From Sun City to Freedom

Volume 2 of my mixtape focused on the music of the Apartheid era.

'Tis the season . . . to remember . . . that it can always be worse.

From Sophiatown to Soweto

My latest music offering on Mixcloud makes an aural examination of the music of the Apartheid era. Not the cheeriest of topics for the holidays perhaps, but there you have it.

In a separate post, I promise to explain what prompted me to create this mixtape. There's also a second volume in the works that will be posted shortly.

Oh how I wish we could say "Merry Christmas" again!

But I guess we'll have to settle for "Treason's Greetings"!

Dirty hands

One day I'll explain why I think the Jot the Dot cartoon scarred a generation of Southern white boys, including me. OK, only me.

In the meantime, I'll just say that I'm disappointed in myself. I figured out that John Edwards was no choir boy long before most realized it. I should have figured out that Charlie Rose's "aw shucks, ma'am" routine was total b.s. as well.

Heavy sigh, y'all.

Tight rope

So last week was hard, questioning-my-outlook-on-life hard, questioning-my-life-choices hard.

My professional life overwhelmed me once again. It made me extremely anxious and wondering if I should be doing what I'm doing or whether I'm even a functioning adult. Am I too nice? Am I too generous? Am I easy to manipulate? Am I patsy, a sucker, a chump?

But at some point on Friday, after some of the noise and stress of the last couple of days, weeks, and months started to fade away, I realized I had survived and actually come out pretty well in the end. 

I momentarily neutralized some bullies I work with (chiefly two man-babies I have to deal with on a regular basis). I survived an embarrassing moment. I took responsibility for a problem. I treated people well. I supported my staff and I was supported by them and by my superiors in return. I presented a case that showed smart financial management, that got some people the resources they needed but on my terms, not theirs (meaning I didn't scheme and connive to make it happen--I used honesty and transparency instead). And I came out on top.

I realized I don't have the ego to be in the spotlight for too long. I realized dealing with mean people is one of the hardest things for me. I realized my job is 99.9% operational and not very creative, which is a problem that I haven't figured out how to fix. I realized I really really really want to retire. 

But maybe for a moment I also realized I'm fairly smart, not a dummy, not a chump, not a sucker. I realized that when push comes to shove, I will stand up for myself. I realized that while I'm a bit too methodical sometimes, that can be a plus, especially when you're dealing with other methodical people. I realized that while I'm prone to anxiety, probably more than most, I am also a fairly well-functioning adult.

I walk on the high wire, the tight rope. I wobble, I stumble, I trip, and sometimes I fall. But thanks to the people around me--family, partner, friends, colleagues, and more--and thanks to me, I can hang on. I can fall into a safety net if I need to. And I can shake it off and get back on the wire as many times as I need to.

Touch me again

Oh to know what I know now way back in 1991. I felt so old then, even though I was not yet 30. But already I was out of the dance club and into . . . what exactly? Certainly not the streets. Hibernation maybe. Escape. Transitions.

A year or so after meeting my friend S., a friend I've now had for nearly 30 years. Several months before leaving Washington and only once creeping back to live in its shadow again. Two years before graduate school. Two years before meeting G. Four years before moving to Texas, which feels like home to me and perhaps always will. Thirteen years before leaving Texas and moving back east. Twenty-two years before meeting Cairo. Twenty-four years before moving to Canada. Twenty-six years before now.

Oddly, I've written about this some before. This little fluffy pop tune that somehow captures my hope and longing, my regret and sorrow.

Some moments during the previous 26 years have been, frankly, terrible, including this last week or so. And then other moments have been spectacular, such as living with Cairo and talking to him this week, during one of my sadder, more frustrated, more anxious times.

My father's passing. But my mother still lives and is as vibrant as ever.

I still loathe my job and am wary of my colleagues. And yet I had probably the most successful week I've had since arriving in Canada two-and-a-half years ago, have a great staff and supportive bosses.

One of the biggest reveals this week was that once my anxiety and stress subsided, I realized that I had actually had a good week, at least professionally speaking. The anxiety has been too much of late, but I'm actually doing OK.

Would I go back in time? Would I do anything differently? Maybe or maybe not.

