No one will ever love you

. . . Like I love Nashville. If you're not watching, you should consider doing so. And this from a guy who detests most contemporary country music.

#TeamDeacon #TeamRayna #TeamGunnar #TeamScarlett #NeverTeamJuliette

Maybe I don't, maybe I do

So how did I miss an entire week of my life online? I feel like I had so much to say this week but so little time.

Let's see, there's my distressed relationship with Pittsburgh to tackle . . . the odd dinner out with acquaintances I had last Saturday at the world's least spicy Mongolian barbecue restaurant . . . every crazy person I know from high school on Facebook (guns! liberals! guns! liberals!) . . . Oscar Pistorius and an extended riff on gun control (seems like a natural follow-through, that) . . . some pop music . . . my success in French class this week . . . my "soup for one" status (as far as I can; it's, as the kids say, complicated) . . .

How about discussing another movie instead? I'm sure that won't bring up any of these issues. No. No way.

* * *

At the moment, I am really happy with my decision to cut back on cable and make better use of my Roku and its various offerings--Amazon Instant and Amazon Prime Video, HuluPlus, even the semi-gutted Netflix streaming service. I'm watching more movies and TV shows and being more intentional in my viewing habits, which are good things indeed.

Winter will end eventually (or so Punxsutawney Phil tells us), and I'm sure I'll get busy with life, work, and French before too long. Maybe I'll even exhaust my movie/TV queue(s) and subscriptions, unable to find anything interesting to way, 57 channels and nothing on and all that. I doubt it, though. My interest in music is like the universe, ever expanding. With some new options for finding and viewing film and TV, I foresee a fetishistic future in media consumption for my own bad self.

Having a little free time right now and this extra access is allowing me to go back in time to watch some things I've been wanting to see for some time. Cases in point: Old episodes of Dallas; an episode of House, M.D., starring South African actor Neil Sandilands (not-so-secret crush #1,748); German classics like M and The Marriage of Maria Braun; the occasional silent; and an Israeli film from the 1980s, I Don't Give a Damn (originally titled Lo Sam Zayin in Hebrew).

This is one movie I've wanted to see for a long time, since I first read a review about it when I lived in Washington, D.C., and where it was shown either in theaters or at some film festival. Can't remember every detail.

Was it worth the 25-year wait? Well, I wouldn't go that far, but it had it's moments, good and not-so-much.

The storyline roughly goes like so: Raffi (played by actor Ika Zohar) is all happy-go-youthy and full of joie de vivre upon finishing university (or high school at a more mature age) and starting his obligatory military service in the Israeli Defense Forces. Plus he's in love! However, he is severely wounded while on patrol and becomes a parapalegic, turning him (spoiler alert) into a bitter, angry, hopeless young man, who punishes those around him for loving him.

Good enough but not quite. Ika Zohar does a great job in conveying Raffi's full range of emotions, but I'm not sure the script is there to allow him to portray fully Raffi's plight, the practical realities of his situation and his existential crisis. How will he make a life for himself on his own when he has to be carried into his parents' hillside home? How will he make love to and make a family with his girlfriend, Nira? His virility and pride damaged, his shame at his perceived weakness pronounced, his future erased. Is he still a man? Can he live his life? Defend his country? Retain his humanity?

Well, I'm not sure the script gives us all of that to work with, but the review I read years ago--from what I recall through the hazy newsprint of history--made it sound like the film would address at least the existential crisis of youth at war in modern Israel.

And maybe it did. There's a long, talky scene at the beginning of the film that wasn't even subtitled but is referred back to at one point in the film. The impression I got from the reference and the scene is that there might have been a whisper of an homage to All Quiet on the Western Front (book or movie version) in which the young men get their mojo on for the "fun" of war, only to later have their fun taken away from them, some of them for good.

It's also possible that I know less about modern Israel than I think I do. (Ha ha. Really, I know next to nothing about most everything.) There were probably any number of subtle (to me) references to modern Israeli life that I just didn't pick up on, that were lost in translation, one way or another.

But at times the movie comes across as hopelessly '80s, like an After-Hebrew School Special. Nira, the love interest, represents everything cloying and contemptible about the "kooky girlfriend" character in movies: She's got a Madonna-esque "Borderline"-era fashion sense (about four years too late, I might add), fugly big hair in desperate need of less humidity and more conditioner, and a manic approach to life that would have made me angry and caustic long before I became injured in war. Again, I don't think this is the actor's fault necessarily. I know less about acting than I do modern Israel, but it seems like she's trying to make the best of a bad script situation.

Still, I'm not sure I'll ever forgive anyone--actor, writer, director, lighting crew, gaffer, best boy, what have you--involved in the "bagel clown" scene, in which Nira visits the military hospital to pass out kisses and bagels to the patients. That's more than enough detail; I don't want to spoil the execrable surprise for you. Suffice it to say that when Raffi reacts badly to Nira's visit, I think it might have been less due to the bitterness over his situation and more about his mortification over having made such a unfortunate choice in lovers.

