of my baseball memories remains Sandy Koufax, the Left Arm of God himself. Born in December 1935, Koufax transformed baseball during his 12 seasons with the Brooklyn/Los Angeles Dodgers. His achievements remain staggering - three unanimous Cy Young Awards, an MVP season in 1963, and a Hall of Fame induction at just 36 years old. What's most remarkable is how Koufax dominated the sport despite retiring at 30 due to chronic elbow pain, long before modern sports medicine might have extended his career.

My passionate defense of Koufax comes in response to a Los Angeles Times article suggesting Clayton Kershaw has surpassed him as the greatest Dodgers pitcher ever. While Kershaw deserves celebration for reaching 3,000 strikeouts, comparing modern players to legends from different eras often fails to account for crucial context. Today's pitchers benefit from advanced training, carefully managed workloads, and medical treatments that simply didn't exist during Koufax's time. Some baseball legacies should stand untouched, honored for not just what was accomplished but how those feats were achieved. For this Brooklyn girl, Sandy Koufax remains baseball's ultimate pitching icon, regardless of what modern sportswriters might claim.

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