I practice cognitive disconance

I can't remember if I've posted this before, "French Cancan (Monsieur Sainte-Nitouche)" by Malian-French-American performer, Inna Modja.

A very catchy tune, classic '60s-'70s Gamble and Huff, one that I woke up with in my head this morning.

And a funny, quirky video, which I seem to appreciate more this morning than I have in previous viewings. Could it have something to do with the fact that I'm halfway through the bizarrely fun Holy Motors? In French no less . . . (with French subtitles; not fully there yet, not even really that close, as you'll no doubt notice from my occasional French essay posted here.)

I don't think there's any great insights to be gained from this song, the movie I'm watching, or the language I'm studying. Except maybe this: Go through your day with a clever, sexy song in your head, which will serve you well as the soundtrack to the bizarre movie that plays around you. Do all this in a half-understood language, pretending that you're experiencing life in a locale more exotic than the one you're currently inhabiting.

Trust me, it makes this reality we endure much easier to tolerate.

Daily doping

My performance-enhancing drug of choice. Laid out in pretty much the proper order -

• Café Britt, a dark roast, ground coffee my sister brought me from Costa Rica. (Do they sell it stateside? I must investigate.)

• Peet's Major Dickason blend, my go-to life source. At home, I'm all about the whole beans, but at work, we make do. I have the coffeemaker and all the accoutrements, but I've drawn the line at bringing in my grinder and French press.

• Tim Horton's ground, that along with Van Houtte's "mélange maison," being sentimental favorites from Canadian vacations and fascinations. Truth be told, the coffee sold in Tim Horton's shops tastes better than the canned stuff sold and brought home. Must be that clearly Canadian water.

Yes, we all have our habits, our drugs, our addictions . . . but I don't hide mine from anyone. I don't secretly use them to get an unfair advantage over others, nor do I think they give me such an advantage. I don't threaten anyone who gets in between me, my banned substance use, and victory.

Well, OK, that's a lie. I most definitely would threaten someone who got in between me and my coffee monkey. If caffeine were a banned substance, I'd be scoring it in urban parks, manufacturing my own in rural farmhouses, and mainlining it into my thigh.

So my point is that I like coffee. A lot. Oddly, I don't really care if Lance Armstrong and his ilk shove Cocoa Puffs and gunpowder up their bums for a boost or for fun. On the same morning that I saw highlights of his "Come to Oprah" moment, I also saw advertisements for AndroGel, a topical medication designed to help with "low T" - which is ad-speak for "low testosterone," which is medical-speak for moodiness, weight gain, lack of energy, and fewer erections.

Which is reality-speak for middle age.

So there's a lot of doping going on, a lot of performance-enhancing happening at all levels. Coffee seems the least of my worries. I mean, it's not like 4 cups a day (which, admittedly, I'd like to get down to 2 cups a day) is likely to cause "signs and symptoms of puberty in a child, changes in body hair or increased acne in a woman; blood clots in your legs; possible increased risk of prostate cancer; possible lower sperm count; swelling of your ankles, feet, or body, with or without heart failure; enlarged or painful breasts; problems breathing while you sleep (sleep apnea)," etc.

Sure I'd like to weigh less and have a few more erections (and someone to share them with on a regular basis). But the risk of losing my body hair and heart failure hardly seem worth it.

I guess I think the same about Mister Livestrong himself. Winning the Tour de France seven times and having minimal body fat would be way cool. Threatening the lives and livelihoods of others so you can be on top and being humiliated and exposed as a liar, a cheat, and a thug hardly seems worth it.

All in all, I'd rather be an enhanced human being than an enhanced performer at work, in sports, or between the sheets. I'm not sure coffee is the best way to reach that goal, but I'm unlikely to have to go on national TV to confess to Oprah about it.

And that, my friends, is enough to give me some extra impetus for getting it up in the morning.

Cold comfort

At least someone is trying to make the best of a bad winter situation. It certainly isn't moi, but this was nice to see on my way into work on a snowing Wednesday morning in Pittsburgh.

But, wait, what's that at the bottom of the snow-scripting? Arms raised in defiance? Upraised middle fingers? Exposed, pierced nipples?

Who knows? But it's closer to my take on a winter wonderland than a smiley face and some hair fringe.

Still, an A for effort. Thanks, Mystery Artist, for trying to make me feel better. Nevertheless, I still want to get the frozen hell out of here as soon as possible.
 

How (and where) I spent my winter vacation

Walking along the shore and around the town of Long Beach, California, to be exact.

With the one I love . . . but is the feeling mutual? And are mutual feelings enough?

New year, new yearning. While One Life to Live may still be off the air, my daily drama continues.

I'm lonely, I'm hungry, I'm sad, I'm eager. I want something . . .

Stay tuned.