The way Raffi's sister-in-law is portrayed is hardly any more favorable. Again with the big hair, the poor fashion choices, and this weird sense of (read: lack of) boundaries! She's forever flirty with Raffi, before and after injury, even going so far as to pose for him in photos, dressed in a skimpy bathrobe, naked underneath, and showing more side boob than I would be comfortable seeing from a member of my family, close or extended. Is this any way to treat a wounded soldier? I would think Raffi has suffered enough.

My riffing on the horror of mid-'80s women's fashions aside, there are other problems with the movie for me. I didn't get a strong sense of any sort of existential crisis--What are we fighting for? What are we dying for? If this is now life we have been given, how do we survive it and thrive in it? Maybe it was there, maybe it wasn't, and maybe it wasn't even the point. But then what was the point?

The scenes, even the sex scenes, are filmed at a curious distance, never in close-up, making for a very "flat" experience. You never feel close to the action, the emotion, or the intimacy--except in one scene where you see the ugliness of Raffi's wound, which seemed far too fresh for as far along as he was in his treatment. You follow the plot points and witness the emotions: Raffi is angry, frustrated, bereft, and embittered by his experience and existence. I'm not sure you ever feel it, despite Ika Zohar being a very convincing actor in my estimation. This lack of a emotional connection is a very curious thing for a movie that could potentially be as emotionally explosive as any shooting or bombing.

Did I ever talk about The Bubble, another Israeli movie I watched last year? I don't think so.

Despite feeling a bit punk'd at the end of it, The Bubble did a far better job at conveying the feelings of the characters and the intimacies they experienced, positive and negative. Despite mining a similar vein--the young and the Israeli dealing with the harsh realities of an intractable conflict--it packed much more of an emotional and psychological wallop.

Alone, the way the romantic and sexual scenes were filmed between the two leads (both men) felt far more personal and seductive, despite actually showing less. Yes, perhaps that does say more to my affectional orientation, but the boom-boom-boom-let's-go-back-to-my-room scenes in I Don't Give a Damn were more explicit and yet, less impactful. I saw Nira's knockers indeed, but I also got a lot of visuals of Ika Zohar's virility, too. (Not as much as desired, perhaps, but a good amount, all the same.) And yet . . . due to what? Unfriendly lighting? A wide shot? The egregiously cheesy score? Or the perfunctory nature of the prurience? I felt less. Much less.

My feeling somewhat brutalized by the ending of The Bubble is to the point--I felt enough to feel bad, to feel fooled, to feel abused. With I Don't Give a Damn . . . well, heck, I didn't even feel enough to give a fig, much less a rat's or a crap.

* * *

Obviously this movie resonates in contemporary times. More than a decade later, American forces are still in Afghanistan and Iraq; Israel and Palestine are still locked in a seemingly unresolvable conflict; and there are growing conflicts in Mali and Nigeria, to name but two. And another day, another dozen people are shot and injured or killed in America, thanks to a powerful membership organization, a weak central government, easy access to firearms, and a portion of the population that seems to have a profound misunderstanding of the Constitution, as well as a serious disconnect between real-and-imagined risks to their persons and property.

The level of firepower seems to have become more dramatic and fatal in recent years, with smaller packages, bigger explosions, and more dedication to the zealot's creed of might-makes-right (whether that creed is yours, theirs, or ours). The severity of injury and carnage, coupled with improved, rapidly delivered medical care, has created a number of men and women, adults and children, in Raffi's situation.

Or maybe war has always been like that. I think of the American Civil War and the "Great" War, also known as World War I. Lots of injury, lots of maiming, lots of death, physical as well as psychological.

So not an untimely movie to watch at all, even if the particulars of the story are removed from my day-to-day life experience.

* * *

And yet, I'm not unfamiliar with anger, at least being on the receiving end of it. My father, bless him, suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder from his experiences as a young man in World War II in the Pacific Theater, experiences that followed him through life, only being relieved it seemed when he developed Alzheimer's in his 70s.

My Dad was a great guy in many respects. Funny, kind, disciplined, and loving. I would have never made it through high school, college, and graduate school without his and my mother's faith in me. I would be a much bigger emotional mess than I am sometimes without his and my mother's love for me, never feeling it slip away, despite the challenges I presented to them. I will probably never be able to fully express my joy and security at being the son of my truly wonderful parents.

Not everything was seamless or perfect, mind you. My Dad could also be extremely short-tempered, sensitive, depressed, mean, angry, and physically and psychologically "imposing" at times. He had his moments, not all of them good or kind or welcoming. Whether this was due to his experiences at war or the fact that he was one of 11 children born to a working-class farm family in rural Kentucky in the 1920s or some other reason, I could not say for sure.

I have had my moments, too, rest assured. I've had periods of depression, anger, mean-spiritedness, and childishness. And I've had moments of great kindness, generosity, thoughtfulness, and joie de vivre as well. We're all only human after all.

Not all of our wounds are physical. Not all of are wounds come about from war on the battlefield. The wars at home can be damaging as well, to one's body and to one's soul.

