Getting a head in the new year

Cheer up. It could be worse.

Somewhere over the rainbow

Best comments I've received for this photo were, alas, not my own.

"Please tell me you got a picture of flying monkeys."

"I bet they have great shoe-shopping there."

I am not worthy.

Somewhere in the Flint Hills

Temperatures rising

Is this any way to deliver the weather? In France, peut-être, mes amis, peut-être . . .

My favorite little Lolita of the Longitudes and Latitudes is at it again - TV5Monde presenter, Karine Arsene, giving the weather in a sparkly, black cocktail dress, of which this photo gives poor reflection.

No matter where you are on the planet, when Karine's temp-telling and cloud-busting, it's always 45 C in the shade with a 100% chance of va-va-va-voom.

Photographer: Roger Higgins, 1959. From the Library of Congress
Prints and Photographs Division. New York World-Telegram and
the Sun Newspaper Photograph Collection. Digital ID cph.3c19337.

* * *

Later that same day . . .

I was watching some cultural programming on TV5Monde this evening (really good documentaries and movies in the evening, often subtitled in English) and patting myself on le dos for being able to understand more French than I would have imagined possible a few years ago.

When all of a sudden I hear them talking about American author Truman Capote. Except that they didn't pronounce it Ca-po-te, three syllables, like we do in American English. No, instead, they kept referring to him as Truman Ca-pote, two syllables. Like "fruit compote."

Which of course he was . . .

Back in black to the cul-de-sac

The gods help me, but I have had the theme to '80s powerhouse soap Knots Landing stuck in my head for a couple of weeks now. California dreamin' or such a fugly winter's day? Mayhaps, y'all, mayhaps. The tune has been rather incessant, especially for a show that I haven't had a flashback to for a few years at least.

On Friday, oddly enough, the version featured in the opening credits above--the one with the punchy horns at the beginning--started to intermingle in my mind with "Ballroom Blitz," a power pop tune by '70s UK glam act, The Sweet.



I have no idea why, really. There's nothing about the holiday season that seems particularly sweet this year.

But come to think of it, there's plenty that seems particularly Sweet. The season does put me on edge enough that I could fantasize about colliding the two pop cultures together into one fireball of holiday doom. Imagine now: A ballroom blitz featuring the cast of Knots Landing, losing it feral-style in some sort of glamtastic, Clockwork Orange, Bob-Carol-Ted-and-Alice barbecue-cum-orgy-cum-meltdown. All in the blandly beautiful, '70s swingers cul-de-sac and split-level underworld of Caligula's (or Califigula?) worst erotic, tambourine-and-Hell's-Angels Orange County afternoon-cocktails-by-the-poolmare.

Wow. And sigh

Perchance I do need an escape. A rescue. A refuge. Or even just a vacation.

Exit stage West . . .

Word to the unwise

My word of the week: "Synapstasy" - an ecstasy of synapses firing and misfiring in a professional meeting. Lots of ideas, dreams, desires, and plans get discussed and launched. But nothing much ever comes of it. Mainly because the next synapstasy overwhelms the previous one.

So pretty much Monday through Friday for me. How about you?

Un lieu dans la campagne

Moi à la Chute Pedernales, ca. 1997

Soyez gentil, y'all. This is only my second attempt ever to write an essay en français. This one's about Fredericksburg, Texas, a favorite place of mine.

* * *

Un lieu dans la campagne que j’aime est la petite ville de Fredericksburg, dans l’état de Texas. Pendant j’habitais au Texas, je visitais souvent cette belle ville et cette région historique.

La ville n’est pas ancienne à coté des villes et des lieus de l’Europe : Des immigrés de l’Allemagne ont établis la ville pendant le moyen de la XIX siècle, bien que la région s’ait eu installée déjà par des gens indiens. 

Malheureusement, aujourd’hui il n’existe presque personne de ces gens originaux, à part des noms de lieu (que sont rares) et des reliques que on peut trouver parfois dans la campagne.  Cependant, il existe encore beaucoup de caractéristiques allemandes dans la ville. Par exemple, il y a des restaurants allemands qui servent la nourriture traditionnelle du pays. Il y a beaucoup de noms de lieu qu’on écrit en l’allemand (par exemple, « Hauptstrasse » et le « Vereins Kirche »). Il y a encore des coutumes allemandes qui sont pratiquées à Fredericksburg, inclus des fêtes, la fabrication de la bière, et de l’architecture de la ville.

Mais, cependant, Fredericksburg est une ville texane, avec une culture « cowboy » et « western. » Les rues de la ville sont très larges – parfait pour tourner une charrette et des chevaux. L’architecture inclut des motifs traditionnels de l’ouest des États Unis, par exemple, la roue de la charrette, le fer à cheval, les clôtures à bois, et les murs à calcaire. C’est la campagne du cheval, du cowboy, du ranch, et du élevage de bétail. Il y a une tradition riche de la musique « country » aussi : La région est très célèbre pour la proche village de Luckenbach et sa mode de musique, « outlaw country. » Des musiciens célèbres ont habitées dans la région, inclus Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, Jessie Coulter, et plus.

Mais il y a plus de la musique et de la nourriture à Fredericksburg; il y a aussi beaucoup de belle campagne. Fredericksburg est située dans la région appelée le « Texas Hill Country. » Par conséquence, il y a beaucoup de collines et de vues panoramiques. Il y a beaucoup d'arbres, comme le chêne, le pecan, et le peuplier qui fournissent beaucoup d’ombre quand il fait chaud et le soleil brille. Malgré le chaud, il ne fait pas trop humide. Il y a beaucoup de parcs et il n’y a trop de voiture sur les chemins. La région est presque parfaite à faire de la randonnée et à faire du velo.

