Exposed

So this is me--or was me when I was maybe 8, maybe 9. In 1969 or 1970 I think. In my homemade sports coat. With a full head of medium brown hair with natural highlights. Blue-green eyes, pale skin, and an angular face. I was effin' adorable if I do say so. Those were the days.

Like I've said before, it's been one heckuva ride since late 2010 or so. I have survived, maybe even thrived at times. I have also cried and sometimes wished I could curl up and die. Yep, I essentially became a country song: "Dreams of the Everyday Housewife," "Take This Job and Shove It," "Your Cheatin' Heart." "Sleeping Single in a Double Bed." "Crazy." But thank goodness not "Red Solo Cup."

I don't know if I'm ready to tell all just yet, although it does need to come out one way or another, in therapy, with friends, or here. But today I hope to start saying more, sharing more, showing more, and maybe even allowing myself to feel more. Hopefully I'll do the latter in a way that's constructive to me, not in the way it often happens, making me more timid, shy, and reserved than I truly am or want to be.

And hopefully it won't be too boring for you, dear reader.

Assuming there are dear readers out there. I see page views. I look at the stats and search terms used. I know you're out there. A lot of you are into Ivan Watson, Laurent Debesse, Gregory Fitoussi, and even Esta TerBlanche. And a lot of you are, interestingly, in Russia.

Which leads me to fear that my posts are the punchlines on Late Night with Boris Badanov or The Tonight Show with Lyubova Lenina. But the comments are so rare and so few, albeit positive. I have only a few followers that I know of. I keep talking, and I keep wondering if anyone is reading, thinking, laughing, understanding, or feeling anything at all.

That's how I started out in this venue at least, talking. I've kept a journal off and on for years, but not long after I moved to Pennsylvania, I decided to move it online, during the mid-2000s blog craze. I have years with of posts online, in this blog and another. Nevertheless, over the last few years, it's been more the case that I talk and write little and mean even less--and the meaning of that meaning is that I'm mean with my meaning, meaning I'm stingy with and shy about what I say and share. I give you mixtapes, podcasts, playlists, snarky humor, rarely known celebrities, and nature photos, but not much else. But then you don't give me much either, dear reader. And I kinda wish you would.

Times have changed. Reading has moved on from long form to short form and then on to nano form. From essay to blog to Facebook post to 140-character tweet to no words at all via Pinterest and Tumblr.

And yet I keep talking and writing. It's what I know how to do. While I don't know who is reading and understanding, I have to keep doing it, for my own sake, to state who I am and share what I can in the hopes that it will make me more understandable and feel better understood.

Who knows? Maybe reading and writing in long form will become retro chic one day? Like vinyl. Like "mid-century" furniture. Like Steampunk but without the ridiculousness.

But maybe to get more--readers, understanding from others, understanding myself--I have to give more. There's a thought, an obvious one, but one that's been a long time coming. Over the last decade--corresponding to my time in Pennsylvania, wouldn't you know--I've just felt that the more I've given, the less I've received. It's either been unwanted, ignored, or thrown back in my face with a stinging critique, a could-try-harder shoulder shrug or a how-stupid-are-you glare. Whether that's really what has happened or I've just been ultra-sensitive--being an aging stranger in a strange land, as it were--I could not say. Regardless, the result has been that I've given less and received even more of less. Almost to the point in early 2013 where I gave next to nothing and again, received the most of less, the least.

But in May 2013, things changed for the better. I met a great guy, and we have fallen in love. A year-and-a-half later we're still together and thinking about spending more time, maybe even the time of our lives, together.

As I said, the point of this point, this post, is to share more. But not just with you, dear reader, but with my dear, my love, my guy, my beau, my Cairo. Today marks the day that I'm going to share in a big way--not just with you but with him, this blog and all my thoughts, interests, and obsessions, profound, petty, and persnickety. It's time, it's past time, to pass on this pastime. I hope he'll enjoy what he reads and learns, should he choose to read. I hope you will, too.

This shouldn't feel like such a big deal, sharing myself with the world. It would seem that I do it every day, not just here in these digital pages, but with friends, family, colleagues, and the boyfriend. Nevertheless, like I said, I've become stingy, careful, cautious, reserved, wary, or perhaps just afraid. Of what, of whom is hard to say, at least in one perfectly constructed paragraph. Thus, I'll try to take more time to explain myself than I've done "of late," since this blog began more than three years ago.

