Un blast from le past

Last night's funny moment from French class did not involve my bellowing a very American "crap!" when I discovered I suck at math in French as well as I do in English. Nor did it involve my tortured pronunciation of "fruits frais"--I sound at best like a three-year-old asking for "fwee fway"--for which I am somewhat famous in certain circles in Montréal.

Non, last night's humo(u)r was supplied by a fellow student who shared a "French moment" with the class when she began describing the plot of the movie Bon Cop, Bad Cop, a 2006 Québec-The Rest of Canada co-production and box office tour-de-(uh) farce in that big country located somewhere north of us.

At least I thought it was funny. I had to laugh because I think I am one of a handful of Americans, let alone French students in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, that could contribute to the plot points and recall some of the jokes from the movie, which is something like the third highest grossing film of all time in O, Canada.

C'est un petit monde, or something like that, to say the least.

I first became acquainted with the movie during a job interview in Kitchener-Waterloo around the weekend of release in summer 2006. The movie was pretty much everywhere that weekend. Even one of the weekly alterna-papers at the time of release had redubbed its editors and writers as either bon cop or bad cop in the masthead. Lorne McGuinty, Bon Cop. Genevieve Simcoe, Bad Cop. You get the idea.

Despite because a huge hit in Canada, the movie never crossed south, suffering perhaps from a cultural triple whammy of Canada-made, half or more of the dialog in French, and a plot involving a serial murder among the "hockey community." I think we can all agree that pretty much spells box office death in these parts.

Eventually I found it on Netflix, and I liked it better than I thought I would. A crowd-pleaser to be sure with a fair amount of blood, gore, and some very broad humor. A couple of examples--the very graphic "body of work" you'll see in the trailer (was that really necessary?) plus this ongoing joke--hated (at least in Canada) National Hockey League (NHL) commissioner, Gary Bettman, is parodied and pilloried as a very short-statured, malevolent whiner who goes by the name of Harry Buttman.

Huh huh. Harry Buttman. Get it?

So the movie's no Incendies, nor a Jésus de Montréal, nor even a C.R.A.Z.Y. Still, it's a funny, silly, popular, if somewhat standard-issue cop/buddy flick that's actually more entertaining and less cringe-inducing than the trailer would lead you to believe.

As added incentive to watch, Patrick Huard, the Québécois lead, spends a lot of screen-time shirtless and possibly even trouserless, at least if memory serves.

Pray tell me how can this be wrong?

Except that Msr. Huard also was responsible for the scenario upon which the movie was based. So being that he probably crafted the scenes in which he appears less than clothed, he is automatically disqualified as boyfriend material on account of a raging case of ego.

Nevertheless, one can observe and learn from the poor moral choices of others.

The stamp act

All I can say about this is--

Justin Bieber! Justin Bieber! Justin Bieber! Justin Bieber!

Even though he is technically Canadian.

(Not that there's anything wrong with that.)

A more traditional (and proudly American) choice might be a Kim Kardashian stamp, as pretty much everybody's licked her backside already. Less of a shock to the system, although, really, in that scenario, a shock should be the least of your worries. You'd be lucky if your tongue didn't disintegrate on contact with her "sticky side."

"Ew" is right.

* * *

"Can I Get One Sheet of the Lady Gagas . . . " New York Times, 27 September 2011. http://www.nytimes.com/2011/09/27/us/postal-service-will-begin-honoring-living-people-on-stamps.html.

London calling (but you don't have to answer if you're busy)

I am, with this post, confessing my full-fledged nerdiness to the world.

(As if there was ever much doubt, I know . . . )

One of the things that has kept me occupied of late (other than bidding a tearful farewell to the citizens of Pine Valley, the most interesting town in Pennsylvania, closely followed by Llanview) is my latest podcast, "The Sounds of Shortwave Radio, Part 1," which you can listen to or download by visiting here.

While I've only done a handful of podcasts so far, this was by far the more difficult one to create, for a number of reasons, pretty much all of them out of my control.

For one, I picked a rather obscure topic--the interval or tuning signals (sometimes known as signature tunes) used by international radio broadcasters during the 1970s and '80s. I know, I know--but believe you me I've certainly seen more obscure (and, I might add, far less interesting) thesis and dissertation topics in my time. Lucky you, my creative output involves not even one reference to "epistemology" or "sub-altern studies."

The challenge here was that while I knew some of the tunes in my head, I didn't know the songs they were based upon--or even whether they were based on anything at all. Maybe they were the Casio musings of some frustrated, wannabe-cruise ship performer that had sidelined into a career as a radio technician. How should I know? Even with a Wikipedia page and the World Radio TV Handbook as able assistants, I still had to do a lot of research to uncover the facts.

