Snow Day

Wherever you may be, whatever the weather is like, however you celebrate (or do not), season's greetings from me to you.

And the winner is . . .

Steve Harvey at a ceremony to receive a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.
By Angela George, 13 May 2013. License: CC BY-SA 3.0 Unported.

How I wish Steve Harvey had announced the winner of the 2000 Bush v. Gore election for the President of the United States.

Just imagine! We would be living in a totally different world right now. I'd like to think we'd be war-free since whenever, that 9/11 never happened, that perhaps Taylor Swift and the Kardashians had never been visited upon us.

Taylor would be teaching pre-school somewhere in Pennsylvania. Kim K. would be an aging stripper down on her luck in Las Vegas.

But I'm a realist at heart.

Bad crap always happens whether you want it to or not. The key is to mitigate it as much as possible--and to not actively add to the crap fiasco you're enduring. Yes, I'm talking to you, the George "Dubya" Bush administration from 2000 to 2008.

Nevertheless, it's lovely to have a dream or two stored away, just in case you ever have the opportunity to vigorously rub a genie's bottle, are granted three wishes, and don't screw up said wishes. Then you can ask for the privilege of traveling back in time to help every Florida man and woman, not to mention the U.S. Supreme Court, make the right call and change history as we know it.

Early bearded hipster trendsetter, Rutherford B. Hayes
Public Domain.

But if that's too far-fetched for you, just ask the genie to let Steve Harvey announce the winner. First, he would say, "Ladies and Generals, I present to you the winner of the 2000 President of the United States pageant, Miss Texas, Georgina Bush!" Then in less time than it takes to look up "emigrating to Canada" on your smartphone, Harvey could say, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I meant Miss Tennessee, Albertina Gore!"

* * *

Another plus to giving Steve Harvey that kind of power--Pornstar mustaches would be cool again, not beards that make every guy look like a young, swagger-delic Rutherford B. Hayes.

Steve Harvey for Time-Traveling Emcee in 2016!

The songs of shortwave, volume 1

The Songs of Shortwave Radio, Volume 1: Out in the Wide World by Montagsonfire on Mixcloud

Author's note: I updated this mixtape on 1 January 2016 (Happy New Year!). This is volume 1; volume 2 is forthcoming--hopefully no later than later this month. Enjoy!

* * *

Happy early holidays--at least if receiving a new mixtape/podcast from me is a fun gift in your mind. I hope it is because it's all I've got for you this year. Perhaps, ahem.

My gift to you is all about me, of course! Ha, well, kinda. It's another in a series of my explorations into my childhood, into what made me tick then and continues to make me tick now, decades later.

I was a huge aficionado of international broadcasting on shortwave radio back in the day, and I still think about buying a new radio--the kind of set, a tabletop or a highly sensitive portable, that I couldn't afford when I was younger. After all, I live in a new part of the globe, and there are no power lines in our neighbo(u)rhood. (Everything's buried so as to prevent snapping during extreme cold and icestorms, and I suspect to soothe suburban aesthetic sensitivities as well.) Just imagine what I might hear again or for the first time from our near neighbors--Iceland! Greenland! Saint Pierre et Miquelon!

Or maybe I would hear from some place completely different--Indonesia, Thailand, Kenya, Cote D'Ivoire--all those places I wanted to tune in so long ago but could never quite pull in on my static-friendly portable in rural North Carolina.

This is not to say that I was a slouch as a DX-er (aka, long-distance listener). I remember staying up until the early hours to hear the opening of the broadcast day in Togo and Cameroon. I remember going to bed listening to Latin rhythms emanating from stations in Brazil, Colombia, and Venezuela--and have the QSL cards to prove it. I remember hearing Iceland, the Philippines, Bangladesh, Tahiti, Tashkent, Morocco, and hundreds of others, near and far.

My favorites? In no particular order--the Voice of Turkey (for the music), Radio Australia, Brussels Calling, Radio France International, Radio Sweden, Radio Exterior de España/Spanish Foreign Radio, Radio Austria International, Deutsche Welle, Radio Nederland, Radio RSA: The Voice of South Africa (I know, I know . . .), and, naturally enough, Radio Canada International.

A European bias perhaps, but these were often the best, most consistently received stations where I lived at the time.

Which came first--My interest in the world outside of where I lived or my enthusiasm for shortwave, which led to an interest in the world elsewhere? I would say the former. I mean, how many kids were in the second grade trying to borrow books on Sweden from their small-town public library? Not many, at least not in North Carolina in the 1960s and '70s. Some days I truly feel for my parents. What a bafflement I must have put them through with the constant arrival of letters and packets of information from the Soviet Union, Germany, Japan, South Africa, and Australia.

I still yearn for those days of uncomplicated childhood, when my only "responsibility" was to listen to shortwave, learn about different cultures and perspectives, write some letters to radio stations (or penpals), and receive mail from all over the world.

Those days are mostly gone, I fear. Who writes letters anymore? I can barely send out Christmas cards. I still listen and watch international broadcasting, but it's all internet-based, whether on my computer, my phone, my Kindle, or my Roku.

Now at least I can hear the content without squelch and static, the jamming and knob-twiddling, but the serendipity, the happenstance, the fun, are somewhat lacking. Where's the challenge if all you have to do is go to a URL, an app, or a channel? Tuning in--figuring out the frequency, realizing the time difference, setting the dial just right, and hoping against hope that some other undesired station didn't bleed into the broadcast you wanted to hear--was an adventure.

So this mix and the previous podcast I did are ways for me to hark back to that time but also to celebrate its positive influence on my life. I might never had ventured out of North Carolina and moved to Texas, let alone Canada, without my shortwave radio. I might never have been open to meeting and falling in love with a truly lovely man from Egypt. I might never have learned about music--and international communism!


* * *

Now about these tunes . . .

In most cases, I think they speak for themselves, that is to say, there is a clear connection between the signature tune and the song played. In other cases, not so much. So below you'll find an annotated playlist in which I try to explain myself and where my mind was when I made my choices.

1) "Oranges and Lemons - the Bells of St. Clement's" and 2) the BBC Caribbean relay station version of "Oranges and Lemons."

This is immediately followed by 3) the tonal "B-B-C" interval signal, enchanting and slightly haunting, mixed with 4) the BBC "V" interval signal, mixed with 5) the BBC World Service bells.

Radio RSA QSL card. Author's collection.

6) A version of "Lillibulero" was (and maybe still is) featured at the top of the hour of most BBC World Service broadcasts.

7) "London Calling" by the Clash: Again, another popular song that seems inspired by the world of international broadcasting. I first heard the Clash on the BBC World Service Top 20 or A Jolly Good Show, can't remember which now.

8) Radio RSA: The Voice of South Africa - interval signal and announcement: My favorite signature tune and possibly the most beautiful one ever created. For a moment put aside the racist Apartheid regime that created the tune to lure you in. It is still a gorgeous melody played simply and lushly. It's probably single-handedly responsible for my life-long fascination with Afrikaans and Afrikaner South Africa. (Other connections: Dutch colonial expansion led directly to the unique culture and grinding problems of contemporary South Africa.)

9) Toni & Jan: A modern interpretation of the folk tune, "Ver in die Wereld, Kittie," upon which the signature tune is based. It doesn't compare all that favorably to the original in my mind. Thus I'd love to hear remake played as slowly and sparingly as the original interval signal.

10) and 11): Two versions of "Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika" ("God Bless Africa"), the new, post-Apartheid national anthem of South Africa. 10) is by the Mahotella Queens and 11) by Beston Barnett.

12) Radio-Télévision Guinéenne interval signal and opening: If I'm going to celebrate Afrikaner culture, I'm going to have to balance things out by celebrating post-colonial African culture as well. Guinea--home at one point to Pan-Africanist revolutionary Stokely Carmichael and performer, activist, and South African ex-pat, Miriam Makeba.

