Monday, October 31, 2011

Montag had a little lamb

My really simple lamb chop recipe:
  • Try to find some lamb chops at the grocery store. I dare you! Sometimes they actually sell them in the U.S.!
  • Pick ones with some meat on the bone, not just bone.
  • Heat up a grill pan on the stove, giving the surface a light coating of olive oil PAM or another cooking spray.
  • Place the chops on a plate and sprinkle them with red wine vinegar, Montreal steak seasoning (or a lot of freshly ground pepper and a little salt), and (preferably fresh) rosemary leaves.
  • Plop 'em on the pan and grill to desired color on the inside. I like mine with a little pink. Hopefully, that's not a health code violation.
  • You may want to re-marinate the cooking chops every now and again with some red wine vinegar.
  • Add a salad, some green beans, some roasted Brussels sprouts, or whatever green vegetable that hasn't rotted in your refrigerator.
Et voilà, dinner for yourself, or maybe more, if you're feeling generous.

This is my version of a Rachel Ray recipe, so Snappy, et al., do forgive me. She approaches sirloins in this manner, substituting balsamic vinegar or Worcestershire sauce for the red wine vinegar.

I find that's too overwhelming of a flavor for lamb, which has its own unique and delicious taste. Red wine vinegar is a little milder and adds to the dish, instead of covering it up. Even the Montreal steak seasoning (which I adore and would marry if it were legal in this state) can come on strong for poor little lamb. So freshly ground pepper and rosemary work just fine. I even skip the salt--there's enough flavor going on already.

Now if I can figure out the Glass Artist's stuffed cubanelle peppers and sauce recipe, I should be good to go for the main courses for the opening night menu at Chez Montag.

Bon appétit--with reservations!

Sunday, October 30, 2011

The root of the matter

It should be noted that wherever I go, I'm always late. And I'm especially late to gatherings with friends and parties.

For example . . .

Spotted on the floor of my gym's locker room yesterday afternoon. Hard (pun intended) to read I realize, but I was in a hurry to take this photo before someone walked in on me. Apparently, whomever went through the contents of this box of Lifestyles Skyn large-sized condoms did not experience the same sense of discomfort and anxiety.

In fact, what they experienced would be quite the opposite, I imagine.

I'm a little dubious of the realness of this moment, tripping over an empty box of large-sized condoms in my gym locker room, a place with lots of pulchritude, indeed, but of a more posing and posturing nature rather than a performing one. But, then again, I never venture into the sauna or steam room.

It just seems too pat, too perfect, more advertising than accident. It makes me think that,
  • My gym is full of liars
  • My gym is full of braggarts
  • My gym should be all-male and clothing optional
Stat.

Or does the YMCA already do that?

Call my girlfriend




A beautiful version of Robyn's song, "Girlfriend," performed by Swedish vocal trio, Erato.

Editor's note: Among some friends and in some quarters (I'm talking to you, Øresund), Robyn is referred to as *my* girlfriend.

Ha.

Saturday, October 29, 2011

The Cubanelle Revolution

There is a difference between cubanelle peppers (which are classified as sweet) and banana peppers (which are not). And, oh, by the way, I no longer have any tastebuds.

One of the downsides of working far too much of late is that I don't have much time to do my own cooking (or cleaning or laundry or exercise or sleep or pretty much anything really). Apparently, I don't have time to do much reading either.

A case study. After a particularly "active" Friday--with a highly able colleague, I organized and hosted a conference for 75 professionals at which I should add the bitching was kept to a minimum (no easy feat, that)--I decided to have a very quiet evening at home. After a three-hour nap.

The night before I had finally managed to get to the local Giant Eagle to stock up on groceries, yet another task that had been too long ignored. Because it has been a very busy couple of months, I have relied a bit on easy-to-prepare or already prepared foods in order to get the sustenance I need. For the most part, I think I've chosen wisely--fish and chicken, along with vegetables, although I did have a couple of weeks of a dangerous liaison with lamb chops, not the lightest of red meats to be sure. And I've finally decided that I cannot be trusted with Nutella anywhere in my vicinity, so hopefully no more simple dinners of "a delicious hazlenut spread with just a hint of cocoa" straight out of the jar for me.

But Nutella and lamb are not vegetables. At the grocery store, I felt a rather desperate need for something from the vegetable layer of the now-debunked food pyramid. As luck would have it (or not, dear reader, or not!), the "Iggle" had stuffed peppers for sale in the prepared food section!

While I consider myself very much an omnivore, I have never been a huge fan of peppers, stuffed or otherwise. Peppers, like onions, just seem to me to be one of those "polyester of vegetables" (to paraphrase John Waters), the kind of vegetable that gets applied to every fast-food dish, mainly because it's cheap and, in theory, flavorful. Me, I just find peppers and onions cheap, bitter, and gassy.

A bit like myself at the moment, come to think of it.

Nevertheless, there are exceptions. Who can deny the deliciousness of a Vidalia sweet onion? I've become a big fan of pepperoncini, now that I live in Pennsylvania, the Italy of the Mid-Atlantic, where pepperoncini show up in all kinds of places, my favorite being the really simple mozzarella, prosciutto, and pepperoncini rolls you sometimes find in the cheese section. Creamy, salty, hammy, and then a definite bite. And what's not to like about the occasional piquant prick to the tastebuds?

I also recently had the delicious joy of sampling some stuffed peppers made by my friend, the Glass Artist, who, using an old family recipe, prepared these amazing cubanelles filled with a stuffing made of bread and Italian seasonings, moistened with olive oil, then baked in the oven with homemade tomato sauce. One of the simplest, most delicious foods I've had the pleasure of knowing since coming back East in 2004. The peppers were mild, the sauce tangy, the stuffing moist and savory.

Here in the prepared food aisle, it looked like they had stuffed cubanelles, too, filled with a stuffing made of Italian sausage, rather than bread, but still, cubanelles. I picked up a can of tomato sauce, figuring I'd mix it with some diced tomatoes, flavored with basil and garlic. What a perfect Friday night treat after a long, brutal week!

