The royal family

And they'll never be royals - "ClintonSenate"
by Unknown. Licensed under Public domain via
Wikimedia Commons.

Over the weekend, Chelsea Clinton, daughter of Bill and Hilary Rodham Clinton, gave birth to her first child. Despite the fact that this is something women do every day in every country on the planet, in far less plush surroundings with far less access to healthcare, it has taken the American news media by semi-storm.

Well, why not? There's nothing else much going on the world these days. *Cough* Ebola *cough* the Middle East *cough* oligarchy.

As part of the media cavalcade, CBS News referred to the Clintons as "American political royalty." Which is all true, of course.

It's just that they're more akin to the Grimaldis of Monaco rather than the Windsors of the United Kingdom. Although similarities to the Windsors in the '80s and '90s--Fergie having her toes sucked, Diana's affairs, Prince Charles covered in a blanket hiding in the back of a station wagon--wouldn't be amiss either.

Oh, but why cast aspersions on such a happy occasion. I'm sure no one will use this life event to their advantage . . . .

So congratulations, Grandpa Bill and Grandma Hilary! Can't wait for the photo ops on the non-campaign trail, Hil. And Bill, I'm sure you ordered your "World's Sexiest Grandpa" t-shirt during Chelsea's first trimester, so you're doing fine.

Business as usual for the both of you.

The veld-vet underground

I'm always the last to know. In this case that Die Antwoord released a new album earlier this summer, along with two singles over the last year.

Not that I can begin to explain "Cookie Thumper" without flushing red in embarrassment (nor without vomiting a little in my mouth for that matter). And yet it is yet another intriguing, dystopian video and hypnotic, addictive tune by a South African rap-(early '90s) techno hybrid that apparently is fronted by Hellraiser in a Speedo and that little girl from Poltergeist, all grown up, overly sexed up, with a hairstyle that only Pikachu could love.

Alternate group name suggestion: FouUnlimited.

I understand that there's been a lot of discussion surrounding Die Antwoord as an art project. Ninja (Hellraiser himself) has said that

People are unconscious, and you have to use your art as a shock machine to wake them up. Some people are too far gone. They'll just keep asking, "Is it real? Is it real?" That's dwanky. That's a word we have in South Africa, "dwanky." It's like lame. "Is it real?" You have to be futuristic and carry on. You gotta be a good guide to help people get away from dull experience. (David Marchese, "Die Antwoord's Totally Insane Words of Wisdom." Spin, February 7, 2012.)

I admit I'm semi-unconscious most days and have come to accept the fact that I have to be that way in order to survive the day-to-day of the real world. And yet I do admire Die Antwoord's brilliance. But it is a brilliance I'm fine with listening to from a distance and watching from even farther away.

Plus I'm old and wish they'd stop saying "fokken" every three seconds. That's what I do, not my art.

Almost simultaneous to discovering new music from Die Antwoord, I just checked out a copy of Agaat from my local library, Agaat being the latest work (I've discovered) by South African writer Marlene Van Niekerk, she of Triomf fame. Here's a description of the plot of Agaat from the back cover of the book:

In the waning days of South African apartheid, Milla, a sixty-seven-year-old white woman, is condemned to silence by a creeping paralysis. As she struggles to communicate with her maidservant turned caretaker, Agaat, the complicated history of their relationship is revealed . . . . With sadistic precision and yet infinite tenderness, Agaat performs her duties, balancing anger with loyalty.

So it's a light read.

If this is what I'm listening to, reading, and watching in September, I should be a right jolly ol' zef by the time Christmas rolls around.

Alpha, omega, Santa Barbara

. . . Maman raffolait des séries américaines de la télévision et rien ni personne n'aurait pu lui faire sauter un seul épisode de Santa Barbara.

--Anne Wiazemsky

Hymnes à l'amour

 How it all began . . .



. . . And how it all came to an end.



Santa Barbara really started out grand, improved over time, and then somehow along the way lost its footing. Kim Zimmer as a neo-Marcy Walker/Eden Capwell? I think not. No more Cruz. Lionel with Gina rather than Augusta. Gordon Thomson as Mason. Warren and B.J. as a couple. For realz?

At least there was Jed Allen and Judith McConnell, Nancy Lee Grahn, and, although not an original cast member, Jack Wagner as Warren Lockridge--inspired casting, that.