Mais faites attention! Voici des animaux dangereux! J’ai vu des serpents proche des rivières et j’ai vu des tarantules et des scorpions sur la terre. Il y a des coyotes dans les champs. J’ai vu une fois un puma au parc « Enchanted Rock », mais, par bonheur, il ne m’a pas vu. Même le tatou timide et mignon est dangereux – il porte les bactéries que font la lèpre. 

Broken hipster

Or just hipster replacement?

I.e., fashionable specs on a sloughing through middle-age kind of guy.

Hey ho.

Ah, je souhaite . . .

File under "gifts from Twitter": Israeli artist Riff Cohen performing "À Paris." This is a lovely, sexy video the current host for the @MoroccoCuration account sent me, after I shared with him a favorite of mine, "Ya Salam" by Moroccan performer, Ahmed Soultan.



The Riff Cohen video reminds me of my trip to Paris this past summer. It doesn't hurt or help that I spent the morning going through photos of that trip in an effort to cobble enough together for some Christmas gifts.

Nevertheless, there are far more naked, writhing men of color in these videos than I managed to encounter en France or anywhere else in recent memory.

I really must remember to come back sluttier and less shy in my next life.

Ah, je souhaite . . .

I like big discs, I cannot lie

Record-shopping at Jerry's in Squirrel Hill always brings out the perv in me.

But then again, what doesn't?

Christmas unwrapping

I should be playing The Waitresses' "Christmas Wrapping"--one of the best modern holiday songs, I would argue. But I can't find a decent video for it, and besides, knowing what boys like is all I want for Christmas.

Sleazin' is the reason for the season.

Sucker! Ha ha.

Beet it

I can't remember who first mentioned chocolate beetroot cake to me. It was definitely someone on Twitter from South Africa, but as to who exactly, I won't reveal, in part because I can't remember. Are beets good for short-term memory? Let's hope so.

Anyway, I finally gave it a go, baking one tonight--after first roasting the beets nearly a week ago and after having roasted another batch a month or so ago but, after repeated culinary delays, eventually tossing them. I figured I didn't want both beetroot cake and salmonella.

The cake turned out pretty good, if I do say so. Chocolately and rich bit not cloying or sickening. I thought it could have been a little sweeter (I used honey and maple syrup, rather than sugar) and moister (at 40 minutes, it didn't seem done enough; at 45, mmmm, maybe a little too done?). Thus I'm going to make a glaze tomorrow, which will hopefully resolve both issues or at least hide both failings.

Truth be told, I'm not a great baker. I can generally manage cakes, but I am ashamed to admit I've never really attempted a pie, other than a Québécois tarte au sucre, which after two goes, I still can't get right. The filling never sticks--which is amazingly difficult not to do with a mixture of brown sugar and butter--and I'm too skittish to make my own crust. Resolution for a new year: Bake a damn pie already.

And maybe make more cakes. The good thing about a beetroot cake is that it gives the illusion of healthiness. I'll take what I can get at this point, but all in all, this wasn't as deadly as it might have been. Some butter, yes, but the aforementioned honey and maple syrup, a little olive oil, and no dairy. So I'll have to go screw it up with some cream cheese, Karo syrup, or a stick of butter. That's the solution! Beetroot Kiev! The perfect Russian-Ukrainian dessert.

* * *

Ah yes, the South African obsession continues, having moved on from music and history to foodways. I roasted a fairly decent chicken over Thanksgiving, stuffed with sage and onion, coated in butter and stone-ground mustard, taking the recipe from Lazy Days (or as my friend Cali put it, Boozhy Days), a cookbook by South African "lifestyles" author Phillippa Cheifitz, with which my sister gifted me after her last SA sojourn. Lazy, boozhy, lovely, snooty--whatever, it's a gorgeous book featuring some delicious food, even if there's not a chance in Good Hope I'll find a supply of snoek at Wholey's fish market in the Strip District anytime soon.

I'm even toying with the idea of trying to make koeksisters, a South African pastry that resembles twists or braids, which sounds inordinately complicated to prepare and taxing even to my level of cultural stalking.

So maybe, instead, focus on pie for the new year. Something all-American, like apple. Or cherry. Or beetroot pecan.

Y'all come back now, ya hear?

If I were a country music show, I'd be known as the Grand Ol' Ornery. I'd be broadcast 24 hours a day, 6 days a week, and twice on Sunday.

Love Song 28

Smooth.

This arrived late

Much too late to make a difference. And never in time for me to give a rat's.

It was a Fassbinder kind of weekend

It was a Fassbinder kind of weekend.

But only in terms of gloominess, lost star quality, and the sense that life is passing me by.

For the record, I held off on the morphine addiction and lesbian subtext.

For now.

Don't call me . . .

A bigot? Or a beggar? I'm not sure. All I know is that I've spent years looking for this song and not knowing whether it was "bigot" or "beggar" might have been a necessary detail in my search.

The song is called "Mauvais sang" ("Bad blood"), and it's by Anouk (aka Anouk Khelifa-Pascal).