So here's a slow, careful tiptoe toward the cool end of the pool. Backstroke, float, crawl, over and under, dog paddle. Whatever, however. Let's dive in together.

Smells like young adult spirit

Smells Like Young Adult Spirit by Montagsonfire on Mixcloud

It's always nice to have a day off and to spend it at home, doing those things you've been meaning to take care of for ages. Sleeping in. Doctors appointments. Napping. Gym. Resting. And podcasting.

Or maybe that's just me.

"Smells like Young Adult Spirit" is my latest upload to MixCloud, my preferred venue for mixtapes and podcasts. While it's copyright-conscious, it's not copyright-with-a-vengeance, meaning I can upload mixtapes and podcasts under my interpretation of fair use and feel reasonably relaxed in doing so. At least until further notice.

Obviously this isn't a new podcast; I recorded it a few years ago, in fact. After all, it was the 20th anniversary of the release of Nirvana's "Smells like Teen Spirit" in 2011, not 2014.

Nevertheless, over the last couple of years, I have discovered some new covers of "Smells like Teen Spirit" and have wanted to update the podcast for some time. And today was that day. I added two songs, wrote some new chapters for my script, recorded it on the fly (admittedly, I sound a little creaky in places, but the goal today was just to get it done), converted it into an mp3, uploaded it to MixCloud, and then "timestamped" the sucker, listing the tracks, artists, and timings.

My total effort clocked up to about 3 hours--and that's just today's work. If I included my original research, writing, and recording, I'm sure the total hours involved would be 10. Maybe even 15 or more. And that's 15 hours to produce a 1-hour podcast.

Needless to say, I don't do this every day. In fact, I don't think I've done a new podcast since 2012 or so, when things just got too . . . whatever they got. Not that you would necessarily know it from these digital pages, but it's been a rockin' and rollin' couple of years, some good, some not so good.

However, I still find the time to make mixes and mixtapes. I spent even more hours this past winter, spring, and summer on what became "Cruel Summer Mix - 77 Gaza Strip Edition." I made two mixtapes for my Mom and sis, for their annual journey from Kansas City to Santa Fe. (I'll post the track listings soon.) I even found time to make two mixtapes for my friend Psyche--impromptu homages to our mutual television obsession, Mad Men. (See what I mean when I tell you about how last night I dreamt that Don Draper loved me.)

So not dead yet, creatively speaking. Not dead at all, mentally, physically, emotionally, or spiritually either. Although there are days . . . .

I keep the emotional and spiritual too often just to myself. I keep saying that will change, and change it should. Baby steps. Putting my voice out there, my musical predilections, that's challenging enough some days. Nevertheless, now it may be time to challenge myself a little more, to share more of what makes me tick, not just what makes me talk.

So stay tuned . . . .

Johnny Rotten Rhododendron

"Iggy Azalea April 2014 (cropped)" by
Matt Klopot. Licensed under GNU Free
Documentation License via Wikimedia Commons

I feel like Ariana Grande and Iggy Azalea used a Pop Star Random Name Generator to come up with their stage monikers. 

First name--either a character from a soap opera or an aging punk rocker. Last name--either a Spanish adjective or a flowering plant. 

Thus, I hereby dub myself Stiv Hydrangea . . . or maybe Luke-and-Laura Perezoso.

Exterminate!

On the next episode of Doctor Who, the Doctor finally regenerates in female form as an African high priestess.

Meanwhile, in a vain attempt to appear more happenin', the Daleks don gold lamé Members Only jackets, then borrow some old robes from an Enigma video shoot to change up their winter wardrobe.

Just add Ecstasy. And patchouli-wearing, techno-loving Hippies.

* * *

I kid, but "L.S.I. (Love Sex Intelligence)" is one of my favorite songs from the '90s and I'd even say in my Top 25 for all-time pop favorites.

But the video, not so much.

Like me, the video has not aged nearly as well as the Doctor. But then I don't get a new body and face every time my contract runs out.

The video is definitely a product of its era--rave culture, which I only briefly experienced in my early 30s, way too late for it to have any effect. I already felt too old in my 20s; by the time rave got going, I was positively ancient.

Ancients of Mu. Heh.