Now I'll admit to having lost my spicy food edge since leaving Texas and no longer making regular pilgrimages to Mexico, with its fire-down-below, good-for-what-ails-you, chile-based cuisine. There's really very little decent Mexican food in Western Pennsylvania, the Land of the Hallowed Pierogi, Mexican immigrants obviously being smart enough to avoid an area where the sun shines less on average than Seattle. Not that I can't appreciate pierogies, haluski, and other local faves, but they are on the mild and filling side of the food spectrum, to say the least.

But the fire factor of the pepper I first bit into was something else entirely, historic and otherworldly in its intensity and strength, the Godzilla of peppers, born of an atomic bomb-induced mutation. One would need to use the Kelvin scale to properly record its thermodynamic quality.

OK, I thought, maybe I'm not eating this right. It's just me--my default position on practically everything that goes South-of-the-Border in my little life. Perhaps it was just the initial blast, I reasoned. I'll be fine after another bite.

No, worse! My tastebuds had already been seared off by the first bite. The second pepper-to-surface contact was made with my now slightly blistered lips and very raw tongue and was thus far, far worse.

So I'll eat some sausage filling, then come back to the pepper, I figured. Except now I couldn't taste the sausage. I went back to the pepper with predictably horrible results.

I think I gave up after some more sausage and the fourth or fifth bite. I finally looked more closely at the packaging--the labeling I had seen in the store had apparently been the handiwork of really evil pixies because now I clearly saw "banana peppers" where I had seen "cubanelles" before.

I don't mind banana peppers on sandwiches, hoagies, and the like, but as a main course, even with sweet Italian sausage, I wouldn't recommend them.  At least if you plan to retain use of your esophagus at some future date.

I threw the mess in the garbage can, and, after that, went back to a mild-and-milquetoasty diet of Liberté plum and fig yogurt, a glass of milk, and a few lemon cookies. And then for some rest in bed.

Except that with a gut full of highly flammable pepper, it's a bit of a challenge to enjoy one's slumber. After breakdancing over my tastebuds, freaking my sinuses, and jerking my tearducts, the peppers kept on partying, come-on-baby-doing-that-conga through my esophagus, mazurka'ing around my stomach, and finally, enjoying a sort of peppers-gone-wild slamdance through my intestinal tract. By the time morning had broken, well, let's just say that the party was over.

I had gone from Godzilla to Gamera, the giant flying turtle from 1950s Japanese sci-fi films.

I'll let the picture above express the thousand words, mostly expletives, that normally would follow.

It has begun


This is your wake-up call, Pittsburgh. Hope you enjoy the next 5 months.  


Wednesday, October 26, 2011

If I had a claw-hammer

Quote of the day, from a Texas friend, who is busy fighting her employer's board of regents over their plan to replace all educators with Roombas.
"If you're a hammer, everything looks like a nail to you."
Oh my, out of the mouths of wise Americans.

That is such a brilliant, Texas-don't-hold-'em observation.  And it just might be the teensiest bit extrapolatable (assuming that's even a word) to other current activities and philosophies in the public realm.

Not that I'm naming names.

Fancy a cup of tea, anyone?

Me neither.

Like a version

Justin Bieber and Usher have just released a version of "The Christmas Song" ("Chestnuts roasting on an open fire . . .") well in advance of the holidays.

Good lordy. If you ever needed proof that God secretly hates America, whoop, there it is.

"Let's see: I've given them the Tea Party, the Gulf spill, an East Coast earthquake, Lindsay Lohan, crystal meth (as a package deal,  no less!), the worst economic downturn since the Great Depression, serious economic inequality, a 24/7 punditocracy, obesity, auto-tune, and Michele Bachmann.

"I tried to throw 'em a bone by giving them a smart guy as president, and they completely messed that one up. I even gave them one last chance by having Sarah Palin decide not to run for president (for now). And how do they repay me? By worshiping Steve Jobs, rather than me.

"So it's back to being a hater! Now what is the gift that keeps on giving my spleen? I know! Let's have a prepubescent Canadian with bad hair who sings through his nose join forces with a nasal-voiced American entertainment impresario who looks like he's been chasing after parked cars. And let's have them record one of America's most beautiful Christmas carols!

"Surely, everyone will get the point this time! I mean, I can't get much more unsubtle in my loathing than the Usher and the Bieber doing a Quiet Storm rendition of one of my son's birthday songs, right?"

I agree, God, seems fairly monolith-to-glass-house to me, but, lo, we are a dense lot and in need of constant reminders of your wrath, apparently.

All I can say in America's defense is that maybe we are missing your point because we're too busy fantasizing over the possibility of roasting the Usher and the Bieber's chestnuts on an open fire.

Frankly, it's the only fantasy that makes this reality the least bit tolerable.

Now where is my lighter fluid . . .

Tuesday, October 25, 2011

Ahead of my time, behind the 8 ball

Two stories in two days make me realize what a complete genius I am--and still without a MacArthur Foundation grant for blogging! There is not one iota of justice. I will be starting up the Occupy This Bitches! movement in a matter of nanoseconds, "camping out" in a feather boa and cha-cha heels in protest.

Need proof that I snark, therefore I am somebody? Read on, dear web denizen, read on.

Exhibit A.

This article from The Guardian newspaper in the UK, which discusses in detail the odd juxtaposition of joy and pathos that was the music and lyrics of ABBA. Sound familiar? Well, pay attention, it should! My friend Snappy and I discussed that very same thing just a couple of weeks ago in the comments section of this post about Foster the People.

The timing is kind of perfect, because it really brings home a point I have been trying to make since my early teens--there was always more to ABBA than really daft costumes, overuse of blue eyeshadow, and Euro-aspartame demeanor. A lot more, tak så mycket! I'll save the 98 remaining theses on this topic for another day, another door, but I am glad to see someone address this important issue of our times in a current UK daily newspaper.

Seriously, can you imagine living in a country where members of the press feel free to wax about 32-year-old, almost forgotten pop songs? Or where in the comments section a reader challenges the author with an even more light-and-depressing and more obscure ABBA song, "The Day Before You Came"?



Ah, the tango that makes you want to kill yourself! Beauty stab!

No, instead in these parts we get music from five minutes ago (Katy Perry, Lady Gaga, Ke$ha, God bless 'em all) and an endless supply of crazy (Rick Perry, Lady Gone-Gaga Bachmann, and Herman Ke$ha Cain).