This is one of those mysterious tunes I used to hear on RFI Musique, the international, commercial-free, internet music station of Radio France International. RFI Musique has gotten better over the years with posting its playlists timely and accurately, so when I recently reheard this on the station, I was able to track it down fairly quickly.

Well . . . I was able to track down the name of the song and the artist (although there are a number of "Anouks" out there, including a better-known Dutch performer) but not the song itself. Not available on iTunes, not available on Amazon US (except as a very expensive import CD), not available as an "advanced download" from numerous sources I've . . . heard others talk about.

Note: I'm really opposed to downloading "free" music on the internet because it hurts the artists--the singers, songwriters, performers, musicians, and producers, among others. Sometimes it's a matter of desperate times, desperate measures: If I've exhausted all known possibilities, I *might* look elsewhere and I *might* partake--but only as a stopgap until I can purchase the item legally. Like most performers, I don't have a lot of love lost for the music "industry" (which in one word says everything you need to know about the mindset behind the current condition of music-making). However, I do have a lot of love for performers, high and low, good and bad, successful and struggling. I try not to do them in by making casual, frequent, and cheap raids of online mp3 sites. I encourage you to adopt a similar approach.

Lecturing aside, I love the vibe and groove of this song and am glad to now finally connect the song with a title and performer.

I don't know much about Anouk. This song was recorded in 1997 for an album called Automatik Kalamity. She has performed with Manu Chao, I believe. And that's all I got.

But I'm intrigued enough to try to discover more by her.

Legally even.

And so it begins

Saturday in Pittsburgh.

Oh, I can hardly wait for December.

And January.

And February.

And March.

And possibly even part of April.

Grandma's cornbread

In memory of J.R. Ewing, I made my Grandma's cornbread.

No, not really. For one thing, this isn't my Grandma's cornbread. Lord knows how she made it when she did; she never wrote anything down, just did it from memory and habit. I do know she probably used lard, which I did not. I used vegetable shortening, which theoretically is healthier but not necessarily tastier).

For another, I had planned to make cornbread this weekend anyway, treating myself and my downstairs neighbors (who are from South America) with some Southern comfort food.

So no, I didn't make cornbread in honor of J.R. If I had done so, it would have been a lot less crumbly but just as delicious.

Besides, J.R. (and Larry Hagman) was from Texas, not North Carolina and cornbread is more of a southeastern and south central thing, not a Texas thing, which is less about cornbread and more about biscuits. Or maybe flour or corn tortillas.

I always liked how on Dallas, J.R. was never played as a Texas hayseed but as a Texas sophisticate. It made total sense of course. A oil billionaire from Texas wouldn't be a yokel. But Hollywood has a strange way with . . . everything. Still, they got it right on Dallas and on Texas.

And I realize I miss Texas more than anything right now
.

It's a Dallas-ter

Good night, Larry Hagman. Rest in peace, J.R. Ewing. Sweet dreams, Dallas.

Lourenço Marques

My quest to understand Southern Africa continues, this time moving toward the Indian Ocean and Portuguese East Africa. Specially, Mozambique and its former capital, Lourenço Marques (now Maputo).

This is a video/travelogue I found recently and randomly on YouTube. The phrase "lost world" keeps bubbling up into my mind--but then again, I'm sure black Africans and others might perceive it differently.

Nonetheless, white Africans were part of the geographical and cultural landscape in Mozambique for close to 500 years, no small timeframe. And then when Portuguese rule came to an abrupt end in 1975, something like 250,000 to 500,000 Portuguese Mozambicans vacated the premises in a matter of weeks, some heading back to Portugal, some to South Africa, some to Brazil, some to parts unknown.

That makes me a little sad. Again, the whole lost world thing, coupled with a frustration with those who left, who gave up, and let an independent Mozambique fend for itself.

Loss you say. Black Africans lost a lot before, during, and after Portuguese rule. Do I feel less for them? No, not necessarily. Maybe it's that the Portuguese loss is better documented. Maybe I can relate better to the "Western" world exemplified by the Portuguese. And, alas, maybe I'm just an insensitive, racist jerk.

Still, I find I want to read more, see more, learn more about these worlds, past and present. I should really pursue that history master's again, although that seems like a dry way to approach what is essentially a wistful wanderlust, more romantic than scholastic. More about my yearning to travel, explore, communicate, than my desire to rummage through old records and conduct interviews.

Maybe I'm too much of an ineffectual, intellectual lightweight, cursing to be clever, but, feh, I've grown more comfortable with that over time. Essentially, I just wish I could explore some, travel more, live larger.

As I jog through my 50s, here's hoping I'll make more strides toward those life goals. Here's hoping someday ill know what I want to be when I grow up and will actually get to be it.

"Lourenço Marques . . . ." It's the "Rosebud" of its own time and place, with fewer Freudian connotations I would imagine.

Die young. Or else.

Ke$ha (or as I prefer to think of her, Ke¢ha) was one of the featured acts on the 40th anniversary of the American Music Awards tonight.

Is that, like, still a thing?. I mean, didn't Dick Clark die not so long ago? Shouldn't what he wrought be allowed to die with him? That only seems fair.

This performance is from X Factor Australia (as if that "strine" accent didn't give it all away), but it resembles the one she gave on the AMAs.

I don't know, but I'm pretty sure Ke$ha's crotch grabs and pelvic thrusts were autotuned.

To her credit, the AMA performance was quite spirited and delivered with a North Korean army-level of precision. And dare I admit this? "Die Young," like most of Ke$ha's tunes (auto or otherwise), is quite catchy.