For another, to get around my lack of knowledge about the actual songs most of the interval signals were based on, I was just planning to snag some mp3s off the internet and play those tunes in the podcast, along with some other, radio-related music. Pretty simple and given that these were 30-second tunes used by mostly public broadcasters 20, 30, 40 years ago, I was sure, if I could find them, there would be no problem employing them in my podcast.

Ha bloody ha. I could definitely find them (at the bottom of this post, you'll find some links to explore on your own *and* send hate mail to the site owners on my behalf), but most if not all were locked down so tightly for copyright purposes. And not by the copyright holder, the person or institution that created the tune, but by the person or persons who made off-air recordings of the signals.

Admittedly, copyright law is confusing, and far be it from me to argue anyone's logic, although any casual examination of the doctrine of fair use would probably stand mostly in my favor for re-using your work--especially when "your work" consists of sticking a tape recorder next to your radio speakers sometime in 1977!

Besides, even if my fair use arguments don't sway you or the powers-that-judge, there are a number of Creative Commons alternatives available to help share "your work" and gain attribution for it.

You're welcome!

Of course, I didn't realize I couldn't add these works to the podcast until after I wrote the script. So I rewrote the script, only to find that, when recorded with music, the whole thing stretched to nearly two hours in length. (What, me wordy?) Which just seemed cruel and unusual for all of us. So that resulted in a third rewrite and a re-recording of much of what I had already done.

All that aside, I had my usual "local" issues to contend with--the freight rail line that runs near my apartment, for starters, along with the playing-basketball-with-concrete-planters approach to life of my upstairs neighbors' two miniature, thug-based lifeforms.


Nonetheless, the podcast is done, and there is, as far as I can tell, a minimum of floor stomping, crying over time-outs, and bowling with the family cat and fine china going on in the background.


I do suffer for my art, such as it is. Hopefully you'll be able to overlook the bloodstains and the empty pill bottles to enjoy what you can of it.

* * *

Some places on the internet to hear actual interval signals and signature tunes:

• Interval Signals Online: http://www.intervalsignals.net/

• Kurzwelle Historisch ("Historic Shortwave" is my rough translation): http://www.kurzwelle-historisch.de/

• Interval Signal Database: http://en.intervalsignals.org/db/index.php

• Interval Signal Library: http://www.kawamura-photo.sakura.ne.jp/bcl/

* * *

Signals to listen for--a few of my favorites; focus on those used during the 1970s and 1980s, my "golden age" of shortwave listening:

• All India Radio

• BBC Caribbean Relay Station, Antigua ("Oranges and Lemons")

• Kol Israel, the Voice of Israel

• Radio Australia ("Waltzing Matilda" and the cackling of a kookaburra)

• Radio Bangladesh

• Radio France Internationale (the children's song, "Nous n'irons plus au bois")

• Radio Moscow ("Moscow Nights")

• Radio Norway International (a folk tune from the Hallingdal region; also featured in Symphony No. 1, "Towards the Mountains," by Eivind Groven)

• Radio Polonia ("Revolutionary Etude" by Frederic Chopin)

• Radio RSA: The Voice of South Africa (Apartheid bad! "Ver in die Wereld Kittie" played on the guitar and the chirping of the boemakierie good!)

• Radio Sweden (different ones were used in the 1970s and more contemporary times--both have, to me, a haunting, "Nordic" quality about them)

• RAE: Radiodifusión Argentina al Exterior

• Spanish Foreign Radio/Radio Exterior de España

There are others, but this is a good, under-2-hour start.

Stockholm syndrome

Why is it that everytime I see a headline that reads something like "Cheers as Abbas take stage at U.N." or "Abbas returns to hero's welcome" or "Abbas declares 'spring'has begun," for a moment I forget myself and muse, ahhh, at last, the liberation of Björn, Benny, Agnetha, and Frida is nigh!

Rather obviously, the cobwebs haven't been cleared out of my mind since 1974. Here's to peaceful co-existence in the Middle East--and blue sateen forever.

All my decisions

Please select the one best answer--

You spent the day before at work having your emails edited, then getting those edited emails approved before they could be distributed to others for further editing and approval. You spent the end of the day at therapy discussing your impending milestone birthday and your frustrating job as, apparently, an email generator.

Afterwards, you skipped the gym, went home, gorged on those thin Fig Newton cookies, which probably would have been a healthy snack alternative if you hadn't decided to polish off the whole bag in two days' time. You bawled your eyes out as Adam (played by David Canary) brought his almost-dead twin Stuart (played by David Canary) back to life on the penultimate episode of All My Children, wondering how he managed to channel the appearance and spirit of your late father in Stuart's resurrection.

Afterwards, you debated drafting more emails for editing, playing The Sims until bedtime, or continuing the hard slog through the 500+-page novel  about the end of Apartheid you've been cringing your way through since early August.

