A message to my love, version 12.31.2013

Another year, another heartache, another chance at life and love and whatever happens in-between.

Happy new year, y'all.

Well, d'ya, Cleveland?

Driving back from Cleveland on Friday night/Saturday morning, I was trying to find the right radio station for the drive home--something to comfort me, something to keep me awake, something to nourish my soul. In other words, nothing at all featuring the Top 40 hits of today, tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow.

Luckily, along the way, I discovered WCSB, the independent, alternative station broadcasting from Cleveland State University, via which I heard this fantastic, hilarious, and contemporary remake of Rod Stewart's semi-execrable-yet-perfectly-of-its-time "D'Ya Think I'm Sexy?" The group is the Hybrid Kids (sorta, maybe, kinda--or maybe it's just the musician Morgan Fisher--or his studio group, British Standard Unit?) and it's a contemporary song alright--1979 contemporary, released within a year of the original.

I was surprised to say the least to learn that this song wasn't new--although, admittedly, who but the very desperate or the very camp would do a remake of a top pop hit from 1978 at this late stage, nearly 35 years after the fact? Nevertheless, the biting humor and delivery, plus the industrial sound, make this cover version seem very current and relevant.

Maybe it's just that so much modern pop sounds so dreadful and synthetic. (Yes, I am old.) I couldn't help but wish this were some new, adventurous musical combo, attacking the "classics" and soon to set its sights on modern times, the usual suspects of Lady Gaga, Britney, Katy Perry, and whatever the boy band du jour is calling itself at the moment.

Alas, no. The late '70s and early '80s had it going on, and we're still utterly lost and hapless at critiquing pop culture, regressing almost to an early '60s let's-take-everything-at-face-value system--just with more tits and more asses.

Oh, but why be bitter? This little ditty sits so pretty in my consciousness now. It's just the brain food I needed to keep me going through the early daze of the holiday season.

Now if I could just do something about getting a decent flight out of Pittsburgh International. Or perhaps just up and move to Cleveland instead. This one little mindbender of a track gives me hope that there's some life out there after all in the Midwestern quadrant of American culture.

Even if the track's performed by a group of Brits.
 

Happy Thanksgiving, pilgrim!

Jonathan Frid as Barnabas Collins. From Wikipedia.

I spent a good portion of the American Thanksgiving holiday celebrating exactly how some of our Puritan forebears did: Eating too much turkey and standing idly by while our friends and neighbors were accused of witchcraft.

In other words, I caught up on several episodes of the 1960s gothic soap, Dark Shadows. I have been watching (slowly) the early black-and-white the return of Barnabas Collins episodes on Netflix, but my dear sister had purchased volume 5 of the DVD collection, covering part of the seminal 1795 storyline.

This is one of the major storylines of the series and probably my favorite era for the show. It goes like so: In the present day (1967), governess Victoria Winters (played by quintessential '60s beauty, Alexandra Moltke) has participated in a séance at Collinwood and has been accidentally transported back in time to the year 1795. There she meets the pre-vampiric Barnabas (Jonathan Frid), who is about to marry the love of his life, Josette du Prés (Kathryn Leigh Scott), fresh off the boat from Martinique with her family and scheming handmaiden, Angelique Bouchard (played by the frostiest of frosty blondes, Lara Parker), a real witch. No, really, she is a real witch. Except everyone thinks that Vicky is the witch--and she's about to be accused of such and tried by the evil, sanctimonious Reverend Trask (Jerry Lacy).

I know, I know: "It's a soap" you say. But it is a brilliant one. Despite the bumps and burps in the production, I still think it's one of my favorite TV series of all time. The creative forces behind Dark Shadows knew what it was about, and they did it well for a number of years. The costumes, the stories, the writing, the sets, the acting (yes, the acting)--all were focused on conveying a vision of this perfect, mesmerizing, frightening universe.

The contemporary American soaps--what's left of them--could learn a lot from a show that only lasted on air for five years and yet still commands an audience--on DVD, on Netflix, and in dreadful remakes--almost 50 years later.

Act II: A Homecoming

Twenty-five years in the making . . . and worth every second of the wait. Agnetha Fältskog may never be the most dynamic performer on stage, but it still seems like a major victory to see her on performing again after all these years, keeping current, in good voice, and looking serene and happy. It's a long way from the more fragile- and dissatisfied-seeming Agnetha of nine years ago, when she released the wonderful My Colouring Book.

Maybe this is my cue and my clue: There are indeed second acts in life, maybe even third and fourth ones. Thanks, Agnetha, for showing us (or even just me) the way with charm, grace, and humility.

Anger really should be an energy

And if it were, I could keep North America toasty warm all winter long.

The attitude will improve . . . someday. I swear.

Mmmmm, yes

Two weeks and counting until I reenter my own sensual world. Hurry sundown(s). Only 13 more to go.

No te preocupes--it's only Día de los Muertos

"2 Hearts" by Kylie Minogue, perhaps the only song off of her 10th album, X, that I actually enjoy. It's rather slight and quite atypical of the rest of the album, but her voice is in fine form on this track, much better than on many of the other songs from X.

This was her first album post-cancer treatment, which I suspect did a number on her energy levels and vocal chords. "But she can't sing!" Indeed, Kylie can, but too often in the 2000s I feel as though she's chosen not to, for whatever reason. Saving her energy for vamping, maybe. Compare her post-cancer treatment version of "Over the Rainbow" with her pre-cancer diagnosis version. Listen to "Aphrodite," the song that should have been a single, from the 2010 LP of the same name. Or tune into Kylie Minogue 1994. She sounds in great form on all of these. Because of her health issues at the time of X's recording and launch, I'll give her a free pass on, at least for her lackluster singing. I still can't forgive crap like "Wow" and "Nu-di-ty" though. Not feeling your best can only be excused for so far.

I really like the imagery for this video, even if, given her recent recovery from cancer, it can seem a tad gruesome. There is the fun glam band look--sort of a Muppets meet Mott the Hoople gone mod--which I have no problem with. But those skulls . . . they're a little macabre.

Which may be the point. The video imagery makes a bold statement: I've played chess with death, I kicked his ass, and I look great in a catsuit to boot.

That widow's weeds version of a Marilyn Monroe dress is not to my liking, however. William Baker giveth and William Baker taketh away.

I don't know if Kylie & Company were inspired by Día de los Muertos, Day of the Dead, the Mexican commemoration of All Soul's Day, in which ofrendas are built in honor of deceased loved ones and candy skulls and bread that looks like bones are everywhere. No matter. The video seems a fitting tribute to what was one of my favorite things about fall in San Antonio.

Te extraño, San Anto. Just not quite enough to move back.

Now *this* is a horror movie

Das Cabinet des Doctor Caligari -- a German Expressionist psychological thriller/horrorshow, made in 1920 and now in the public domain. (You're welcome, universe.)

How and why do I love this movie? Let me count the ways--or not. It's late on Halloween after all, and I need to get to bed at a decent hour.

So the short version--to me this is one of the earliest movies I've seen so far that turns a motion picture into art. The acting, the storyline, the costumes, and mein himmel, those sets!