13) "Alpha Yaya" by Bako Dagnon: I don't know the history of this song, other than it's considered a "heroic" song and may or may not be sort of a Guinean, post-colonial African anthem. It seems like a good balance to anything inspired by Radio RSA.

14) Interval signal and announcement for the general overseas service of All India Radio. A broadcaster I was only able to listen to sporadically over the years, but one with a mystical, unmistakable interval signal.

15) Dissidenten - "All India Radio": Not a song from that era--I don't even remember how I first heard about Dissidenten--but part of my interest in exploring (the world, world music) I suspect. The title makes it seem as though I wasn't alone in being fascinated by foreign radio broadcasts.

Radio Japan QSL card. Author's collection.

16) Interval signal for Radio Japan, 17) "Kazoe Uta," and 18) "Sakura, Sakura": Apparently, Radio Japan used "Kazoe Uta," described as a Japanese children's counting song, as the interval signal for its international broadcasts, but it also used "Sakura, Sakura" ("Cherry Blossoms") for others. I have no idea which this is, and I have no clear sense of whether the "Kazoe Uta" and "Sakura, Sakura" selected are matches to the signature tune. Nevertheless, it's an attempt to pay homage to the beauty and significance of Japanese culture. I never listened much to the Radio Beijing or Radio China International, so I have nothing to offer from there in this mix. Maybe in volume 2 . . . .

19) Radio Australia interval signal and the laughing kookaburra, along with 20) "Waltzing Matilda" by the Seekers: Again, here's another case where I find the interval signal more enjoyable than the folk tune upon which it is based. Oh well.

21) The interval signal for l'Office de Radiodiffusion-Télévision Française (ORTF) in Tahiti, unforgettable with its South Pacific rapid-fire drumming, one I often heard in the evening in North America.

22) The bird-chirping interval signal and opening anthem of Radio New Zealand.

Moving on to the Nordic world, I offer in rapid succession the following: The haunting interval signal for 23) Radio Norway, followed by the one for 24) YLE Radio Finland. That is followed by the interval signal for 25) Rikisutvarpid, the national broadcaster of Iceland, with 26) Radio Denmark up next. And that is followed by 27) Radio Greenland, a station that I think I heard once or twice way back in the day but one that I was never able to clearly identify.

28) Radio Sweden interval signal and opening: The "classic" broadcast opening featuring notes from the song, "Storm och böljar tystna ren . . . ," and Hugo Alfvén's "Swedish Rhapsody."

Radio Sweden QSL card. Author's collection.

29) A longer, instrumental version of "Storm och böljar" performed by Tomas Blank and the Göteborgs Symfonietta, followed by 30) Ralph Lundsten's "Out in the Wide World," the song that eventually replaced the classic Radio Sweden interval signal and broadcast opening. I like it, quite a lot actually, but I still prefer the 1970s version.

Is Canada a Nordic station? Some would say yes, but then we might have to examine what is meant by the term "Nordic." For the purposes of this mixtape, I'm lumping 31) Radio Canada International's interval signal, the first four notes of "O, Canada," with the other Nordic national and international broadcasters.  This is where my intense like affair with Canada didn't so much begin but was greatly encouraged and strengthened. (My stamp collection and the GAF Viewmaster slides of Canada I received as a birthday gift are also to blame for my Canada crush.)

32) "Vive la Canadienne" and 33) "Les Montréalais": Two songs that were featured in Radio Canada International's broadcasts in the 1970s. This exact recording of "Vive la Canadienne" was used to open the broadcast, while this exact recording of "Les Montréalais" was used as part of the closing. Where my love affair with Montréal all began.

Next we transition to the Benelux countries (minus the 'Lux): 34), 35), 36), and 37) are various interval signals from various versions of Radiodiffusion-Télévision Belge (RTB) and Belgische Radio en Televisie (BRT), the French and Dutch broadcasters, respectively, of bilingual Belgium.

BRT often used versions of the Dutch folk song, 38) "Kwezelken" for it's interval signals. You can clearly hear this in 37) but also in 35) if you pay close attention. Meanwhile, RTB used versions of the song 39) "Où peut-on être mieux . . . ?" for its interval signal. Why can't we all just get along?

40) Radio Netherlands - interval signal and opening: One of the first international broadcasters I ever listened to. The interval signal and opening are far more stilted than the broadcasts that used to and still emanate from Hilversum.

41) Ben van Bergen and the Voices Inside My Head: A modern interpretation of "Merck Toch Hoe Sterck," the Radio Netherlands signature tune. 

42) Voice of Spain interval signal and opening: I always think of this as Radio Exterior de España or the awkwardly named Spanish Foreign Radio. "Radio Spain International" never seemed to be a workable option.

REE pennant. Author's collection.

43) The Spotnicks - "Spanish Gypsy Dance": A popular version of "España cañi" or "Gypsy Spain," a paso doble composed by Pascual Marquina Narro, a piece of music that always makes one think of Spain. (I might also suggest anything by Miles Davis's Sketches of Spain LP.)

44) Interval signal for RAE, Radiodifusión Argentina al Exterior: An incredibly long opening. Apparently the interval signal features the first few notes of "Mi Buenos Aires querido," although I struggle a bit to hear it.

Next up, two versions of "Mi Buenos Aires querido," 45) by Daniel Barenboim, Rodolfo Mederos, and Héctor Console and 46) a piece of chill wallpaper by La Fonda Tango Club. The original is by famed Argentine tango composer, Carlos Gardel. My Gardel CDs are still locked in a storage bin in Pittsburgh (no, really), so we'll have to "make do" with these contemporary versions.

And to round everything out (with a hint of what's to come in volume 2), I conclude the mixtape with 47) Radio Havana Cuba's interval signal and opening, plus 48) the Red Army Choir performing "La marcha del 26 de julio." Radio Havana's interval signal features the opening notes of this march. 

Comrades, let the Revolution begin! Forward left to volume 2, coming soon to a MixCloud near you.

¡Ølé!

It's just the holidays as usual in our casita in the Toronto suburbs.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas, all--and just try not to think about what an unrepentant quisling Sonja Henie apparently was. Why spoil all our good cheer with the blunt-force trauma of that reality?

¡Olé!

I'm sure he meant to say this

So I fixed it for him.

Thanks to today's New York Times for recording all the news that's fit to print--but even the NYT has to make the occasional correction.

Mo' money, mo' proverbs

"Ben Carson by Gage Skidmore 7" by Gage Skidmore.
Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Commons.

"I don't know what they want from me/
It's like the mo' money we come across/
The mo' problems we see/"

* * *

Or "poverbs" as the case may be.

I'm trying to be a good human and not infringe someone else's copyright, so please understand when I insist that you follow this link.

And where does this link take one? To The Guardian's recent photo essay, "Ben Carson's House: A Homage to Himself in Pictures."

Goodness knows, there is so much I could say about Dr. Carson, the least damning being that apparently it is indeed brain surgery, that is to say, everything including brain surgery must be pretty darned simple if the presumably Xanax-addled Dr. Carson can do it.

I write this--and the rather cheeky post title--at my peril. I do not want to ever be seen as criticizing Ben Carson in a way that could be perceived as racist--and the post title is admittedly pushing the very vanilla envelope. (Editor's note: Yes, I know it's manila.) But good lordy, Ben Carson's stupidity transcends race, gender, faith, sexuality, culture, income, and a squillion other potential ways to be bigoted.

I could go on for days about his, Donald Trump's, or any other Republican candidate for president's suitability for office. But let's just simply say that they are not suitable, are in fact embarrassingly ignorant, and yet are "intelligent" enough to be able to push their fellow ignorati and illiterati's Velcro snaps to a frighteningly intolerant and reactionary level.