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: Essentially, Americans are an unhappy people. And the economic crisis is more symptom than cause of that unhappiness.

Sorry, folks, but there are no ponies, there are no rainbows.

Exhibit B.

My other example of brilliance (if I do say so, and apparently I do) extends back almost to the beginning of this blog, a rather insouciant take on the more-questionable-than-ABBA wardrobe choices of a recently departed dick-tator, His Supreme Sartorial Meshuganess, Muammar al-Ghadhafi.

My review of Muammar's spring and fall lines was a bit slapdash, I'll admit, but I was only able to "liberate" so many photos from various sources. Nevertheless, I received some good feedback on it. And I was especially pleased over the references to Mr. and Mrs. Putin.

And yet . . . despite my quick riffing, I was clearly onto something, as my friend the Gladman pointed out to me earlier today.

"Hey, wait a minute! Didn't you do this weeks ago?

"Further proof that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery (or blatant plagiarism).

"Your talent may be wasted in [your chosen professional world of dubious reknown] . . . just saying."

Don't I know it, sister wife!

Part of the point of my restarting my blogging life was to . . . well, there's a manifesto in me somewhere that will hopefully see the light of a computer monitor before long . . . but let's just say for now that I wanted to have some fun, entertain myself and make others laugh, and exercise my writing mojo on various and sundry.

Definitely no regrets on any of the above. I think I'm enjoying writing more than ever nowadays as in this blog I tend not to fuss so much over particular entries and, instead, just enjoy imposing on others the ridiculousness I carry around in my head throughout. Lucky vous.

If I had a little more time these days, I'd take better notes and share more. I'm still trying to make sense out of the dream I had about Morgan Freeman the other night, in which I was driving *him* around.

So my writing is striking a chord, whistling a tune, and tapping some feet here and there. Hurrah for me! Maybe someday I can translate whatever it is I do to an even wider world, a dedicated (and paying) audience. But for now, it feels very good just to make some friends happy. And maybe myself, too.

Monday, October 24, 2011

I think I know what inspired Squeaky Fromme's name (not to mention her claim to fame)

Lessons learned from the neighbors # . . . oh hell, I've lost count.

I would give anything if my upstairs neighbors, who seem to be unable to go one solitary night without screwing, would buy a damn bed that does not squeak.

Every evening, between 9:30 and 10:30, it's the same routine. And if I get no direct or indirect benefit from it (and trust me, I don't), then I don't want to have to listen to it every night.

I'm thinking they also need to take their child in for a hearing check, 'cause if the kid can sleep through this every night, he's stone-cold deaf.

Which, come to think of it, might explain why he's the world's noisiest child: He just can't hear what a little floor-stomping, wall-pounding, crying, screaming unholy terror he is.

That or he's acting out some subconsciously repressed rage over hearing Daddy bang Mommy every freakin' night.

* * *

Better times may be just around the corner. I have a lead on a new apartment, a townhouse, an end unit, no less, with lots of room and lots of privacy, and no upstairs neighbors. Fingers and toes, muffins, fingers and toes.

But then what will I have to bitch about?

Sunday, October 23, 2011

Get fresh at the weekend



I have had this song on brain for the last couple of days, "Serious" by Donna Allen. Specifically, I've had the line "Talk! Talk about serious!" earwigging me out--although I have to admit I kept remember hearing the line as "Talk! Talk about experience!" Like it was an ad for an investment firm. You have to admit having "Serious" or even "Experience" as a jingle for a brokerage operation would be far more appealing than those damn talking, vomiting babies they use over at E-Trade.

So I finally tracked the song down on YouTube and was rewarded with this "fashion forward" video of '80s excess. Whenever anyone nowadays tells me how much they loved or continue to love the '80s, I will henceforth shudder at the thought.

The music? Oh yeah, it was great, and this is a perfect little slice of mid-80s funk pop. It's got more going for it than just that one misremembered line. There's that beautiful, multi-tracked chorus beginning with "Baby I don't know what I should do . . . about you." That "Rock Rock Planet Rock"-styled, vocoderized background voice repeating, "Are you serious?" And that wonderfully sexy-voiced male rap beginning with "Breaking hearts is my claim to fame . . . ."

All worthy of acclaim, confetti, parades, fireworks, and spontaneous, interpretive dancing in the streets. (Very '80s video, I should add.) Most people who love '80s music probably think about the early '80s stuff--Haircut 100, Duran Duran, Bananarama, ABC--all very British, all very brilliant. But there was also a lot of fantastic, American funk and dance pop--Janet Jackson's "Escapade," Gwen Guthrie's "Ain't Nuthin' Goin' on but the Rent," and Donna Allen's "Serious," to name but three--that should be celebrated as well.



No screaming divas, no smutty lyrics, no scrawny blonde girls trying to be "fly," innocent, and trashy all at once. (In other words, Ke$ha wasn't even born yet--imagine!) Just good, happy, sexy, funky, fun pop. It was all so very, very lovely, despite the incredibly dodgy fashion sense.

That is, until Stock-Aitken-Waterman's "Sound of a Bright Young Britain" (excluding Mel & Kim, I hasten to add) and Paula Abdul's bleating blasted it all to hell, for Brits and Americans alike, leaving anything commercial and clever (not diametrically opposed concepts after all) for dead.

Or worse--for the '90s and Naughties. I'm not sure pop music and culture have ever recovered.

Still, one thing that was ruined in the 1980s long before the music was the fashion. These few videos exemplify some of the worst of it. Let's enumerate:
  1. Huge hair
  2. I mean HUGE HAIR
  3. Ridiculous, day-glo colors
  4. Body-sleek spandex and other stretch fabrics
  5. Or worse, leftover bolero pants and hats (really? really?!) from the '70s
  6. Thick-as-cake-batter make-up
  7. Perms on men
  8. That weird sort of quiff up-front, piglet tail in back hairstyle on me, the forerunner of the dreaded, derided mullet
  9. Overuse of the V-shape as a design motif
  10. And everything just way too shiny-shiny

Please, let's never go back to any of this, not even for Halloween.
 