I Don't Give a Damn made me think of other people I have known in my life, in the past and in the present, who were extremely, unfathomably angry, with their histories and with their lives, sometimes this anger manifesting itself with the world at large or even me in particular.

I've felt a bit like Nira at times, trying to love someone who is too angry to accept your love and to love you in return. Because they feel too guilty about it, if that's indeed what it is. Shame, guilt, hurt, disappointment, irritation. Or perhaps they just don't love you, specifically, for who you are or are not, for what you represent or don't.

I can't say that I've felt a lot like Raffi ever, for at least any extended period. I've had my challenges in life and still do. I suck at saving money. I'm unsure about my career. I've lost a brother and a parent. I've had lovers cheat on me and have been forced out of jobs, all within the space of a week. I'm over 50 and single and can't say that I see a lot of life-partner prospects in my future, with yet another one slipping through my fingers only recently.

But, all in all, it's been a pretty decent life so far. Maybe not everything I've ever wanted or needed or deserved has occurred, but a lot has. Plus there have been some pleasant turns along the way, people and events and moments happening that were wonderful, unexpected, and exactly what I needed or wanted or deserved, even when I didn't know it. And I'm healthy--if a tad wide shot-friendly myself at the mo'.

So how do I, a Nira, love someone like a Raffi? Is that possible? Or even advisable? At what point does such a love transform from being a joy, to a joyful dedication, to an obligation, to a chore, to a misery? I can only play the "bagel clown" for so long before I run out of energy or, truth be told, interest.

Nira and Raffi found a way in the movies. I'm not sure that's possible off-screen, at least for me and my situation. I'm not sure I want it to be either, the pleasures and the gifts too fleeting and now, no longer there. Love overburdened by pain, frustration, and a sense of pointlessness and failure.

Does that make me a weak lover? Or a wise one? At this moment, it feels like some of both.

So, yeah, clearly, I still give a damn. Not that that matters a damn.

Memory bliss

While working out at the gym last night (butch, I know!), I was tuned into my TuneIn app, listening to La Máquina del Tiempo, an "oldies" internet radio station (featuring mostly Europop from the '80s and '90s, to be honest).

The "Time Machine" can be a mixed bag, to be honest. I've heard some great, fun pop from the '80s in particular (things that I remember from then or managed to miss the first time around). And then I've heard some clunkers--anything by Phil Collins or an odd Mike Oldfield remake of "Family Man" by Hall & Oates. Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot. Seriously. A veces, La Máquina del Tiempo está rota. Completamente rota.

And then at other times, the Time Machine is working brilliantly and something like "Set Adrift on Memory Bliss" by P.M. Dawn goes on rotation.

Wow. I'd forgotten how much I adore this song and the whole P.M. Dawn sensibility from the early-mid '90s. I always thought the was one of the better examples of music sampling from that era--and any other. "Set Adrift on Memory Bliss" takes a readily identifiable riff from "True" by Spandau Ballet (a great pop song in and of itself, even if a tad "New Romantic" in retrospect) and out of this, creates a stellar, unique pop experience in its own right. A classic begets a classic. Why this isn't near the top of the "World's 100 Best Pop Songs Ever" playlist is beyond me.

PM Dawn also had a wonderfully crazy and cool style or look or vibe: Kinda hippy, sorta New Age, very rave culture without the obvious drug use.

I have to admit that I haven't thought much about P.M. Dawn since the mid-'90s, although according to Wikipedia, they're still around, despite some challenges.

Thus, once again, I find myself part of the problem, rather than part of the solution. But maybe a few iTunes or Amazon MP3 purchases will help my karma.

Beauty stab

Courtesy of Wikipedia; used for purposes of commentary and review

Editor's note: Finally, as promised/threatened a couple of days ago, my thoughts on the South African film Beauty (Skoonheid in Afrikaans). 

I've now watched it 1-1/2 times (hope to finish the last half of my second viewing today), so I think I've sorted through most of my thoughts and feelings about the movie. 

What follows is probably less a cohesive narrative than stream-of-consciousness observations. I will try to keep the spoilers to a minimum, but I can't completely promise to big reveal-free. So caveat lector and all that.

* * *

First, a little about the film: Beauty is the story of François van Heerden (Deon Lotz), a fairly well-off Afrikaner businessman (he owns a lumberyard/sawmill in Bloemfontein), married with adult children, who, we come to realize, leads a secret life: He likes having sex with other men. You could say he is a closeted gay man, but he is strongly anti-gay (and racist as well). Of course, that doesn't mean he's not gay, but he doesn't acknowledge that he is. In fact, he's quite adamant in his anti-moffie (Afrikaans for "faggot") proclamations.

Which, again, doesn't mean he's not gay. In fact, it probably means he knows the truth about himself, somewhere deep down, but is determined to keep it hidden and repressed.

At the wedding of one of his daughters, he's meets up with the adult son of an old friend. Christian Roodt (Charlie Keegan) is everything François is not--young, handsome, professional (he's finishing up law studies but also does modeling and commercials), single, with an easy, relaxed charm and an ability to be comfortable with all sexes, races, and (maybe even?) sexualities.