And yet . . . I just can't muster the energy to rail and rage on about any of them. These whores are simply not worth the attention they're demanding and receiving. While they need to be watched carefully, they do not need to be taken as seriously as they take themselves, that they have anything serious or worthy to contribute to humanity.

Admittedly, I live in Canada now, and I give slightly less of a fig about life in the U.S. than I used to. Oh, I feel the stings of the slings and arrows of stupidity launched by certain culture warriors and their goosesteppin' citizen soldiers. And I worry, worry, worry about my family and friends back home, who deserve so much better, as do most Americans. (Truly.) In a perfect world, I'd be living in the U.S. (but not in Pittsburgh, please, God, never again . . .), enjoying life and work as best as one can until retirement.

But here in Canada I have a lovely boyfriend, I get paid more, I have been able to progress in my career, and I don't worry so much about getting assassinated by loose-cannon, gun-crazy white guys anytime I enter a movie theater, restaurant, or office building.

From here I can appreciate the positives about living in the U.S., of which there are many--a rich culture, a gregarious approach to life, and far better shopping being the ones that come to mind at the moment.

Safety and income equality are not two of its better qualities, unfortunately.

So for now I'm staying put, wishing others well, keeping my citizenship so that I can vote in the next election, and praying (yes, literally) that the Ben Carsons and the Donald Trumps become infected by a raging case of humility and never fully recover.

* * *



All rise for the National Anthem.

A bit about my thinking behind the title of this post: Yes, of course, it refers to "Mo' Money, Mo' Problems" by the late Notorious B.I.G., one of the better songs to come out of the 1990s, in my humble opining, of which there were few, in my humble opinion Part Duh.

The post title also alludes to a situation when you have too much money and not enough class, talent, humility, or self-knowledge to know how to behave.

The case in point: Dr. Ben Carson and his house of horrid decor, perhaps best exemplified by Example A) a quote from "Poverbs" chiseled into a marble wall and Example B) a "selfie" of Ben with freakin' Jesus.

What, God was too busy that day to allow Leonardo Da Vinci to paint him with Ben? A missed opportunity for another lesson in ironic humility, that.

In the morning

Canada's own The Good Lovelies with "In the Morning."

Happy Monday, universe.

Literally golden hominy

Don't let my mild-to-moderate sarcasm deceive you: I enjoy living in Canada. However, it's perhaps taken me until recently to begin to acclimate to this midlife adventure I'm now 4+ months into.

That's not to say anything against Canada or Canadians. I expected more animosity toward my Americanness and wondered if I'd be perceived as taking a good job away from a hard-working Canadian. Something that you might hear someone (usually an idiot politician and his or her know-nothing followers) say back home. But so far, so very good. People are generally friendly here, even in a big city like Toronto, although I wouldn't say uniformly polite, as the stereotype goes. All bets are off on the daily commute, which can be fierce. I don't know that I've made any friends outside of home, but I feel like I could if I wanted to. I just have to find the time and get myself more organized to do so.

And there has been a lot to organize and take care of since I arrived here on Canada Day, July 1, 2015. The commute. The job. Home life with my boyfriend/partner/significant other/whatever the term may be when you read this in five years' time. Paperwork and lots of it: The work permit (golden ticket número un), my SIN (social insurance number), pension forms, a Presto card, chequing (yes, chequing) and savings accounts, credit cards, a cellphone plan, a Magic Jack plan just in case anyone from the States ever wants to call me; an Ontario driver's license, car insurance, car inspections and registration (something I'm still not done with), passport renewal, and golden ticket número deux, the coveted Ontario Health Insurance Plan (OHIP) identification card, aka free health care.

All while spending 11 to 12 hours a day going to, at, or coming from work, in a country that despite the big spaces and great distances, still operates small: Most business happens 9 to 5, Monday through Friday. Things like insurance agencies are closed in the evenings and on weekends, although banks to their credit do a great job of being open almost all day on Saturdays. And, goodness, they take holidays seriously and give most everyone, even salespeople the day off. Many stores and some malls were closed on Labour (yes, Labour) Day, for instance.

I've managed most of it, except for car inspection and registration, which I hope to accomplish this month. Then I get to do a sort of system reboot in the new year, when I apply for permanent residency, which will ultimately mean different paperwork to complete. But first things first: I have to pass an English-language competency test in order to apply for permanent residency. And it will only cost me the bargain price of $265 CAD to do so.

Obviously the credentials from two American universities, the same that I had to present in order to get my work permit, mean next to nothing in terms of my functionaly literacy in my mother tongue.

The Catch 22 of Canadian bureaucracy aside, there are minor struggles. Spelling and language usage continue to confuse me, so maybe an English test is in order after all. Canadian English is like listening to an old familiar tune that suddenly strikes a . . . let's say "different" rather than "wrong" or "sour" note. It's bi-ling-ew-ul" and "proh-cess" and "proh-ject" and "ah-gainst" and "ree-zource," sometimes all in the same sentence. I'm gradually losing the sense of not so much what constitutes an American spelling but what is a Canadian versus a British versus an American spelling. At the moment I consider myself very much an American living in Canada, not a wannabe Canadian, as I might have desired 10 years ago. But I try to get along, so I'm gradually inserting some extra u's and -re's into every other word, whether they require it or not.

I'm having trouble with my tongue in more ways than one: Continuing to represent challenges are shopping and eating, two of my favorite pastimes.

In a previous post, I discussed the disconnect of shopping in Canada: How Wal-Mart is more like Target and thus not such a shameful experience as it is in the U.S. A couple of months later, and I find myself still confused. Holt Renfrew and Ogilvy are still too high-end for me, and in Toronto, Nordstrom and Saks are about to enter the market, making me outclassed in two countries and cultures. Simon is still planning to move into the TO market from Montreal, which would have been welcome six years ago when I could fit into their men's wear.

Speaking of shamefulness, I kinda miss Marshall's/Ross/T.J. Maxx, and I definitely miss DSW Shoe Warehouse, which I could use right about now, as fall sets in, and I long for a pair of half-boots to protect my tootsies from the rain. I've yet to bring myself to enter a Winners. That's just so wrong.

It's not just the stores and the schedules, though; the products are different, too. Let's start with the most important meal of the day, coffee: Peet's Coffee, my go-to brand in the States is so far, nonexistent. Ditto for Chobani Yogurt. The cereal aisle at the local supermarket is decidedly smaller, although I've managed to find overpriced Bran Buds and reasonably priced Quaker Oat Squares, along with a lot of the Kashi cereals. But then there are cereals like Vector by Kellogg's that sounds like something that would cause bodily harm if poured into the bowl the wrong way.

Despite the prevalence of a highly diverse population, even (or especially) in the suburbs, I have tried three supermarkets and come up anchovy-less--although if you need multi-flavored sardines, conger eel, or octopus in a can, I'm your man. Perhaps I'm misremembering this, but anchovies seemed pretty much a supermarket staple in the States. I'm not saying everybody or anybody much eats them, but you can find them at least. The Caesar salad situation in this nation is at crisis level, as you might imagine.

Southern food, Texas foods, and Mexican foods are also in very short supply, and even when you find them, you often end up with a brand you've never heard of or not exactly the product you're used to.

Grits, white corn? Check, finally found some at the local Loblaws, one variety by a firm named Ferma, a purveyor of Portuguese fine foods based in Montreal, tucked away in an odd amalgam of Asian, Indian, and Latin American foods. Hominy, golden? No, sorry, how about white corn hominy instead? Yes, that will do for pozole, which I'm making for dinner tonight (although experimenting by using chicken instead of pork, given the boyfriend's background). I could only find Goya brand, which I'm familiar with from my days in Texas, but none by any of the more Southern food purveyors that form my cultural strong suit.