Except maybe . . . I'd dance more, even past the age of 30. To hear that piano again, those drums, that whistle, that call to "hold me baby/drive me crazy/touch me/all night long." To put aside the fears imagined and real, to trust in myself, to take a moment, to enjoy, to cavort, to laugh, to be carefree, sans souçi, to grab life and run with it. That I would do, at least for one night, return to the scene and dance, dance, dance away the heartache, dance away the tears.

But then I'd hurry right back to the present to savor what I have now, the good and the bad, and look forward to a better tomorrow, week, month, and year ahead.

Money love

I will say this for Steve Mnuchin and Louise Linton: They have absolutely no shame.

Oh no she di'int

Quite bizarrely, I find myself liking Taylor Swift's "Look What You Made Me Do," several weeks after everyone else has moved on. I still don't hear the "I'm Too Sexy" melody, but I don't necessarily need to--it's a clever, catchy, dramatic bit of pop, and more distinctive than most of the stuff out there at the moment. (Not that I have a good sense of what's au courant. All they play in Toronto is wall-to-wall Drake, Canada's Rapper.)

Having said that, I think it's high time we issued an amber alert for Taylor Swift's soul. It's been missing for years, if it ever existed at all. I suspect she sold it to Mephistopheles sometime around the age of 10 and that her real name will eventually be revealed as Taylor Faustus. In another scenario, I imagine in her spare time she's busy spinning straw into gold trying to figure out the name of that little guy that put her in this predicament. Talk to some of those German-Americans around Reading, Pennsylvania, Taylor's hometown. They know.

The weird thing for me--and this is no great reveal as I've wondered about this for some time--is how real is any of this? Was Taylor ever a good girl? Is she now a bad girl? Does she have a beef with Katy Perry? Is she just serving as a beard for any number of fey pop stars and movie actors? And most importantly of all, why do any us have to give a shit?

It's not the details of a thousand cuts that keep me puzzled and pondering, however. It's the whole "star-maker machine," the pop culture industrial complex. Britney and Justin did it back in the day. Madonna has always done it. Bowie is Bowie because of it. Our "dizazsthuh" of a president currently revels in it.

"It" being this fabricated narrative that keeps us watching, turned in, and tuned out to the stuff that really matters--family, friends, human rights, economic equality, and real music.

But what do I know? I'm seriously considering paying for and legally downloading this ditty.

So keep on groovin', TS Industries, Inc. You're manufacturing some memorable, interesting-sounding pop.

Lady be good

Doggone it, I could watch this clip all day long.

I know 1941 was a harsh year in human history, but, oh, to be this joyous, to be this carefree, to be this liberated from the worries of the world once again.

Woof!

From Asia with Love

So glad to see Blofeld and Rosa Klebb out and about and enjoying their tour of Asia.

The real Bowling Green massacre

"Rand Paul speaking at the 2013 Conservative Political Action
Conference (CPAC)" by Gage Skidmore.
Created 14 March 2013. CC BY-SA 3.0.

CNN's Chris Cillizza opined this week that

"The story of Rand Paul allegedly being attacked by a neighbor -- and breaking six ribs in the process -- is strange on its face. 

"The initial explanation offered by some neighbors of both men and the attacker's lawyer -- that the episode occurred due to a dispute over leaves or grass trimmings -- was even stranger. 

 

"Rene Boucher pleaded not guilty Thursday morning in a Bowling Green  [Kentucky] courtroom to misdemeanor fourth degree assault charges stemming from the Nov. 3 incident in the gated community where the two men live."

 

Strange? Strange that someone would attempt to beat the crap out of America's no. 1 Jheri Curl right-wing politician over something as innocuous as lawn clippings? Ha. Have you met Rand Paul?

 

In a matter of seconds, I came come up with a number of reasons why Mr. Boucher might want to (literally) crush on Paul:

• He calls himself Rand. Actually, his name is Randal (one 'l' because I guess he secretly harbors being a character in a Game of Thrones novel?), and apparently he was not named after Ayn Rand, even though he studied her writings.
• He studied Ayn Rand's writings and calls himself Rand, nonetheless.
• He's a self-described libertarian. Give my regards to the NRA, Randy.
• That often smug look on his face.
• That I'm-barely-tolerating-your-stupidity-infidel! tone to his voice during interviews.
• The fact that he was born in Pittsburgh, grew up in Texas, and still turned out to be a dick.
• That poncy hairstyle. Maybe it's real, maybe it's not a perm, but the tips and curls often seem gelled. The whole 'do seems like a desperate cry of regret from the Hair Club for Men.
• The fact that he touts his credentials as a LASIK surgeon to qualify himself as an expert on health care in the U.S. LASIK: Plastic surgery for your eyes.
• The fact that he lives in a gated community. (Just to be clear, a chain-link fence with a gate is not the same as a gated community....)