Now it is just before dawn, Friday morning, September 23, 2011.

What would you do?

(a) Rise at 5:30 am the following day to be on time for an exciting morning of strategic planning with consultants who are prepared to tell you reams, yards, bushels, bolts about what you already know about doing your life's work (with PowerPoints!!!)?

(b) Call in sick to work in order to watch Susan Lucci on The View, followed by the final episode of the 41-year-run of All My Children?

The best use of my time and my intellect is clearly (b). If you didn't know that already, then you should not be reading this blog.

But the likely answer is (a). So you knew me well enough to figure in the guilt and responsibility angle into my decision-making process. Well played.

Just when you really need Alanis Morissette, she's never around

Headline from today's BBC News website reads: "Assange criticises unauthorised Wikileaks memoir."

Oh, isn't it ironic? Don't you think . . . ?

You can stop the music if you really try

Ripped from the headlines! The Village People to headline concert at Carnegie Music Hall in Munhall!

Where they will no doubt debut their new single release, "A.A.R.P." Sung to the tune of "Y.M.C.A.," natch.

Hard to believe that this is same venue at which I saw Patti Smith perform in 2007.

Hard to believe that this same group had its first hit thirty years before that.

2gether, 4ever

Spotted on Meade Street, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, USA

I support traditional marriage.

As long as it's between 1 Robot and 1 Octopus.

"Arrrgh!" That's all I got.

I am told that today is International Talk Like a Pirate Day.

Shame on me for lacking fluency in Somali.

So for World Zombie Eat Brains Week you'll be expecting me to learn Haitian Creole?

Bon chagren . . .

Cluckin' around

Yesterday, while driving home from the gym, I was listening to a now rare jazz program on one of our local public radio stations, the former WDUQ, a station that now goes by the totally ridiculous moniker, "Essential Public Radio."

Anyway, the announcer said he was going to play a version of "In the Mood" (remember the Glenn Miller song? Well, apparently it has legs well before the '40s), one that we, the dear listeners, probably hadn't heard before.

I was so disappointed when he didn't play the one with the chickens.

Lessons learned from the neighbors #2

After being awakened at 5:12 am by child #1 running repeatedly up down the upstairs apartment's hallway (happily, I should add, not crying for a change), I am now willing to speed-learn whatever language the parents are yelling at the child. My contribution to cross-cultural bonding and, it must be said, my slightly less altruistic effort to lend a helping hand to the parents to get both of their wayward offspring under control.

I am also willing to buy additional earplugs, buy a white noise machine, pray for additional train traffic and ambulance noises nearby, and sleep elsewhere on a rotation schedule to be determined by the happy couple upstairs, all as part of my effort to avoid having to hear the rhythmic, tell-tale (but a little too quick, if you ask me) squeaking of the couple's matrimonial bed as they frequently and eagerly drive home toward child number three.

I am also willing to open up a can of whup-ass on my landlord for failing to fix the sound-proofing/insulation problem between the upstairs and downstairs apartments and, instead, by way of "compromise," moving a family of four (and apparently soon to be more) into the unit above me.

Essentially, I'm a giving person.

Serge protector

"Comment te dire adieu"--Probably my favorite Serge Gainsbourg song, as performed by Françoise Hardy.



One benefit of this video--other than getting to hear and see Françoise Hardy perform--is that someone transcribed the lyrics of the song for the viewer. Thus, even if you don't know French well or much at all, you get a sense of the cleverness of the words she is singing.

I'm sorry, but Jimmy Sommerville cries himself to sleep at night wishing he could be this good.

* * *

Oh, and here are some more to choose from, but hélas, I can't embed these like I want to.

Catch them while you can on YouTube:

• Serge Gainsbourg and Brigitte Bardot: "Bonnie and Clyde"
• Serge Gainsbourg and Brigitte Bardot: "Comic Strip"
• Serge Gainsbourg and Jane Birkin: "Ballade de Melody Nelson"
• Serge Gainsbourg: "Sea, Sex, and Sun"
• Serge Gainsbourg: "Requiem pour un con" (excerpt)

I especially like the video for "Ballade de Melody Nelson." If I recall correctly, it was made in the early '70s for a French TV special, it seems very modern with it's repeated "video sample" of Jane Birkin tossing her hair everytime she sings "Melodeeeee Nelsonnnnn."

"Sea, Sex, and Sun" is terrific disco froth. No explanation needed. And "Bonnie and Clyde" and "Requiem pour un con" ("Requiem for a jerk") show the grittier side of Serge, one that isn't so busy playing the pervy ol' troll.