Chipotle peppers in adobo sauce? Yes, but barely, intermingled with the red and green chile sauces, courtesy of La Costeña brand, another one I'm less certain of. Hatch green chiles from New Mexico? Well, yes, but only because I stocked up on them via Amazon before I left home. They've come in handy more than once, including for some impromptu Canada Votes election night nachos this past October 19.

None of this is bad, mind you, nor a deal-breaker nor any real hardship, of course. I'm starting to appreciate the prevalence of Lavazza coffee, both ground and whole bean, in the supermarket, and I'm starting to think the whole Chobani thing is one big, $1.50 per container scam. We have a brand of Greek yogurt in Canada, Skotidakis, that actually tastes and mouth-feels (if I must) like Greek yogurt--tart, thick, substantive--to which you can add honey or jam à la Fage. And if you don't like Greek active, then how about French passive in the form of Quebec's own Liberté brand? It's quite and quietly excellent.

Truth be told, I was troubled by the lack of access to grits, however, as well as hominy. Not that I ate either every day back home, but I knew I could get them when I wanted them, even in Pittsburgh. And then suddenly I could not.

And no matter how grim and horrid the Mexican food offerings were in Pittsburgh (and they were scandalously caca-esque), I knew I could find the good stuff somewhere, by visiting a Mexican store, asking for CARE packages from friends in Texas, or shopping on Amazon. While we have our very own Amazon.ca, import levies can jack up the prices for even the most mundane of purchases. Some cases in point: a 7-ounce can of chipotle peppers in Adobo from Goya is currently selling for $40 CAD (although I'm really hoping I've read that wrong, and there's a 12-pack or a case in the offing); Allen's golden hominy does come in pack of 12 but will cost you about $5 CAD per can; a 24-ounce container of Quaker 5-minute grits is currently listed on Amazon à la canadienne for $24.15 CAD, taxes and shipping not included; a 5-pound bag of Quaker Quick Grits sells for a staggering $146.52!

Forget gold, oil, and diamonds--clearly grit manufacturing should be the driver of Canada's economic engine. Golden hominy and hominy-related products are indeed just that--pure gold.

Ghost town

Let me say first and foremost that I love the song "Ghost Town" by Madonna. I recently heard it on the stereo system while waiting impatiently for a flat white to be served up at a Second Cup near Bloor and Spadina, Toronto, Ontario, Canada, the World. I knew it was Madonna immediately, but, amazingly, had not heard it or anything else from her latest album, Rebel Heart. Then again, I have spent most of the year on the move: Looking for a job, interviewing for a job, waiting to get a job, starting a job, learning a job, etc., etc., etc. So no small wonder that I missed this musical gem.

I won't say this is what Madonna is known for doing best, the lush, heartbreaking ballad. Nonetheless, I personally think it is the sort of song she is excels at doing, this sort of moody, melodious ballad that touches and unsettles you. Like "Bad Girl" or "What It Feels Like for a Girl." It's the sort of thing she doesn't get enough credit for, the type of song in which she turns pop into art, for a brief, wondrous moment.

Oh, she gets more respect for her fierce "Bitch, I'm Madonna" attitude-filled videos and songs, but I've followed Madge for over 30 years now, enjoyed her music even before "Borderline" and "Lucky Star" opened all those doors and windows years ago, used to dream about being her friend, tolerated the undeserved hype around her appearance in Desperately Seeking Susan, still hear "Like a Virgin" in my head on a regular basis while strolling around in neoclassical settings on sun-dappled days (which happens more often than you might realize), and have even been known to compare her singing to that of Agnetha Fältskog (the plaintive-voiced goddess to whom I devote all my prayers) in, for example, "You'll See" or "Ghost Town," no small praise that . . . and I think she deserves major props for this aspect of her art.

And yet . . . this video do sucketh, in my humble opinion. Nuclear holocaust is so 1983, for pity's sake. And a cameo by Terence Howard? Puh-leez. He's the actor I like least in Empire, so much so that I was really hoping he (or rather his character) would die at the end of season 1.

I don't mean to unduly criticize Madonna. My opinion is that most music videos bite the proverbial big one nowadays. There may have been a very brief golden age (or at least a bronze or iron age) of music video in the early '80s and since then, with rare exception, it's been women gyrating exotically or rubbing themselves erotically, guys looking earnest and sensitive when they are neither, and overwrought versions of cannibalized pop cultural touchstones that I don't give a rat's patoot about anyway. Mad Max meets a bunch of Lord of the Rings and Star Wars references, not to forget Game of Thrones and whatever else TV show I don't pay any attention to. Just add video hoes and super fly gangstas.

I blame myself in part for not caring anymore. I mean, if it doesn't happen on an Australian or South African soap opera these days, or maybe Empire or Nashville, I can't be arsed to know.

But more than anything, I blame Madonna.

Sister Christian, you got us into this iconographical mess sometime around the time of "Like a Prayer" and "Express Yourself." It's about damned time that you got us out of it. Get Guy Ritchie on the phone stat. He needs some inspiration himself after The Man from U.N.C.L.E. Just don't mention Swept Away, and y'all will be fine.

Gendered slanguage

"Andy Bell & Vince Clarke of Erasure at
Wolfgang's (nightclub) - San Francisco, California, USA" -
by Nancy. J. Price, AndWhatsNext - CC BY-SA 3.0

Every time I read the phrase "Bi Erasure" in some "conscious" bit of gender studies literature, I always want to respond, "You know, I'm pretty sure Andy Bell is gay and Vince Clarke is straight."

Baddabing. I'm hear here all weak week.

Bye American

Future Shop in Edmonton, Alberta; created by
Caldorwards4; CC BY-SA 3.0

Living in Canada means I no longer know how to shop "American."

Target doesn't exist in Canada. It failed grandly in an ill-conceived entry into the Canadian market over the last couple of years, fraught with corporate stupidity it would seem. Too many stores, too quickly, without the merchandise and prices that Canadians expected, which they travel to the U.S. to buy at Target. (Editor's note: I've seen estimates that 75 to 90% of Canadians live within 100 miles/160 kilometers of the U.S.-Canada border.)

Weirdly, WalMart SuperCentre (and I do mean centre) is a lot like Target. The stores are tidy, clean, well-organized, and well-stocked. The staff is generally helpful, too. Now, suddenly, because it's the Canadian Target, I think it's OK to shop there.

WalMart has its own clothing line called George, which I don't remember from the U.S. WalMart. However, I used to avoid WalMart at all costs. "People of WalMart" and all that.

Even big upscale malls like Square One in Mississauga have WalMarts. They might have Targets, too, if Target hadn't flamed out.

Macy's doesn't exist, but Sears (yes, Sears) seems like a Macy's at a second-tier mall. Sears has a Clinique counter, which I don't think is the case in the U.S. At home, Sears and J.C. Penney's seem to vie for a no-shopper's land between Macy's on the one side and Target and WalMart on the other. Albeit unsuccessfully: I just feel like Sears and Penney's don't know who they are anymore. There's a niche market between the two, but they can't define it. Personally, I'd figure out a way to outdo Macy's in some markets--Pennsylvania for one, which doesn't have Dillard's, only Boscov's in some areas. (I adore Boscov's, by the way, and missed it terribly when I moved away from Central PA.) An upscale version of Target is probably the best option at this point. Otherwise, you're facing a Montgomery Ward's future.

Hudson Bay Company (aka The Bay/La Baie) seems like a higher-end Macy's (aka Macy's when it was special/before it took over the world). Holt Renfrew and Ogilvy are more like Saks and Nordstrom as far as I can tell. In other words, although the clothes are beautiful, I'm not worthy. Saks is planning to open stores soon in Toronto; I would imagine Nordstrom will follow, but, personally, I'd be happier with a Dillard's or a Boscov's.