I try to turn people on to this film every chance I get, but to little avail. Not for everyone perhaps, but I was staggered by it the first I saw it, late at night on Turner Classic Movies sometime in the '90s. I had heard about it long before but had never managed to see it. Bucket list item nummer zweitausend vierundneunzig -- to see this film in a proper cinema.

Despite the silent movie style, I think the film holds up surprisingly well. I still find it chilling--but then again, I scare rather easily. You be the judge.

But bitte, Tim Burton and Johnny Depp, do not attempt a remake this movie. Ever. Despite your professions of admiration otherwise, clearly you didn't get Dark Shadows at all (which somewhat reminds me of Doctor Caligari, if for no other reason than the menacing atmosphere it conveys). If you attempt to re-lens this classic, I couldn't be held responsible for the eternal curses I would heap upon your damned souls.

Llámame, quizás

Paella valenciana - Photo courtesy of Wikipedia

So during one month, the National Security Agency collected data on 60 million phone calls made in Spain--not mainly on the plain nor in the rain, but the NSA would be more likely to know that than yours truly.

Really, hombres, finding the perfect paella recipe shouldn't be that hard. Try a cookbook.

¡Viva España!

You've (not) got a friend in Pennsylvania

This has been my ohrwurm for the week, "Let's Call It Off" by Peter, Björn, & John. I'm not sure why this has stuck in my ear so deeply and intently this week--it's been a pretty good week. I'm not thinking of calling anything off or out in particular. Maybe it's just the sublime catchiness of the song--the beat! those guitars! that calypso steel drum! the higher and lower timbers of vocals singing together! Again, with the modernized '60s sound for me. I'll never change my Merseybeat ways. No, never.

To my ear, Peter, Björn, & John don't always get it right. Songs like "Young Folks," "Blue Period Picasso," "Amsterdam," "Second Chance," and "Let's Call It Off"--these to me are perfect examples of their talent. I think I've never gotten past the excellence of the Writer's Block album--subsequent PB&J long-plays have left me a little indifferent, mainly because the music has become coarser--more rock-'n'-roll, less jangly pop--and the lead singer (to my listening) gets a bit monotonous after repeated listenings. It's why I like "Amsterdam" and "Let's Call It Off" so much--they vary the vocals and transcend the tried and true.

Probably time to go back and give Living Thing and Gimme Some a relisten. I didn't even realize there was a Seaside Rock LP until just now.

Perhaps PB&J are on my mind this week because it is fall in Pittsburgh--although at times this week, it felt like we'd shifted into winter, what with the howling winds, snow showers, and gray skies. The first or second winter I lived in Pittsburgh, can't remember which, I had the chance to go see PB&J at Mister Smalls in Millvale. It snowed that evening, and I bailed on the concert, not trusting my Mini to maneuver the freeway or the hills and dales of a Northside steeltown. It was probably a wise decision, given the Mini's subsequent performance on icy, snowy roads. And perhaps the concert was even sold-out (me and my poor planning). But it is (another) missed opportunity. For musical satisfaction, yes (I still experience pangs of regret for never going to see The Blue Nile when they performed in D.C. some 25 years ago), but also for my adapting to life in Pittsburgh.

I think it would come as no surprise to readers of this blog that Pittsburgh leaves me cold (literally, figuratively). I do not get Pittsburgh--or perhaps I do, and there's just nothing much for me to get. I have felt incredibly out of sync with the town ever since I got here, and the town has more or less has consistently reminded me of my out-of-stepness.

Where do I begin? And do I even want to? It didn't help that I moved here in grief over my father's death and did not take up readily some of the offers made to me for socializing. How could I at that time? I felt like I spent the first year or two here, wishing I was wearing a black armband, like some 19th-century mourner, to let everyone know to stay away. Now that I think about it, I probably did as much without benefit of the armband.

It didn't help that in my first job here, I spent more of it away than at home and did that for the first 3-1/2 years of my existence here. It didn't help that I couldn't get laid here to save my life, that Pittsburgh extended by a few years my mojo-less life in Pennsylvania, that once again I had to go to Canada to get anything going on. I know I'm getting older and maintaining my fighting weight is a constant struggle, but I don't seem any older or heavier than anyone else here. Why have I been unable to connect in that most quintessentially man-to-man way?

It doesn't help that people here seem brusque on the surface and somewhat depressed during the long gray months of winter. (If you can get behind the surface, they are ultimately OK.) It doesn't help that it is an insular town, disinterested in the outside world, isolated from it by the hills and the clouds to paraphrase my Central Pennsylvania friend NoRella. It doesn't help that I have never found a group to fit into, a community to be a part of, or encountered very many like-minded individuals with whom I could be friends, learn from, and share with. Which, for me, is what I'm here for, what we're all here for: To have fun, to be friends, to enjoy each other's company, and hopefully make one another's lives a little bit better.

It doesn't help that I am easily bored, getting older, and probably too cynical for my own good. It doesn't help that I gave up trying to love Pittsburgh, or even just to like it. It doesn't help that I can't even remember when I gave up. It doesn't help that I can't figure out how to get out of here, to move on to the next phase of my life, assuming there is one.

So maybe I do know why PB&J are stuck in my brain this week. Because I'm stuck in my brain this week.

Let's call it off. Let's call the whole thing off. Now how to do so? And when and where?

Doogie Wowser, or, a two-minute hate crime

From Suri's Burn Book. (It's a kind of Bible of celebrity children.)

Early in your life as a gay man, you get the question--either from people you know or from yourself:

"If you could take a pill that would change you from gay to straight, would you take it?"

I've always said no. I can't imagine being any other way. I am who I am. I like being gay. I feel it gives me a different perspective on life, culture, and society, and I wouldn't change that for the world.

(Plus hairy men are very sexy.)

Perhaps I would have had that worldview regardless--while outwardly conventional, I'm pretty on the inside . . . pretty jaundiced, pretty mistrusting, pretty cynical, pretty questioning authority, pretty nobody's fool.

OK, maybe not all of that is on the inside. Point taken.

I can't help myself from having a strong detector of bullshit, and goodness knows there's tons and hectares and kilos and acres of b to the s in the modern world. I would hope I would be that way, regardless of my sexuality and affectional orientation, but being on the outside looking in at the snowglobe of Western life, how can you be anything else but cautious and caustic? I'm not convinced it's any better in the non-Western world--in fact, I'm fairly sure it's not--but I only know one world, and I'm more than familiar with its problems, quirks, flaws, challenges, and . . . bullshit.

Anyway . . . back to the question at hand: Would I change being gay if I could?

No . . . except when I take a look at the Burtka-Harrises, aka Doogie Wowser and Companion (Vinnie Delpenis?), aka the Omnipresence of Self-Satisfaction that is Neil Patrick Harris and clan.

Oh, I'm impressed. It can't be easy being a child star, turning out to be gay, then forging a successful career in modern America as a fly white guy, a lothario on an incredibly execrable sitcom, a manorexic metrosexual of song-and-dance, non-threatening in a way, yet still able to share pics of your happy gay family with the celebrity-slavish world in which we exist.

But enough is enough. I don't want to be this kind of gay. I couldn't if I tried. And I would prefer no one else be either.