 And then there's this--

Skaggs said he "very much likes" both men, though he noted that Paul "is a very different character than most people." "He's a deep believer in his own thoughts," Skaggs said. "And he believes his own thoughts are right -- and they are right 100% of the time."

So while the specific triggering event might remain a bit of a mystery (my money's on a heady mix of yard waste and coveting/insulting thy neighbor's wife), there is no actual mystery in why someone would get crackin' on Pauly Bore. Heck, with that sense of surprise attack and the ability to break some ribs, I think the Tennessee Titans may have found a new teammate.

Shoot the messenger

"Clock in the main station, Zürich, Switzerland" by
JuergenG; modified by Rainer Z. CC BY-SA 3.0 Unported.

Mark your calendars: CNN is reporting that the time to talk about gun control has been set for Sunday, December 31, 2017, between 11:59:50 and 11:59:59 pm.*

*This appointment may be suspended if a horrific shooting occurs prior to the designated time or is believed likely to happen after the designated time.

(Hey, don’t shoot the messenger! The National Rifle Association sets the rules, not me.)

(Oh, who am I kidding? You’re totally allowed to shoot the messenger. Wouldn’t want to be accused of interfering with your 2nd Amendment rights. Unfettered access to firearms über alles and all that.)

Taking out the trash

To good mental health, Mr. President

And because it's not a guns situation, can we assume that Our Fearless Leader won't be bothered when a brown terrorist or a white lone wolf starts "mental healthing" at him?

After all, the murderer isn't trying to shoot you. He's just trying to make a rush appointment for some mental health counseling.

Which he probably doesn't have access to because he has no health insurance... but let's not sweat the policy details of you and your colleagues in Congress.

Check it out

A timely repost from Facebook . . .

Time to break out the handy "Mass shooting in US checklist":

• Send thoughts & prayers but not actually do anything useful
• Argue over semantics of the term "assault rifle"
• Argue over semantics of the term "terrorist" - if Muslim use it, if Christian/white use term "lone wolf" "mentally ill" "troubled past"
• Congress does nothing but NRA increases donations just in case
• Wait for next one, rinse, repeat

I'd like to add a couple of items to this checklist, things I've noticed that have become part of the "national conversation" that leads to total inaction:

• Report statistics that state more people die from handguns, car crashes, cancer, etc., to downplay the horror of mass shootings‬ and indicate that mass shootings aren't really a problem after all.
• Argue that you can’t change or repeal the 2nd Amendment of the Constitution. (Hint: Yes, we can. The 2nd Amendment is already a change to the original Constitution.) 
• Argue that the 2nd Amendment is your right--and a superior right at that. Ignore all other rights. Ignore the promise of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness in the U.S. Declaration of Independence. Continue to believe that your right to bear arms supersedes all other rights.

I'm sure you can add your own to this list. 

 

The Boy from New York Meets the Man from Milwaukee

This has all the makings of the saddest, most nauseating, most boner-killing porn movie ever: First Son and Professional A-Hole Donald Trump, Jr., in the role of the twink starring alongside of (or, rather, in the service of) former Milwaukee County Sheriff and Professional Dickhead David Clarke as the daddy/master, XXX film's "exotic" African-American power top to Donald Junior's weaselly, beady-eyed, power bottom.

It's Diesel Washington (a personal favorite, a top with a sense of humor) versus Armond Rizzo (who I detest, in part because he looks like Donald Trump, Jr., and in part because he whimpers like a Japanese anime schoolgirl in most of his scenes). It's a horrible episode of Oz in which even Sister Peter Marie hopes all the characters rot in jail. It's a gold-encrusted Lawnguyland remake of The Boys from New Jersey, a C-list mid-'80s porno that an acquaintance of mine in Washington, D.C., back in the day had a prominent role in. A cute guy who I almost fell into bed with--but his performance in that pitiful porno tells me my more cautious than carefree nature helped me make the right decision once again.

Next scene please.