Wednesday, October 19, 2011

Only in Western Pennsylvania

And neighboring Ohio. And sometimes West Virginia.

Proof that . . . that . . . well, stuff happens here.
  • A rock slide on Mount Washington blocks the main road up to this heavily populated neighborhood. Rock slides happen so often in our ever-shifting urban geography, I couldn't even find a news article about the event. Seriously, our local weather forecast should always go something like this: Mostly cloudy and rainy, with a 50 percent chance of rock slides. And they happen not just in little out of the way places but on the Route 28 freeway, Boulevard of the Allies, and, yes, even Mount Washington.
  • Pittsburgh metropolitan area regularly ranked #1--this time for worst, most structurally deficient bridges in the U.S. For a region of over 2 million people, 3 rivers, and hundreds of bridges, this is no small worry/no mean feat. Congratulations, Pittsburgh! More bridge drops, collapses, and reconstruction awaits you!
  • Amish men shame other Amish men by cutting their beards. It's like some totally psychosexual crime committed by Mo, Larry, and Shemp. I'm reminded of that spoof from The Onion several years ago about the Amish porn channel. The old Late Night with Conan O'Brien did an even more elaborate (and funnier) video version of the channel, which involved women churning butter in a rapid-fire manner. Sorry, can't find the clip, and, besides, this is a family blog.
  • Which makes me wonder . . . If there were an Amish version of SoapNet, would a catfight in Amish country mean that the women spend the big face-off untying each others' bonnets in a fit of pique? Throwing glasses of milk in each others' faces? Would an extramarital affair involve being seen riding in the same buggy with a man who is not your spouse? Or letting your horse "accidentally" wander into another man's pasture to graze? 'Cause I could so get into that channel.
  • There's a monkey on the loose near Zanesville, Ohio. That monkey may have herpes. This is apparently the story's hook, according to reporting by various local TV stations. I wonder why this particular detail is so important to stress. I mean, how likely is it that any of us would ever find ourselves in need of the STD history of a monkey?
  • Thinking about that in relation to where I live sends a chill up my spine. Move. Soon. To a less-likely-to-f*ck-a-monkey kind of place.
  • (11:24 pm) Oh wait, the monkey may have been eaten by a lion. But, wow, the local news teams were all over that monkey-with-herpes story. It's like they had a monkey with herpes on their back. Or something.
What does one do with this amalgamation of knowledge? Other than share it with the wider world?

Don't tell Texas

Forget beef.

Nutella. It's what's for dinner.

Here's my list

Today's top CNN story:

"Five Things We Learned from Tuesday's GOP Debate"

Imagine my surprise to learn that it was more of the same--immigration, Herman Cain's Sim City tax plan, Romney vs. Perry, Perry vs. Romney--with one ringer, a shout-out to Pennsylvania's littlest paranoiac, Rick Santorum.

No, unfortunately, for the length of the debate he wasn't exiled to a gay bar, as was recently done on an episode of Saturday Night Live.

Now how a nation continues to give attention to a candidate that even the Keystone State (a Commonwealth not known for its high standards in political figures . . . or much else) tossed out after one term, just boggles. But at least he's as perversely entertaining as Perry and Bachmann, proof that even the high falutin' Northeast, not solely the South, West, or Midwest, can help the national economy by producing its share of nutbars.

Anyway, the other surprise is that CNN's list attempted to discuss the debate, that CNN actually took the debate seriously, as if the world's worst swimsuit competition (thank you, Samantha Bee for that observation) really had anything to say.

My list of "five things learned from Tuesday's GOP debate" looks decidedly different--and, for once, is far more succinct:
  1. Herman Cain--we're screwed. And we end up smelling like onions and peppers in the process.
  2. Michele Bachmann--we're screwed. Worse, it's a three-way. We're screwed by crazy her and her "definitely not gay" husband.
  3. Rick Perry--we're screwed. And executed. So it's like Friday Night Lights meets a snuff film.
  4. Mitt Romney--we're screwed. And it's the most boring screw ever, one that no matter how freely or repeatedly offered, no one, under any circumstances, actually wants.
  5. Rick Santorum--we're screwed, but not completely. Mainly because, approaching the climax of screwing, Santorum would most likely jump up, rush to the shower, do a ritual cleansing, then, as he frenetically and nervously dressed himself, blurt out "This was a mistake!" He'd scurry out the door without even a promise to call you. But give it a couple of years, and he'll be back on the scene, trying to screw you again.

Oh, trust me, I've been there. And so will we all if things keep going like this.

Unfortunately, what happens in Vegas doesn't always stay in Vegas. Sometimes, in fact, it follows you all the way to Washington and tries to institute an English-only policy and a tax structure based on a 10-year-old computer game.

The more things change, the more things feel like a Windows 2000 kind of world.

Sunday, October 16, 2011

Revolver!



At the Revolver in concert at the Smiling Moose, Pittsburgh, 15 October 2011.

Great band, short concert, no crowd to speak of. So as a result, my friend the Music Lover and I had the privilege of meeting and chatting with three of the members: Ambroise, the lead singer and guitarist; Christophe, guitarist and singer; and Jérémie, cellist and singer. Quite charming French lads! I felt 800 years old rather than merely my current, advanced age, trying to converse with a band about their music and their tour, but still, thanks to the Music Lover's bravery, I persevered. I even got to successfully throw out a few phrases in French, to impress myself if no one else.

The concert wasn't exactly what I expected. Revolver is known for a more "chamber pop" sound, but they were much more energetic, danceable, and even kinda rockabilly. Which was a pleasant surprise! Oh, I'd have been happy just hearing "Do You Have a Gun?" in heavy rotation all evening long, but this was a very spirited performance. And the band members couldn't have been friendlier, more unpretentious, and incredibly down-to-earth--so different from what we've come to expect from our celebrities.

And, incroyable! Who has a bass/cello in a modern pop combo? What a wonderful addition to the sound and the look of the group.

It was a nice night overall, a perfect way to continue to celebrate my birthday.

Thanks, Musique Lover.