François quickly becomes obsessed with Christian, reading clues and misreading cues. Christian shows an interest in François, but . . . is François interpreting that interest correctly?

Anyway, that's enough of the plot for now. Nothing you couldn't find in any other review. On to the observations.

* * *

Is Christian gay? Bi? Curious? Or just a very accepting straight man? I can't decide. I think we are supposed to be as intrigued and confounded as François, noting Christian's interest in him, but also noting Christian's interest in François's daughter, as well as his male and female friends at university.

Christian's whole vibe is non-commital, but not in a cold, detached way. He is free-wheeling, easy-going, genuine (or at least superficially so) with everyone. He is young. He doesn't have to adhere to any one tribe or lifestyle. He's both a lawyer and a part-time model--professional and casual, intellectual and facile. He does stress to François that he's serious about law, but he's also into iPods (or at least begging his parents for a new one), beaches, and socializing at school. Maybe he's not "serious" in the bourgeois sense, but he is having fun and is more well-rounded of a human being, certainly more than his father, than François, and his "elders," who seem to associate only with others like them and only deal with money, work, and responsibilities.

There is one scene on the beach at Clifton (where "young people go to pose," as Christian's father puts it) in which we see Christian turn away from his female companion to look at someone intently off camera. Is it a man or a woman? We do not know, we never know. We can only speculate.

Same way at university. Christian is friendly with everyone but hugs a coloured male friend and even kisses him on the cheek. Again, is this proof that he is gay? François might think so (and this perhaps sets him further on his way, despite his "no moffies" policy), but maybe Christian is just a modern metrosexual man, expressing his affection for a friend in a non-traditional, non-stereotypical way. And if all you've ever known is a hyper-masculine culture--where brutality is strength and love and emotion are weaknesses--this may be the conclusion you draw, that Christian is more receptive to François's interest and attentions for the reason that François is offering them to him.

It's hard to envision François ever having been young, happy, or care-free. François is supposed to be in his 40s, married, with two adult daughters. He more than likely came of age during a rough-and-tumble time, the end of Apartheid/the beginning of majority government. He played it safe, going with the family plan and a solid, if uninspiring, business, turning wild nature into building blocks for houses, fitting round pegs into square holes.

Perhaps he felt he had to play it safe, that he had no other options, and couldn't see a way to step outside tribal expectations to be his own man and to be happy. Perhaps he just never really thought about it.

I've met guys like François, ones who didn't realize until much later in life that they might be gay, who still don't, into their 40s, 50s, and 60s, who are married with adult children and yet like to have sex with men. But who are not gay--or rather, don't see themselves ever living a "gay lifestyle." Maybe they kiss during sex with a guy, but just as likely they don't. Maybe they are the "receptive" partner during sex or maybe they're always on top. Maybe they enjoy sex with other men, or maybe they just consider it a function, an impulse, a compulsion, without really ever getting at the underlying need they're trying to fill. Gay bar? No way. Gay marriage? Hell no! Man-on-man sex at a rest stop or secured in an online chat room? Well, don't mind if I do . . .

And I've just as likely seen men who identified as gay who acted pretty much the same way. Gay in name only but still massively uncomfortable with the social stigma of homosexuality and their own innate desires.

* * *

Beauty is a slow film, and I can't decide whether this is good or bad. The pacing is that of an art film but also of some non-Western films I've seen. I don't know whether that's intentional or not. Is it a stylistic intention (or pretension?) or the sign of a filmmaker finding his way? I don't know. Beauty is, I believe, only the second film by Oliver Hermanus, a young South African director and writer. I'm intrigued to see his first film, Shirley Adams, the story of a mother in the Cape Flats section of Cape Town who struggles, financially and emotionally, to care for her disabled son.

What was a pleasant surprise for me was to learn that Hermanus is "coloured" or of mixed ethnicity. It surprised me because Beauty is such a "white" film. By that I mean that it delves deeply into this very narrow, privileged, exclusive world of Afrikaners of a certain age and class. At least from my non-South African vantage, it would seem that the director, a "coloured outsider," offers an exceptionally detailed portrait of this world, its privileges, its prejudices, the stories it likes to tell itself, and the ugly reality behind some of those stories.

A case in point--and one I wouldn't have gotten if I hadn't read some reviews of the movie from South African news websites: A significant scene takes place at an Afrikaner farm. And that scene is a "gay" orgy (or rather an orgy featuring men who have sex with men--but who don't associate with "moffies" or "coloureds"). It is, shall we say, highly detailed. If you've ever been to an orgy or a sex club (and I'm not naming names), then the scene is extremely, even uncomfortably evocative of what goes on, from the sounds of sex (flesh slapping against flesh) to the air of tension among those who are waiting anxiously for something to happen and to find out if they will get what they so desperately need from the experience.