I've seen some argue that the last head writer, Pamela K. Long, "ruined" Santa Barbara. I don't think that was the case at all, although one could argue her talents were better suited to more traditional soaps like Texas and Guidling Light. I think she tried to save it, as did its creators, Bridget and Jerome Dobson. From what I can gather, NBC ruined it--or rather, never got the show in the first place, even though millions of us in the U.S. and around the world did. They fought with the Dobsons, they fought with New World Television, they under-promoted it, and they or New World locked out the Dobsons and put in more standard soap writers and producers who never understood the show's ethos.

Oh sure, Santa Barbara always struggled in the ratings compared to other shows. Its humor was arch and often topical, its characters complex and intelligent, its storylines sometimes outrageous and provocative. Yet, while still soapy, it handled itself with more style and finesse than most of the American soaps did previously and even hereafter.

I'll always love Santa Barbara for what it did originally and did best--its sense of place (California glamor in the '80s); its bold, classic storytelling (working-class hero Joe Perkins and saintly Mary Duvall against the elegance and cruelty of the entitled Capwells); its heart and soul (Mason as Hamlet, Cruz and Eden's love-conquers-all across class and color lines, Mary and Mason); and its humor (Gina and Keith Timmons, Gina and Mason, Mason and Julia, Sonny Sprocket, and so much more).

More than 20 years later, I still feel sad over the demise of Santa Barbara. It's that same sense of loss you feel as you get older, as the world changes, loved ones die or disappear, and you're not sure what, if anything, will replace them. I find that I yearn for Santa Barbara, much as I yearn for my youth, for possibility, for a lover, for the past looking toward an unknown yet exciting future.

I understand that it had to go. Nothing lasts forever, and it had become a flimsy shell of its former self. But oh, when it was on and when it was "on" . . . those were indeed the days of my life.

Struth!

Still sheer pop brilliance, 19 years after its release. It may have only made it into the top 15 on the UK charts, but note the singalong! Clearly, this song still resonates with Nick Cave and (long-time) Kylie Minogue fans.

I read where La Minogue said that after celebrating her "K25" anniversary year and recording "classical" covers of her hits with the London Symphony Orchestra, she had a sort of epiphany about her career. Soon afterwards, she changed her management to Roc Nation and eventually released Kiss Me Once, executive-produced by her and current pop magician Sia Fuller.

Which is not a bad album at all, although it can feel a bit disjointed at times. (Is it pop? Is it dance? Is it alternative? Pick one or two please.) There is the anthemic "Into the Blue" and the moody, subliminally powerful, "I Was Gonna Cancel." There is the emotive "If Only" and the funky, silly "Sexy Love" (which should have been a single). And then there is the turd-in-the-pop-punchbowl that is "Sexercize." And maybe "Beautiful" (a duet with Enrique Iglesias).

All this is to say that I still love you, Kylie, and I think you can still produce pop pixie dust and glow glitter.

Nonetheless, I still wish you'd, ahem, "step back in time" to the heady days of "Where the Wild Roses Grow" and Impossible Princess. You were creating small, precious jewels then--emeralds, rubies, and sapphires for the pop elite, not rhinestones and sequins for the masses.

True, the market for those jewels was paltry at best. No spend-half-your-monthly-income on this. More like "for mere pennies a day." Simply stated, you got the press and the prestige, but your records didn't sell like they should have. Although why your fans couldn't appreciate this or this or this, I'll never fully grasp.

But do the hits need to keep on comin' at this point in your career? You have squillions of dollars, can fill concert halls, work with some pop heavyweights and up-and-comers, and have some artistic credibility, at the very least for reinvention, persistence, and longevity. You may not hit the chart heights like you used to, but all the more reason to step away from the dancefloor and hang out in the after-hours lounge, crooning and trilling songs that, if not quite serious and deep, are at least poignant and lovely.

I know, I know: Nobody asked me, least of all you, dearest Kylie, and it's not like I can figure out how to succeed in my own career, let alone map out yours. But why the heck not? What have you possibly got to lose at this point in time, life, and career?

Other than the megabucks deal with Roc Nation, the homegoods line, the sell-outs at stadia, the mainstream magazine covers . . . .