My general sentiment about La Ke$ha remains the same: "So many records, so little lighter fluid." But, hey, a few more tribal dance numbers like this, and I could make an iTunes purchase.

Like all good porn, it would be best enjoyed shamefully, secretly, under of cover darkness, in the privacy of my own home, while wearing headphones . . . and a ball gag.

OK, I made up the part about the ball gag. Definitely not my style. That's just a premonition from Ke$ha's next video. You're welcome, America.

The word de la semaine

Doppelgängnam style (n.) - The sense that you've seen this internet meme before. Over and over again in fact.

Love Pentagon

The Colbert Report	Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c
General's Hospital
www.colbertnation.com
Colbert Report Full Episodes Political Humor & Satire Blog Video Archive

Oh, hell. This one speaks for itself.

Can this marriage be saved?

An American Civil War amputee, who still lived despite his injuries.
A public domain photo from WikiCommons and the Mutter Museum.

If at first you don't secede, try, try again.

Please.

* * *

Sometimes marriages sound like a good idea at the time. Couples start out with the best of intentions--either full-on love or I-have-some-doubts-but-you-seem-into-it/our-families-expect-it/you-are-pregnant/this-is-what-grown-ups-do-isn't-it?

Nothing lasts forever. Not the full blush of love or the peaceful coexistence of two very different people. So perhaps inevitably, irritations develop. They start out small. You talk funny! You've got more people and hog all the bed!

And grow. I don't like the way you own people and make them work your land! I don't like your telling me how to run my economy and treat my Negroes! And before you know it, it's make-up to break-up to make-up to break-up, to a hostile separation, a bitter divorce and a vicious child custody battle. Over Kansas ferchrissakes.

But wouldn't you know it? Old habits die hard. Despite the hostilities and out-and-out war, sometimes stars fall on Alabama and doesn't that make her look lovely in the moonlight? New Jersey starts calling himself the Garden State, and my my, you never realized how really lovely the Pine Barrens can be in the spring. Just like home!

You consider your dating options. Canada. Mexico. Really? Has it come to this? Before you know it, each of you is looking more attractive to the other. And think of the children! Colorado! Utah! The Dakotas! And wouldn't it be nice to give them some brothers and sisters to play with? And to keep Miss Frosty-Pants Canada and Mister Hot-to-Trot Mexico at bey a little longer . . . ?

So even though your true friends tell you no, what, are you insane?--and all the others just laugh behind your back--you remarry.

But things are never the same, even after he accepts your friends--a Virginia planter who went to college at Princeton, a peanut farmer from Georgia, a wonkish lothario from Arkansas--as his own. You try to like his friends, too. That nice old fellow from California, well, he reminded you of your dementia-afflicted grandfather, bless his heart. And that other one from California with the jowly face, he really, really seemed to appreciate you. Too bad your husband dumped in during that late unpleasantness over politics. And Lord knows that one from New York with the nosy wife hung around long enough, showing her butt in places that she just had no right to do, but he at least gave you some nice presents like roads and rural electrification. 

But Massachusetts, Massachusetts, Massachusetts. What is it about Massachusetts? Is there something he's trying to tell you? Oh, he says he likes country music, sweet tea, and NASCAR, but he keeps going on about medical care, minorities, and summers in Maine and Michigan. Over time, you discover that he likes apple-picking in the fall, surfing, and higher education. And what was that? Is he checking out that tramp Canada again?  While Mexico's got his hands all over you! That bastard.

And then he forms a fast friendship with some man who claims he's from Hawaii. Hawaii. Is that even a real state? You're so not sure. Oh, he's well-spoken and -groomed, you'll grant him that, but he does go on, talking at you more than with you. Plus, well, he's black, you whisper to your grandchildren. Yes, you know, that's not something that you're supposed to say, but . . . well . . . you're just stating the obvious.

And my, now that you husband is good "friends" with that rather odd black fellow, doesn't he go on and on about racism and, pass the smelling salts, gay people. Hmmm. A more suspicious mind . . .

But hold on, before we get to that, it's back to his favorite topic: health care. Please God, shut up about it already! For one thing, nobody's gonna tell you what to do with your body--unless it's a legislator with curious ideas about rape and a do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do attitude toward abortion. For another, good people don't get sick. And if they do, they have enough of their own money to take care of it. They don't come calling on their friends to help them out in a time of need. That's what prayer and capitalism for. Everybody knows that. Or at least they should.

And oh no you and special friend didn't just go and give all those poor people what we had to fight long and hard for/be born into/marry into/imagine ourselves lucking into despite all evidence to the contrary! How dare he!

You don't even know him. And he doesn't look as handsome as he used to. Have you ever been to Pennsylvania? A lovely name, some old stuff, some nice trees, but, hmmm, they don't call it Pennsyltucky for nothing.

The children are all grown up, except for little, adopted Puerto Rico, and well, that was his idea, not yours.

So it's back to divorce court. No, this time you mean it! Look, you're heading out the door! Don't try and stop you!

* * *

Seriously, secession? You're welcome to it, but it's not like it's ever been a peaceful, fun-loving, hey-kids-let's-put-on-a-show process.

Life as we know it, however middling, is disrupted. Battles rage. People die. Your "side" and mine, too.

Mind you, I'm not opposed to your moving on and moving out. People need to go their own way, follow their own piss bliss.

Have at it. We'll be fine with alternating weekend visitation rights to Florida and New Orleans.