Was this the beginning of Cool Britannia? Perhaps. After the synergy of the 1980s, I do think this is the point at which British and American pop culture began to diverge radically, at least for a period of time. First rave, techno, Madchester, and drum and bass; then Oasis, Blur, Suede, Lush, and all those other one-word bands. I don't know if they would qualify as shoe-gazers, but the era does seem full of navel-gazing.

But then, that's the experience of a then-30something American, who was living in Texas at the point, one who was well placed outside of the Gulf Stream of pop culture, one who had a better handle on what was happening in the states (Mexican and American) that bordered the Gulf of Mexico than he did on the sound of a bright cool Britain.

Would I do it differently? Should I have stayed in the mainstream rather than a backwater? I don't know. Sometimes I feel as though I missed out on something, excising myself from Washington, D.C. (a backwater in its own way, at least as far as happenin' international pop culture is concerned), at the beginning of the '90s.

However, I'm not sure I missed out on enough to make me truly regretful--other than for my lost youth in general.

* * *

Feh, regrets, I've had a few, but I've done it mostly my way so far. And yet, there has been this nagging question throughout my life: Canoe on the bayou or kayak on the raging river? April shower or eye of the hurricane? Champagne bubbles or supernova? Manhattan, Kansas, or Manhattan, New York City?

This feeling got to me again on a recent trip to Toronto, in which our hero, unable to find suitable parking at any West End TTC subway station, attempted to drive via Dundas, Bloor, and a number of wrong turns into the artificial heart of Hogtown. Mission accomplished, physically and vehicularly unscathed but psychologically frazzled, a situation made no better by the sky-high parking rates, humidity, and sensory overload of Buskerfest. (Not an intentional destination, I can assure you.)

I realize at moments like this that I'm not Kingston--a place visited in the spring for a job interview--but I'm not necessarily Toronto either. If anything, I'm more Montreal, a large city in which I feel extraordinarily comfortable--serene, sophisticated, soul-nourished, stimulated, safe, satisfied.

Which is problematic when the man you love lives in the TO suburbs and is unlikely to shift from that spot anytime soon.

This is also problematic because I haven't had a clue on what to do next for a couple of years now, and I don't have the stomach for more of the same. No plan, no direction, no emphasis, no ideas of any permanence.

You could say I'm living more in the moment than I ever have. But you might also say I'm rudderless, listing, unable to see beyond the end of my small craft. The world looks flat from this vantage. I could fall off the edge at any moment.

Forget the peace at last vs. blitzkrieg bop metaphors. This is more rock-meets-hard place, a spot that is hardly comfortable but all too familiar.

Whinnying and whining, or, a horse is a horse (of course)

"Maestoso Basowizza & Oberbereiter Hausberger"
by Machoxx - Licensed under CC BY-SA
3.0-2.5-2.0-1.0 via Wikimedia Common

A horse is a horse, of course, of course,
And this one'll talk 'til his voice is hoarse.
You never heard of a talking horse?

Well listen to this. I am Mister Ed.

--Mr. Ed theme song (Source: http://www.lyricsondemand.com/tvthemes/mredlyrics.html)

Sometimes I think I'm a Lippizaner. At other times I realize that I'm just a Belgian Heavy Draft--or, worse, an old nag, a worn-out old workhorse.

Last week I managed to feel mostly like the latter. I don't want to get too specific--and, in general, I don't in this blog, which is kind of a drag for both you, the reader, and me, the writer. But let's explain a bit anyway.

I realized early in the week that I was probably passed over for a promotion--or at least a new focus--because I was denied an opportunity earlier in the year. Big Daddy said yes, but Brick said no. The two people who were allowed to do so were assigned to a new initiative that has a direct relationship to that opportunity and, in part, the work I do.

Also last week, I was passed over for a position for a state organization in my profession of choice because--well, who knows? I don't know exactly why. I haven't schmoozed the right people enough? I'm not employed at a rival institution in the "centre" part of the Commonwealth? I work in the independent fiefdom of West of the Alleghenies? Believe me, Pittsburgh is a land unto itself, in Pennsylvania as well as in human consciousness.

I may have done myself in on this one. I edit a journal sponsored by the organization. Due to other commitments and in an effort to give someone else a chance to edit the journal (really, altruism!), I expressed an interest to pull back over the next year but to still keep my hand in. I enjoy the work, I have a lot of expertise in the area, and my continued participation is beneficial to the organization because of other affiliations I have.