Straitjackets are a girl's best friend

Possibly the gayest--and therefore, greatest--video ever created, the "Joan Crawford Megamix."

The hair, the eyebrows, the hoofing, the slapping. So much to savor. So much to emulate.

And yet, alas, not perfect.

Why oh why in the scene featured at 4:50 did she just not go ahead and headbutt that guy?

You disappoint me, Joan. But please don't hurt me for saying so.

Devil with the blue polka-dot dress on

After sharing via Facebook my vivid dream involving cast members from the '80s soap Santa Barbara, one of my friends pointed out something that I had completely missed: That vivacious heroine Eden Capwell Castillo (played by the great Marcy Walker) and doll-faced Mrs. Beasley (late of the '60s show Family Affair) were perhaps separated at birth.

Or at the very least doppelgangers operating in different spheres and times, only discovered through the magic that is summer daytime reruns.

The resemblance is uncanny, I'll grant you that.

Nevertheless, Mrs. Beasley may have worn it first--two decades before in fact--but Eden Capwell wore it best.


Plus Eden had big hair and Cruz Castillo (played by hunky, sensitive spitfire A Martinez) as a love interest while Mrs. Beasley had to put up with being alternately fondled and ignored by Buffy and Jody and no doubt just fondled by Mr. French when nobody was looking.

Simply no contest. Viva Santa Barbara!

Call me Randy Capwell Lockridge Perkins Castillo Andrade Capwell

The higher the hair, the closer to Randy
Newman. Marcy Walker as Eden Capwell.

Last night's very vivid dream: I was hanging out with cast members from the late, great '80s soap, Santa Barbara--specifically, Marcy Walker (Eden Capwell) and Carrington Garland (Kelly Capwell no. 3). I noticed that they were speaking English but with different accents, i.e., not American ones.

I asked why.

"Oh, didn't you know?" said Eden/Marcy. "They dub our dialog with different accents to appeal to international audiences. We have British accents when we're shown in Britain, Australian accents in Australia, etc."

She demonstrated. "This is how I sound in Australia: 'Struth!'" she exclaimed in a very Aussie voice, but then the rest of the conversation was spoken in an accent of undetermined origin, maybe Japanese or Eastern European.

"So who dubs my voice?" I asked, as I was apparently on TV in international markets as well.

"Randy Newman," reported Kelly/Carrington.

"Randy Newman?! Jesus, couldn't they find anyone else?"

"It works very well," Kelly assured me.

I tried dubbing my own voice in imitation of Randy Newman. "Love?! You don't know the meaning of the word!"

Both Eden and Kelly winced. "That's not Randy Newman. That sounds like Droopy, the cartoon dog."

I practiced and practiced and finally got the accent right but had to sing all my dialog, sounding like a bluesy white crooner imitating a bluesy black crooner.

In other words, I totally nailed Randy Newman's voice.

To Scotland with love

Dearest Scotland,

Really, you voted no to your state of independence?

Who do you think you are, Québec?

I know the currency and banking issues were worrisome (100 kippers = 1 haggi, 100 haggis = 1 nessie, 100 nessies = 1 braveheart), as were the new trading agreements to be worked out.

(Possible headline from the year 2020: "Scotland, Iceland, the Faroe Islands, and the Falkland Islands to form the Sheepen Area.")

But those were wee laddie potholes on the high road to freedom.

Now there's no more champagne for Lulu.

Aye. 'Tis indeed something to scream and shout about.

And yet more Attitude Challenge

Now this is gay. "Liberace Colour Allan Warren"
by Allan Warren (own work). Licensed under
CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons.

Possibly the final installment of the Attitude Challenge: (More) Phrases that I No Longer Want to Hear, Part 2.

A suggestion from my sister, the Journo: "Next let's hear from Senator Lindsey Graham . . . ." Good ol' Lindsey "I do declare I'm gettin' the vapors" Graham.

In a related vein, "That's so gay!" Unless you're talking about talking about a group of rainbow-flag-waving LGBT people singing a rousing rendition of "We Are Family" or about Liberace's rhinestone undergarment collection, I just don't want to hear it.

In summation: Gay = homosexual, OK. Gay = camp, also OK. Gay = stupid, very much not OK.

And more of the same: "We're tired of having homosexuality forced/shoved/crammed down our throats." Hey, have you met my good friend, Dr. Freudian S. Lip?