This is . . . not normal. And it's not progress either. It's playing to our stereotypes. We're cute! We're thin! We're family-friendly (in a fashion)! We're safe! We're dress-alike clones, sexless twins rather than same-sex lovers! Please don't think about us having butt sex or sucking each other's cocks!

Yes, I am playing to another stereotype: The gay man who treats other gay men with scorn, probably out of my own fear, loathing, and discomfort of our kind. But it's a chicken-egg scenario here: In a way, isn't NPH and family creating a hostile environment with all this perfection and wealth? Aren't we--the single or those of us in less fabulous relationships, the childless and those of us with "average," less print-model-friendly children, the middle class and poor, the non-white and the white cracker, the non-famous or even just the B, C, and D Listers--being held in a kind of contempt? Aren't we considered loathsome and actively being loathed? "Aspire to us! But you'll never be good enough to aspire to us! So fuck you!"

Fuck you back, Neil and Partner and your A-Gay world.

I'm dating someone right now, and, more or less, I couldn't be happier. We are similar, outwardly conventional, inwardly not willing to accept the status quo. Who knows where it will go or for how long? But I love this man because while we are similar in some ways, we are different from each other, too, physically and culturally. And we are different from the world in which we live, outsiders to our culture, gay or otherwise.

We don't want kids. We talk about living together and even marriage (jokingly), but I don't think either of us is into the ceremony or trappings, just the love and companionship.

More power to you if you want all of that. Clearly culture is on your side at the moment. But give the rest of us some room to breathe, to be ourselves, to be different.

That's the power of gay, the power of "queer," if you will: Being different and flourishing in our difference.

I did not come this far to be like everyone else. Or worse, like some happy freakshow families stereotype of heterosexual life.

/rant off.

Jihad me at "infarction"

From CBC News, 20 October 2013

Ah, Dick Cheney. Your overblown sense of self-worth coupled with your corrosive paranoia know no bounds.

Random idea: If you weren't such a horrible human being who caused so much harm to the world (whether through your tenure in the U.S. government or at Halliburton), perhaps there would be less for you to worry over.

But then, you wouldn't be the big Dick that you are, now would you?

I'm just a girl who loves horses

Image created by Nurmsook and taken from Wikipedia

My heart belongs to Heartland, the Canadian TV series based on the Heartland series of books by Lauren Brooke. (Or not, if the Wikipedia entry is to be believed).

I'm not sure I can explain this to anyone, let alone myself, why I enjoy this series as much as I do. It can be maddening at times, the plotlines, the plotholes, and the plot-by-numbers imagery in places. (Oh, we'll get to that, don't you worry.)

There's also the essential premise of the series, that Amy Fleming, the show's teenage heroine, is, in essence, a horse-whisperess, sensitive to the nature of the equine race. It's not quite as silly as it sounds, or as I'm making it out to be. Mostly Amy is just patient, caring, determined, and respectful in her care of horses. Amy's plucky but not in an obnoxious way. In fact, she is headstrong and often makes some dumb mistakes along the way--although these might not necessarily seem like mistakes to what I imagine is an overwhelmingly tween fanbase for the show. I'm sure she comes across as passionate to this crowd, a fiercely romantic and sensitive lead. To her credit, Amy is strong, self-reliant, and not often afraid, which are good values to impart to young women and men both.

You also have to accustom yourself to the idea that every guy wants Amy. Not that her portrayer, Amber Marshall, isn't gorgeous, the epitome of the cornsilk-and-sunshine-haired, Alberta blue-skies-and-eyes cowgirl. But it gets ridiculous sometimes, especially when Amy is so moody.

But ah, heterosexuality, I will never understand you.

I far prefer Lou Fleming, her more urbane (and thus more neurotic--this is the worldview of Heartland and probably Alberta in general, I would imagine) big sister. Played by the lovely Michelle Morgan, she, too, has her fits of pique and drama, but she's also got a good sense of fun, humor, sexiness, and slapstickiness about her. She's the brunette fall girl to Amy's straight woman, if you will.

Once you get past all that--as well as the idea that the books have the story set in Virginia, USA, and the TV series has been tailored to the mythical town of Hudson, Alberta, Canada, somewhere near Calgary--it can be a very enjoyable series.

Maybe it's the beauty of the scenery, which even transmitted through the network HuluPlus, looks gorgeous (and cold, I should add, very, very cold). The mountains, the snow, the rivers, the sun, the charming town, and the expansive landscape. It makes me dream of our own modern Wild West, except one with single-payer health insurance and same-sex marriage. On the surface, Alberta appears somewhat akin to Colorado in terms of scenery and culture. The good, the bad, and the ugly.

Perhaps it's the heartwarming storylines, which alternate between drama and humor, all of it very family-focused--but I hasten to add, not family wisecracky in a cheesy, American sitcom way, nor (un)subtly Christian-themed like I dunno . . . I try never to watch those kind of shows. I've heard the show described as a family saga, and I think that description is most apt. People do have sex in Hudson (at least out of sight). They kiss. They drink. They fight. A few probably even smoke (whether tobacco from Ontario or "tobacco" from British Columbia I could not say). So while the show is wholesome, it's not like it's Canada's answer to 7th Heaven.

In Heartland's case, by family-focused, I mean that stories revolve around the tight-knit Bartlett and Fleming clans and the people and events that come in and out of their lives. People have arguments, get jealous, laugh, cry, tease, do insensitive things, love, hug, shirk their responsibilities, are stubborn, are wise, and more--but ultimately they all come together for the common good.

With the exception of Val Stanton (Wanda Cannon), a character I love for her naked avarice, horsey set nouveau richeness, passive-aggression (at best), and that kinda ridiculous mid- to late 2000s Meg Ryan hairdo. What was that style called? "Suburban Soccer Mom Cornshuck Doll"? *Luv* it in all its horror! And Wanda Cannon plays the role with mucho gusto.

There are also the men, of which Heartland's casting directors have consistently selected well, in terms of physique and character. There's dueling Marlboro Men, Jack Bartlett (Amy and Lou's grandfather) and Tim Fleming (Amy and Lou's absentee father), who are strong-willed, ruggedly handsome, real men's men, and ultimately mensches, good guys even when they're not always kind or right. There's Lou's beau, Peter Morris, who arrives in season 2, a driven "oilman" who also manages to be funny, goofy, and romantic altogether. (OK, so that's a bit of a stretch--I keep envisioning Bobby Ewing blended with Laurel and Hardy--but I can't blame Heartland for trying and succeeding.)

And there's perhaps my personal favorite, Amy's off-and-on beau Ty Borden, who manages to be both incredibly adorable and "safe" while also being fierce, proud, and even scary when provoked. There's a lot of power in Graham Wardle's small frame, both in terms of physical and spiritual energy.

Not every guy is golden. I can understand why Lou is underwhelmed in her romance with Scott, who just seems too dreamy and dewy-eyed to be her heart's desire. Likewise with rodeo cowboy Caleb, who is beautiful to look at and a fine actor but who looks way too pouty-lipped for a bronco-buster to be taken to heart. 