What to make of all the leering and "luridity" of ol' Serge, though? In the biography, Serge Gainsbourg: A Fistful of Gitanes, Sylvie Simmons reports Jane Birkin saying that Serge was actually quite pudique. (Jane claims that there's no English equivalent for this word; my French-English dictionary says it means "modest." Close enough.) And yet he loved to write songs with suggestive lyrics and themes--"Les sucettes," sung by poor France Gall, who definitely did not get that the song's subtext referred to oral sex; "Melody Nelson" and "Sea, Sex, and Sun" both telling the tale of older men involved in relationships with Lolitas; and "Lemon Incest," a duet with his pubescent daughter, Charlotte Gainsbourg, that namechecks a thankfully only metaphysical love that dares speak its name in the title.

Was Serge a creep? I think he was more self-consciously creepy than an actual creep, although the latter musical example certain gets up the nose of my sensibilities, to be sure. From the sound of it, ol' Serge liked to provoke, to shock, to upset. That's all well and good; sometimes we all need to be shaken out of our mental ruts and rigidity, whether we want to or not. I kind of loved a few years ago when there were those "marriage-ins" in San Francisco, and a certain element of our overstimulated, overly testy population, got so worked up about it, that somehow same-sex couples marrying en masse and with bravado was the ultimate scourge to human society. Too, too funny.

And, after a while, too, too easy. Some people are so easy to shock; it makes it hardly a challenge. In the case of Serge, while that tendency to shock probably came from his outsider status (an intelligent man operating in a frothy, "baby pop" world; his homely, not-matinee-idol looks; his Jewishness in a post-war France that would just as soon have forgotten about its past role in the war), after a while, late in life, the repeated attempts to provoke just seemed too self-conscious, too eager, and, ultimately, too desperate. Where's the fun in that?

Nonetheless, in general, I love Serge's music, his lyrics (what I can understand of them at least), and the different personae he created to convey his songs. I just wish he had left poor France Gall alone. She had to be pretty innocent--or really dense--not to get the subtext of "Les sucettes."



But it's kind of sad all the same. And, again, too, too easy.

You ought (not) to be in pictures

What a world we live in to spend so much time and energy focused on some old scandal-prone slag with fascist tendencies.

I'm of course talking about Bessie Wallis Warfield Spencer Simpson Windsor, the subject of Madonna's new movie, W.E. Honest.

The week's best headline (so far) comes to us in French from the online daily news site, Cyberpresse.ca, based in Montréal.

I translate the headline, "Madonna cinéaste? Hélas, pas encore . . ." in two ways:

"Madonna a filmmaker? Alas, not yet . . ."

Or my preferred version, "Madonna a filmmaker? Good grief, not again . . . ."

I suspect the former is more accurate, but the latter is more fun to read--and closer to world opinion, I would imagine.

I won't translate the entire article--we'd be here all day and then some--but in the second paragraph, the author remarks on the "obstinancy with which Madonna applies herself to cinema to be both touching and troubling."

Or possibly just really, really tiresome.

* * *

I've just finished a biography of the famed French composer of popular song (and all-around provocateur), Serge Gainsbourg (Serge Gainsbourg: A Fistful of Gitanes by Sylvie Simmons), in which the author contemplates Serge's possible frustration with his creative, uh, oeuvre. Monsieur Gainsbourg successfully composed  musically and lyrically innovative, clever, and appealing popular songs for himself and many others and was always striving for new sounds, expanding the bounds of language, and challenging himself and others with his work.

And yet . . . he also attempted to write, paint, photograph, make commercials (!), and make films, with varying degrees of success, all perhaps as a way to be seen as more "serious." Simmons speculates that Gainsbourg did so because he didn't fully appreciate his songwriting, because composing came so easily to him and because he was writing pop songs, not heavy, more "consequential" works.

The author of the Cyberpresse article makes some of the same points about Madonna, that her filmmaking is a way to be taken seriously, when, in fact, she's already very good at what she does.

If history serves as a guide, I don't think any of the critics--or me--are bound to change Madonna's mind, that's for sure. If the critical or popular reaction to Swept Away, The Next Best Thing, Body of Evidence, or Shanghai Surprise didn't do it, clearly nothing will.

Lessons learned from the neighbors

#1: Yelling at your child to stop his crying (in a language the child appears not to understand) is less effective as a parenting strategy than you might imagine.

Scratching my DJ itch: "Lujon" and beyond

I possibly have too many forms of social media going on at once--Facebook, Twitter, a MobileMe gallery, a Me.com website, a couple of YouTube accounts, to name but a few too many. Heck, I think I still have a presence on MySpace out there somewhere.

So in this new blog-carnation, I want to collide a few worlds and try to mix up my media some. I'll begin by sharing some of the music podcasts I've done over the last couple of years. They're nothing fancy, and I'm still learning tricks and tips with the Garage Band technology I use. But I hope you'll enjoy nonetheless.