But let's not be one-sided: "We can get married! We have overcome!" Well, we've got the two grooms or two brides on the top of the wedding cake, but we haven't even begun to deal with ingredients for the cake itself. Get crackin' some eggs and siftin' some flour.

Or even "He's hot!" said my gay men everywhere. Really? That's not much of a matrix for happiness, love, safety, satisfaction, and comfort in a relationship.

Also applicable to gay men: "I was watching Sex and the City, and I think I'm just like Carrie!" No. You're one part Charlotte, two parts Samantha. I'm a Miranda (first name, Carmen). Carrie is either dead or a myth.

"Now that we have a black [fill in the blank], we live in a post-racial society." Ha bloody ha.

"A young black man was killed during an altercation with a police officer today . . . ." See what I mean?

"Newt Gingrich." No way, no how, no where, no time.

"There was another mass shooting in the U.S. today . . . ."

"It's my Second Amendment right to . . . " muster a state militia? Sure. Own an assault weapon and carry it to a shopping mall "for effect"? No.

"Poor people are just lazy. They just need to pick themselves up by their bootstraps. I know one poor person who is now a millionaire!" By the way, bootstraps will not be provided. You'll have to make your own. What, you can't afford the ingredients for bootstraps? Well, try harder!

"Trailer trash." There is nothing wrong or trashy about living in a trailer. I did it myself for the first six years of my life. Sometimes that's the only housing available. Sometimes that's all people can afford. Sometimes it's just a trailer. Hell, half of America's retirees live in trailers in Florida. Try to be less judgy.

"The secret to losing weight is . . . ." Does anyone really know anymore? Could it be a different "secret" for each of us, depending on body type, lifestyle, food preferences, heritage, etc.?

"I'm a librarian" = "I love cats" and/or "I love Star Trek/Star Wars/gaming/Neil Gaiman/books/etc." Not necessarily. My nerdy stuff is probably different to your nerdy stuff. South African soap operas, ABBA, '70s disco, Belgian-made breakfast spreads. And I love cats along as they act like dogs.

"Open access" will set us free/destroy Elsevier/turn water into wine/create cold fusion/etc. It has its role to play, but . . . . let's just say I'm wary of evangelism and fundamentalism of all stripes. And I have to talk about this professional topic every damn day.

"Muslims are [complete negative stereotype]." I happen to know some lovely people who are Muslim, online and in person. Just as I know some wonderful Christians, Jews, Hindus, Buddhists, atheists, agnostics, questioners, non-joiners, pagans, and what have you. No one group represents all the evil or stupidity in the world except in the simplest of minds.

"There is no god. It's all just science." Personally, I have no idea. I don't even think I care. To me, it's all about what you want it to be, what gets you through the day, what adds structure to your life, what helps you to help others, what prevents you from doing harm to others. As long as you don't impose your beliefs on others in a way that causes misery and suffering, you're probably doing OK.

And if it does turn out to be all about science, I am going to be really bored well into eternity. (Assuming there is one.) As it was, I barely got through high school biology and chemistry.

I'm sure I have others, but this should do for now.

For now.

Still more Attitude Challenge

Girl, you know it's not true. "Believe Tour 13, 2012"
by Joe Bielawa; uploaded by MyCanon -
Justin Bieber. Licensed under CC BY 2.0
via Wikimedia Commons.

Phrases that I hope never to hear again, Part 1.

"Our special guest tonight is . . . Adam Levine!" Seriously, dude, are you gonna do ribbon-cuttings at nail salons and gas stations next? P.S. I hate your music.

"He's my soulmate!" Any contestant on The Bachelor. Actually, I think he's his own soulmate, dear.

"Looks like Rihanna and Chris Brown are back together again!" I get the whole moth to the flame thing, but this is more like a moth to the firebombing of Dresden. No, girl. Please, no.

"We need to teach men not to rape."

OK, this one drives me crazy for a couple of reasons. For one thing, I don't remember anyone actually teaching me this; I just kinda knew it from the get-go not to do so.

For another, it makes men sound incredibly stupid.

And finally, if you have to repeat this phrase over and over again, then many men are, in fact, incredibly stupid. Not to mention venal, clueless, cruel, delusional, hateful, ignorant, bullying, lacking in empathy and common decency . . . .