But when the new, untried editor was offered a position as liaison to the organization's board--serving as the main contact between the journal and the board--I became concerned and asked about my status on the board. When I learned that I did not have one--never mind that I have made significant contributions to the journal's contents and success and that my affiliation with the publisher is key to this success--I became angry. After wisely (?) talking it out, and encouraged not to jump to conclusions, I calmed down and followed my co-editor's suggestion: Request that I be made a member-at-large on the board because of my experience and connection with the publisher. Doing so would help them in more ways than one: It would allow me to contribute the organization in other ways, including writing for its blog. And doing so would give me some much-needed credit for my expertise, as well as an official role in the organization.

However, I was told no, I wouldn't be made a member-at-large. I was told that my editorship was valued and that I could continue as long as I wanted to, but that I would not become the liaison to the board. And then I was told that if I wanted to, I could ask to be considered for the liaison position--in two years' time.

Nothing like feeling appreciated for the work you do, the weekends and weeknights spent editing, re-editing, proofing, soliciting articles and peer reviewers, and counseling authors--all for exactly $0.00 per year.

The final bailiwick of hay to go up in flames this week was my not winning an award for "best in show" at my, um, "corral." This award goes to the person in the corral who has contributed the most to "horsemanship" over the last year, i.e., who's made the most significant contribution to my profession. I was nominated, which is lovely and it's always nice to be nominated and we're all winners really . . . but I did not win.

This surprised me, which probably neighs loudly about the state of my unbridled and easily bruised ego these days. I wasn't eligible to be nominated previously--I am a visiting horse, not one with a regular stall in the barn, on contract rather than tenure-track--but I learned later that the eligibility rules had been changed because someone had wanted to nominate me but previously could not.

I lost out to a very good show horse indeed, someone who I think is deserving but someone whose influence is much more specific to our horse farm--and not even within our corral. He does some work in Pittsburgh that is well-regarded, he does a very good job at what he does, and he is well supported by his boss (there's a hint for you), and he is well-liked. Yet I would hardly say he has made significant contributions to the profession, certainly not at the regional or state level or even within the corral itself.

The previous winner was also a worthy horse, but even his influence was strictly local, limited to just our institution. And I nominated him for the award.

So I'm beginning to wonder if I'm knackered if I do, knackered if I don't.

As a colleague told me, "the other horse was tough competition, and you don't have as much of a local profile as he does." Really? But I co-edit a statewide journal, working closely with the authors to improve their works and can copy edit like a mad fiend; was elected president of a regional organization this year; make presentations at the local, state, and even national levels; serve on committees in my organization; am well-regarded by my colleagues (or so I hear); and do my job well, despite being hamstrung by Brick's conflicted interests on a regular basis . . . how am I not considered "tough competition"?

And essentially, the statewide organization is telling me my profile isn't high enough and certainly not likely to get any higher under the current regime, despite editing its journal (and being eligible to "edit it for as long as I want") and being a key presenter at its spring conference.

Admittedly, I've yet to find a real way to break into things at a national level, especially as I'm not high enough in the organization to get my pick of conferences and committees. (Although my work is good enough to be used by Big Daddy at a major national conference last summer and at an international one this year.) And even within our organization, I seem to be more "show" or "place," rather than "win," in the race due to . . . whatever. I'm called upon often, I do the work that needs to be done, I generally do well at it, I am often praised for it by at least my colleagues . . . and yet, I feel like I get very little respect from above and only little opportunities that are not exactly challenging, especially when I've done so much else and so much more over the last 19 years.

A little more whinnying and whining--and if you've made it this far, why not buy a ticket, sit in the orchestra stalls, and hear the whole horse opera?: I was even turned down for a position this year, although on paper I was by far the more qualified candidate (but admittedly lacked the necessary permanent resident status or citizenship to work in the country where the job was located).

So I'm left with this feeling that I'm good but perhaps not good enough. Maybe I'm not as brilliant as I think I am (which, for the record, I don't), or maybe I'm just underselling myself. The director at the place where I failed to get the other job told me I was an "impressive candidate" and encouraged me to apply for several other positions, both there and elsewhere, but at a much higher level.

I am hesitant to do so, mainly because of the nightmare that is personnel management in any organization, something that requires every ounce of diplomacy, skill, and finesse and then only works for about a day before you have to start all over again.