I am a frustrated DJ, remixer, and radio presenter. If I thought my recorded voice was better, I might have gone into that line of work, but, alas, no. So now you have to suffer the consequences. And you get to do so in stereo, so to speak, with two music podcasting series I've created--I Pop, Therefore I Am and Pop Tarts, a theoretically condensed version of the longer-form I Pop series.

I'm not consistent with these podcasts--for example, it's September, and I'm still trying to finish a spring-themed podcast I started last March. I'll get to them all eventually, but to tide us over until then, here's another, non-season-specific podcast from a year+ ago, entitled "Lujon and Beyond."

In this podcast, I turned my ear to what I think is one of the most sensuous, seductive pieces of music you’ve probably never heard--”Lujon” by musician, arranger, composer, movie scorer, and--egad, a Renaissance man!--Western Pennsylvanian Henry Mancini. Then you’ll hear how different musicians have interpreted and employed this work to interesting effect in their own compositions. Along the way, there will be other, related sounds to savor--jazz, pop, electronica, and even spy and surf music. As we move forward, I'll try to make connections and draw comparisons. Maybe even successfully.

Here's a link to the podcast. Wish I could figure out how to embed it, rather than burying the link like this, but the missing-in-action approach doesn't take away from the content.

* * *

For your additional listening pleasure--you might also enjoy my mash-up (at least I think that's what the kids call it) of two songs that sample Henry Mancini's "Lujon": Dimitri from Paris's "Souvenirs de Paris" and Hooverphonic's "No More Sweet Music." Because an alternate title for "Lujon" is "A Slow Hot Wind," I call this mash-up "A Slow Hot Mix."

You, however, may think of it as "A Slow Hot Mess," if you so choose.

The man who would be . . .

. . . Prom king. And I'm not sure at this late date he's even qualified for that.

As a former proud resident of the Lone Star State, it's difficult for me to fathom Rick Perry's appeal as a candidate on The Dating Game, let alone for President of the United States of America--a less-than-perfect union he eschewed and threatened to secede from should the federal government actually do its job.

It was a bizarre moment when he uttered those hard words and any number of ones since then. Truth be told, when my and Rick's worlds more or less peacefully coexisted in the early Naughties, he seemed like kind of a cypher, sort of a lighter-than-a-feather version of George Dubya.

I'll let that sink in for a bit.

*Crickets chirping*

*For, like, hours*

And we're back.

So why the sudden change in personality, Rick? You seem more aggressive, surly, and rigid, sort of the Lone Star equivalent of Doc Jekyll and Cowboy Hyde. Are you chafing in the extreme Texas heat? Is it the male menopause? Or are you just frightened by the possibility of having to live out your dying days in dry-as-dust Paint Creek or Peahen Lick or Possum Shizzle or wherever the hell you came from?

I'm assuming its a sudden change of life. Admittedly, I haven't paid any attention to you since I left Texas in 2004.

In the early years of "the Rick," the only passionate agenda I remember Perrypuss in a fervor over was this wild-ass plan to build super-highways and super-railways all over Texas, none of which actually went into the cities but, instead, went around them. I was never sure how anyone was supposed to get from the train station to downtown or anywhere else people might actually frequent or live, given Texas's aversion to urban mass transit (the very nice DART system in Dallas excepted). But, then, a little old thing like public access never stopped anyone anywhere in the U.S. from sticking an airport out in Palooka Palisades and expecting you to float a loan to pay for parking.

So failed über-transportation systems aside, and a tendency to be quick with the lethal injection excepted, apparently now God wants Rick Perry to run for national office, Prom King of these here U.S. of A. Divine intervention and inspiration! I'll be sure to try that reasoning for all future, questionably-reached decisions. When I call in sick for work at a future date. "God wants me to stay home until Mad Men returns to TV in January." May I get scads of unchecked funding from the Koch Brothers and endless hours of media coverage from Fox & Friends for my pronouncement.

Of course, he's Governor Goodhair, 1980s edition, with that Marlboro Man squint and firm, square jaw. But, honestly, brown hair, brown eyes, brown tie, brown suit? In this photo, he looks like he's been styled by exceptionally hapless children from the Texas School for the Chromatically Impaired. What, was an all-beige ensemble unavailable that day?


Nonetheless, let it never be said that, as an equal-opportunity nation, we Americans discriminate against The Handsome Community, no matter how questionably apparelled. Never! In our fair-to-middlin' nation, even poorly attired but well-funded, narrow-minded, former male cheerleaders who at midlife turn to God and politics can succeed! Twice over!

Praise!

Whoa!

Where to begin with this one?

My friend, the Music Lover, and I were out shopping on Saturday and made our regular pilgrimage to Barnes & Noble, the last-man-standing of the big-box book, DVD, and music retailers, at least in little ol' Steeltown USA.