I'm waiting for Simons to open at Square One. It's one of my favorite Montreal-based stores, one with beautiful housewares and often lovely, affordable clothes, none of which I can fit into anymore. But still, it's nice to dream.

Future Shop was Best Buy, but we do have Best Buy in Canada. So Future Shop is now Circuit City. Only the signs and square footage remain.

In Canada, you can buy decent clothes at Canadian Tire and at Loblaws (grocery store chain) superstore. I have a hard time wrapping my head around this, the same way I do at the thought of buying clothes at Costco, Kohl's, or Target. This makes me realize how class-influenced shopping is in the U.S. Or at least how class-influenced I am.

There are a zillion supermarkets, at least in and around Toronto: No Frills, Sobey's, WalMart, Food Basics, Whole Foods, Metro, Loblaws, FreshCo, and more, not to mention hundreds of smaller markets, many of them catering to Toronto's various ethnic groups. (But not Americans and Southerners as far as I can discern.) So far, I like No Frills, Sobey's, and WalMart. The No Frills in my area is referred to as the "ghetto one" by *some* people I know (not me but Cairo), but it's actually my favorite. There's a crazy variety of fruits and vegetables, many of them more common to Caribbean and Indian cuisine, reflecting the cultural reality of my part of the GTA. And, thus, for a brief moment, I can transport myself back to shopping at HEB in San Antonio, where Mexican fruits and vegetables were quite common, more so than the standard "Anglo" ones. While the Giant Eagle in Pittsburgh rarely sold cilantro, the HEB in San Antonio often sold out. Which speaks volumes about the "quality" of Pittsburgh cuisine. That is to say, if you love that Eastern European root vegetable diet that your babushka used to make, you're in so much effin' luck in da Burgh.

May I never, ever return, except for the occasional visit to see friends and old colleagues.
 
As far as I know, there's no CVS, no Eckerd, no Rexall, no Walgreens in Canada. Shopper's Drug Mart is the big pharmacy chain, at least in English-speaking Canada. (I think Quebec has a very just-like-in-France-branded Pharmaprix or Uniprix chain. Paris on the St. Lawrence. I'd be there if I could.) The Shopper's Drug Marts have a branch of Canada Post in many locations so that you can buy stamps and mail stuff even on Sunday's. However, daily mail delivery open happens Monday through Friday; there is no Saturday delivery in Canada.

* * *

I share all this because I spent part of a recent Saturday trying to buy a phone case and laptop bag and had absolutely no idea where to go to do so.

I couldn't find the Best Buy, discovered that Future Shop was indeed closed despite the huge sign out front, perused some overpriced shirts at the Bay ($118 CAD for a Ralph Lauren--which means I'm going to wait for a "Bay Days" sale before investing heavily in new clothes), mailed a package at Shopper's Drug Mart, bought a Canada "XpressPost" regional mailing envelope for my passport renewal application (one of my many must-dos as part of the resettlement process)--and finally ended up at WalMart and bought most of the stuff on my list.

Which is fitting because I would have normally gone to Target for this stuff anyway.

If . . . !

I can't think of a better song or a better collaboration for end-of-summer dreaming--Little Boots meets Jean-Michel Jarre.

Would you run away with me?

Culture shock

They are everywhere. Beards. Man buns. "Sometime Samurai" hairstyles. Believing scooters and skateboards are viable means of transportation. Making ironic wardrobe choices that are still somehow au courant and stylish.

Welcome to Toronto. Hipster paradise.

If I were more invasive and more of a jerk, I'd take photos of these hipsters in their (un)natural element. And I may do so yet.

But suffice it to say, they are legion, they walk among us, and they're not going anywhere until they uncover the next trend, they turn 35 and really need to get serious about gainful employment, or they're all mowed down on the street (by accident) for riding their skateboards and scooters in traffic.

(Trust me. I've seen it happen.)

My most recent favorite hipster sighting was on the number 1 TTC subway (sorry, I don't know the names of the lines just yet) between Museum and Union Station, seen maybe this past Thursday or Friday. He was a very handsome guy--underneath all the hair and the consciously grungy clothing, that is. A dark lumberjack beard, close-cropped hair on the side with a shock of a dark 'do that he was meticulous about keeping in place, swept up and over to the right side.

I saw him breathe in, his strong chest swell underneath his t-shirt, revealing a hint of fur. Be still my heart (and everything else), I thought.

But then I thought, too, can you imagine kissing that? Making love to that? All that beard and all that hair. That's what the entire encounter would be about: Passion and pompadours. He'd no doubt be too narcissistic to make sex enjoyable for anyone but himself.

Maybe 20 years ago but more likely 30 years ago, I would have gone head over heels, especially if I thought there was the slightest glimmer of interest from him--although I am sure it would have gone nowhere, the thrill of the chase being his turn-on and my turn-off, leaving me lonelier and sick in my gut.

Thank goodness I've moved on and matured in many, many ways. Toronto makes me realize that in a good way. I like it here--in spite/because of the hipsters and because/in spite of who I am now.

* * *

Editor's note: You can also view a version of this with sound via YouTube:

Yonge at heart

Route of Heroes? More like Rout of Consumers.

Yonge and Bloor, Toronto's highfalutin' economic epicenter (or so it seems to me). And who am I to say no? Although plenty said no to me: I struck out at J. Crew, Zara, Roots, Banana Republic, and especially Holt Renfrew's men's store, which featured some gorgeous designer clothing, accompanied by some stuff better left on the Paris runway--or perhaps I mean the Paris runaway. HR for Men: Where Canada's Aspirational Eurotrash Come to Shop.

But I mined haberdasher gold at The Bay. Which probably says more about my sense of style (and waistline) these days than I care to admit.  Nevertheless, they were beautiful shirts (and, OK, a tie, too), sort of a plum hue, which seems to be my colour de l'année.

And speaking of aspirational Eurotrash, have you met me lately?


Still very new to Canada, I'm in between paychecks, having finished one job and now starting another within the last month. Nevertheless, I didn't go the Route of Credit because I don't yet have a Canadian credit card and am trying to give my American ones a bit of a breather after the move.

So I did the, ahem, practical thing: I used my new Canadian debit card.

Now come on, I needed to know it worked. Really, I owed it to the bank and the hiccuping Canadian economy.

And if I don't watch out, I really will owe it to the bank. Really, money doesn't grow on trees, not even in Canada.

Bienvenue au Canada

I still feel like I should live in Montréal--somehow it speaks a lot to my spirit, my inner life, even if my French is paltry and pitiful at the moment--but I'm enjoying being happy up here in Toronto.

I highly recommend it. Immigration FTW!

Channeling our inner Don Quijote

Magnolia a Verbania by Josep Renalias Lohen 11
(CC BY-SA 3.0; courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

This post will be fairly quick and short (within reason; it is me after all). I am in the process of moving to a new city--to a new country in fact--and have been working toward tomorrow (aka, moving day) since I last posted in May.

I'll try to have more to say for myself on the flipside of the month--at least once I've unpacked my computer and established an internet connection. It's a sign of modern times that packing and moving excepted, my current priorities in life are a bank account, a Hulu subscription, and good internet. Never mind the new job and the commute--I'm already busy with entertaining myself and spending money I haven't earned yet!

But one thing that has occupied my mind over the last week is the mass assassination of nine African-American worshippers at a Charleston, South Carolina, church on Wednesday, June 17, 2015. Not a lot has penetrated my consciousness of late, mostly due to the whiff of cardboard I seem to ingest every day, but this most definitely has. I think it brings up my somewhat tortured relationship with my country and my home region, plus a sense of guilt for leaving family and friends behind. I often worry who will be the next victim of "a bad guy with a gun" and whether it will be someone I know, family or friend.