Nonetheless, I think Heartland does a good job of offering a guy for every girl (or another guy, if one should be so lucky). Personally, I struggle weighing the charms of Jack, Tim, and Ty (and Peter, Scott, and Caleb while we're at it. Often the macho Tim lights my torch more than Ty--I prefer prime beef over young buck as a general rule. But then Tim goes and does something douchebaggy, and the affair is over.

I like how, overall, the show seems to get guys right--as proud, competitive, intense human beings who fight when necessary but who can also be kind, thoughtful, sweet, and, yes, even communicative. Contrast the Heartland guys with any of the men from a David E. Kelley show (take The Practice, for example), in which the guys all seem neutered by the presence of the strong female leads. The men don't seem like men. They seem like Ken dolls: sexless, plastic, and compliant.

Oh, there are missteps in the show, plotholes you could ride a pack of wild mustangs through, imagery and cultural assumptions that make me want to choke on my beef jerky and pemmican. Like I said, everything urban is seen as dangerous, neurotic, and needy, whether it's Lou or her girlfriends visiting the ranch from New York ("New York City!"). I'm sure the First Nations population of Canada must have cringed and eye-rolled through the whole Victor Whitetail episode in season 2, in which Victor channels his native mysticism and general quirkiness to help a white girl get back her equine mojo. And we get it, we get it--Ty and the Ghost Horse are one and the same, wild mustangs that cannot be tamed without the love of a good woman/mare.

For the record, I really don't like horses. The Heartland cult of the horse even seems a little creepy sometimes, but then again, I feel that way about people's slavish devotion to cats, dogs, and other animals. Just what are y'all sublimatin'?

Nevertheless, I just finished season 2 this week, and I'm looking forward to season 3. If for no other reason than it gives me more time to work out my fantasy project, the Men of Heartland calendar.

I gladly claim copyright for that idea.

Love jihad

I am in lust with this song, "Love Jihad" by Skip&Die. That is all.

Who knew He was so needy?

So Jesus died for our sins. Thanks, I guess, but did anyone ask him to do this? A card or a gift certificate for an oil change would have sufficed.
Honestly, the people I am "friends" with on Facebook and the groups they follow and share with the rest of the world. Lord, save us all.

It's bad enough dealing with their crazy lust for guns/the permanent exile of illegal immigrants and welfare scofflaws (or whom they perceive as such)/the head of Barack Obama on a rusty trashcan lid. But then two groups--"FB/CuteguysOfficial" and "Shut-Up-I'm-Talking"--have to proselytize for abject Christianity and turn Jesus into some sort of passive-aggressive, stalkery boyfriend-savior.

I think it's fair to say that while I was raised Protestant and can appreciate its history, traditions, and even some of its practitioners (Jimmy Carter, for one fine example), I long ago gave up on participating in its activities and the whole let's-bash-you-to-death-with-the-love-of-Jesus mentality. I'm not sure I was ever on board in the first place, in fact.

I have nothing against Protestantism, per se. In fact, I rather like how Protestants fought against the hierarchy of the Roman Catholic Church and aimed to have a direct spiritual relationship with God, rather than through some dodgy intermediaries.

I also have nothing against Jesus, mind you. He seems like a great guy, one whom if we actually listened to, we might learn something, and actually treat people by the guidance of Christ's principles, something we often claim to do but fail miserably at.

But I'm bored and frustrated with this tradition. I'm not sure if Jesus is the son of God. I hardly think it matters. The more important thing is what did He (and God) try to tell us? How does it resonate in the here and now? Are we listening? And what will we do about what we heard?

From Planet Earth, Team America Division, in October 2013, I'm guessing we were all staring at our phones while He was talking.

Forward, left!

Cause I like to rock-and-roll to the Iron Curtain hitparade of yesteryear, that's why.

And given the fact that we're nostril-deep into "our central government is more dysfunctional than your central government" shit-nanigans mode at the mo' in D.C., couldn't we all benefit from a little Motherland love?

The answer is "da," comrades. Or possibly even "da da."

P.S. Say what you will about the decadent West, to our credit, no self-respecting Capitalist would be caught dead or alive in the Shapeless White Shift of Shame. There's some hope for us yet, tovarischii.

For the record

Photo snagged from the CBC News website, 25 September 2013

The new pope may be, by his own admission, fallible, but the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation is not, in my opinion.

I need to shake the hand and kiss the cheek of the stealthy web layout editor who matched this headline with this photo of the Con Artist Formerly Known as His Ex-cellency Pope Benedict.

Sinister, creepy, malevolent--all the while defending his "sex-abuse record."

Meaning . . . the priests under his leadership scored a personal best in sex abuse during his reign? Or he excused, forgave, and reassigned an extraordinarily high number of abusive priests during his time in?

Exactly what is the record you are defending, Benny? And will we receive be a free digital download if we buy the record? And will that record be the soundtrack for the recent blue movie, Scandal in the Vatican? 

(Editor's note: That one's definitely NSFW. Or even NSFHome. You've been forewarned.)

Oh, I guess I should read the article to understand the point. But, honestly, why spoil my fun in slapping down a hypocrite dressed in a man of God's clothing?

Hurt me! Hurt me!

Why was there never a video made for this classic? I feel cheated by life once again.

Seriously, I don't know why I love this song. But then again, I do. The beat is percolating. The samples are cleverly deployed. The intro and outro successfully comical. And Samantha Fox carries a great tune.

No, really. I think she was a more capable singer/performer than given credit for, her "voluptuousness"--and her eagerness to share said voluptuousness with the world--undercutting her talents.

Where are they now? I'm not sure. I vaguely remember reading something about Ms. Fox shilling some diet tea that had a tapeworm in it (unbeknownst to her, I'm assuming), becoming a born-again Christian, then unbecoming a born-again Christian. Then announcing that she was going to form a civil partnership in the UK with her same-sex spouse. So lots of searching for a role, a space, her own self.

All in all, quite a life--and some great pop music. Thanks, Sam!

Toe tappin', foot stompin', gag reflex inducin'

Screen capture from CBC News

Well, look at it this way, Dawson City. With all the feet that keep washing ashore in British Columbia, you'll have a steady supply of free toes for years to come.

A new day . . . of Twitter reckoning

Clearly Canadian . . . and guaranteed to rot your gut faster than poutine encased in a pastry made from Tim Horton's doughnuts, deep-fat fried, coated in Oka cheese, then soaked in maple syrup and the residue of a thousand melted Coffee Crisps.

Tuff love

Screen capture from CNN

It's true! A good woman without a gun is the only thing that stop a bad guy with a gun.

From now on, whenever anyone uses the word "hero" in my presence, I'll just smile to myself and think of Antoinette Tuff.

Here's a woman who actually did it, saved people, put her life on the line, and didn't make it all about her. She made it about the kids, her colleagues, and yes, even the guy who would do all of them harm.
I'm no real fan of organized religion, but Ms. Tuff gains my praise and appreciation for putting her beliefs in action, making a difference, and contributing something good to humankind.

May we all be able to say that at the end of the day, at the end of our days.

Let the civil disobedience begin

Long may it wave: Rainbow flag flapping in the wind
with blue skies and sun by Ludovic Bertron
(CC BY 2.0 [Original available here])

I'm glad at least the Canadians agree with me (one of them, at least).