Buh-bye. Don't let the door hit you on your Mississippi on the way out.

Headphones

Love the song, hate the video.

Evacuate the dancefloor

After that election, we all just need some pop to get us moving (forward, forward, forward) again. This has been one of my "earworms of death" lately. But in a good way.

(Ear) candy

And eye candy. Coz it's Robbie Williams. In a pink suit.

(Not) Petrae'ed

Official photo of David Petraeus,
Director of the Central Intelligence Agency

Let it be known that I really don't care about David Petraeus's admission that he has had an extramarital affair.

I don't see how that's relevant to his job in government, although I could see how it might put him in a compromising position as head of the Central Intelligence Agency. Trying to keep things secret when you're head of one of the world's largest Secrets-is-My-Business entities. Awkward.

But then, arguments like that were used against gays in military or "secret" service for years. So neither stones nor aspersions will be cast from this glass-walled apartment. We've all made some bone-headed mistakes because of a boner. Who knows what goes on inside a relationship? I would prefer not to, and I feel sorry for all parties that this has become public knowledge.

Nevertheless, if the likes of David Petraeus can't keep an extramarital relationship under wraps, what chance do the rest of us stand? Especially those unfortunates that end up on Cheaters?

Bilingual fail

"Chignon" and "chingón" are not the same thing.

Reasonable behavior

Barack and Michelle Obama with Joe Biden and his wife Jill
Credit: I, Daniel Schwen, CC-BY-SA 3.0

Sorry I was late for work this morning. It was because  . . .

• I was busy doing a victory lap through 25 26 states and the District of Columbia.

• I was marrying my same-sex life partner in Maine, Maryland, Minnesota, and possibly Washington State.

• I was opening a pharmacy that specializes in dispensing only medical marijuana and birth control pills.

• I was busy not shutting things down.

• I was getting Rocky Mountain high.

• I was out buying more condoms for my next porn film (valid in California only).

And the one that I didn't have the nerve to post on Twitter . . .

• I was busy giving safe and legal abortions in the privacy of my own bedroom.

Boom!

Solid!

Looney tunes and merry melodies

America: We're not barbaric. We're Hanna-Barbaric!

Learn to laugh at us and with us, and nobody'll get hurt.

Now vote, y'all!

Portmanteau du jour

New Yorkers + New Jerseyan = New Jerkers.

You're welcome, world.

Sorry, I'm feeling for everyone in the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy (been there, done that, didn't have electricity for a week), but maybe I've heard a little too much from Staten Island over the past few days . . .

Lowest common demonator

From the Saturday Pittsburgh Post-Gazette

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ah ah ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha  ha ha ha ha ha ha ah ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha . . . ah ha ha ha . . . ha ha . . . ah . . . ah . . . ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ah ah ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha . . . ah ha . . . ah ha . . . ah ha . . . that's . . . that's . . . ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ah ha ah ha ha ha ah ha ah ha ah ha ha  . . . ah ha . . . ah ha . . . ha ha ha . . .

That's . . . that's . . . that's . . . that's rich. So very rich.

And brought to you by the rich, who couldn't care less about you.

Fears of a clown

Who says prisoner rehabilitation doesn't work? And that zombies don't walk among us?

So good to see the late horrorshow John Wayne Gacy out and about, working again, serving coffee in a Pittsburgh area café.

An open letter to Pittsburgh Cable News Channel (PCNC)

Dear Advertising and Public Affairs Divisions of PCNC:

Regarding the commercial aired Tuesday, October 30, between 7:30 and 7:45 AM, to my knowledge the President of the United States is not a "baby-killer," as claimed by Jane Roe/Norma Leah McCorvey. Rather the President and the administration uphold what is currently law in the United States, the right for access to the medical procedure known as abortion.

I assume, as a commercial enterprise, you do not necessarily support every item or issue advertised on your channel. Nonetheless, as a commercial enterprise using the federally administered broadcasting spectrum, I would think you would bear some responsibility for inaccurate and inflammatory statements made and transmitted via your station. To allow a commercial in which the speaker states, "Do not vote for Barack Obama, he is a baby-killer," is not merely offensive and untrue (to my knowledge, the President has not personally performed abortions in the White House or other locales) but also dangerous. Abortion generates a great deal of emotional distress, especially among those opposed to it. Calling the President a "baby-killer" would seem to be waving the proverbial red flag in front of those highly opposed to the matter.

Thus, I would respectfully request you reconsider airing this advertisement on your channel. Surely your need for advertising revenue is not so great as to broadcast content such as this.

Thank you.

Homestyle

So . . . I just saw a commercial for a local furniture company, and one of the lines the store advertises for sale is created by that noteworthy designer of household comfort . . . Paula Deen.

Which begs the question: Just how much Naugahyde furniture does the average American home need?

When you think of pizza, think of dead South American revolutionaries with an "image" problem

I can't believe I forgot all about this pic!

From my Edinburgh trip this past summer: Lassies and germs, I give you Che Pizza somewhere in Old Town.

Whoever said Che was assassinated by a Bolivian junta? Nah, he just fled to Scotland and started making the most delicious pizza, wraps, and burgers known to working-class humanity!

¡Delicioso, comrades!

WTF FTW

I am old. I'm starting to feel like one of those parents that kids make fun of for not getting internet memes or text abbreviations. For example, "LOL" means "laughing out loud," not "lots of love." "ROFL" means "rolling on the floor laughing," not a quick way to refer to the massage/body work term, "rolfing."