* * *

Earlier in the week, I tweeted this response to the picture you see at the top of this post--Don Junior and David Clarke together, bro-bracing one another, Don Junior's chest puffed out and Dave Clarke wearing a cowboy hat with a paisley shirt (da fuh?) because, I dunno, he likes irony.

And, like, wow! A few days later I (re)discover this movie, Answered Prayers, starring Diesel Washington and Chris Harder, amazing life-like porn simulations of Don and Dave. So I miscast the execrable Armond Rizzo for the humpdillyicious Chris Harder. My sin.

Chris Harder is a much better choice for the role. Somehow he manages to look fetching, dewy-eyed, non-simian, and just like Donald Junior. How is that even possible?

I actually think I've seen this movie, at least in 20-minute, uh, spurts on the internet. If I recall correctly, Chris Harder plays a messianic gay homophobic politician (no, really) and Diesel Washington plays his gay guru sidepiece. Or something.

What I saw in the movie was hot and obviously memorable in its way but, nonetheless, striving a little too hard to be provocative, powerful, and socially relevant.

Much like the pairing of Fils Trump and Père Clarke. And yet I have zero interest in enduring even the opening credits of that movie. Whatever the opposite of man-on-man erotica is, that's the clusterfuge offered by liddle' Don Junior and fake Davey Clarke.

Curse me and my over-imagination. Now I'll never be able to look at Chris and Diesel the same way again.

The First Ladies of the United States

I had some free time this morning ... and some free time this evening, so I remade my original meme ....

Presidents on the edge of a nervous breakdown

Recently seen on Facebook.

I'd toss him a roll of paper towels. That always helps in a crisis.

Heaven and hello, Miriam Makeba!

It's probably blasphemous to say this, but I love this version of Miriam Makeba's "Pata Pata," a remix by the duo Milk & Sugar (heretofore unknown to me).

Now I'm not saying I love it more than the original, so I've not completely lost my mind or my soul. But it is darn catchy and groovy, and the animated video is attention-grabbing and so much fun to watch.

It's a good remix that reveres the original rather than destroying it, with Makeba's voice front and center and her image singing from the heavens above down upon the more colorful and profane world below.

So, really, it's all very religious, perfect for a lazy Sunday before Canadian Thanksgiving. I know I'm thankful I found this song. And I'm grateful that through the miracle of the internet, I can share it with you.

Sigue bailando, mi gente

I made this. Let's consider it a work in progress.

Somewhere in Puerto Rico in the aftermath of a hurricane, a certain someone has decided to play games with the people. Instead of giving them much needed supplies and food, he's tossed them paper towels--the quicker picker-upper under normal circumstances but not very effective in cleaning up destruction, flooding, power outages, and hunger.

I guess we should be grateful that his handlers made him leave his t-shirt cannon on Air Force One.

No matter. We can only pray that this soon results in a mutiny against the Bounty by the time all is said and done.

Where the lights are shining

Rest in peace, Mr. Campbell.

Cryin' time again

Rest in peace, Mr. Charles and Mr. Campbell.

I hear you singing through the wire

Rest in peace, Mr. Campbell. Thank you, Jimmy Webb.

Mentl as anything

Alas, I don't own the copyright for this splendid photo,
and I'm quite sure it's not in the public domain. The photographer
is George Etheredge of the New York Times; the photo was
published in a profile about DJTJr in the March 18, 2017,
"Style" section of the Times. If you don't already subscribe to
the Times, you should: It produces excellent journalism.
I am a subscriber, and I'd encourage you to be one as well.
It's one of the chief ways that we can contribute to
fostering democracy and transparency in government.

"Papa?"

"Papa!"

"Papa, can you hear me?!"

The Great White Way's latest hit is Mentl, starring Donald Trump, Jr., Donald Trump, Ivanka Trump, Jared Kushner, Paul Manafort, Jeff Sessions, Michael Flynn, and an ever-growing stack of Russian nesting dolls, each one with a smaller and smaller sense of morality.

It's a sad, strange musical put on by the worst cast imaginable. It had tryouts in New York and bankrupted a number of theaters and backers. So why its backers imagined that this show would play well in Washington is anyone's guess.

With a little luck and a lot of determination by the critiques, hopefully the show will close before too many more performances ruin the stage in America forever.

Hamburger Helper

Feel it still

This is my official groove of the week: "Feel It Still" by Portugal. The Man.