While the Music Lover busied himself with a purpose (and not a dubious one, finding for sale the final season of Secret Diary of a Call Girl), I wasted a few more precious moments of oxygen scouring the bargain bin for, hope against hope, something worthy. And cheap.

And, lo, I was rewarded! Here was something cheap and worthy--for me to poop on! A 10-episode (count 'em, 10!) DVD collection of "very special episodes" of early '90s nominally successful TV series, Blossom, starring Mayim Bialik as the titular character, TV journeyman Ted Wass as "Dad," and he-of-the-formerly-auburn-locks-and-snug-fitting-blue-jeans Joey Lawrence as the the guy who said "Whoa!" a lot.

How to explain Blossom? It was 'tween when 'tween wasn't quite yet cool or at least ubiquitous. The storyline was essentially this: Blossom's mother abandoned the family to pursue her own life and career interests. As a result, Blossom's cool Dad of a session musician was struggling to raise young Blossom (get it? Blossom? Young, sweet, just beginning to grow and come into her own? Do we need to spell it out for you?!), her dumb jock brother Joey (sort of Justin Bieber for 15 minutes in 1993, but with better hair and a penis), and the other one, played by Michael Stoyanov, a recovering drug addict and alcoholic.

Add in Blossom's quirky, sidekick friend Six, and hijinx and hilarity ensue.

In the '90s, this was known as family comedy. In the 2010s, this would be known as a cry for help resulting in a Child Protective Services order.

For someone so disparaging, I do know a little too much about Blossom, don't I? You caught me out: I vaguely remember watching episodes of the show (at least ten very special ones, I'm sure) on Friday nights with an old boyfriend, Moody Cat, during the early '90s. For me, part of the show's lingering . . . appeal? . . . fascination? . . . trainwreckification? . . . was this: Moody Cat did the best imitation of Blossom's goofy, too-cute charm. Sort of a misshapen smile with the word "Heeee!" gurgled out softly and finished off over a slightly protruding tongue between the teeth. "Aren't I just the cutest thing?" was the text (it was Blossom; there was no subtext). I can't convey it here, or really at all. You just had to be there. It may be the only fond memory I have of that relationship and 1993.

To me, the show never seemed to find its surest footing (was it a comedy? was it a drama? was it a parody?) and appears to me now to be another fine example of how pop culture went straight into the toilet immediately after 1985. Seriously, who but a misanthrope or an imbecile (or a stage mother) would dress the show's star in a crazy-old-lady sunflower hat and slipcover of a dress and try to sell the concept as "fun" to tween girls? They got Joey Lawrence right--every tween girl (and then some) would want to have sex with him, even if they didn't quite know what sex was yet. (This was the early '90s after all.) And Dad-as-cool-musician would appeal as well. But extra-brother-as-recovering-social-realist-drug-addict, this was a good character exploration for whom exactly? And Mom-as-absent-yet-constantly-present-specter in the lives of Blossom's family? Yeesh. I'm beginning to understand why the mother abandoned the family in the first place.

Despite my old boyfriend's snarky imitation, Mayim Bialik was never the problem with Blossom. (Really, weren't there enough already?) She's gone on to an advanced degree in neuroscience from UCLA and a guest starring role on The Big Bang Theory as Amy Farrah Fowler, Sheldon's intellectual peer, arrogant fellow traveler, and sorta-kinda girlfriend. You go, Blossom!

So, like the DVD cover tantalizes, if you want to "see how it all began!" for Mayim (and where it all ended for the other actors on the show), be sure to stop by the $4.99-or-less bin at your local Barnes & Noble.

While supplies last.

Don't rush.

¡Ay, Teresa! ¡Ay, Betty!

As I seem to be in "save and savor the soap" mode this week (I have in me, I hope, a manifesto on the future of the daytime serial in North America, coming soon), I thought I'd share a memory that came up at dinner last night with my friend The Music Lover. And that is, a recollection of Salma Hayek in the role that first brought her major attention, at least in Mexico and Latin America, as the heroine in the telenovela, Teresa.



This is pretty much how I remembered the show from watching some episodes on the Galavisión network, way back when I lived in Texas and my Spanish was much, much better. These were repeats--the show originally aired in the late 1980s and early 1990s.

This promo piece from Galavisión pretty much explains the premise behind the show--



--And that would be that Salma Hayek stars as Teresa, a beautiful and intelligent young woman who tries to escape poverty. To do so, will she follow her true love? Or will she go with the man who can provide her with wealth and a fabulous lifestyle? Pathos, tears, laughter, drama, and love ensue.

Now if you've ever watched a telenovela, you'll realize that this variation sur la thème de Cinderella makes up the plot of about 90 percent of the shows. They can be, to say the least, a little predictable--but they also deliver a lot of storyline satisfaction, focusing on interpersonal relationships, friendships, families, the eternal quest for true love, dramatic events, and big emotional payoffs.

