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.