Whether subtle or loud, I still support showing up and settling in for a long winter's fight in Sochi.

The pause that regresses

If this article doesn't give you pause about how out there things have gotten (or been for a while, perhaps since the end of World War II), I don't know what will.

I still have mixed feelings about Edward Snowden. I don't consider him a hero. Nor do I consider him a villain. Mainly I think he's more of a narcissist with dodgy judgment. IT professional/aspiring male model? Sorry, anybody that pulled in that much money doing what he did for so long and apparently gave some of it to the Ron Paul presidential campaign shouldn't be considered that credible.

But this article . . . with its revelations about turned off cell phones being used as listening devices, the "extraterritorial" detentions at international border crossings, the need to encrypt private communications and the increasing inability to do so, the geolocation, the concern over physical safety and the psychological pressure to cease and desist . . . . This is extraordinary.

Please read for yourself and be more aware than I have been these last few years. I won't say that I agree with everything stated, every conclusion reached. I have at least one friend who thinks that the destruction of the World Trade Center was a "false flag" event. I still think that and every conspiracy about the JFK assassination are just that, conspiracies. So no, not going there. Nevertheless, this article does open my consciousness and make me think more is possible than impossible in this world we've created in the name of national security.

* * *

I remember visiting the Soviet Union in the mid-1980s and was perplexed and amused by the fact that the government reportedly kept people busy by listening into hotel rooms, telephones, conversations, and more. I remember not being able to talk on the street in English in a private conversation with others around for fear of tipping off the secret police that a local was associating with a foreigner. I remember things being "forbidden" but "still possible."

But I didn't have to live in that. I could go home. First to Finland, then to Sweden, then to the U.S., feeling a great sense of relief when the plane took off from Moscow and landed in Helsinki. Feeling sad and lost for what I was leaving behind--the wonderful people, the personal connections--in the Soviet Union as I took the ferry from Helsinki to Stockholm. Feeling unwelcome, uninteresting, and alone in Stockholm. And, finally, feeling grateful to be home in Washington after nearly a month away.

Nearly thirty years later, I wonder if I ended up coming home to some form of the same weirdness, paranoia, and cruelty. With better consumer goods, true, but also somehow with a depressing lack of authenticity.

I expect more from us.

I'm not saying that I would have been happier staying in Leningrad in 1985. I think not. I don't think Sweden offers all the answers either, despite Twitter pressure to believe otherwise. However, once again, I find myself questioning whether we, the "West," have the answers and the happiness we tout and we seek.

What is this beautiful house? Where does that highway lead to? Am I right? Am I wrong? My god, what have we done?

A Red Army of lovers cannot fail

"Moose and squirrel are making great trouble for us"

I do love how we gay folk can make a nation "afraid." Much in the way we caused the downfall of the Soviet Union way back when.

(Joking, joking . . .)

I'm actually unsure of how to feel about or proceed on the Great Soviet Boycott of 2014, aka We're Here, We're Queer, Just Not at the 2014 Winter Olympics in Sochi, Russia.

It's not that what's happening to gay/lesbian/bisexual/transgendered + people in Russia isn't significant or important. I think it most definitely is. It's awful enough that "homosexual propaganda"--the right to talk about one's gayness in public or do any sort of advocacy or acknowledgement of homosexuality--is now suppressed under Russian law, apparently for political reasons. As well as because of good, ol'-fashioned ignorance and hate.

But if pictures and first-person accounts are to be believed--and I see no reason not to believe them--it's more than just "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" à la russe. Much more. It's violence, it's hatred, it's killing, it's threatening by the uniformed and the uninformed. It's a serious, terrible business that should be addressed with various forms of protest and pressure. We should show our support to all of the world's oppressed, whether gay or not. And we can show that support and action in many different ways, including boycotting the Sochi Olympics--or by attending and participating and performing many, many, many acts of civil disobedience on site.

* * *

For a couple of reasons, my preferred approach is the latter. I'm all about embarrassing Vladimir Putin and his crony fascist cohorts. He does Russia its citizens no favors by controlling the country year after year. Unlike Edward Snowden and a host of other opinionated folk I know on Twitter, I don't consider the current Russian government or the current Chinese one better options for freedom and fairness than the United States.

Then again, I hardly think the U.S. is perfect or innocent. Furthermore, I'm not in the middle of the Edward Snowden maelstrom either. Nor would I want to be.

Really, I know I should give a shit more about Eddie and the issues he brought out into the light, but again, too much of the Twitterati has told me how I must feel and think. Despite my more urban American trappings, I'm a mistrusting cracker at heart. You can't make me do something or believe in someone that I don't want to, no matter how loudly you yell at me, no matter how sure of yourself you seem.

And that mistrusting crackerdom and resistance to proscribing my thoughts and feelings by the Twitterborg, that invades my thinking about the so-called "gay agenda" and the response to Sochi. Yes, I'm still bitter over the gay marriage debate in the U.S. Not that the U.S. Supreme Court decisions didn't go far enough--all in all, they were pretty impressive, if limited, actions from a fairly conservative court. No, I'm more bothered by the focus for the last several years solely on gay marriage, an important right (if we want to call it that) but one that ultimately will affect and benefit a select group of people.

I agree that having institutional respect for our relationships might go some distance in helping nurture and sustain those relationships and the freedom-fighters in our army of lovers. But! What if I never have a solid, long-term relationship?  Goodness knows, I've tried and still continue to. But what if? How do my civil rights stand outside of the framework of a relationship and marriage?

Not very tall, not very proud, I'm afraid. I'm barely tuned into the mainstream newsfeed, let alone the alternative, activist, progressive, yadda yadda yadda press, but so far, this is the only article I've seen from Big Media in which activists discuss the fact that essentially most of us LGBTQI+ peeps in the U.S.--including in Pennsylvania--have no legal standing when it comes to fair housing, employment discrimination, freedom of assembly, or a host of other civil rights that many Americans take for granted.

I do believe we have the right to bear arms, though. Just not the right to be held in a big bear's arms.

I don't know that I'm actively complaining about this situation, at least not in any sort of screechy, strident way. However, it is an unfair situation and can be a frightening one as well. Really, many of us have to depend on the kindness of strangers and friends to co-exist safely and securely in this world, whether in the shadows or out in public. 

But there are many other people in America that must feel the same--women, African Americans, Latinos, persons in wheelchairs, those suffering from mental illnesses or intellectual challenges, the working class, the middle class, Muslims, Jews, Mormons . . . the list goes on. Heck, there are even a number of upper class whites that feel disenfranchised in this land of opportunity. Obviously. They've been highly vocal about this since November 2008.

I think I'm more irritated (rightly or wrongly) about how gay civil rights have been totally co-opted by pro-gay marriage supporters. It's as if the other rights aren't significant. It's as if everyone can feel good about themselves by saying they are pro-gay marriage without thinking about or supporting any of the other issues that confront us. It's as if everyone can wrap their heads around a bourgeois concept like marriage and family but still demonize single people, solitude, a less tidy approach to sexuality, not being parents, and apartment dwellers. To name but a few.