Saturday, October 15, 2011

How I'm spending my Saturday morning

Check all that apply:
  • Ironing the last three (OK! four!) months' worth of "freshly" laundered shirts.
  • Waiting (over an hour now) for my iPhone software to download and update (might have something to do with the fact that a mere two hours ago I thought it did the updates "automatically," as in "magically," without my needing ever to connect the phone to a computer).
  • Contemplating how I can spend more money on Alibris, ABEBooks, Amazon, Half.com, EBay, Fun Records, et al. Nothing like dancing on the edge of one's checking account halfway through the month.
  • Pondering whether it was wise to choose District 7 as my next Netflix-Quickster-Netflix-BiPolarFlix delivery. 
  • Considering that it may be past time to let go of the current South Africa media obsession. (One really should draw the line at planning to learn Afrikaans "in my spare time," shouldn't one?) Perhaps it's time to move on to some place kinder and gentler, like the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, which is how I started out the summer. First The Bubble, then Paradise Now, followed by splitting headache and depression.
  • Listening to the neighbors argue, then wondering if they'll quickly move on to another "squeaking bed" interlude.
  • Drinking coffee. Lots and lots of coffee.
  • Thinking about what I'm going to wear to the Revolver concert this evening.
  • Debating whether to have an apple with my breakfast or an apple with Nutella with my breakfast.
  • Puzzling over how I could order 8 blue archival binders and 8 blue archival slipcases to protect my stamp collection and somehow end up with 8 of one and 6 of the other, all in non-matching and barely complementary shades of the requested color. 
  • And now debating whether I should buy more slipcases and binders of different colors in order to try to come up with some tolerable combinations. But how many? And which colors? And I am still going to end up with an uneven number when it's all over with?
  • Wanting to go for a run but also wanting to go back to bed.
If you said quietly to yourself, "Bull! All of the above!" then feel free to apply as my life coach and personal assistant. 

Thursday, October 13, 2011

Pata Pata



I don't think I could pull off the look, but at this time of life, the dance steps are more my speed.

Cor, limey!



Simply stated, I'd kill to wear those lime-green trousers.

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

Getting my kicks



"Pumped Up Kicks" by Foster the People

* * *

This song is so good, it almost makes me want to visit Los Angeles.

Almost.

If you didn't catch their appearance on Saturday Night Live on 8 October 2011, I'd recommend you check it out while you can. While I like the official version above, the live one was even better.

And my goodness, their second performance of the song "Houdini" was almost as memorable, if for no other reason than the Rehabilitation of Kenny G!

You know it had to be good if it caused me to sit through a Ben Stiller Zoolander sketch.

Or any Ben Stiller sketch for that matter.

Sunday, October 09, 2011

Are you ready for some football?



No, I'm not, actually. And I probably never will be. For me, football is like religion and politics: Try as I might, I will never be a true believer. Plus, I hate the fashions.

Trust me, given the way that some people act based on their beliefs in any of the three, I definitely consider my lack of faith a blessing, not a curse.

* * *

My response upon recently seeing this insert in the local, alleged newspaper was "[expletive]." Immediately followed by "[move expletives]."

I think I summed it up pretty well with that, actually, but I'll persevere all the same.

This insert appeared in the Sunday, September 18 issue of the Pittsburgh (where else?) Post-Gazette. Knowing the local populace as I do, now entering my fifth year as a stealth observer, I'm sure within the hour the vendor sold out of the advertised product. This is just the sort of objet d'art that would appeal to the football-loving masses of our fair-to-middlin' region.

(Although exactly what objet this is, I cannot exactly say. What is this thing that claims to be the #1 Steelers Fan? A Cabbage Patch doll that doubles as a "wee station" for the family dog?)

Having said that, Pittsburghers are a fairly cut-to-the-chase kind of people. They are not necessarily prone to waxing romantic over much, more matter-of-fact, and song-of-the-Volga-boat-people resigned-to-life than anything. It must be all that Scottish-German-Russian-Czech-Slovak-Polish-Serbian-Croatian-Bulgarian heritage at play.

But on one point, they will become animated: Football.

The passion over football is hard for me to fathom. For one thing, has there ever been a more ponderous, rule-laden game with a more ridiculously officious nomenclature in the history of humankind? "Excessive celebration." "Palpably unfair act." "Encroachment." "Illegal batting." Who came up with the rules for this game, the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI)? How can you enjoy something that sounds more like an old episode of Dragnet than a game? Whenever I listen to the "color" commentary of sportcasters this time of year, I feel like I'm hearing an overexcited copy read straight from the police blotter.

For another thing, too much padding, not enough patting. I don't think that statement requires further explanation, but for clarification's sake, I'll just add that a little less clothing, a few more outlines, and a lot more male bonding would make the game far more interesting, at least to me. After all, the cheap homoeroticism is the only thing that makes all those UFC matches on cable the least bit bearable. So why not lend a buddy a helping hand in football as well?

And for the final thing: I grew up in North Carolina, which is a basketball province, not a football state (or, if you insist, a nation, as in Steeler Nation). While there are certainly football games in the fall, there's other stuff going on, too. Like harvests, holidays, and hurricanes. We save our passion for basketball season, which everyone focuses on once they recover from the rich foods and sneaked-in alcohol of Christmas and New Year's. When the temperatures turn colder--say, maybe 50s F during the day? Hey, it's the South, y'all--and it's too brutal to venture outside, we hunker down with our snacks, more sneaked-in alcohol, and our best bud, cable TV.

Everything comes to a screeching halt during the Atlantic Coast Conference (ACC) Tournament and later, the NCAA's so-called "March Madness." (A note for our international readers: No, March Madness is not some sort of Easter Holiday Weekend mattress sale.) During this time, it would not be uncommon to take off time from work or school to watch afternoon games--or just wheel a TV into the office and let everyone view. Productivity may go down a tad--or not!--but everyone will be happier. And a happy workplace is one less likely to call in sick during the State-Carolina match-up.

By April it's all over but the crowing over who has the best team in the ACC and the NCAA. We don't see the need to stretch the season out into May or, heaven forbid, June. Yes, I'm talking to you, NBA and NHL. We have lives after all. And more TV to watch.