So accolades to the writer, director, and all the actors for conveying that mood so well. But there's more to the story--this is an Afrikaner farm in the Free State: It apparently doesn't get much more Afrikaner than that. The romance of the farm, a yearning for a pastoral way of life, pre-majority government and perhaps even pre-Apartheid, being a recurring theme in Afrikaner culture--at least as evidenced by my sampling of media and news stories. Imagine an American movie that did the same, that took the perfect Little House on the Prairie mise-en-scène and upended it with a gay orgy or a meth lab (or both an orgy and a meth lab). That, I suspect, is what makes the scene even more culturally charged for South Africans and not something a casual viewer would glean without some guidance.

There are other moments like this--the wedding, the family dinners--that are exclusively white and painstakingly detailed, so much so that I assumed Hermanus was white, not coloured. Some of the media I've seen and read make it look as though South Africa is a far more white country than it is. According to current statistics available from Wikipedia, the South African population is roughly 79 percent black and 21 percent "other," including 9 percent white, 9 percent coloured, and 2.5 percent Indian/Asian. And yet commercials, magazines, newspapers, music, movies, and TV--at least the examples I'm exposed to (or looking toward)--are overwhelmingly white.

But it's also some of my own prejudice at work--being surprised that a "coloured" writer and director could so adeptly portray this white world. Being surprised that there is such a thing as a coloured writer and director from South Africa in the first place.

Shame, shame, shame on me. Next thing I'll learn is that Hermanus isn't even gay, despite looking good in a tank top and so accurately conveying a certain realm of man-on-man sex.

* * *

Rate this film. HuluPlus asked me to. Did I think it was OK or did I like it?

It is a hard film to "like" or to recommend because it isn't a happy picture or an easy one to view. It's slow with lots of vaguely intended scenes and tense, repressed, non-showy acting by the lead, Deon Lotz. Not much happens and then what does happen is horrible.

Like Shame (with Michael Fassbender), to which I've seen Beauty compared, it's a challenging movie to watch, one more noteworthy for its performances and character studies than for its plotting. Shame seems like an action thriller (Die Hard On, perhaps?) in comparison to Beauty's pacing and subtle storytelling. 

I didn't particularly like Shame, truth be told, even though I kept being told I should and why I was wrong not to. It's intriguing, and it doesn't spell everything out for you (Beauty does even less so), but it's hard to work up a lot of emotion over someone who is so unsympathetic--and this applies equally to Brandon in Shame and François in Beauty. François's behavior is more egregious, far less appealing than Brandon, who seems more like a victim of his own compulsions and history than François.

Perhaps.

Fassbender is certainly very attractive and looks good naked, a real specimen of modern Rand-ian manhood. There's a prurient interest in watching him do sex, although the sex is ultimately unappealing and unfulfilling. One review in the New York Times mentioned a subtle (or not) moralizing tone to Shame, and I think there's some truth to that. Brandon is another facet of the modern man, the single loner/loser who, along with his very married boss, seeks to prove his superiority through sexual one-upmanship. He's rudderless and foundering in a cold, sterile world chiefly of his own making. He's capitalism. He's America.

There's one scene near the end that to me (and the New York Times reviewer) underscores the morality at work in the storyline. I won't give it away completely, but it reminded me of that scene in American Gigolo where Richard Gere's character, in order to save himself, finally gives in and says he'll even do "fag tricks."

Poor baby. How awful for you, a man who gets paid to have sex with old broads to get paid to have sex with old geezers! The moment in Shame and in American Gigolo are not literally identical, but it's kind of the same subtext: I'm broken, I'm at my wit's end, I'll stoop to do something that I normally wouldn't do, that's even more abhorrent to me and the world at large. I'll have sex with another man! Yes, I've fallen that far.

Well, fuck that, fig and lit.

Lotz looks more like the rest of us, hairy and pudgy, and is less obvious in his motivations and intents. At the end, you'd like to think he could have turned back, found another way to deal with his feelings and frustration. You don't necessarily see him as a victim of his circumstances or particularly tortured by what he's wrought. Not because he isn't in some indirect way. It's just that he's so repressed and expressionless that he doesn't fathom what he's done or can't feel what he wants. In some ways, this makes him monstrous. In other ways, it makes you feel for him ever so slightly, although you can't forget, you don't forgive.

Beauty actually reminded me of a different picture, the Australian film, Head On, which details the story of a young, gorgeous Greek-Aussie guy (played by Alex Dimitriades), repressed in his emotions and confused in his sexuality, yet who aggressively goes after back alley sex with any willing guy, no matter how unsavory. He eventually has an epiphany about what he wants, who he is--but it doesn't play out the way you'd like to think it will. This ain't no Billy's Hollywood Screen Kiss.

Nor is Beauty. And yet Head On has stayed with me over the years, even though it, too, is a difficult film to recommend to others because of its darkness and unhappiness. I suspect Beauty will stay with me as well.

So if you're looking for a "gay" movie to warm the cockles of your heart--or the cockles found in any other region of your body--this is not the one.

But if you want to be challenged, intellectually and emotionally, want to experience another culture, another mindset, then, yes, walk this way. Go see this film. But prepared to be unsettled by it--and yet still feel the need to see it again. And perhaps again as well.