Why is this? Was there a concerted effort by activists to appeal to people's emotions and experiences with the focus on a shared commonality of marriage and children? Was the goal to turn off the harsh spotlight on gay men's "unsavory" sexual behavior that had shown too brightly during the 1980s and '90s? Is it that so many of those "unsavory" men died during the '80s and '90s and aren't around to see their issues brought to the forefront? Instead, our marriage-loving, child-rearing queer folk are the bearer of our standards? Is the right to marriage somehow not a "special" right compared with the right to fair housing and a ban on employment discrimination?

It just galls me that after all this time, some activists are waking up to the idea (or finally acknowledging in public) that we have not overcome. Rather we've just gained the ability to marry in a select group of states--or perhaps, better stated, the right to have the state's right to grant Adam and Steve/Mandy and Sandy a marriage license not left to be undone by the federal government.

Seems like a narrow victory at best.

* * *

So, to the point, this is why I can't get behind the big call-out for a boycott of the Sochi Winter Olympics by huge swaths of the Twitterverse and Stephen Fry. (And while I'm at it, can I just say I find I am increasingly at odds with what appears to interest said universe? Including cat pics, bad gifs, Neil Gaiman, Star Trek references, Star Wars references, Firefly, "cis" versus "trans," and various strident forms of opinion and activism I am becoming too afraid to address in writing for fear of being boycotted myself?)

I do enjoy the Olympics, mind you, and I know the athletes and planners have worked diligently to make the games a successful event. However, I also don't think the need to snowboard or ice dance overrules the right to walk down the street near a person of the same sex and not get bashed in the head for it.

Nonetheless, I'm not convinced a boycott is the best approach for any of the parties involved, not for the athletes or the Olympics or Russia or LGBTQI+ individuals in Russia. Will gay people be scapegoated even more if no one shows up to the big event? Will they be punished for the civil disobedience of others? And what about other dissidents in Russia and the world over? If we couldn't boycott Berlin in 1936 or Beijing in 2008 (or Atlanta in 1996--the lack of gun control, our prison system, our economic and social disparity, our penchant for the death penalty are all human rights issues, are they not? All worthy of boycotting it would seem), how can we or why should we boycott Sochi in 2014?

I feel liked we're being pushed toward something in a you're-either-for-us-or-against-us way by an protected class of activists who know no fear nor any consequences. Russia is not the UK. Uganda is not the U.S. I can't help but mistrust the judgment of the pushers, however well-meaning, however passionate they may be.

Personally, I prefer civil disobedience. Maybe it's the softer approach, but it would draw attention and hopefully the right kind of attention. I love the idea, as expressed by my Twitter friend Pam, of rainbow-colored bobsleds zooming toward the finish line. I imagine pink-beclad speed-skaters and envision cross-country skier/sharpshooters aiming for triangle targets instead of regulation round ones. Let a few sports figures take a stand and get arrested for the freedom to play, rather than our leading the charge to do nothing, to be unseen, to sit this one out. It will be great winter sport to watch the opponents of freedom and human rights on display to the entire world, shields and swords in hand. But then again, I always did prefer the San Francisco marriage-ins of a few years ago, when happy gay couples decided to marry en masse as a way to make their wishes and their civil disobedience known.

However, to each his or her own. And that may be my ultimate concern: I don't want the world to be told how to feel about this, how to behave and react, especially by a group of activists who have poorly managed the attainment of gay rights in our own countries. Maybe there's a long goal that I'm missing--circuses today, bread tomorrow--but I've seen no evidence otherwise, just a steely resilience in the face of ignorance and obstinacy with an aim to achieve something that is ultimately rather middle-class, narrowly focused, and, above all, self-serving to the elites. Please. Even the Cheneys support marriage rights for that sleeping-with-the-enemy daughter of theirs.

Again, cracker, curmudgeon, whatevs. I'm not that radical, I'll admit. Just tired and perturbed. The older I get, the more I embrace the crank role oftener than not. Hopefully these days I see through the bullshit spewed forth from all sides. Including my own.

There are a lot of emperors out there and a lot of them have the worst fashion sense imaginable. I'm on my way to being the Suri's Burn Book of LGBTQI+ rights.

And more power to me.

Sooner rather than later

One of the many reasons I should seek employment elsewhere.

This woman's work

A break from my Thicke-hatin' and un-Wanted Rihanna attention-paying. Let's get to some music that matters: "Wow" by Kate Bush. Released in 1979 as the second single from her underrated album, Lionheart (one of my personal favorites, however). Gorgeous. In song and symbol.

OK, so the video and the interpretive dance are a tad precious perhaps and Kate's voice may be an acquired taste. (There is a cheesy parody out there, Pamela Stephenson from Not the 9 O'Clock News, knocking on Kate's artistic foibles in "Oh, England, My Leotard." I'll let you discover that on your own.) Nonetheless, the creativity and the fortitude it took to make this work of art! To be this incredibly intelligent, colorful, iconoclastic, nonconfirmist, sexy performer, singing her own work for the world to hear! All at the tender age of 20-something! For a major label in 1979 no less! With a backing track consisting of real horns and woodwinds!

I hope Katy Perry and Lady GaGa see this video and weep every night for what they are not and for what they cannot do - although I'm sure La GaGa would just co-opt the concept and clothes and Katy Perry would rip off most of the imagery from Kate's videos and call it her own.

There are so many things to comment on about this video and this song. I love the fact that when I finally discovered the video it confirmed my speculation about the line

He'll never make the screen
He'll never make The Sweeney
Or be that movie queen
He's too busy hitting the Vaseline

Wow. Indeed. That would be a very provocative line for 2013. Imagine it in 1979. Add to it that very suggestive bum pat Kate gives to underscore the meaning, and I'm quite surprised this video wasn't banned for life from the Beeb.

Before you get offended by Kate's tantalizing reference to gay male sexual expression pre-HIV/AIDS, do keep in mind that on the same album, she also included a song called "Kashka from Baghdad," which starts off with this line--

Kashka from Baghdad
Lives in sin, they say
With another man
But no one knows who

And continues with the chorus--

At night
They're seen
Laughing
Loving
They know
The way
To be
Happy

It took me some time to get that reference to "another man," meaning one member of the couple is a man and so is the other. Despite being released in Britain in 1978 a mere nine months after her debut, The Kick Inside, was launched, I didn't find Lionheart in a local record store until 1979 or 1980, as I recall. I finally acknowledged my same-sex attraction in the fall of 1980, "came out" as it were. So imagine the import of that song, of both songs, in conveying some understanding of gay existence, at least to me, during those formative years.

Here you had a respected songwriter telling tales about "us," openly, not in euphemism, at least in the case of "Kashka."

Anyway, "Wow." And "Hammer Horror" and "Wuthering Heights" for that matter. Oh, to be in England, to live in a country where songs like these could get played on the radio, make it on to the pop charts, into the Top Twenty, even number 1.

One of life's regrets? I didn't make my first trip to Europe until 1985, and then to the former Soviet Union, Estonia, Finland, and Sweden. All cool and memorable in their own right, but the UK circa 1977-1982 was where it was at. I'm sorry I missed it. I'm sorry I didn't buy more records and listen to BBC World Service and that the internet didn't exist as we know it then. I'm sorry that I didn't have the money and the good sense to say "fuck responsibility," "screw everybody who knows me," and "death to what's expected of me" and just go, live, love, explore.

