Hair apparent

I'm going really retro tonight--retro Canadian no less--heading to "dahntahn" Pittsburgh to see none other than Gino Vannelli in concert.

And I'm très excited! Gino's one of those quirky performers I have enjoyed over the years. Oh sure, for a not-in-the-know homosexual kid in the 1970s, Gino was sweet-and-salty eye candy. That hair! (Meaning, that chest hair!) The tight trousers. The overall exotic look. The Italian from Montréal singing in English. The seductive kinda pop/kinda jazz song stylings. Pretty heady stuff for a young lad who kept sneaking peaks at the cover of the Storm at Sunup LP at whatever record store I happened to be skulking through.

But the man can sing and write and perform and do all sorts of musical things. The above clip shows him appearing on Soul Train, one of the first non-African American performers to do so. He sounds fantastic--that wonderful vocal range matched with passion and emotion in his voice, and the clever pop-jazz compositions that put him in the ranks (in my mind) of Steely Dan and Pat Metheny. I'm not sure he ever got the credit he deserved, but he's still out there in his early 60s. So he's doing fine.

I didn't dare buy a copy of Storm at Sunup back then. I had a pretty liberal record-buying allowance all things considered and often blew my wad (ahem) on disco and Europop. But for some reason in my mind, a lot of soul music and Gino Vannelli seemed like transgressions too far.

Chalk it up to latent racism and latent homophobia, mine and everyone else's. (And goodness knows, we've all gotten past those, haven't we?) A harsh critique perhaps but one that I think would be fair to say. But why Donna Summer and ABBA albums were OK and Gino Vannelli and Barry White were not is something I'm still figuring out. I think it's all about denial of self, a fear of being teased, a fear of looking foolish and "too" sexual, a worry over masculinity, apprehensions that have followed me into my early 50s.

It gets better, sure, but it's still always kind of there. At least if you're me. But like Gino, I'm still out there. I'm doing fine.

So forget all that--on to Gino! I'm going with my friend the Music Lover and really looking forward to it, despite an incredibly busy week distracting me with other meshugas. It's doubtful that Gino will show up on stage shirtless (my preference) or pantless (the Music Lover's preference). You can't go home again to the 1970s, despite my constant trying to. Nevertheless, it should be a good concert as Gino's still in fine voice (even if I fear he's gone very MOR at this late career stage).

And if I can see Carly Simon and Patsy Gallant in concert some day, then I'll have (almost) blacked out all the spaces on my own personal '70s rock-and-pop hall of fame bingo card.

Alas, the center spot, ABBA, will no doubt always be open.

Buon compleanno, Nutella!

Nutella is having a birthday this weekend. Looking 50 and fabulous, I must say.

Here's a little article from the BBC about Nutella, sort of a "This Is Your Life" take on the chocolate-hazelnut spread's story so far.

Lots of interesting tidbits here. For example, did you know that Nutella is *not* a health food? That while "a 400g jar contain[s] 52 hazelnuts, the equivalent of a glass of skimmed milk, and some cocoa," contents of said jar are 57% sugar and 32% fat--and "about a third of the fat is saturated"?

Well, sorpresa, sorpresa . . .

And here I thought it was about 1% cocoa and 99% methamphetamine.

* * *

Not to slight my other great love, speculoos cookie butter, I was heartened to see that it was no. 2 on the 2013 list of most popular Trader Joe's products. Also good to see another favorite, rosemary marcona almonds, at no. 18.

I am somewhat surprised that speculoos is "only" no. 2, though, and that TJ's triple ginger snaps (of all things) are no. 1.

I mean . . . come on. The speculoos has to be at least 99.9% methamphetamine.

Go, girl!

While I love the song, "I Was Gonna Cancel," the second single from Kylie Minogue's Kiss Me Once album, the video is a bit of a slow-burner for me.

Nonetheless, I'm warming up to it on a chilly day an ocean away from where all the Kylie action is.