Nevertheless, even North Carolina's obsession with all things "Carolina Blue," the Duke Blue Devils, the N.C. State "Wufpack," or the Wake Forest Demon Deacons (and if you've ever dealt with a Southern Baptist deacon, you'd understand how well-named that team is), falters badly in comparison to, well, any sport taking place in and around Lawrence, Kansas (where I have family), or football in Western Pennsylvania. North Carolinians just don't get what a bunch of puppy-lovers we/they are when it comes to the dangerous, obsessive, boiled rabbit-styled love that exists between the partisans of Steeler Nation and their warrior-soldiers, the Steelers.
Katina Paxinou
http://www.allstarpics.net/pic-gallery/katina-paxinou-pics.htm

It's not pretty, that's for sure. While fans are undoubtedly loyal, when the team screws up or disappoints for an extended period of time--or loses to Baltimore, Cleveland, or Cincinnati--well, watch out! The wailing and gnashing of teeth, the wounded cries, the vitriolic public remonstrations on talk radio and TV. Pittsburgh hath no fury like a Steeler Nation scorned. Perhaps in this case it's our Southern European heritage rising to the occasion. At moments like these, I half-expect to see a million Rosaria Parondis down at Market Square, male and female, hysterically crying while pulling out their hair and rending their black-and-gold garments in the most exquisite, football-induced torment imaginable.

But with a well-timed win, a Superbowl berth, or a seemingly earnest apology from quarterback Big Ben Roethisberger, all is quickly forgiven.

Slap me, hurt me, cheat on me, disappoint me, accost me in a nightclub restroom in Georgia, I don't care--just win! Truly only an obsessive love like this could deliver us from heartbreak so quickly--not to mention, impel us to prove our undying love revery game day by dressing like a ridiculous swarm bumblebees.

Saturday, October 08, 2011

White people, suffering

If I recall correctly--it has been a long time ago, after all--in the early '80s NBC sitcom, Gimme a Break, there was line uttered in one of the first episodes by series' star, Nell Carter. Carter's character, explaining why she enjoys watching the afternoon soap operas, wisecracks "Lord knows, I love watching white people suffer."

In vino, veritas--or maybe the thought is better rendered as in bitter wine, there's bitter truth. That line has stuck with me for 30-odd years. It has to be one of my all-time favorite commentaries, short but not so sweet, about both the soaps and about American media culture in general.

Like the rest of American media, the U.S. daytime dramas have always struggled with diversity, often failing to create characters and storylines that make strong use of actors that just happen to be African American, Latino, or Asian, let alone gay or differently abled.

There are exceptions, of course. The Young and the Restless has had front-burner stories involving African-American (Kristoff St. John, Victoria Rowell, Shemar Moore, Tonya Lee Williams) and Asian-American actors. Another World in the '90s featured an actor who in real life and on the show relied upon a wheelchair to get around. And no, midway through his appearance, he wasn't "cured" through the miracle of modern surgery or prayer, learning to walk again and also, by the way, turning out to be one fabulous dancer. Jazz and tap.

NBC also broadcast for a few years the soap, Generations, which had an almost evenly split African-American/Anglo-American cast.

I'm more than a little biased, but I think that some of the ABC soaps have done better over the years. Over the course of its run, All My Children featured prominently the African American Hubbard family and the Latino Santos family. AMC also had a lesbian character, Bianca Montgomery, as one of the major leads for nearly a decade, and featured an autistic character, Lilly Montgomery, with significant storyline during the 2000s.

One Life to Live offered the character Evangeline Williamson, played by African-American actress Renee Elise Goldsberry, as the core female character for a good portion of the 2000s. One of the show's other core female characters, Nora Hanen, was Jewish and, in the past, married to Hank Gannon, an African-American attorney, resulting in the birth of their biracial daughter.

But even early on in OLTL's history, there was diversity. When originally unveiled in 1968, the show featured the wealthy and WASPy Lord family along with the middle-class Seigels (a Jewish family), the working-class Rileys and Woleks (Irish and maybe Czech-Slovak?), and the African-American Gray family. One character, Carla Gray, was biracial but passing as white, something that was not revealed initially and no doubt came as a surprise to viewers who tuned in in the late 1960s.

More recently, during the 1990s and 2000s, the show has portrayed the Puerto Rican Vega family in prominent storylines, as well as a front-burner gay storyline involving a white male police officer involved with an African-American woman, who struggles with coming out, eventually leaving her for another man, an out gay doctor.

So diversity is by no means unknown on the soaps, but it isn't always handled as well as it might. Too often the storylines involving "ethnic" or "minority" characters peter out, as if the writers can't quite figure out how to integrate the show's diverse cast members with the other characters.

Granted, that's probably an accurate reflection of a good portion of contemporary America: We work together, definitely, but sometimes we still struggle with living in the same neighborhoods, let alone socializing and sharing our lives.

So it's hard to fault TV for not doing what we can't do ourselves. Nevertheless, if we're supposed to invest in and engage with "our stories" for one or more hours a day, five days a week, perhaps more accurately reflecting the complexity of American demographics and race relations might be one way to help us do so. If nothing else, it might lead us all to a little better understanding of our friends, neighbors, colleagues, and citizens.

And I don't care what you say--Viewers who know the ins and outs of characters and follow their lives for 20, 30, or 40 years or more, can, when pressed, handle a little diversity in action.

And maybe even a gay or lesbian love scene every now and again.

* * *

As part of my mourning process over the demise of All My Children (something I'll write more about eventually) and, soon, One Life to Live, at least on network TV, I've been tuning into soaps from other parts of the world.

This isn't really new for me--I've always had a pash for international pop culture and soaps have definitely been a part of that. I was a huge EastEnders fan during the '80s when it was shown on public TV in Washington, D.C., and other cities. When I've visited Australia and Britain, I have made a point to watch some of the Aussie soaps, like Neighbors and Home and Away. On a trip to Mexico in the early '90s I got hooked on telenovelas, such as Dulce Desafío and Simplemente María. Whenever I'm in the UK (or Canada, for that matter), I always try to catch a few episodes of Coronation Street. I remember well the British soap Brookside and can't believe they canceled it. From the handful of episodes I saw in the mid-1990s, during the "body under the patio plot," I thought it was quite good--although we might all could have done without subsequent plots.

Although what a last episode . . .