Maybe next life. However, I'd probably have been way out of my depths -  life seems such much better from far away, especially when it's so boring at home. And I'd probably be dead now. Or not. I never have done very well among the British in terms of affairs of the heart or other, Vaseline-lacquered body parts.

It's no secret that I love the music from the '70s and '80s. The '80s everyone loves, but the '70s sewed the seeds for the '80s, good and bad. The '70s got it all started with punk, disco, singer-songwriters, Philadelphia soul, glam, new wave, electronica, rap, reggae, and a whole lot more.

So yeah, after 1985 or so, maybe even after 1983 or so, it all started to turn to crap. Clever synth riffs and thundering beats, all of which seemed novel a few years before, quickly became standard and then predictable. Even I tuned out Kate Bush after 1985's Hounds of Love, practically ignoring 1989's The Sensual World until a decade or more after its release.

I'm not sure we've ever recovered from what the classes and the masses did to the world in the 1980s. I'd be hard-pressed to come up with a more recent "golden age" of popular music, culture, or awareness (because there were issues too, ideas being addressed and tossed around, however casually). I certainly have enjoyed musical moments since - early '90s rave culture, late '90s drum-and-bass and Cool Britannia. There's plenty of world pop, stuff in other languages, and "pop with jagged edges" (like Annie) to have appreciated over time. Yet it doesn't feel as though there's been any groundswell of good music, great culture, or sustaining thought since then.

I'm old. Perhaps I just missed it or didn't get it (for example, grunge and hip-hop, neither of which I ever warmed up to, neither of which were aimed at me).

Nowadays, despite the technological and media advantages, I would imagine it would be tough to be a pop star. Too much capitalism. Too much conformity. When the possibilities for DIY pop should be even more spectacular and doable.

Kate Bush then for me represents a last, great era of yes-we-can popular music. I hope to convey in this and future posts how important in the pop panoply I think she is and why I just generally think she's "ooh, yeah . . . amazing."

One Directionless

File this under The Un-Wanted.

"She can't sing, she can't dance, but who cares? She walks like Rihanna."

Hate to tell you, boys, but it probably is Rihanna then. She's awful. She hasn't had a decent song since "S.O.S."--and the only good thing about that song was Soft Cell's "Tainted Love" as the underpinnings. And she hasn't had a hit in which she didn't sing through her nose since . . . forever.

I had such high hopes for you guys with "Glad You Came." You were like a more musical, slightly melancholy, over-18, hair-on-your-Balzac version of One Direction at best, perhaps, but I could work with that. But "Walks like Rihanna"? You might as well be One Direction doing product placement for Kentucky Fried Chicken.

And while Rihanna is tasteless and overcooked at best, you lot are looking extra cripsy yourselves these days.

Friends and lovers (Oh, why the heck not?)

I hate pop schlock for the most part, and one of the worst moments in modern musical history for me was the dreadful ballad phase of mid-'90s American popular musical entertainment. Just thinking about it makes me want to buy up every VHS copy of The Bodyguard, dump them into the middle of the Atlanta Olympics stadium, and mulch them into a fine, shimmery powder using a souped-up roto-tiller. Then force Celine Dion, Mariah Carey, and, yes, even Madonna ("This Used to be My Playground" indeed) to snort that powder through an orifice to be determined by judicial decree.

However, my diatribe about Robin Thicke got me to thinking about his mother, Gloria Loring, and her hit duet with Carl Anderson, "Friends and Lovers."



This isn't from the mid-'90s but the mid-'80s, proof that the '80s weren't always as glorious musically as everyone recalls. It's about as schlocky as it gets, but hey, I'm getting older by the second, it's a nice memory of a bygone era in pop culture, and I think Ms. Loring needs some love and respect that her son obviously isn't capable of giving.

Viva la Gloria!

Slurred lines, or, an embarrassment of bitches

Everytime I hear Robin Thicke sing "Blurred Lines," I have to stop and wonder this . . .

Whenever he sings about a "bitch" in his song, I wonder if he's talking about his lovely mother, Gloria Loring, or his lovely wife, Paula Patton, or someone other lovely female family member or acquaintance.

Like those "bitches" that strutted alongside of him naked in the nudie version of the video for the song.

So classy.

It must feel so hip-hop singing "bitch" repeatedly--especially for a hip-hop wannabe with minor Canadian celebrity royalty for a close relation.

What rhymes with "hug me," Robin? How about "slug me."

As in, me thinks you're a slug.

* * *

An update of sorts.

I was watching OMG Entertainment Death Spiral of Western Society! the other day when they ran a segment on Robbie and his dear old Dad, Alan Thicke.  

Hijole.

While blowing smoke up each other's arses for the cameras--and without any mention that little Rob has a mother who achieved a certain amount of fame in her own right--the pater praised the fils' superior physical condition.

Something along the lines of "He's in great shape, has a nice body, and looks good naked." Then Daddy gave a smile and perhaps a wink to the audience.

Even classier.

I don't think for a minute that there's anything more to that moment than this: That Robin may sing about bitches and have topless women parade around him at a video shoot, but the real whores of this story are him and his snappy pappy.
 

Hard times

I knew things were hard for Paula Deen, but I didn't think they were this bad.

Not-so-secret squirrel

I can't even explain this. It's like trying to explain Pittsburgh. 

And six years into living here, I really don't know how to.

OK, how about this? It's like Baltimore without John Waters to reveal it to everyone.

And with no crabs, just pierogies. Cooler summers, worse winters, lots of hills, and no water taxis.

And obviously squirrels with brass keys.

Emancipate yourself

This week's earworm: Kelis singing "Emancipate," a performance I saw a few years ago at the 9:30 Club in D.C. (Really, don't ask what I was doing there at my age. It was a highly unsuccessful concert-going experience for all involved.) It has a pretty snaky synth line, kinda hard to forget. And the spirit of the lyrics ain't too shabby either.

Ah, the lyrics. "Emancipate yourself emancipate yourself emancipate yourself emancipate yourself emancipate yourself emancipate yourself emancipate yourself emancipate yourself . . ."

Look in your own mirror and know who you are . . .
We're are human and fall short nothing's over yet . . .
Life's too short to waste your time do what you love . . .

What are you trying to tell me, Kelis?

NYNY (New Year New You)

NYNY (New Year New You) Mix by Montagsonfire on Mixcloud

I finally have found an online home (one that's non-spazzy about copyright--at least so far) for my mixes and podcasts. Woo hoo!

After Apple shut down it's perfectly acceptable website for paying customers, converting everything to iCloud (which I still don't get), the many podcasts and mixes I'd done over the last couple of years were left homeless.

It may seem like something small to you, but it was a crushing blow to my limited creativity. I'm not a very artistic person, but I can talk reasonably intelligently, make a good playlist, and do some basic mixing with a wee bit o' flair. Podcasts and mixes became a way for me to express the frustrated DJ/radio announcer in me, something that's been a part of me since childhood, when I used to listen constantly to radio broadcasts, both domestic and foreign, and attempt to make my own using a reel-to-reel tape recorder.