I might have done it differently, but I could say that about any number of Kylie career choices. And, yet, 26 years later, she's still going. Sometimes with focus, sometimes haphazardly, sometimes unwisely, sometimes brilliantly (and I would consider "I Was Gonna Cancel" one of her better moments, at least during the Parlophone years).

Not that anyone's asking, but whose idea was it to make Kylie look so beautiful but so unglamorous in jeans and a white shirt? I also would have done some overhead shots to indicate patterns among the moving crowd, which I think would have been in keeping with the spirit of the song and the video. As Kylie posted on her Facebook page:

This video is an abstract look at pedestrian life and how we're all just trying to get through and rise above everyday challenges. Although the song talks about a real life event that happened the day I recorded the song with Pharrell, the video has a more conceptual approach and I love how surreal it looks. I found myself almost directing traffic and it made me think about how we're all just trying to negotiate our way through day to day life.

Nicely stated, Kyles.

Not sure how this single will fair. I like it much better than the lead, but . . . if I read one more quote about it not being a Kylie "classic" or her having no talent, despite the wonderfulness of the song's message and her performance, well, I shall be knocking people over the head with my first edition of Kylie: La La La.

The radical cat agenda

Evil cat menacing an innocent dog
(Courtesy of Birhanb; CC BY-SA)

The only reason I can figure out why the story about the cat rescuing the little boy in California who was being attacked by a dog is such a big deal--one that even the BBC felt it was necessary to carry--is that this is such a rare behavior for cats: Looking after and saving someone other than themselves.

Rescuing people from disaster is something dogs have been doing for centuries, so this is less newsworthy, I'm assuming.

I don't hate cats. Some I actually like. Some can be quite sweet-natured, cuddly even. Cats don't seem to always have an agenda, but maybe they're just more subtle about it.

I've been attacked twice by dogs (badly, scarily), so I don't love all dogs unconditionally by any means. But, overall, I'm admittedly more of a dog person than a cat person. While I fully accept the argument that dogs are sycophants, always trying to play you so that you'll give them food, lots and lots of food, it's my general observation that dogs are more agreeable company, sensitive to your feelings, and helpful to human beings.

When is the last time you saw a rescue cat sniff out a live person among earthquake rubble? I rest my pet carrier case.

Part of my issue with cats is their random nervousness, meanness, and outsized hostility to anyone who enters their physical space. I mean, really, it was just the damned door that slammed. You are not in a horror movie; that was not a serial killer. Jeez. Just lighten up, Whiskers.

Cats remind me of my former boyfriend, Cali, come to think of it. And with him in mind, I'd argue that if I wanted something around the house that shed everywhere, was moody and ill-tempered most of the time, and was fond of licking butts, I'd just as soon have another boyfriend than a cat.

But my real issue with cats is the unabashed cat lover. In modern times, there is an oppressive, inescapable Cult of the Cat, at least in evidence on the internet and social media. It's the whole nerd-geek, "I'm so special, quirky, and different that I'm actually cool!" agenda at work. Memes involving Jean-Luc Picard, bad jokes from George Takei's Facebook page, Harry Potter, Game of Thrones, kale as a viable nutritional source, tea instead of coffee (and herbal tea at that), gaming as some sort of divine ritual, righteous-if-shallow politics, zombies, and above all else, the worshipping of fur-shedding, hand-scratching, butt-licking, baby-smothering cats.

So cuddly--how could you not welcome this into your home?
(Courtesy of Luis Miguel Bugallo Sánchez; CC BY)

No, none of this makes you cool. Not in the least. You're just tedious, boring, and narcissistic. You're the human cultural equivalent of Washington, D.C. A lot of us are tired of your navel-gazing, poor-excuse-for-a-hipster, allegedly clever and sub-ironic behavior and wish you would just go away. To a galaxy far, far away, for example. And take your damn cats with you.

And if you don't feel this way or understand this complaint then . . . maybe it's time to take your cat for a walk.