And yet at 19 years of career and 52 years of life, I feel as though I'm punching way below my weight in this current job, having to get permission to do practically everything from a boss who tells you you're doing a great job, then nitpicks over every little thing, then praises you for your initiative, then tells others that you don't take enough initiative.

Again, knackered.

So onward and upward? Time to do some high jumps, chase some steeples, long for some furs? Make myself more taxed in my professional life in order to gain praise, awards, and income? Or just give up the race altogether, put myself out to pasture, and graze in the grass until retirement, a good 13 to 15 years away (if I'm lucky)?

I don't know the answer to all of this, and this has been part of the problem over the last three-and-a-half years. I feel stuck professionally, and I feel stuck geographically.

A horse is a horse off course in my case. Somebody skilled grab the reins, please, to prevent me from continuing to go in circles in the same stupid corral I've been stumbling around for the last three years.

Snort. Whinny. Neigh.

All this mendacity

Thick as (a) Brick - Source: Wikipedia

I have come to think of my workplace as similar in social structure and cultural milieu to the one represented in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof--either play or movie version, all y'all take your pick.

The head of our entity is indeed a Son of the South, one of the Caucasian persuasion and of a class accustomed to leading and ruling based primarily on privilege. While I can talk Southern with the best of them and am as pale as an Osmond's buttocks, I am definitely not a member of the landed class. I'm not denying that I benefit from white privilege--I most certainly do, probably in ways that I don't even realize. However, I don't think I've ever felt entitled to anything. Honestly, I'm too insecure in this world and unsure of myself to be acting out plantation and private academy fantasies. And too damn cynical.

So I like to think of our fearless leader as Big Daddy.

Hey, it's that or Foghorn Leghorn.

My more immediate overseer is obviously Brick, stressed out, unsure of which end of the stick to grab onto, all the while straining to live up to Big Daddy's vision. And BD is all about the vision thing.

And who am I? Maggie the Cat? Mewling, frustrated, repressed, ambitious.

Perhaps, but perhaps I'm more akin to Gooper and Mae, Brother Man and Sister Woman: (And, really, what was Tennessee Williams on when he came up with those nicknames?) More grasping and slightly White Trash when compared to Brick and Maggie.

I am definitely not Big Mama. This much I know. I simply refuse to play a character that old.

Alas, at the end of the day, I suspect I'm more of a "hand," either confined to the house or the field. Repressed, yes, but no matter. I just do what I'm supposed to do: Keep things running with no muss or fuss, nary a whine nor a whimper.

All the while looking for my chance to escape.
 

This bird has flown

"Robin Williams Aviano" by U.S. Air Force photo/
Airman 1st Class Tabitha M. Mans.
Licensed under Public Domain
via Wikimedia Commons.

Normally, I couldn't care less about "celebrity" deaths. However, I'm heartened to see so many post so many wonderful items about Robin Williams, on Facebook, Twitter, in blogs, and on traditional media.

The first time I saw Robin Williams was on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson way back when. I thought he was hilarious, clever, and intelligent. "Brilliantly funny" to use a movie poster cliche.

Oh, and manic. He was definitely always "on." I didn't always appreciate his manic energy--sometimes I just wanted him to sit down and talk to the the show's host, instead of riffing. But then it wouldn't have been Robin Williams.

I wish I could find a clip of one of the jokes I remember him telling on Carson. He was riffing and made a joke about San Francisco, where he lived. (When I lived there briefly in the summer/winter of 1992, I remember someone telling me about seeing him regularly, filling up his own car at the gas station at the corner of Market and Castro.) It went something like this, "You end up in a biker bar where there are these tough, rough, hairy men, all clad in leather, and then one of them walks up to you in a menacing way and says, 'I have this fabulous recipe for quiche!'"

I'm not doing it justice. I think this took place around 1980-83, about the time of my coming out of ye olde closet or soon thereafter. I remember laughing out loud, partially in shock that he had made such an obviously "gay" joke on national TV, partially because I knew he spoke the truth!

I never felt offended by the joke because it wasn't told with malice but, instead, with a knowing irony, joie de vivre, and affection. I think Robin Williams was one of the few comedians of that time (and even today) who could tell a joke about gay people and not have it be mean, unfair, cruel, or insulting. I actually found the joke a relief. I remember feeling, wow, we do exist in the world, people know of us and not everyone thinks we're horrible people. They can celebrate our quirks and campness, rather than focus on what they see as our deficiencies or "perversions."