It's not that I walk around worried about this all the time, mind you. It's not that I need to, actually. Despite the "cowboy" reputation of the U.S., I really don't see guns everywhere--although sometimes at night, I do hear them from the broken-down neighborhood on the other side of the railroad tracks, just a block away.

I don't generally feel unsafe in the U.S. But perhaps I should. I mean, there is occasional gunfire only a block or two away from my head and my bed. There is "active shooter" training at work. There is my sister's state wanting to allow for guns on the university campus where she works. There is me scoping out escape routes in restaurants should something bad happen. There are, what? 11,000+ gun deaths each year in the U.S., 55,000+ nonfatal gun injuries, and 138,000+ gun-aggravated assaults (at least according to statistics from FactCheck.org)? And yet two of these numbers represent a decrease over previous years?

Let that set in for a moment.

Now doesn't that still seem like an awfully large number? And what about the fact that gun ownership and gun manufacturing continue to increase?

You can keep arguing that "more guns make us safer," but with those kind of numbers, pardon me if I don't feel like cuddling up to and fellating my firearm at night.

(For the record, I don't own a gun, nor does anyone in my family. My Dad used to have a rifle for occasional hunting and to scare away unwanted residents from his backyard birdhouses, but that's about as firearms-friendly as it got at Chez Montag.)

* * *

Kudzu on trees in Atlanta, Georgia by Scott Ehardt
(public domain); courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Which leads me to the point of this post: We are once again tilting at the wrong windmill.

And the windmill we're currently tilting at is removing the Confederate flag from our sight. We've once again taken the wrong message from the racially motivated mass murder of 9 African-American worshippers in Charleston last week.

And that message should be this: A gun killed them all, not a flag.


Please don't misunderstand me: I've got no problem with removing the Confederate flag from public buildings; I've got little to no problem relegating that symbol to museums and reenactments. At one point in my life, I might have tried to participate in a nuanced discussion of that flag's multiple meanings, but, honestly, who needs to hear all that? Plus I think knowing what I know now--that the flag made its reappearance during the early 1960s Civil Rights standoffs, as a way for the South to say "FU" to the rest of the country--I would just be horribly, horribly wrong.

If you're looking for a symbol of Southern uniqueness and pride, I dunno, try the magnolia or the loblolly pine, the collard, or, heck, even kudzu. That stuff can withstand anything.


While protesting the Confederate flag and the racism it symbolizes is all well, good, and necessary, I fear we're just letting the real culprits off the hook once again. I'm willing to bet that nearly every right-leaning politician piling on the issue right now knows this and is using it as a way to not deal with legislating meaningful firearms restrictions. And, hey, if they happen to make the Republican Party look sensitive to racial issues, bonus points.

Maybe it's a victory that Wal-Mart and Amazon are willing to stop selling the flag (at least until things cool down) and that manufacturers are willing to stop making the flag (at least until things cool down). But it all seems very hollow. And speaking of hollow, no one's volunteering to stop making hollow-point bullets.

While all this is going on and we're rending our garments in public, gun manufacturers are doing their best Alfred E. Newman impersonation: "What, me worry?"

Yes, I think racism is still a huge problem in this country--the murder of nine African Americans during Bible study is the recent, most heinous example, but there are many others. Cops killing black motorists and citizens who resist arrest or are merely under suspicion for . . . something (poverty? blackness? effrontery to white privilege?); high black unemployment and endemic economic disadvantage; the incredibly negative reaction by some to Barack Obama--a strong, impressive, educated, self-made man--being elected as President of the United States (twice no less). These are just a few that come to mind that I right this. 

So, yes, it's well past time to take down the Confederate flag and relegate to the history bin (or the trash bin, take your pick). It's well past time to recommit to fighting against he racism it represents. 

 

Nonetheless, this just seems like the same ol', same ol'. Let's call for reparations for slavery when instead we should be clamoring for continuing community and individual investment in disenfranchised minority populations (and/or the poor in general). Maybe that's the point--aim for the symbolic, get the real. I question its effectiveness, but then again, no one ever thought gays would be allowed to serve in the military or get married.

 

I feel like we were trying to do this in the 1960s and 1970s--significant investment in the disenfranchised, leveling the playing field, providing opportunity. But by the 1980s, we stopped doing it. Maybe because it was too hard to do, or we just royally messed it up (tearing down neighborhoods to put everyone in projects? really?).

 

But maybe we just let ourselves get distracted. After all, there are so many other windmills out there at which we can tilt.

Thanks for your time. See you in July.

Do you know the way to Sacha Distel and Dionne Warwick?

Honestly, I was just looking for a video of Dionne Warwick singing "Do You Know the Way to San Jose?" Still in my Mad Men finale mourning phase, that particular tune has been in my head since last weekend's Mad Men marathon on AMC, during which my Mom, sis, and me watched not quite all but most of the 92 hours of Mad Men broadcast from 2007 to 2015.

Was that any way to spend a vacation with family? Well, yes, it was. It was quite relaxing and enjoyable, having a long overdue visit with my Mom and sister, savoring past memorable moments from the show, dissecting the characters and their motivations, and speculating about the finale and the characters' futures. Did we guess the outcome? Not really, other than to say that we thought Don Draper would survive and persevere, as would Peggy Olsen. Other than that, we didn't have a clue, which was as it should be. We ended up pleasantly surprised along with the rest of the long-time aficionados of the show.

What was also surprising was how sad we felt watching the end of series. Seeing the outcomes for each character was touching. In my mind, for the most part, each character got what they wanted, not what they felt they should have, a recurring theme in the series, the tension between desire and obligation. Peggy found love, Joan found success, Pete found his family again, Roger found fun and maturity, and Don found his true self.

What Betty Draper Francis and her daughter Sally Draper found exactly deserves a separate, fuller discussion. For another day.

At least that's my interpretation. There are a zillion others out there, so please read and determine for yourself. And that's another beauty of the ending: You are left with some ambiguity. How long will each character's happiness last? Are they doing what they want or doing what they feel they should do? And what does Don do next? Follow his bliss, his own path in life? Which may or may not include returning to New York and recommitting himself to his profession as an advertising executive and becoming more creative and successful than ever. Or it may also include being true to the values of the 1960s and 1970s and rejecting the old ways, striking out in new, countercultural ways--all while watching those same values quickly co-opted by business and pop culture all for the sake of selling Coke (the Real Thing). And possibly some coke as well.

To tell the truth, I was tired of Don's story at this point in the series. The way he tried to escape his existence through the fantasy of sexual pleasure--at first that seemed daring, dangerous, and provocative. But by the series' end, it just became predictable, boring, and even unseemly to me. I loathed the affair with Sylvia, played by Linda Cardellini, who became something of a guilty, weepy-eyed Ida Blankenship in my mind (Ida Blankenship, the "Queen of Perversions," as Roger Sterling described her). That icky relationship went on way too long and seemed to tread much of the same ground as his other affairs did. I quickly became tired of Megan Calvet, too, Don's second wife, who stayed on the scene from seasons 4 until 7, ferchrissakes, and took lots of attention away from other characters, especially Don's far more interesting first wife, Betty.

After a while, Don's sexploits seemed like something out of smutty James Bond movie--but with less diversity of partners (lots of white women, mostly brunettes, representing his mother or stepmother, no doubt). His conquests became more like compulsions--in today's parlance, Don would no doubt have a sex addiction. Rewatching the latter seasons of the series, I kept thinking of the movie Shame, being just as detached from and creeped out by Don's plight as much as I was from Michael Fassbender's character's story in the movie.