Good luck with the leash.

Work it on out

Wakey wakey. It's Monday, peeps. Time to find your groove on the trek to work.

Here's mine. Now it's yours.

Benelux-urious dreaming

Tram 25 at the Damrak, Amsterdam
(CC0 - Courtesy of Wikipedia)

I'm somewhere in Amsterdam on a trolley, and I start talking with this young woman from Texas. She looks around and points to the city and asks in her vaguely remembered twang, "Is this your heritage?" I say no. 

Meanwhile young guys keep walking up to flirt with her and one sits in her lap. They look at me. I look at them. They are sexy, but they are not interested in me, specifically. They're just 18 and perpetually turned on by the world. I'm just in their line of sight, their aura, for a brief moment.
 
I turn and I'm now talking with a 30-something Dutch businessman on the same trolley. His hair is a mix of red and blond. He's burly, slightly chubby, and professional-looking in his gray suit. Handsome but in an unassuming way. 

We talk about Brussels. I tell him I think Brussels has the most beautiful public square in the world, and I get a picture in my mind of a morning-bright plaza, crisp and springlike air, and bold-colored flowers everywhere. 

The businessman looks forlornly out the window as we pass a neon-lit bookstore. It's named Loekers or Lookers or something like that. "I was offered a job in Brussels once, but it didn't work out. I was supposed to end up in Brussels," he sighs.

The trolley rolls on. The city passes by. I ask how and where to get off the train. I want to go to Brussels now. I get off the trolley with the Texas girl and the Dutch businessman. It's a sparse, suburban station. There's no one around, even though it's late afternoon, and the station should be full of commuters.

We start to walk through the neighborhood. The houses and buildings are odd and moon colony-like with small, recessed windows and queerly pitched roofs with off-center peaks. The village makes me think of Le Corbusier, and I wonder if he designed it.

And then I wake up.

Maybe I should lay off the Gouda before bedtime.

* * *

My wise sister  had this to say about the dream: 

Your life is in transition (train). You don't want to lose connection with your past (Texas, the girl gets off train with you). You would like to go somewhere exotic and new (Brussels), but the transition is slow and uncertain (walking through sparse neighborhood). Freud's got nothing on me. You're welcome.

Spot-on I'd say. 

More about that transition soon, I hope.

I remember Donna

How did I miss this back in the day that was 1998? Oh yes, I was in Texas.



Or this? Oh yes, I was living in Pennsylvania.



Well, I'm still here (for how much longer, who can say?), but I least found this. A few months late, but nevertheless . . . .

A London spring in Pittsburgh

It's a cool, misty spring in Pittsburgh, rarely above 60F/15C. Rain, light and heavy. Cloudy with sunny spells. Not humid, not hot. This could go on forever, and I think I would be mostly happy.

May 2005. I have London on my mind. July 2012. And Paris, too.

Shaken and stirred

Sean Connery in Marnie, 1964

Yesterday, as I was leaving The Porch, a restaurant in Schenley Plaza in Oakland, a waiter said goodbye to me. Not just any waiter, but The Waiter, this gorgeous, burly, virile man that I've admired from afar for some time now.

He has waited on me before. Always says hello, always fills my water glass. The perfect gentlemanly waiter/stud.

This time was different, though. He held the door for me as I was leaving. He looked at me and smiled and said, "Sean Connery! Goodbye, Sean Connery!"

Now I'm not under any illusions. I'm pretty sure he wasn't thinking of Dr. No or Goldfinger Sean Connery. I suspect he was thinking more of Red October or The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen Sean Connery.

Sean Connery, 1988; photo by Alan Light

On any other day, I might have been a bit depressed by the thought that I look like a graying, bald, 60+ Sean Connery--especially since I'm only 50+.

But you know what? In 1964 or in 1988, there is no bad Sean Connery.

Thank you, handsome waiter. I would have kissed you on the mouth and followed you home if I wasn't already spoken for.