Of late, I've been watching episodes of the South African soap, Egoli: Place of Gold. This is not really news either; I've mentioned this before, at least a couple of times. I became curious about the show because at one point it starred one of my favorite daytime TV actresses, Esta TerBlanche, who played the role of Gillian Andrassy on All My Children in the late 1990s and early 2000s. The more I explored, the more intriguing the show sounded. Joan Collins made appearances in the 1990s (and who couldn't appreciate the camp factor of that?) and one of the earliest storylines involved the "coloured" or mixed-race character of Ester Willemse owning up to a long-term love relationship with her white employer, Senator Sinclair, and bearing two mixed-race children by him.

Probably something that was not comfortable to talk about in the South Africa of the 1990s, but there you have it. Let my obsession begin.

First, I watched a few episodes of Egoli online via YouTube. Then, I ordered from South Africa a two-disc DVD compendium, Egoli 18, which chronicles in 18 "new," 24-minute episodes (actually re-editings of the originals accompanied by brief interviews with former cast members, writers, and crew) a year-by-year review of the major storylines and characters. It was less expensive than you might imagine and arrived in just a couple of weeks' time.

In the midst of watching those, I learned of the Egoli 2000 photo book and even an Egoli cookbook, both of which I've ordered. Egoli 2000 is good about giving details on plots and background on the actors and stories, at least from 1992 through 1999. The cookbook is still making its way here, but given that it features some very traditional recipes from the characters (for example, mashonzha, made with mopane worms), I suspect it will prove to be a fun souvenir more than a ready reference in my kitchen. Lazy Days by Phillippa Cheifitz it ain't.

Still, I have my limits. I'm not willing to track down a copy of the Egoli sticker book, the Egoli perfume, "Essence of Gold," or any of the creations of the fashion line designed by characters Freddie Vermeulen and series heroine Louwna Roelofse Vorster Edwards Von Badenburg Edwards. Imagine that name on a designer label.

And if you hear otherwise, please put a hold on my credit cards and dial the South African equivalent of 911 to report me.

So my new fantasy world is developing nicely, thank you for asking.

About the show itself. I have watched the episodes for years 1992 through 2000, with 10 years/episodes remaining. Egoli ran for a half-an-hour a day, 5 days a week, for 18 years, so it's hard to get a full view of the series' highs and lows from these greatly reduced and re-edited episodes. Thus, keep in mind that what follows are general observations, not a clear-eyed gospel by any means.

So far, so good. Classic soap stuff, a mix of daytime and nighttime styles. In the early years (say, before 1997), the show focused on the wealthy Vorster family and the more working/middle-class Willemse and Naudé clans. The shows were recorded on videotape, rather than film, which, in my mind's eye, always makes the action seem more intimate, immediate, and "real" than film does. Before 1997, the show seemed to be a mix of American soaps like All My Children and Loving (from which there was some cross-over of at least two actors during the show's run) and nighttime soaps like Dynasty and Falcon Crest.

Thus, you had a potent stew of high drama and high fashion, along with social issues, family conflicts, and romances-gone-wrong. Louwna's marriage to Walt Vorster starts to hit the skids when she announces she wants to have a career outside the manse as well as being a doting wife and mother. Niek Naudé is torn between the dutiful Margie Willemse and the vivacious Sonet Vorster. Joanne Logan flees her abusive husband Deon Du Plessis. Cecile Roelofse tries to run off with her husband Tom Vorster's fortune, and, soon after receiving her comeuppance, steals her sister Nora's husband instead. Bienkie Naudé falls in love with a high school teacher, joins a cult, gets pregnant, and has an abortion. Stuff like that. All in five days' work.

After 1997, things seemed to change. First, the show started recording on film rather than videotape, looking much more like a nighttime serial. Most of the Vorsters, save for Sonet and her aging aunt-with-a-secret-son-and-heir, are written out, in favor of the fabulously wealthy and complicated Edwards family. The Edwards family, Joanne's super blonde bitch sister Kimberly, newly liberated conman-cum-businessman Adriaan Malan, and some ridiculously plotted storyline involving a German baroness and two heirs--one legit (and hyper-blond), one not--make it look like they were trying to give the show a reboot, turning the show into something a little less specifically South African and more generically international.

This apparently was a conscious decision, as, according to the Egoli book, the show was now being shown throughout Africa, Latin America, and other regions. Nothing exceeds like excess.

I have to admit to liking the earlier seasons the best so far. Generally speaking, the nighttime soap model is more about plot points and business shenanigans, not people. The daytime soap model used to be more about people, characters, emotions, and then plot, but all that seemed to change years ago. I blame it on that damned Luke and Laura and that stupid, freakin' "Ice Princess" storyline from General Hospital--in my mind, a storyline boost that carried American soaps through the '80s but left them high and dry in the 1990s and beyond.

To me, it stands to reason that if you're going to spend that much time with a show day-in and day-out, you need drama, yes, but you need the hook of likeable characters and authentic emotions as well. Who's on top at Jabot or who Sonny Corinthos shot up in his latest mob war just doesn't cut it for me, at least long term. I want to see people, some nice, some not so nice, interacting in honest and crazy ways, acting in intriguing, if not always quite believable, stories. That's what keeps me entertained long term, even when the plot wears too thin.

I see the same thing happening to Egoli as this point. From 1997 to 2000, the show feels like it's more about mean people, more about business machinations, and more about plot-heavy, character-killing stories. So hello wealthy, generic Edwards clan, goodbye Vorsters, and welcome to the back burner, my dear working-class Naudés and Willemses. There may be no way of knowing the real deal from these compressed episodes. The truth may only be known by viewing some full episodes on YouTube, should I be able to find any.

* * *

The other thing that's hard to get a handle on in the edited episodes is how diverse the cast of Egoli might be. We have the "coloured" Willemses, yes, and the African Donna Makaula. We have Mrs. Naidoo, and later we have additional African characters, such as Lerato Mashabela, played by the absolutely gorgeous Nthati Moshesh, who I recognized from the film Cape of Good Hope watched earlier in the summer.

But we also have a hell of a lot of very, very blond, very, very white people speaking Afrikaans.

Funny that. During the 1990s, whites made up something like 10 to 15 percent of the population of South Africa, with their numbers dwindling due to post-Apartheid emigration. Afrikaans is the first language of approximately 10 to 15 percent as well, both Afrikaner and "coloured," although understood by many more, as it serves as a second or third language in the nation.