I think that's entirely the point, by the way. I just don't necessarily want to watch that on a weekly basis.

That may be down to my prudishness or my becoming bored quickly by ritual and routine in all areas of my life. However, I think I took issue with Don's issues because, perhaps, it took away from my own childhood, childlike fantasies of the '60s and '70s.

My sadness at the end of the series was as much about saying goodbye to the characters, including Don, as it was about saying goodbye, once again, to what has passed and slipped through my fingers.

How much rehashing does this require? I felt it more acutely earlier in the week, wanting to have a good cry whenever I thought about the finale or remembered songs from the era, "Do You Know the Way to San Jose?" being just one of many that returned to me for a fleeting moment a simple and safe American childhood, sitting in the front bench seat of a huge Mercury or Ford, wedged comfortably between my Mom and my Dad, listening to the hits of the era on AM radio.

It's a very nostalgia trip, yes, and one not necessarily in tune with the reality of the time, which was conflicted and convulsed by issues of equality--racism, sexism, political assassinations, the Vietnam War, countercultural protests, terrorism, and so much more. While occasionally my life was touched by those issues--the Vietnam War and the fight for racial equality in particular--my life was quite idyllic in many ways. We were working class with limited exposure and opportunity, but like the Dons, Peggys, and Joans of the world, we survived and persevered.

Nonetheless, could that sadness be due to something else, something more than just mere nostalgia for times past? That was a thought that skated across my mind over last weekend, my reaction to the finale reminding me of when All My Children ended. Or as Cairo put it to me gently during a recent phone conversation, "Do you think you feel sad because you feel like you're closing one chapter of your life?"

Yes, exactly.

As always with me, there's more to the story. But given that it's Memorial Weekend in the U.S., for now, let's just conclude with a hearty "God bless America" and track the scent of this tale another day.

Mad and sad

Mad Men is over, ending on a beautiful if ambiguous note. I was beyond sad for a couple of days afterwards, but I'm now attempting to stay in my Mad Men cocoon by revisiting series 1 and 2 (which I have never seen in full and thus was always at something of a loss in later seasons) and listening to music of the era.

Here's one of my favorites, which I remember from 1960s AM radio: Brian Hyland's "Sealed with a Kiss." A lovely melody, spare instrumentation, accompanied by Hyland's plaintive voice rising above it all--this is my idea of a pop classic, a song and performance that have stood the test of time. I honestly can't think of many if any recent (last 10 to 20 years) pop songs managing to achieve this level of enduring perfection. Too often it's technology over tune, publicity over performance, and vocal pyrotechnics over the pure and simple voice. What a world.

I wish I could sing like this, express myself musically, create a piece of art so beautiful and long-lasting, and touch the hearts and minds of many or even just a few.

But I'm not greedy. At this point in my life, I'd be satisfied to refocus my career energies on becoming one of the backup dancers in this video. Lithesome moves in tandem and always in sync with the beat. Suddenly I'm transported to 1962, pre-Internet, pre-AIDS, pre-Vietnam War, and am full of possibility and promise.

Hullabaloo. Shindig. Come on baby, take me where the action is. I am there.

The HamJuggalo

Captured from Mental Floss

So glad to see that McDonald's has reintroduced its long-forgotten mascot, the Hamburglar, and turned him into a . . . Juggalo.

I don't know about you, but I'm lovin' it.

The Sexiest Man Alive, 1982 Edition

Seriously, Adam Ant (he's the one on the left) was The Sexiest Man Alive (Montag Edition)  in 1982.

I think the Ant may have started to jump the shark by the time he recorded "Strip" in 1983. There's a little too much Adam on display in this one--I don't mean skin-wise as much as I mean mugging-for-the-camera-wise with a lot of flashy "dolly birds." Not my thing, obviously.



I'm also not sure that this song stands the test of time in the way that "Ant Music" or "Desperate But Not Serious" do. It may pass muster musically but lyrically it just seems like such a comedown from those tunes. Again, the transition from punk to new wave to mainstream is in evidence. Get on your Honda scooter and ride.

But "Strip" will always hold a special place in my heart ever since I discovered that the female voice-over in the middle was done by none other than Frida Lyngstad from ABBA.

All hail Frida! All hail The Ant!

Those were the days, my friend

. . . We thought they'd never end. We'd sing and dance forever and a day . . . .

Was there ever anything sexier than Adam Ant? No.

Except for Adam Ant and Grace Jones together in an ad for a Honda scooter that no one even remembers nowadays. Who was the market for this thing, les jeunes de Paris? Except in New York and Chicago, you wouldn't stand a chance on the street or in street cred on such a scooter in the U.S.

Honestly, nobody did devil-may-care, fancy man, naughty Bond villain, and sexy beast with Apache face paint and Burundi drums better than early '80s Adam Ant. Viva Le Ant!



Good lordy, could we use an Adam Ant today. The entire punk and new wave movement should be on standby throughout history to perform periodic cultural bust-ups: To unplug the jukebox; to force us all to try another flavor.

As much as I wax on about the '70s and early disco culture, by 1978 or 1979, things really did need to change, and change they did for a little while.

But then they went back to the beginning again. When did punk become as stylistically slick and predictable as disco? When everyone started calling it new wave? When Adam Ant and Grace Jones did a Honda scooter commercial? When some girls from one of my last classes at university starting telling me how much they loved Duran Duran and thought that made them edgy? Not in 1983 it didn't.

Then again, even early '80s Duran Duran had more substance than the stuff that was getting played and "rocked out" to in my college town's downtown bars back in the day.

The funny thing is, I don't think even the rawness of punk or the danger of new wave could break through the capitalist culture logjam we find ourselves in today.

It's in the tea leaves

Editor's note: I began this post last summer (2014) and have finally decided to resurrect it, revise it, and publish it. Better late than never.

* * *

With the demise of so many American "daytime dramas" over the last few years, I've been pleased to keep my soap opera jonesin' at bay by tuning into serial (melo)dramas from other countries and cultures.

Back in the day (the 1980s), I used to watch the UK soap EastEnders when they showed it on various PBS stations around the nation. I even remember watching some episodes of Coronation Street on the USA Network waaay back in the early days of cable TV, when I think the networks were trying to fill up their schedules with anything and everything.

I half-remember Dierdre being depressed and about to throw herself off a freeway overpass. So even drab-looking British drama from 1981 had a place on the dial.

On trips to the UK, Australia, Mexico, and elsewhere, I've also watched soaps--for the campy fun, yes, but also for cultural understanding. (Honest. I think soaps are a great way to get a glimpse at a culture's dreams and fixations.) I liked mid-2000s Corrie when Cilla Brown was front and center and Sally Webster was having an affair with her boss (formerly Alistair from As Time Goes By, later Stefan Hauser from Footballers Wives) at the car dealership. I've enjoyed Dulce desafío, Emmerdale, Simplemente María, Tú y yo, and, of course, Egoli: Place of Gold. I've even tried to find an online source for 7de Laan, as well as Virginie.

I periodically watch reruns of Dark Shadows on HuluPlus, a show I remember with fondness and fear from childhood. As detailed recently in these digital pages, I think about crazy fun Santa Barbara (a soap like no other, past, present, or future), mid- to late-'70s Another World, Texas, early '80s Guiding Light, the vaguely remembered opening credits for The Secret Storm, and other shows I used to watch along with my Mom, Vivien Leigh, when I wasn't even old enough to go to school, pre-1967.

I've always drawn the line at The Young and the Restless and General Hospital, the former too boring, the later too silly, for my refined soapie tastes.

And upon first, then second, then third glance, I also drew the line in a big, showy, Baz Luhrman way at Neighbours, a world-famous Aussie soap, one I've seen in the past (both in Australia in 1987 and on a trip to England in 1993) and now in the present via HuluPlus.