 These I get.

However, I only recently learned that "FTW" stands for "for the win," rather than a transposition of "WTF,"  aka "What the f**k."

I feel slightly less stoopid now that I know the real meaning, but I think my original interpretation was actually better. 

"F**k the what, dudes, it's only Thursday! This week will never end." 

See? Very useful.

I still don't get what a "meme" is, though. WTF?

Old.

 

Bindered and gagged

Svensk "gaffelpärm," Holger.Ellgaard, 2007. CC-BY-SA 3.0
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Gaffelparm.jpg

Binders of women you say?

What about a Rolodex stuffed with gals?

A file folder full of females?

A ledger laden with ladies?

A desk drawer crammed with dames?

The possibilities are endless! The equal opportunities, not so much.

I am the decider

Cribbed from CNN, 7 October 2012

A baseball bat? A sledge hammer? A taser? Waterboarding? A sharp stick in the eye? A hot metal poker? Back-to-back episodes of Honey Boo Boo? "Legitimate rape" by a liquored-up Newt Gingrich in full Dune-inspired Baron Vlad Harkonnen mode? A whiff of Mitt Romney's banana-oiled hair? Holding a gun to a kitten's head? A time-travel machine back to 2004? 2008? 1858?

I give up. You losers just want to make the rest of us losers.

Tomorrow never dies

And Facebook never lies.

I'm dreaming!

Deborah Harry and Chris Stein of Blondie

But please don't wake me!

Watching Deborah Harry and Chris Stein of Blondie perform October 5, 2012, at the Palace Theatre, in beautiful downtown Greensburg, Pennsylvania.

Please note: This equals one of the best birthdays ever.

Cherry bomb

Nutella, forewarned: Quite possibly, you have met your match.

Only in Pixburgh

Or Johnstown. Whichever, jagoffs.

Pixburgh rox!

One by Donora, one of Pittsburgh's best local bands--who ought to be known nationally and beyond, they are just that good!

Word to your crooner: Belated respect

Scott McKenzie passed away on August 18, 2012, so I'm a wee bit behind with this shout-out.

While I no longer feel the need to live in the Bay Area as I once did way back when--too poseur-ish, too passive-aggressive, and too bloody expensive--this one calms me down and comforts me on a lazy Saturday in the poor man's San Fran (aka Pittsburgh).

Mellow yellow? Quite rightly.

Solidarity

Meet Bittereinder (Bitter-enders).

What is it with me and the South African hip-hop? Seriously, I follow a little too closely for my own sanity Afrikaner alterna-bands on Radio 5FM (SABC) and UCT Radio 104.5fm from the University of Cape Town.

I mean, it's not like I'm going to South Africa anytime soon (still tapped out from Europe, don'tcha know), and my progress in learning a few key phrases in Afrikaans is slower and lower than my muddling, middling French. And the men, which normally might be a tangential draw, really don't do it for me. Too many braais, too much blond hair out of a bottle, as far as I can tell.

(Special note to all interested parties: I would make an exception for Stefan Ludik. Who is from Namibia and thus probably of German, rather than Afrikaner, ancestry. So there.)

Perhaps it's childhood nostalgia calling (Radio RSA, the Voice of South Africa, and all that--Ver in die wêreld, Kittie? Indeed). Or maybe the exotic other, which I am always entranced by, like a mosquito to a bug zapper on a hot summer night. In Mozambique.

There's a bit of the underdog about it all--whither Afrikaans and Afrikaner culture in a post-Apartheid era, where everyone has to fend for themselves without so much state support and brutal enforcement? Is it that weird, racist, Southern "lost cause" mentality at play? Or do I simply enjoy being different and immersing myself in some world other than my own?

But yes, alas, it's got a good beat and is easy to dance to, oh so often my motivating force. Get up and boogie. Don't stop the dance. Slave to the rhythm am I.

Describe Mitt Romney in One Word #1

Mitt Romney in Iowa, May 2007

"DubyaDubyaThree"

* * *

This image, which was originally posted to Flickr.com, was uploaded to Wikimedia Commons using Flickr upload bot on 07:21, 9 January 2008 (UTC) by Ferrylodge. On that date it was licensed under the license CC-BY-SA 2.0 Generic. The author is listed on Wikipedia as IowaPolitics.com. The original image can be found here.

Halloween comes early

And actually it came really early when Die Antwoord released "I Fink U Freeky" earlier this year in the U.S.

Anyone who knows me knows this is so not my style, visually at least. Ever since I scared myself badly as a child reading a horror comic book on a stormy night--something about ewe in a wood in a hood, perhaps, or a massive number of dead bodies floating down a river in a 1970s-era Third World country, I avoid horror, even suspense, of almost all varieties.

A case in point: The last scary movie I remember seeing was The Others with Nicole Kidman, and let's face it ("face" it, get it?), other than her Botox dependency, she's not that scary.

But the video for "I Fink U Freeky" is so catchily, craftily creepy, I can't help but being mesmerized by it. The unrelenting grime; the alien, distorted bodies and faces; the wrinkled brows; the twitching cheeks; the scuzzy, raw lust; Yolandi's State Hospital haircut; Ninja dancing in his (dirty) underwear. Ick and eek and bravo. It's all incredibly, gruesomely well done.

Plus it's got a good beat and is easy to dance to. Sort of like a throwback to 2Unlimited techno--although Blue Pearl's "Can You Feel the Passion?" might be a fairer sonic comparison.