Candy heart rejects

From Wikipedia - Credit: Pschemp; CC-BY-SA 3.0

My contributions to a Twitter meme, #CandyHeartRejects:

SISTER WIFE #2

THIS END UP

SANITIZED FOR YOUR PROTECTION

DELIVERIES IN THE REAR

SLIPPY WHEN WET (Pittsburghese and Bon Jovi fans unite!)

TAYLOR SWIFT IS SO GONNA WRITE A SONG ABOUT THIS NIGHT

WHO'S YOUR DADDY? NO, SERIOUSLY, I NEED TO KNOW. I THINK WE MIGHT BE RELATED!

YOU'RE IN MY BINDER FULL OF WOMEN

I WILL POPE YOU FOREVER . . . UNTIL I GET TOO TIRED

GLAD U R MY REAL GIRLFRIEND (an homage to Manti Te'o)

And last and least (because I'm not particularly proud of this one, but it *is* funny) . . .

I LUV U (GENITAL) WARTS 'N' ALL

I'm here all week. Remember to tip your waiter.

Stop me before I eat again

Truth be told, I think Pittsburgh food is mostly godawful. Oh, I like pierogis, especially the sauerkraut-filled ones, and I've had some good pizza, but like the city itself, sometimes there's just no there there.

And by "there," I mean flavor. And spice. And taste. And appeal.

This is a town where everything comes with fries, even the salads, where Buffalo wings may have come as an uninvited guest from that town up the road but have found friends and family here (unlike yours truly).

I've had one or two good meals here (one at Tamari, this Latin-Asian fusion spot in Lawrenceville comes to mind--a trend that perhaps happened everywhere else years ago, but still, I wouldn't turn down a great meal--and a tasty mojito--just because it's a bit five years ago in culinary trending). But for the most part, I've been disappointed even by places that came highly recommended, that seem more style over ingredients.

But I shan't name names, at least not the bad ones.

Credit where credit is due, though: One thing Pittsburgh does really well is baked goods. There are a number of bakeries here, some new-fashioned but many old-fangled ones, even though some of those are on the way out. Food service work looks really hard with bad hours and tight profit margins. Baking looks even harder and I'm sure has been undercut by so many supermarket bakeries. I can imagine it's tough to make a go of it. Add to that it appears to be something of a family tradition and perhaps younger generations don't want to take on the work.

What a shame. Because the few bakeries I've had the pleasure of visiting in Pittsburgh and environs have been incredible. Kretchmar's in Beaver was probably the first one I visited, and it set a very high standard for the others, as did Carol's Pastry Shop in Zelionople and Moio's Italian Pastry Shop in Monroeville.

Oh, I like Allegro in Squirrel Hill, too, and I'm always going on about Jean-Marc Chatellier in Millvale. I've only had donuts from Stoecklein's in Penn Hills (they were delicious!) because it's too hard to find for a non-native like me. I've still yet to stop in at Prantl's in Shadyside because I hate the parking in that neighborhood. The point is, there are some excellent options for baked goods in Pittsburgh--A yeasty embarrassment of kneaded deliciousness, one might say. If one were so inclined.

But this week maybe I've had too much of a good thing. On Tuesday, Mardi Gras, one of my office mates and I went to Jean-Marc in search of King Cake only to find them sold out. So, naturally, we each bought a Breton cake and a six-pack of French macarons. It seemed like the thing to do.

Today, the beginning of the Lenten season, said office mate got a lead on King Cake from another shop, the Oakmont Bakery in one of my favorite parts of the Pittsburgh area, little Oakmont on the Allegheny. So we got one. And we also got a six-pack of pączki, a type of filled Polish donut (like a German Berliner, as in Ich bin ein a big jelly donut). Each.

Which is just insane. Financially, first of all--I mean, so much for saving on cable. At $1.50 per pączki (big enough for two meals, let alone one), this was not in and of itself an unwise purchase. Combine it, however, with a Breton cake, some macarons, gas money, future heart medication, etc., and, lordy, I blew any savings on pastries. Which just seems a little weird . . . and pitiful.

Healthwise, second of all and third of all--although it should be first of all--as much of a slacker I've been at the gym the last couple of weeks, I certainly don't need the calories. And I swear I was getting a contact high off the sugar and yeast alone. Thus, this week, I'm destined to take at least twelve steps toward a better, healthier life.

So any lessons this week? Other than "don't eat your feelings"? Yeah, well, easier said than done of late, although seriously, I'm much better/worse at it when I'm stressed over work than I am over life. But point taken. I'll try to keep it to dry toast and mineral water the rest of the week.

Then again, bakery items and pierogis are the only things edible in this town. So, again, credit where credit is due: Pittsburgh is why I'm fat. If the salads were better and weren't loaded with French fries, it might be a different story . . . .

A Return to The Rover's Return

A scene from Coronation Street

Sometimes it's the little things in life that mean a lot. At least to me. And not including penises.