Why I never went into media and communications, I'll never understand. I never thought I had the looks or the voice for it, I'm sure. Thanks all you bastards out there for beating a guy down.

I think my creativity has suffered a pummeling in other ways, too. People criticized my drawing, so I did it less, then not at all. People criticized my writing. Ditto. People criticized me. And, yeah, I hid various parts of me away from those who would judge me or who I thought might.

Mean people suck, but really, I should be less susceptible to them by now.

And I had been managing that with my mixes and podcasts, putting myself and my interests out there for the world to see--even though the audience for them was miniscule to nonexistent. But now perhaps through MixCloud and its "cloudcasts," I stand more of a chance to expressing myself to the wider world, their criticims be damned. Or at least not taken too much to heart.

* * *

Playlist - NYNY (New Year New You) Mix

• Kraftwerk - "Musique Non-Stop"
• 808 State featuring Bernard Sumner - "Spanish Heart" 
• The Pet Shop Boys - "Domino Dancing" 
• Queen - "Radio Ga Ga" 
• Serge Gainsbourg - "No Comment" (Dax Riders Remix) 
• Electronic - "The Patience of a Saint" 
• Poolside - "Just Fall in Love" 
• Daft Punk - "Da Funk" 
• Annie - "I Know Ur Girlfriend Hates Me" 
• Telex - "Rock Around the Clock" 
• Brazilian Girls - "Last Call" 
• Justin Timberlake and Timbaland - "SexyBack" 
• Hooverphonic - "Dirty Lenses" (remix) 
• The Shamen - "Make It Mine" 
• LCD Soundsystem - "Get Innocuous!" 
• Holy Ghost! - "Static on the Wire" 
• Kleerup featuring Titiyo - "Longing for Lullabies"

Mini beauty

The car and the butterfly complement one another.

Do I have to?

Peace Bridge, Fort Erie, Ontario, about 7:30 pm, 7 July 2013.

Biting my tongue, eating my feelings, swallowing my pride

When the going gets tough, the tough head down to Vanilla Pastry Studio in Regent Square, Pittsburgh, for a six-pack of cupcakes.

Other than jonesin' for cupcake crack, I think my problem is that I exercised the night before, didn't eat enough that morning, generally loathe my job, felt guilty for dropping at least 10 f-bombs in the office before noon, and really, really, really like cupcakes.

They are an especially good chaser to a jalapeño-laced hamburger and a distilled beverage from D's next door.

Not that I would ever contemplate a liquid lunch in the middle of the workday. 'Cause that's the kind of dedicated professional that I pretend to be.

America the bootyful

This makes me inordinately proud to be an American.

Curse you, KCRW

It is probably time I moved past listening to RFI Musique all the time--although it does not mean I'm moving past studying French or enjoying French music. It does mean, however, that I'm trying to diversify my musical palate a bit. Even if by "diversify" I still mean listening to lots of pop and electronica, just now in English.

I have to thank (or blame, becoming I'm spending too much money) KCRW, the public radio alternative music station based in the Los Angeles area. I was only vaguely aware of the broadcaster prior to visiting Long Beach and LA this past winter, but Cali introduced me to "Morning Becomes Eclectic," their daytime alternative music show, which plays a lot of stuff that should be heard on radio everywhere but isn't, of course. It's music that often might be described as "pop with jagged edges" (thank you, Annie, for that great description of what you do and what I like musically), but there is also some folk, rock, world, and other types of music. Anything eclectic, anything a little different and slightly off-kilter, anything that helps you groove through the morning at work--or the afternoon at work, which is when I usually listen, given the time difference between LA and Pittsburgh. Not to mention the cultural chasm.

That last trip to Cali(fornia or otherwise) really did put me in the mood to move, to follow that sporadically resurrected fantasy of heading westward and becoming the person I imagine myself to be--which is probably the same person I am in Pennsylvania but with a better tan and a year-round wardrobe. Who can say? It's a fantasy after all. But I do imagine myself in a mellower place, one more culturally aware and forward-looking, one more diverse and friendly, with a cooler, more urban vibe, and one with better public transportation.

So why I think that place is in California is beyond me (see the requirement for better public transportation). Again, fantasy. But it's lovely to have fantasies and dreams, something to think about and work toward, should the yearning become stronger, the reality more compelling.

I get that way when I listen to WXPN in Philadelphia as well, and goodness knows, Philly doesn't cut it when it comes to the requirement for being a friendlier, mellower place to be. But WXPN was my first experience with an alternative public radio station, one that broadcasts good vibes and great music, and makes me feel a little hipper, a little happier, and a little less alone.

Which is what it's ultimately all about, isn't it? Feeling less alone, less an alien in a nationscape of conformity and close-mindedness. Whether it's being near Cali or in Cali (or vice versa), it comes down to this: Wanting to belong, wanting to be accepted, wanting to be happy, wanting to love and to be loved, and wanting to grow up and out to reach . . . me.

Pure fantasy. Especially when I'm so far away.

* * *

So why is KCRW to blame for anything? Because I keep spending money on $1.29 singles from iTunes and Amazon thanks to what "Morning Becomes Eclectic" keeps playing.

Some examples follow for your listening and grooving pleasure.

Majical Cloudz - "Mister"



Foxygen - "San Francisco" (see what I mean?)



Quadron - "Favorite Star"



Adam Green and Binki Shapiro "Here I Am" (like a modern-day Lee Hazelwood and Nancy Sinatra--seriously, the highest form of flattery from the likes of me)



What time does the last train to Santa Monica depart? Or Riverside? I'm not picky.

In the meantime, I will spend $0.99 more for the KCRW iPhone app to keep me company in the waiting room at Penn Station.

All aboard.

Catastrophic or psychotropic?

My sister's dog reacts (poorly) to an advertisement for Meow Mix brand cat food. 

Funnily enough, I feel very much the same about cats. I've met ones I liked, but I'm told these aren't "real" cats, but rather the aberrant species, the "dogcat"--friendly, happy, attentive, good-natured, loving, among other appealing traits.

Instead, too often I encounter the true cat, the cat archetype, if you will. Surly, mean, indifferent, hostile, opaque (often misinterpreted as "mysterious"), prone to lash out when you're least expecting it, and prone to shed everywhere.

And if I wanted something that unpleasant as an unfaithful companion around my house, I'd just get another god-damned boyfriend.

Take me out to the ballgame

I can't even explain this.

Or rather, I'm choosing not to.

(You perv.)
 

I'm trapped!

Trapped in the body of a white girl.

I know just how she feels.

Letter perfect

One perhaps can assume that "Colon" is an alternate spelling for "Colin." Otherwise, I find it an odd custom to celebrate one's digestive tract. Especially with donuts.

 

Walking the line

Reese Witherspoon at the Cannes Film Festival.
CC BY-SA 3.0. Attribution: Georges Biard.

It's OK, Reese Witherspoon.

Personally, I was already embarrassed by your behavior when you made Sweet Home Alabama.

As a Southerner, you really, really, really, should have known better.

I can only assume you were drunk when you signed your contract and disorderly when you acted your way through that cornponefest.

Cute Southerners in the form of secondary characters in one of your movies (or you, for that matter) are just fake and annoying.

Y'all.