Clearly, Die Antwoord isn't your grandmother's Qkumba Zoo. But if you're like me and really like your grandparents, you might do better with the David Letterman Show-approved version

of "I Fink U Freeky." But just maybe.

Tot siens, fokkers!

Big pumpin'

Where is Michael Phelps' mother when you need her as a footwear model?

As my friend Cali would say, "Whiskey-Tango-Foxtrot."

Yes, friends, it's a stiletto-styled tape dispenser, in red, black, and zebra print, snapped at Office Max near Pittsburgh Mills.

Who says we don't need unions in this country? I think any good collectivist organization worth its muscle and members' dues would strike against this faster than you can say "hostile workplace."

I miss you, Edinburgh (part 4)

Saying goodbye to Edinburgh. At Waverley Station, 7 July 2012.

I miss you, Edinburgh (Part 3): On the Royal Mile

Old Town, the Castle, the the churches, the tourists, and, on cue, the bagpipes along the Royal Mile. It doesn't get much more Edinburgh than this.

I miss you, Edinburgh (Part 2): Ode to a Belisha Beacon

My British friends laugh at the fact that I'm kind of fascinated with this historical feature of the street in the UK and some Commonwealth countries--the Belisha Beacon. I don't know I am, but I am a tad obsessed. It seems somewhat exotic and elaborate--although entirely functional--to have this tall, stripey light at "zebra crossings" (i.e., crosswalks).

Plus you've got to admit that Belisha Beacon would make a great name for a British "female illusionist." That and Sunny Spells.

I miss you, Edinburgh (Part 1): At the céilidh

Filmed on my trip to Scotland, July 2012. How I wish I were there--even though I'd still sit out this dance.

Three from our electronic overlords

"Oblivion" by Grimes (released early 2012). I actually prefer "Genesis," but I couldn't find an official video for it. A bit precious? Maybe, but I still like her voice and overall sound.



Trip-hop lives! One of my favorite musical genres of the last two to three decades survives in the guise of French musician and DJ, Wax Tailor, here performing "Heart Stop" with vocalist Jennifer Charles



"Harvest Moon" by Poolside. No real video but such a gorgeous "daytime disco" (their words) sound. Denmark meets California. I believe this is the Neil Young song, actually, with Poolside's version bordering on sacrilege for some, but still, so lush and true to the spirit of the original.

And there my friends is your perfect end-of-summer soundtrack.

Ode to a non-greasy yearn

The smell of chicken in the air that night
The fryer alight
Oh Nando
They were frying hens for you and me
For fricassee
Oh Nando
Though there're pounds we'll never lose
There's no regret
If I had to eat chick-en again
I would eat yours my friend
Oh Nando

One of the discoveries on my recent trip to Great Britain was Nando's, a palace of Portuguese roast chicken in peri-peri sauce, which has something like 250+ locations in the UK. And it's been in the GB since 1992, so it's more than just a fluke, it's practically a way of life. This was my third trip since then, so why am I just discovering this now? <sotto voce> Vegetarian friends </sotto voce>.

I've had chicken and fish roasted Portuguese-style before--in Montreal of all places, which has a noteworthy Portuguese community along Rue Saint-Laurent north of Rue Sherbrooke. So this was more Portuguese roast chicken done for the "casual dining" crowd--but, nevertheless, done very well! (But, thankfully not, well done.)

There was also a Southern African influence in the cuisine, what with the rich "Southern style" (in that they reminded me of home) Luso beans and the fiery (for Great Britain) peri-peri marinades, common to Mozambique (a former Portuguese colonial territory) and South Africa, too, from whence Nando's got its start.

Nando's is global--there are even several locations in the Washington, D.C., area, although the closest to me is either in suburban Maryland or Toronto. Apparently, though, there are none in Montreal at this time, which is somewhat surprising because, calvaire, those Quebecois do love the roast chicken. (I'm looking at you, St. Hubert.)

What's my point in telling you all of this? Well, I wanted to show off my little homage to Nando's above (sung to the tune of ABBA's "Fernando," natch), which I recently composed for my dear friend Cali. And to remind you that our casual dining choices in the Pittsburgh area include Applebee's, TGIFriday's, and Eat 'n' Park.

Gah, sometimes how I hate you, life.

This at least makes me somewhat happy

It's like Scottish, English, and French weather all rolled into one.

Well, a boy can dream, can't he?

Maybe the only thing that will make me hate life less at this moment in time

Annie - I Know Ur Girlfriend Hates Me [New] by elpolemico

¡Ay! ¡Un gusano del oído!

I don't know why this song suddenly popped into my head this week, but it's been consistently there since at least Tuesday. Thus it's become my "gusano del oído" ("earworm" translated into Spanish . . . perhaps) du jour, de la semaine, au what-have-you.

This one takes me back . . . to San Antonio, actually, where I used to see this video on Telehit, the best music video channel there ever was, short of (or on par with) MTV US pre-1984. Yes, that good. Telehit is based in Mexico City, so it had at the time I watched it a real "chilango" vibe, exceedingly cool, trendy, and sophisticated, even though it was cranking out tunes and style for teens and tweens in an economically challenged, developing country.

Contrast that with MTV, except for maybe the first couple of years, which you would never know is broadcast from New York City. Its hipness has always been what the suburban kids think is stylin', which to me has always seemed unforgivably white bread, even when they're going all gangsta. It's almost as if MTV is ashamed to set an alternative tone for a horribly square country.