Finally finding a way to watch Coronation Street without moving to Canada or the UK--that may seem little to you but it's a huge deal for an Anglophile soap freak like me.


That must make me a Fairy Soap freak. But let's not call each other names.

Not that there would be anything wrong with going abroad, of course. Nevertheless, it's nice not to have to move right now, especially to a foreign country, and solely because of one TV show. Let there be a few programs involved. And some music.

Yesterday I subscribed to HuluPlus, in part because they recently began broadcasting episodes of Britain's longest-running soapie, Coronation Street. I know, I know, but really, this is significant to me: I've been watching this show in fists and starts since the first part of the 1980s, when it used to be broadcast on (I think) the USA Network during the early days of cable TV.

I've also seen episodes when I've visited Britain and Canada, where it's shown in the early evening, when in the U.S. we're normally watching . . . Wheel of Fortune.

Sigh.

So Corrie and me, we go way back. And not just Coronation Street: I've had a thing for UK soaps for some time. Initially, Coronation Street didn't impress me much--it seemed pretty dour in its '80s incarnation--but I quickly got hooked on EastEnders when it was shown on public television in the 1980s and 1990s. I still managed to catch it on trips to the UK and also got entangled briefly with the  characters and stories on Brookside (that body is still under the patio, for all I know) and even Emmerdale.

But the last couple of times I saw EastEnders, I barely recognized any of the characters and cared even less about the ones on screen. When I saw Coronation Street in 2005 and again in 2012 in the UK, and on several trips to Canada from 2008 to 2012, it seemed far fresher and funnier, though still very much a UK soap. Meaning the characters are more working- to middle class in income and more relationship-oriented, rather than being fantasy- and glamor-enamored like their American counterparts. In fact, I'd say in terms of "orientation," the British shows remind me of what American soaps used to be before people started coming back from the dead and their evil twins began making appearances during sweeps week. (Not that there's anything wrong with that either, but, well, maybe it's time to grow and change and get back to our roots.)

Yet despite the more reality-based approach, there's still plenty of drama, heartbreak, and humor on the British programs. As a result, I've been a furtive fan ever since.

And now for the low, low price of $7.99 per month I can be a more regular, reliable fan. Episodes are showing on HuluPlus (with limited commercials) with only a couple of weeks' delay. Just tonight I watched the episode shown in the UK on January 30th.

This is progress! This is what I've always wanted from media, to be able to learn about (or even escape to) somewhere else, to another world, either through a storyline, a character, or a taste of another culture. It hopefully explains some of the fascination with the South African soap, Egoli: Place of Gold, samba and bossa nova records, international movies, language studies, and French pop music, all of which I've waxed on about here.

But to get a little, I had to give some, and that something came in the form of dropping my $10-a-month subscription to TV5Monde, the French-language news and entertainment channel. While I was at it, I decided to reduce my cable bill a little, too, dropping from "HD Extreme" past "HD Prime" to "HD Select." And that meant that I also lost access to CNN International and BBC World (as well as BBC America and SoapNet, but it's OK, I don't really watch those anymore--and yes, I'm looking at you, Top Gear, as the internal combustion engine of all evil). I still get the basic run of American hi-def channels, including AMC (for MadMen), ABC (for Nashville), and PBS (for Downton Abbey), which are probably more than enough.

Nevertheless, I will miss the international news channels and especially TV5Monde, which aided with my French comprehension and kept me entertained with quirky movies and the occasional Vanessa Paradis sightings.

But I can always go back. I'm sure Verizon FIOS won't hold it against me.

Instead, with my Roku, my subscription to HuluPlus, my subscription to Netflix, and by renting movies and TV programs through Amazon Prime Video, I'm hoping to control my media choices a little better. And I'm hoping to expand my mind a bit--less didactic news programming, more creative film and TV. Or viewed another way--more fun, less drudge. Believe me, I need it right now.

Make no mistake, I'm still frustrated. Our America is such a small country in so many ways. So little perspective, such a tiny window to the world, constantly obscured by fog and soot and gray skies. Or maybe that's just my life in Pittsburgh. Nonetheless, I'm trying to grow where I'm planted--at least until I can no longer take it, rip myself out by my roots, and flee elsewhere, anywhere. Like somewhere that offers BBC World, TV5Monde, RTVE, RAI, and Deutsche Welle TV as part of a standard cable line-up. (Which, I hasten to add, is possible in border towns on the Mexico side of the Rio Grande. But not here.)

* * *

It won't be all soaps, American or international, I promise. I've also watched a movie that I was very eager to see, the South African drama, Beauty (Skoonheid). More about that soon, I hope. Plus I have lined up two Québécois films I've been trying to watch since 2010 or so--J'ai tué ma mère (or in English, Heartbeats, a lame retitling of a film whose title translates literally as "I Killed My Mother) and Funkytown, which looks to be French Canada's answer to Studio 54, Thank God It's Friday, and The Last Days of Disco, laissant les bons temps rouler into one. I have some Fassbinder films lined up, as well as some Italian neo-realism, and a few UK sitcoms.