. . . And let's not forget hair, makeup, and clothes . . .

Which is something our soaps did at one point but totally seem to have lost (if you'll pardon the expression) the plot over the years. Maybe The Young and the Restless still does that, and I think One Life to Live manages it well for the most part. But that's about it.

I'm getting ahead of myself--I'll save the rest for the manifesto.

Anyway, I once read an interview with Salma Hayek in which she talked about being on the show. She never expressed any shame over doing telenovelas. Nor should she, in my opinion, but I'm sure there are some actors and actresses who would rather forget about their past career experiences when they become famous in more mainstream TV and movies. Thus, it was especially gratifying to see Julianne Moore return to As the World Turns before it went off the air last year. It has been also wonderful to see Josh Duhamel, Eva LaRue, and Sarah Michelle Geller return to All My Children in its final weeks. They didn't have to do it, but it's a nice way to acknowledge their history, celebrate the show, and give something to the fans that supported them along the way.

In the case of Salma, from the interview I gathered that she was proud of her work, the show, and the genre itself. I remember her explaining something about how Teresa was somewhat of a traditional telenovela but with a twist, in terms of characters, plots, and the actors' looks. A case in point: No one would ever deny that Salma Hayek is gorgeous, but she isn't necessarily the typical-looking telenovela star. Despite Mexico being something of a mestizo nation with many people having a mix of European and Native ancestry, often the telenovelas feature more European-looking casts (lots of blonds, lots of blue eyes).

It's not that the blonds and blue eyes (along with reds, greens, hazels, browns, blacks, and more) don't exist in Mexico and Latin America. The novelas, being a huge international entertainment industry, pull in actors from other parts of Latin America, such as Argentina, Chile, Colombia, Venezuela, et al.); it's just that they seem to predominate among the casts of the novelas. Much in the way that on American TV, everyone is gorgeous with perfect teeth, hair, bodies, noses, when the reality is a tad different from that.

I think, too, Salma's work to bring the nighttime serial, Ugly Betty, to American audiences also indicates her appreciation of the telenovela. Yo Soy Betty La Fea, the original upon which the American version was based, was a hugely popular Colombian telenovela, one that, when I lived in San Antonio, had a big following, among both men and women. Again, it followed the rags-to-riches story of an unattractive girl who succeeded in career and love, despite the odds--and who turned out to be beautiful once she took off her glasses and upgraded her wardrobe. It happens all the time.

Salma, the writers, the directors, the cast, and the crew went beyond the standard trope, however. I never paid as much attention to Ugly Betty as I should have, but I could say that for practically any TV show these days. But in Ugly Betty, there were points, larger and smaller, they were trying to get at--the importance of friendship and family; finding the right kind of love; the ethnic and class differences that often divide us but can unite us; the cool kids vs. the uncool ones and learning to work through the ghosts from high school and other past, negative, "outsider" life experiences; accepting people for who they are and how they look, even if it is "unbeautiful" or "non-standard"; the realization that no one is truly evil or truly good (a theme worked over too often in many soaps and shows); and the ability of women (and maybe all of us) to succeed on their own terms, not those of others.

Plus Ugly Betty did a lot of front-and-center, gay-positive storylines, something that is still all too rare on American TV.

During the series last season, Betty was transformed into a more confident and successful woman, one who was beautiful, but as my friend the Music Lover pointed out, "beautiful in a Betty way," not a glamorous model way.

And, from what I recall, Betty did it all while keeping her glasses on the whole time.

Without nostalgia

. . . I'm not sure I would exist.



"Cira, regina, e nana" by Brazilian acoustic-electro guitarist Lucas Santtana. Taken from his 2009 album Sem Nostalgia.

Listening to this song and watching the video put me in a better frame of mind--even though it did make me wish I were riding a bike in Rio right about now.

Today's '80s Flashback: Out of Mind, Out of Sight

For some strange reason, I woke up with this earwig, "Out of Mind, Out of Sight" by Models, an Australian group from the '80s, stuck in my head quite insistently.

It's a song that pops to the surface of my memory every now and again. Funnily enough, I never owned the single or the album (neither of which are available in the U.S. version of iTunes at the moment) but always liked them. Very INXS in some ways, I guess. And real brass! When's the last time you heard that in a pop song? Other than a sample of real brass, I mean.

I don't know much about the group, but the song makes me nostalgic for, yes, the '80s, specifically '80s music. At least as far as pop radio is concerned, it was so much better then--and, yes, I'm sure I could quantify that statement with very little effort. You had to be there, and I was, but it all went by so quickly. In fact, I'd say in 1985, when this song was released, the golden era was severely tarnished by then.