Alright you win: We'll keep repeating this one until everybody gets the message.

"Next up, the Steelers . . ." (Also acceptable, "Next up, the Stillers . . .").

I know I'm on thin ice here (and for some this is a worse offense than the previous comment), but do come the effin' on.

Not every newscast has to mention the Steelers. Not everyone has to react like Pavlov's pooch every time they are mentioned. Not everyone wants to see a couple of sweaty, over-muscled jocks pound each other into the ground (unless it's in a porno, of course--hey, what can I say? I know my audience).

"Buhraaack Obaaahmuh"--as pronounced by U.S. Senator Michele "Glassy-Eyed" Bachmann in her usual Ambien-induced hangover.

"Today John McCain said . . . " absolutely nothing worth reporting on ever, unless he recited his own epitaph just before he croaked it.

"I pay my taxes/I'm a taxpaying citizen/as a taxpayer/whatever." Hey, guess what, most of us are taxpayers, too!--except for the corporations and oligarchs that get away with not paying taxes because they pander to your fear that someone out there is getting one over on you. (Pssst. The ones who are telling you that someone is getting one over on you are the ones who are getting one over on you.)

"Congress went on recess." Enough said.

"Today Justin Bieber was involved in another slapfight with Orlando Bloom." OK, you're right, that one is worth hearing again. And again and again and again.

Another Attitude Challenge

"People sleeping in a train" by Correogsk.
Licensed under CC BY-SAe 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons.

Sleep.

Or the lack thereof.

The fact that I am writing this before 7 am should give you a clue to my feelings about sleep. That noncommittal bastard.

Used to, I could sleep through anything and everything, for hours on end. A car accident happened outside my door? Didn't hear it. A thunderstorm crashed down around me? No problem. Fireworks? Pffft. Try harder. The glow of streetlights nearby? Ha. Hahaha. You amuse me. The dull rumble of a nearby train? You have me intrigued . . . but no.

Nowadays--at least over the last couple of years--it's more the case that practically everything wakes me up in the middle of the night. A creaky floor. The wind. A car engine. A bird. Light pollution. The temperature being above 72 F degrees in my bedroom. A ceiling fan. A partner turning over. The dull rumble of a train anywhere in a 20-mile radius of my consciousness.

Grass growing. A butterfly exhaling. A slightly perturbed dust mite. A gopher with a headache. The formation of a stalactite or a stalagmite in Mammoth Cave. A half-remembered black-and-gold ensemble from Steelers game day. The fact that Nadine's on the Southside makes me think I'm living out some sort of Deer Hunter Mystery Weekend Package nightmare (with Meryl Streep's role now played by Honey Boo Boo's mother). Kim Kardashian's floral dress choice during her pregnancy. Dick Cheney's pacemaker. The Israeli-Palestinian conflict as told through a Punch and Judy show. An unsatisfactorily resolved plotline on Coronation Street. (A year later, I still think the way the Karl and Stella story ended was lame. As was this summer's Nick and Leanne breakup saga.)

And kale. Above all else, kale.

I may be exhausted at 10 or 11, I may fight going to bed until 11:30, I may fall asleep with a thud, but chances are I'll be wide awake by 3 am. Or 2:30. Or 4. Or 1:45. Or 4:30. Or in this morning's case, 5:12.

Then I drag through the day, spend most of the afternoon yawning, leave the office, come home, am wide awake, and then do it all over again.

Nothing much seems to help. Melatonin. Less caffeine (for realz, even though I do consider it a basic food group). No local news (and thus limited contact with home invasions, car chases, and the Steelers latest ingrown hair crisis). Reading. Putting down my phone (which I'm still struggling with, admittedly). Alone time (ahem). Keeping the room temperature at 68 F or lower. WD40 for the ceiling fan. Earplugs. An eyemask. The fear that I will be found in bed wearing earplugs and an eyemask with a can of WD40 nearby. A bath before bedtime. Subscriptions to the non-Pittsburgh editions of Bon Appetit and Architectural Digest. Perusing the Amateur's Guide to Demonic Possession and Exorcism: Vice Presidential Edition. Some quickly dashed off clothing designs sent to Kim and Kanye (the MuMu and flats can be your temporary friends, Kimmy). Reading the Coronation Street spoilers. A fiery letter of complaint and an express-delivered Molotov cocktail to the Kale Marketing Association of America.