Well-rounded. Which might also describe my butt if I spend the next few months doing nothing by watching TV.

Popcorn anyone?

Fifty Shades of Green

Anne of Green Gables gets made-over.

Into Traci Lords, ferchrissakes.

Read all about it on the CBC website.

Spice up your life!

And why the heck not? A more modern interpretation of Marcos Valle's "Os Grilos (Crickets Sing for Anamaria)," this one by once-and-former Spice Girl Emma Bunton.

Scoff if you must, but I really enjoy this version, which is musically very faithful to the song and yet makes it modern and accessible. It's pop, yes, but very sophisticated pop, something Miss Bunton has made a strong, if somewhat sporadic, effort at over the years. Check out this, which, in my estimation, is nothing short of a pop brilliance.

Great rendition, goofy fun video. My favorite comment on YouTube is the snark about the male companion in the video looking and acting like "every bartender in Benidorm." Ah, well. I'd export myself to the Costa Brava for some hombros and hombres like that if I could afford to do so.

Nevertheless, no comments about the most unsettling image from this video. See 2:15. The "brother" is caught stroking his cock!

*Crickets*

Crickets sing for Anamaria . . . but not for Montag 'cause it's too damn cold out

This is I believe the original version of "Os Grilos," or better known as "Crickets Sing for Anamaria," an instrumental samba from the mid-60s by Brazilian music maestro, Marcos Valle.

Long sentence--but there's a lot to be said. Especially the fact that I adore this song. So summery, so seductive, so deceptively simple. What a brilliant little composition, equal parts classical and rhythmic, European and African. And thus all Brazil.

I'd give just about anything to be able to create an artwork like this.

There are apparently multiple versions of this song by Sr. Valle and others. Truth be told, I actually think the Walter Wanderley Trio's version from 1967 was the first. You can find that here.

So far, I've tracked down Marcos Valle's first instrumental version, first English-language version, first Portuguese-language version, and at least a couple of modern interpretations by him and others. There will be more to come I'm sure. I even feel a mix coming on. After all, it is "Semana do Brasil" in the cold wasteland that is Western Pennsylvania.

Everybody lambada!

It's "Brazil Week" (or if you prefer, "Semana do Brasil") in Favela Montag. I'll do anything to get over the cold and the snow this winter.

We're 10 inches above normal (and not in any way that would be fun) in snowfall so far, although I've seen worse winters here, even ones that weren't dubbed "Snowmageddon," which occurred a couple years back. Still, it's snow. It's ice. It's cold. And my sitting two hours under an air vent in a class on snow-shoeing will not make me warm to the idea of winter. Nope. Pretty much over it. Very much ready to move on. San Francisco, you've got me. Hell, St. Pete, you've got me. Not choosy at this point.

But until my slow boat to China Beach comes in view, I'm going to think samba and bossa nova and anything else that puts me in a better frame and allows me to continue to practice cognitive "disco-nance."

So here's the first part of many: Brazilian composer and performer Marcos Valle singing an updated version of one of his classics, "Samba do Verão" or "Summer Samba," also known in English by the title "So Nice," because yeah, a summer samba would be so nice right about now--and truth be told, I don't like summer much better than I do winter. Desperate times, desperate measures, however.



Funnily enough, this week there was an article on the NPR website about Marcos Valle and his musical legacy. I admit to not knowing who he was right off but, instead, knowing several of his songs, including "Samba do Verão" and "Os Grilos (Crickets Sing for Anamaria)." But no matter, we're connected now.

Now to cheapen the moment: I seem to have a thing for Latin men with blond hair. That cool Teutonic Bauhaus and Mercedes precision of decades gone by mixed with the earthy jungle-toned riot of the New World Order.

See? I told you it would be cheap. And did I mention stupid and offensive? Oh well. Consider them bonuses.

Generally, I loathe it when people (OK, specifically, gay men) go off about how hot some guy is or how Muscle Mary of the Formidable Form is just his type. Sweetie darling, *everybody's* your type. But I do have a point in mentioning this, albeit a cryptic one. It's not about lust. It's about loss.

I can remember one of my earliest crushes, as a 17-year-old in college before I came out to myself let alone the world: This blond Ecuadorian exchange student, who was about the loveliest, most clueless (or not) man I'd seen up to that point. He is probably now back in Quito or Guayaquil with a family of five (three with his wife, two with his mistress) and is none-the-wiser about my unrequited love. And me, I'm in Pittsburgh, getting over the flu and the death of a sweet little dream I had for a brief while.

History has a way of repeating like a fish oil capsule. Let's just say I have realized this little Blond Icon-venus Truth far too late in life after making a fool of myself too many times at home and abroad. But especially in the here and now at home. Which impels me to go abroad, even if just in my mind.

Because, suddenly, this continent doesn't feel big enough for the both of us.

Chicken matzo ball soup for the soul

About the only thing worth having the flu for--an excuse to go to Smallman Street Deli in Squirrel Hill and bring home a quart of chicken matzo ball soup.

Delish'.