The song also makes me nostalgic for another, older life--being in my mid-20s, living on my own in Washington, D.C., and trying to learn as much about life as I could in as short a time as possible. Traveling to Leningrad (yes, when it was still known as Leningrad, not Petersburg, Petrograd, or whatever it's being called this month), Moscow, Tallinn, Helsinki, Stockholm, New York (for the first time), and Melbourne, Sydney, Alice Springs, and Uluru (Ayers Rock), Australia, all within the space of . . . two years.

Really, two years?! Is that even possible? That's amazing. Spring/summer 1985 to the USSR and Northern Europe. Fall 1987 to Australia. Come to think of it, I did indeed do so much in such a little amount of time, without even realizing it. Now I'm lucky if I get to Chicago or Canada every couple of years.

Here's some proof of two of my destinations--

Montag at the Hermitage, Leningrad, 1985

Montag at Uluru (Ayers Rock), 1987

So file Models' Out of Mind, Out of Sight under "One of those albums (yes, albums) I meant to buy but never got around to."

And file this time in my life under "Better than I remembered" and perhaps also "If only."

* * *

Whenever I'm feeling melancholic about the road(s) less traveled, there is always (thank heaven) my Mom to cheer me up. Today's memorable quote from Vivien Leigh:  "Whenever you're feeling bad about your life, just watch an episode of Hillbilly Handfishin' on Animal Planet, and I'll guarantee you'll feel better about how things turned out."

If you're unfamiliar with this latest example of non-elitist American excellence, I refer you to this Wikipedia article. However, apparently it fails to relate some of the nuances of the presentation--such as, the winner of said contest being referred to as the "Big Dog," donning a coonskin cap, and howling his or her success before a roaring campfire.

Now that you mention it, I do feel better.

What's Afrikaans for "The Young and the Restless"?

Since this week I'm in full-on mourning mode for the soap opera genre, not to mention being somewhat enamored at the moment with all things South Africa--fancy another boerewors on the braai, love?--let's have a little more something-something from the South African soapie, Egoli: Place of Gold.

We saw a segment from the show in my previous post on South African actress Esta TerBlanche, who appeared in the serial in the early and mid-1990s. One of her co-stars at the time was none other than Joan Collins, O.B.E.

I don't know too much about Egoli, other than watching a few clips, such as this one, via YouTube. From what I can discern from Wikipedia and other fonts of wisdom, the show was the first South African-created daily serial, airing in the early evening on the TV channel M-Net, which it did for nearly 20 years. Until its cancellation in 2010, Egoli was the longest-running homegrown show on South African TV.

Other than just the facts, Jack, what I can tell from various clips is that it looks like a heckuva lotta fun: One part Dynasty, one part Young and the Restless, one part chronicle of race relations and media images in the post-Apartheid era.

A case in point: The character Nenna, seen early on in the clip, is sorta/kinda Catherine Sinclair's sister-in-law. The storyline goes that Catherine's brother was involved for years with Nenna, his mixed-race housekeeper, with whom he had two children, one of whom is the very handsome Andrew seen near the end of the mash-up. Interesting that while both Catherine and Nenna are obviously fond of one another and both know the backstory, they can't really broach it, at least in the scenes shown. It's like The Help with funny (OK, point taken: just as funny) accents. Things that make you go hmmmm. But let's add that, in terms of race relations and media portrayals, the gods help us if anyone from outside the U.S. were to look at our shows with the same eye. Yikes.

That's my take on it: I'll know more soon when my DVD set, Egoli 18 (eighteen episodes of the 18-year-old show) arrives from a memorabilia seller in Johannesburg in a few weeks' time.

Whenever I watch this mash-up of clips from Joan Collins's appearance on the show, circa 1994, I'm reminded of a line from Absolutely Fabulous. In the episode, entitled "Fashion," Eddie, busy trying to get "celebritied up" for an ill-planned fashion show, shouts to her assistant Bubble, "Get on to Moët et Chandon, and tell them it's for charity! Get on to Joan Collins, and tell her it's free champagne!"

After a while you kind of get the impression our dear Joan would show up to the opening of an elevator door as long as there might be some free swag in the offing.

The role of Catherine Sinclair certainly wasn't a stretch acting-wise for dear Joan: The RADA phrasings, the same lead-with-the-shoulders approach to walking off stage, and, of course, a full complement of Eva Gabor wigs. No muss, no fuss. Pure professional Joan.

But sniping aside, she looks like she's at the top of her game. Turns out that Joan's father, Joseph Collins, was born in South Africa, so it must have been something of a homecoming for her, getting to appear--excuse me--star in a show in her father's native country.

So, brava, Joan. I certainly hope you're featured adoringly in Egoli 18. We wouldn't have it any other way.

By the way, I don't know how much she got paid to do the show, although I hear the children of South Africa went without Christmas that year. Ha.