Compare that with Eddie Murphy's jokes about Michael Jackson and Mister T from around that time, where gay men were always the butt-end punch line (pun sort of intended) of a very smutty joke.

But then Eddie's reportedly always had more to deflect than Robin Williams did.

I also thought Robin Williams was incredibly attractive. Not in a classic, "pretty" way, but in a rugged, masculine way. He must be one of the few Hollywood types that stayed hairy, that didn't feel the need to shave and wax everything in slash-and-burn fashion. I liked his sometimes stocky build, his burly arms, his biggish nose. He looked like a real guy, one who seemed comfortable in his own skin, who could be who he was with no apologies but without rampant braggadaccio either.

So what's the point of all of this? Oh, perhaps I'm riffing as well.

Let's just say that it makes me sad to think of Robin Williams being so depressed when he had made so many of us laugh so much over the years. He certainly brought humor and kindness to my little world, in ways that I bet he couldn't imagine.

I can't imagine the pain he was going through, if he felt the impulse to take  his own life. Having experienced depression myself over the years, even recently, I know what that can be like. Everything on paper looks good; your life seems to be in order and makes sense to everyone--except you. Whether it's your own insecurities and sensitivity, whether it's the casual slings and arrows from those around you, whether it's the confusing, conflicting nature of a world where Robin Williams can exist along side of epidemics, aerial bombings, beheadings, stonings, rape, murder, and people who find their previously unknown relatives after 30 years have passed, it all can be too much sometimes. It makes you question yourself and your illusions; it makes you wonder about the viability of the world around you. It makes you wonder whether it's worth carrying on, even if saying goodbye suddenly would bring so much pain and sadness to those who love you.

It makes you wonder if someone as talented and beloved as Robin Williams can't make it, what hope is there for the rest of us?

Now I feel the need to watch The Birdcage, another good example of his being camp and funny but always with affection. I also want to see a bunch of other movies I missed out on over the years and then watch every episode of The Crazy Ones, his recent TV show for CBS, in which he was, once again, brilliantly funny.

Too bad there aren't many repertory cinemas around these days, where his films could be shown on the fly, in rapid succession, in public. Where the laughter, sadness, and wistfulness could be shared with others, rather than experienced and endured alone.

Last night I dreamt that Don Draper loved me

"Don Draper Wiki" by Promotional Photo. Source: Wikipedia

They're baaaaaack. My odd, more than likely Wellbutrin-induced dreams, that is.

Last night I dreamed that Don Draper left me cooling my heels in an office building lobby while he went up to his office with "an old flame." Some tacky blonde shiksa who worked a perfume counter or ran a flower shop. I can't remember which.

I sat in the lobby for about 10 minutes. It became a lunchroom for office workers, then a "Borscht Belt" neighborhood block party. I figured it was pretty obvious that Don wasn't coming back for me anytime soon. He didn't owe me anything, we weren't a couple. We were "just friends," but there had been some low-grade tension between us, and I had secretly hoped it had been of a sexual nature.

I started to walk home, trying to thread my way through the boisterous neighbors. I ended up walking along the river where I ran into an old friend. We chatted for a few minutes and then he invited me to have a drink with him at a bar downtown. I agreed.

We caught up on each others' news, had a couple of drinks, and I bitched about "this guy in my life" who wouldn't treat me right. I vowed never again would I take his B.S.

The "old friend" invited me back to his place, but I declined. I needed to be alone.

I arrived home and my brother was there, asking me about my evening. I started to explain what had happened, when ol' Don himself rings the doorbell and asks to see me. My brother lets him in and departs. Don says hello. He seems more brooding than normal, then starts asking me questions: Where had I been? Where had I disappeared to? Why? 

When I told him I'd decided not to wait around, had ran into an old friend, yadda yadda yadda, he had the nerve to ask me, "Did you sleep with him?"

I told him that was hardly relevant or any of his concern, given his recent actions and the platonic nature of our relationship.

He then grabbed me, kissed me passionately, and professed his love for me. We then started talking about us and our future together.

And then I woke up. Of course.

Oh, don't worry, I know it won't last. The point is that Don Draper told me he loved me! And I didn't have to sleep with him to make that happen!

The moral of the story? When you're dealing with the Don Drapers of the world, treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen. He fell like a debutante's dress on prom night.

But come to think of it, so did I.