I suspect this is just one of those "you're getting older" things and, trust me, even for the chance of better sleep, I really don't want to relive, Groundhog Day style, the last 52 years--with the possible exceptions of having danced more in the clubs in my heyday, learned to grow hair in a petri dish, actually taken that radio production course, moved out of the country for a few years when the opportunities presented themselves, and laid off the Nutella a bit, saving myself for my one true love, Speculoos, instead.

But, golly, I feel like if I've made it this far in life, I should be rewarded with more sleep, not less.
Get your act together, universe. But don't wake me when you do.

Something more to Yelle about

More Yelle! Getting ready for their new album on September 30th, which I've already pre-ordered.

This is promo video created for their 2011 Safari Disco Club tour, done in a style vaguely reminiscent of a TV5 Monde/France24 weather forecast.

OK, so we Americans are seen as sort of tacky-crazy, busy stuffing our faces with rich foods . . . or maybe we just know our pleasures and go for them without worrying what anyone else thinks.

But then there's the tribute to poor Sweden--putting together a Lack table in its honor.

Not sure I fully got the Danish, Norwegian, or Chilean references. The German one is a little creepy--but in a Cabinet of Doctor Caligari/Nosferatu kind of way.

In a word, formidable! We should all be this clever when promo-ing our own work.

Looks like for Tour 2014, Yelle is appearing just up the road in Cleveland. (Not Pittsburgh, naturellement.) I smell road trip . . . .

The Attitude Challenge

Obviously what's needed is a sign. "StopShopCarriageReturn."
Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons.

Recently on Facebook--as only Facebook can do--there's been a "Gratitude Challenge" making the rounds: For five days, list three things that you're grateful for.

I like the idea, but it did get a bit overdone after a while. Still, I am hopeful that someone someday will challenge me to express my gratitude over a few things. And believe it or not, despite all the whingeing and whining I do, I am thankful for many people, places, things, events, and moments in my life.

Except for Pittsburgh. Pittsburgh is definitely not something I feel gratitude toward. Instead, I feel an immense amount of attitude toward it.

And thus was born, the Attitude Challenge.

What are the rules? Feh, rules. Rules are for squares! Rules are the hobgobblins of bureaucracy (actual quote from a person I dealt with in Washington, D.C., once, circa 1985). Just issue forth attitude as long as you can stand yourself or until everyone tells you to STHU (Seriously, Think [about a] Happy Unicorn).

Day 1: Attitude Challenge--Pittsburgh (what else?).

Specifically, the inability of anyone in the SMSA (other than yours truly) to return a grocery cart (or buggy, if you insist to speak in Pittsburghese) to the grocery cart "corral" in the parking lot of any grocery store anywhere at any time and to line up said grocery cart in an orderly fashion.

Look--one fits inside another! It's like a Russian nesting doll with wheels!

I mean, come on, this is common practice in most places, isn't it? Even in other parts of Pennsylvania. But not Pittsburgh. I don't know why the local population is incapable of this simple skill.

. . . Although I suspect it's less about capability and more about "I can't be arsed to care" that all the carts are piled up in a jumble and some poor bagboy who barely earns minimum wage has to clean up the mess.

Look 'burghers, learning this simple behavior is not establishment or management vs. union, nor is it exhausting, nor is it (too) anal-retentive, nor does it go against what the old Pope said (but not the new one) or whatever you think is wrong with it. It's just common courtesy and common sense.

Oh. And there's the reason right there, why this doesn't, nay can't, happen in the Steel City.

Against all odds, let me try some logic, regardless: Fewer carts piled up mean more carts in the store. Fewer loose carts in the parking lot mean more spaces and less chance of accidents. (But we rank worst for accidents for a city our size, so I know you don't give a toss about that.) Fewer problems with carts in the parking mean that more bagboys can actually bag your groceries (let's pretend at least) and that you can get home in time to put on your black-and-gold track suit to sit in your trusty Lazy Boy in front of your 90" TV to watch yet another "Stillers" game.

Capiche?

You're welcome.

Stay tuned for more attitude . . .

Something to Yelle about

Nouvelle musique de Yelle. Et c'est trés, trés bonne!