According to the Egoli book, the show initially began with an 80-20 Afrikaans-English mix of dialog, gradually by the late 1990s, striking a 60-40 Afrikaans-English "balance." African languages need not apply.

The same Egoli book shows on the cover the photos of 26 cast members--1 African, 2 mixed race, and 23 white. The DVD, released in 2010, does a little better, showing a more diverse cast.

So maybe if we're generous, we could say the show's cast and cultural touchstones directly reflected those of 30 percent of South Africa's population in the late 1990s/early 2000s. To be nice and to acknowledge the language and cultural importance of Afrikaners in South Africa, I'm willing to go higher with that figure. Alas, I haven't yet visited South Africa, so perhaps I have got it all totally wrong in my head.

Or not.

I fully believe you can have shows, books, and other forms of media that consist predominantly of characters who are white, black, Latino, Asian, gay, straight, abled, differently abled, what have you. Friends certainly got away with it for years and in no way represented that mosaic that is New York City. It was criticized for that, too, and I think that was fair criticism. However, I'm willing to concede that not every show has to be one big Rainbow Nation.


I don't want to pick on South Africa here. I know there are at least a couple of other South African soaps out there--7de Laan (Sewende Laan or Seventh Avenue) and Isidingo, both of which aim to be more multicultural. And let's face it, America's struggles with racial inequality have been hardly less breath-taking or internationally notorious. Even though something like 30 percent + of the U.S. population might be classified with the awful "non-white" label, a show that shows a mix of ethnicities and races is a rare gem indeed.  

We are not alone, of course. Mexico, with its mestizo population, seems a little too fond of TV blonds as well. And even dear Canada, with its multicultural policy emphasis and Little Mosque on the Prairie can't quite get over that English-language/French-language "two solitudes."

But, wow, would it hurt any of us and our media to make a little more of an effort? I don't really want to see a sharing-and-caring mix of fake diversity on TV, in which no one ever utters a cross word or expresses an unkind thought--or conversely, where only the bad people utter them, not the good ones. Life's a lot more complicated and uncomfortable than that. In fact, I'd like to see some shows that help us deal with that racial/ethnic/cultural/sexual/lingual split, even if only to say that it's a tough break to mend. Sometimes you stitch it together. Sometimes it comes undone. But at least you try.

In the meantime, while I wait for that fantasy to come to my TV screen, I'll maintain my other one, Egoli. Maybe, too, I'll try to find an online source for 7de Laan and Isidingo as well. My pop culture obsessions may disappoint and frustrate at times, but that doesn't mean I won't keep on watching and hoping for something more.

Thursday, October 06, 2011

The oracle of Facebook

Just in case I might have forgotten.

Maybe next year Facebook can announce my age to myself in Flash.

Wednesday, October 05, 2011

One for you, one for me

Sometimes the supreme being of your choosing giveth . . . (Sarah Palin announces she will not run for POTUS in 2012).














and sometimes the supreme being of your choosing taketh away . . . (Steve Jobs dies).

Nevertheless, my money (and I should say, I have none) is on Palin in the background finagling for a cabinet position in a Romney or Perry administration, should the supreme being decide not to bless America after all.

Something like Secretary of Maverickyness should do it.


Photo credits: 

Sarah Palin: This image is a work of a U.S. Army soldier or employee, taken or made during the course of the person's official duties. As a work of the U.S. federal government, the image is in the public domain.

Steve Jobs: Matthew Yohe Original; uploader was Aido2002 at en.wikipedia; License: CC-BY-3.0

Tuesday, October 04, 2011

Arrivederci, Verona!

Lessons learned from the neighbors #3.

After a wet, cold weekend, housebound on the ground floor of my building with my neighbors and their apparent preschool-cum-menagerie housebound on the upper floor, I have decided that I would really like to find a new apartment. Sooner rather than later. Hopefully before the real winter weather sets in, which, given that it's Pittsburgh, will no doubt be in another week-and-a-half.

Nevertheless, nothing is so bad in my little corner of the world as to make me want to take a place in bullet-ridden Verona, no matter how charming it otherwise might be.

Guten tag, Aspinwall.

Is it me, Pittsburgh, or are there shoot-outs and stand-offs on almost a weekly basis these days? Is this a local thing, like the Steelers and halushki and slowing down in tunnels? 'Cause, really, Pittsburgh, the fact that everybody insists on dressing like bumblebees on game days is enough for a gentle soul to contend with.

Monday, October 03, 2011

Signs that you may not be like other boys

A scene from the movie Different from the Others (Germany 1919)
#1

It's lunchtime at the office. You order pizza with some of the other guys. All in IT. You're the sole humanities-based lifeform.

You stress the need to come up with a healthy option, light on the onions, peppers, and pepperoni.

They offer to buy a pizza primavera with broccoli, fresh tomatoes, and some other stuff. You're happy, although you're pretty much the only one who ate from that pie.

#2

Over lunch, the guys pull up on the computer (legally or illegally, who can say?) the second (or fifth) Star Wars movie, The Empire Strikes Back. They begin to discuss how much they love this movie, how they've seen it over and over, how as children (children?! This movie came out when you were in college!) they were fascinated by the world in which Luke, Hans, Leia, and the others inhabit. They know not only the plot points and the dialog but details about the filming, errors and continuity fails, commentary from the writer and director, the personality of various non-human entities, et al.

You remark that isn't it amazing how Carrie Fisher now makes commercials for Jenny Craig and that somehow Jenny Craig has not only fixed her weight problem but has given her a facelift and Botox injections as well?

It's not that amazing. In fact, no one else had noticed.

#3

You're reading your Twitter feed, because, well, it's there. Suddenly a news organization posts the following:

"Shields, Brooks on #Alwaki's death."

And in all seriousness you think to yourself, what in the world could Brooke Shields have to contribute to a discussion on international terrorism?

#4

A friend responds to your speculation with a snarky "Have you looked in the mirror lately?" And you reply with a bitchy "Pretty funny for a guy who named his dog after a character from Gone with the Wind!"

And, no, it wasn't Scarlet.