Vivean Gray as Mrs. Mangel

I must admit that I drew only a soft line in the sand upon first seeing Neighbours in 1987. I was secretly trying to get a glimpse of soap supercouple Scott Robinson (Jason Donovan) and Charlene Mitchell (Kylie Minogue), but I ended up being oddly fascinated with the character of Mrs. Mangel, a Dot Cotton-prototype busybody who would read tea leaves and screech out dire warnings. "It's in the tea leaves!" she would proclaim.

Funny that that one line should stay with me almost 30 years later. I even mentioned it on a date of all things some eight years ago, and, well, I was still very much single for another two years after sharing that remembrance. A word to the woebegone: If they can't tolerate your personal tastes, naff or otherwise, they're not worth getting to know.

When I tuned in in 2005, I don't remember much at all. I can't even tell you whether I was watching Neighbours or Home and Away, another Aussie suburban melodrama. That should tell you how unimpressed I was with either/both.

Now that Neighbours is currently airing on HuluPlus, I've had another opportunity to check in with the 30-year phenomenon that is life on Ramsay Street, Erinsborough, Victoria. When I first drafted this post, Neighbours was running bout a month behind broadcast in Oz. At that time, I had seen approximately three weeks' worth of shows. And these three weeks' worth of episodes had managed to make me both bored and annoyed--but mostly just annoyed.

Here are some of my observations from the early days of my reacquaintance with Neighbours:

There are a squillion other characters, most of them under 30, yammering on about skateboarding, the pool, the beach, coffee bars, and their love lives. Most of them blond (natural, etc.). All of them whiter than white, making semi-dramatic pronouncements in the most obnoxious versions of Australian accents. Think Kath & Kim, not Nicole 'n' Hugh.

First of all, I've met plenty of Aussies that don't sound like they were playing extras in a barbie scene from Crocodile Dundee. It's completely possible to be Australian and not sound like you're about to issue forth with a "call me Cobber" or "fair dinkum" in your speech--although one character (the perpetually tear-stained Sonya) went full Sheila recently when she thanked another for "shouting" her a free massage. Wagga Wagga. Tassie. Flinders Station. Indeed.

Second of all, not everyone in Australia is of the pale persuasion, although heritage and sunscreen do make many so. I do remember during the three weeks I spent there in 1987 that I was ultimately glad to get home to Washington, D.C. I do think certain places--like Australia, like Canada--tout their multiculturalism more than it might warrant. Yes, it's new to you, but some of us have been multicultural (whether by choice or by force) for the better part of three centuries. And I'm not just talking about the U.S.--Mexico, South Africa, Colombia, Cuba, Brazil, even New Zealand can stand up, proudly or otherwise, and be counted.

That's about as far as I got, obviously quickly getting lost in an outback of opinion about various and sundry. I just remember being annoyed by Sonya's constant crying, annoyed by Naomi's yesteryear attempts to seduce Toadie (seriously, a character named Toadie!), annoyed by Kyle's bogan accent and style, annoyed by Brad's winged hair and Marlboro Man walk, annoyed by Imogen and Amber's whinging, annoyed by Bailey's nascent alcohol abuse (and rather fabulous hair--credit where credit is due)--just annoyed by pretty much everything and everyone on the show.

The only bright spot then was the character of Paige Novak, later Paige Smith, played by Olympia Valance (sister of Holly Valance, a former Neighbours star herself). Absolutely fabulous and totally watchable, not because she is very beautiful (which she is) but because of her character's verve, gutsiness, trouble-making, and overall joie de vivre. Everyone else paled in comparison.

I can't remember what happened next, but I think I gave up on Neighbours for a few weeks. I don't really remember what drew me back in, but I think it was the conclusion of the storyline about Paige being the secret daughter of Lauren and Brad and the subsequent fallout from that big reveal. Somehow that hooked me. And once that did, I kept watching and began reevaluating my initial impression of other characters, other stories, and the show overall:

• Sonya stopped crying and became interesting once I saw her feistier and more fun-loving side, then her battle with her addiction demons from the past.

• Naomi became just a helluva lotta fun and much more sympathetic once she moved to the end of her stalker-like behavior toward Toadie and began her Mrs. Robinson-styled affair with the young and spunky Josh. You learned more about the regret she felt for having made such a huge mess of things in her life and the very real, very unrequited feelings she had for Toadie. I especially like the episode when she visited Toadie in the hospital. For me, she has become one of the best reasons to watch the show.

• Kyle and Georgia got married and while Kyle's still a bogan, he's a bogan with sensitivity and depth of feeling toward Georgia and over his missing-in-action father. Kyle and Georgia's wedding and the swell of emotions surrounding that was a thing of daytime beauty.

Nate Kinski  played by Meyne Wyatt

• I still find Daniel and Amber super annoying, but recently I even came around to appreciating Amber just a bit, during her reactions to believing that she had been abandoned at the altar by Daniel and in the aftermath of her father's accident.

• And I love Nate! Not only is he sexy, he's an engaging actor--his post-traumatic stress disorder storyline had me quaking, sniffling, and recalling my father's struggles with the same condition. It is hard for me to imagine any American show, daytime or otherwise, dealing with this topic, especially with sensitivity and real compassion. To my knowledge, he's the first regular aboriginal Neighbour to join the cast, so finally, one big little step into the diversity pool.

There have been missteps: The whole Erinsborough tornado seemed gimmicky and resulted in very little drama. I can't really get into Naomi's relationship with Mark Brennan, mostly because I find Mark judgmental and self-righteous (although admittedly impeccably ab'ed). I loathe even more that that relationship may end with Naomi moving on to Paul Robinson, possibly having her literally become Mrs. Robinson. Call me Dolce & Gabbana, but I couldn't care less about Chris's quest to become a father by serving as a sperm donor to "I must be a mother at all costs" Lucy Robinson. I thought Matt's downward spiral was too rushed and not necessarily true to the character.

Overall, I've been less keen on the Neighbours 30th anniversary storylines, much of it feeling (understandably) contrived and probably more meaningful to the lifelong fans than to me. Nonetheless, I enjoyed the Harold and Madge reunion and wanted more. That sort of tender, emotional interaction between characters is what Neighbours does best, in my opinion.

At the end of the day, I now look forward to catching a new episode of Neighbours. It's become my preferred soap, even over Coronation Street. I think others, too, must be enjoying the show because recently via Hulu we've gone from being four weeks behind Australia to just two weeks behind, on par with the UK schedule.

* * *

Things are changing in my life--for the better in many ways. (Details to be revealed soon.) I've been a little bothered to think this may mean that I won't be able to watch Neighbours anymore via Hulu. It's not going to change my life plans, but the fact that it even rises to the surface of my mind when contemplating major life events is a testament to how much I enjoy this show.

As odd as it sounds to say out loud, I think I need a soap in my life--an minor daily escape, a dream of an alternate universe that offers me the chance to feel a range of emotions--from sadness to wistfulness to satisfaction to titillation to laughter. I don't need a soap so that I'll cry or wallow in emotions, although I don't think those are necessarily bad feelings to have. Rather I need a soap to help me take out some time at the end of a busy day, to relax, to relate, and to fantasize a bit about living in a community with others who care about me. Given their domestic nature, soaps acquaint you with their characters' daily lives, making you feel, fleetingly, that you're watching a story acted out by friends.

Admittedly, they are friends with more happening lives, better hair, and a superior muscle-to-body fat ratio. Fantasy can only go so far.

I'm glad that I gave Neighbours another chance. I'm happy to have the show in my life right now to meet my needs. In my future life, regardless of where I live or what I watch on TV, I hope to have good neighbors for many years to come.