You certainly don't see that on TV in the UK, which so often seems very London in 'tude, for better or for worse. (I keep thinking of my recent date with Keith Lemon on BBC when I was in Scotland recently. Not likely to be the next Dancing with the Stars export, I am quite sure.) But here in the good ol' US of A, all we get is . . . a corporate California interpretation of sophistication, even when it's being channeled from Manhattan.

So, yeah, I am pissed off about being back home. How did you ever guess? My anguished wanderlust is high in the dark clouds of plaintiveness ready to throw myself over the next exquisite precipice of drama. Bring me Edelweiss! Please! (And major special pretzels if you get that reference. You've been reading liner notes!)

So much so that I'm daydreaming of my old life in "exotic" Texas, where it's no doubt 110 degrees in the shade (if you can find any), and they've just lethal injected another poor miscreant. Pretty pitiful when all that looks much more appealing than my so-called life in Pittsburgh.

"¡Gritar! ¿Quién? o ¿Cuál? Da igual, te juro da igual."

For those who like rain

And thunder and summer storms . . .

Je suis arrivé, j'ai vu, j'ai vaincu

Well, maybe not quite conquered, but you get the gist . . .

Here's part of the reason for the long silence: Paris. I'm hoping to make up for lost time in the coming weeks.

Enjoy!

Irreversible, actually

Spotted by my friend the Music Lover at Macy's Waterfront over the holiday weekend.

Despite the some marketeer's best efforts, you can't undo the gay.

Just ask Robert L. Spitzer.

Spot the typo

When you think of Columbine . . .

. . . you really should think of this instead.

In the contemporary American mind, the word "columbine" is by necessity associated with a very unfortunate event from 1999, the Columbine High School massacre. Maybe not so much for Americans who were young or not yet born when it took place--there have been, I'm sure, hundreds of similar incidents since then, across this great, gun-loving, mass-murdering, suicide pact-vowing land of ours.

Nonetheless, the columbine is also a quite beautiful flower, something I did not know until a few years ago, well after the massacre. And even if a gun were held to my head (if you'll pardon the expression), I couldn't have identified the flower.

So pleasant happenstance: The other day I was walking past an urban farm lot in Homewood on my way to work when I spied these beautiful flowers. Have camera phone, will shoot to still, so I popped off a few and posted for friends on Twitter and Facebook. And then the magic of technology and the global community who knows a heck of a lot more about plant life than I do, I learned that these are indeed columbine.

Sad to think that such a gorgeous, delicate creation can be associated with such a tragic event. I might make a plea to say that this doesn't have to be the way if only we'd get beyond serious about gun violence and gun control in this country--but I'm sure no one could hear me above all the target practice and police stand-offs.

So instead, I'll just shut my mouth and let us all enjoy the view.

Greek to me

A subdued scene from my second belly-to-the-bar moment at the St. Nicholas Greek Food Festival in Oakland this week.

And quite literally, I do mean "belly" and "bar": Please note the juxtaposition of the "pastries" area with the full-service bar. In a church fellowship hall no less.

'Cause that's how we roll in Pennsylvania.

After lunch, I did a lot of groaning and shifting in my chair, as well as mispronouncing the dishes that I ate for my Greek-heritage boss. Not one to let any mistake go unchallenged (bless his spanokopita-filled heart), he spent a portion of the day correcting me in front of my office mates.

"It's not 'mous-SAK-a' and it's not 'MOUS-sak-a' either. It's 'mous-sa-KAH!'"

"OK . . ."

"So what else did you have besides moussaka?"

"Well, I had a 'sa-la-DAH!' and a 'so-DAH!'"

Please let it be known that you may be able to employ me, correct me, humiliate me, fill me full of Greek food and send me scurrying down the hall with relief on my mind (or wherever), but, oh yes, I will prevail.

Think it over . . .

. . . life ain't a four-leaf clover.

A delicate flower for all you delicate flowers and followers out there.

Happy Wednesday. Now get back to work!

Bon jour!

This is how I get ready for work every morning.

Commence countdown to Paris . . .

* * *
A couple of possible translations of the lyrics. Not for the easily offended!

Here's Take 1. And now here's Take 2.

Apparently, the Cuizinier referred to in the lyrics is a French rapper not admired for being a nice guy.

Nevertheless, it's got a good beat and is easy to dance to. The only criteria you need to enjoy.

Ah men

Are you there, god? It's me, Margo Channing.

Please grant me the serenity to stop fantasizing about another long-distance relationship with a semi- mostly completely maybe unavailable man and the courage to shtup become enamored with crush on someone in my own area code for a change.

Ah men.

Pittsburgh and me, keeping it classy

We made Gawker! For all the wrong reasons!

Hockey will (not) set you free

I'm very late in getting to this one, being that some weeks ago the Penguins went down faster and more dramatically than the Hindenburg in a lightening storm. But this is too funny not to share, despite the fact that this meme--I think that's what the kids call it--has been done to destruction and, well, sorry about the Nazi Germany imagery.

My favorite moments:

• "I trusted all the praise on Roots Sports all year long . . . " 
• "Johnson couldn't stop a slapshot from a 6-year-old" 
• "It's OK, Pirates games are still fun sometimes." 
• "There is only one possible explanation for this . . ." 

But there are many, especially if you know anything about Pittsburgh or sports. So put your historical squeamishness aside and enjoy.