The secondary moral is this: Don't watch a documentary about the Borscht Belt or an interview with Elizabeth Moss right before bedtime when you've got a belly full of fish tacos and lemonade.

You're welcome, world.

Imperfect harmony

Cruel Summer Mix - Jihad Romeo Edition by Montagsonfire on Mixcloud

Cruel, Cruel Summer Mix - Peace Throughout the Land Edition by Montagsonfire on Mixcloud

My latest mixtape (with some DJ mix undertones)--this is quite obviously based on my previous mixtape, My Simple Metallic Heart, but, as the saying goes, nuevo y mejorado.

I've added quite a number of songs, mixed up and down and together, and added in a few sound effects along the way. There's one I may go back to add, but not right now. I've listened, tweaked, toyed, and battled enough already with this mix.

Sometimes I can hear two songs together and everything works out fine. Other times, I hear them together, but they are a complete mismatch in terms of tone, rhythm, and especially beats per minute. You just can't slap together a song that clocks in at 108 BPM with another that winds it up to 160. But you can cut, copy, paste, add sound effects, or leave out transitions altogether to tonally shift gears along the way.

Ultimately, though, I had fun making this mixtape, and I hope you enjoy it, too. It's not perfect, lacking in some ways--a couple of the songs go on way longer than they probably should, for example.

Lyrically, musically, and thematically not everything lines up in order. I didn't even try to, in fact. I want this mixtape to sound fun, to be upbeat. And yet, I want there to be a slight edge, a subtext: Dance away, all, but remember that there are people in the world who cannot because they are busy languishing in refugee camps or avoiding getting bombed or shot in their sleep.

Admittedly, the subtext is hardly "sub." What gave me away? The air raid siren? The gunfire from an AK-47? But at times like this, subtlety can only get you so far.

For once, I won't play it safe--my heart goes out to the people of Gaza. No, I don't think Hamas is "misunderstood" or a force to be reasoned with; they want Israel off the map in the worst way possible. But the Israeli Defence Force's outsized attack on Gaza civilians and Hamas' continued disregard for ceasefires that put its people in the line of deadly fire . . . how can you stand by and not be upset and worried? For the people of Palestine, for the people of Israel, for the world itself.

And I hate that I have to defend my concern for the people of Gaza by declaiming Hamas. It's important to be clear--We should not (and I do not) support or condone terrorism. But we shouldn't support it whether it's being conducted by our allies or our enemies, bands of revolutionaries or government military forces.

Simply stated, if you have the technology, as TV reports show, to pinpoint the bombing of tunnels and specific houses and buildings, then you can avoid the scattershot approach of targeting schools, homes, and hospitals and killing random human beings. Doing the latter, in an official capacity accompanied by uniforms, training, funding, legislation, and spokespersons, is state-sponsored terrorism, pure and simple.

I should be thinking about pools, vacations, time with the significant other, barbecues, gardening, and ways to get out of work early whenever possible. Instead, I come home every night and see our inhumanity writ large in the sky with missiles above Gaza City.

But what can we do? More than a mixtape I would like to think, but it feels like this is the only power I have at the moment. A way to make a statement, one made with feelings instead of words.

A mixtape, like peace, is imperfect and difficult to create and achieve. We do our best and hopefully we get it right more often that we get it wrong.

Peace be upon us all during this cruel, cruel summer.

Pierogibomination

I'd like to claim this is a joke, but no, it cannot be because our little corner of the world has never met something tacky it didn't embrace with both Buffalo chicken wing-greased hands--especially when it comes to worshiping our "Stillers."

If this news item isn't proof that all beauty has died, Western Pennsylvania Division, I know not what additional evidence you require.

One colleague at work deluded himself for a moment tby wondering whether the black pierogies were made from squid ink pasta. Oh, ha. I'd laugh if I weren't crying. Then the gold ones must be made from sunflower petals.

More likely Mrs. T's colored the pasta with runoff from coal mines or leftover asphalt from construction season.

Hard to fathom how one innocuous news report, one goofy product placement, one more White Trash Bed 'n' Breakfast offering could (further) crush my soul, but, alas, it has.

I am really hoping to be delivered from this evil to some place better in the near future.

And by better I don't mean heaven. And if it is indeed heaven, the streets better not be paved with black and gold anything. 'Cause then I'll know I've entered Steeler Heaven and my own personal Hell.