Hey, I don't name 'em.

It even makes my arthritic left knee want to dance--which I did just yesterday in my apartment, to no ill effect other than embarrassing myself in front of any neighbor who might have taken a gander through my open blinds.

I have no idea what the video is about, nor do I care. I rather wish all new videos just offered a creative setting for a straight performance with out all the "I'm getting my money's worth out of my film school degree" techniques, which ultimately are rather yawnable or just ruin a perfectly good song. Less is more. And some things are better left to one's imagination.

Any similarities to "Le Palladium" and every other 1960s (in situ or -esque) James Bond/surf punk tune is purely incoincidental, I can assure you.

Dance this mess around

It's Friday. It's time to hippy hippy shake it with "Le palladium" by Liz Brady, "une femme de Paris," who was actually born in Cairo to French and Greek parents.

This song is currently being used in a Stella Artois commercial in North America (the one with the guy doing "hat tricks" at a party).

Oh la la. Groovy man.

I am Sasha Farce

Guuuuuuuuuuurl.

Rethink this.

Rethink everything.

Love come down

The Black Ties performing a new version of the Evelyn "Champagne" King hit from yesteryear (aka my youth), "Love Come Down."

Such cheeky fun. This put me in a good mood. I hope it will you as well.

Nick Kroll explains it all for you

via GIPHY

Feeling your pain, Anderson

How many days until impeachment?

Mother I'd like to pluck

The obvious sequel: Fifty Shades of Gravy and Mashed Potatoes

Hot off the grill! Kentucky Fried Chicken (KFC) releases a romance novel, Tender Wings of Desire, just in time for Mother's Day--because apparently in the U.S. a meal from KFC is Mom's big treat on her special day.

The novella is set in Victorian England and features Harland, a mysterious sailor (from Kentucky?), and the desperate choice of Lady Madeline Parker: Will it be an ordeal of precision poultry penetration? Or a life of mad, passionate plucking?

There's a video to advertise the book (see the link above), but for the life of me, I can't figure out why sexy, shirtless Jesus was called upon to shill chicken and romance.

Fishes and loaves, sure, but breasts and thighs? Well, pluck me.

Meanwhile in Canada, spontaneous combusion is real, y'all

Image from the CBC news website; retrieved 27 April 2017;
no copyright claimed

Meanwhile in Canada, spontaneous combustion is real, y'all, and apparently imminent.

If a fire hydrant explodes, it should put out a fire, not set aflame everything within a 30,000-mile radius, n'est-ce pas?

Worst photo ever--and yet it captures the subject's likeness perfectly.

Meanwhile in Canada, people are getting high the natural way

Nabbed from the CBC News website; retrieved 26 April 2017;
no copyright claimed

We're getting high in Canada, even before they've legalized marijuana! (Coming soon to a stoner's backyard in early 2018.)

Put the Easter egg in the basket

Beautiful, yes, but just a humble box of Paas egg dye will do.
Bulgarian orthodox Easter Eggs by Ikonact. 7 April 2007.
CC BY-SA 3.0; Wikimedia Commons.

Easter has never been an important holiday for me, in part because it has rarely resulted in a day off (although in Canada at least Good Friday is a holiday) and in part because of sunrise services as a child. I'm not a morning person--despite the fact that I'm writing this at 7 am on Easter Monday. Insomnia is not the same as being a night owl, by the by.

Yes, I know I'm missing the point, that Easter is not all about me and my very special needs, as rich and detailed as they may be. I'll save the exhaustive theological philosophizing for another time (and another person--again, not really my thing), but the religious aspects of the Easter story just do not add up for me. I'm not an atheist, but I am a realist. I'm intrigued by the idea of Jesus, but I just don't know that I should take his life story literally, that I consider him the one true Son of God, and that he died for my sins. (Because wouldn't that mean I get a free pass into eternity?) And don't even get me going on the Resurrection. Color me confused on this and many other aspects of Easter.

This blasphemy, oddly enough, is in no way meant to besmirch Jesus as a human being or as holy person. My issue with Jesus is and has always been with his adherents, not the man himself. I suspect Jesus was a loving, intelligent, contemplative man who questioned authority and immediately endedf up on the wrong side of society and the law. It's an age-old story, although I would be hard-pressed to come up with anyone currently alive who is cut from the same cloth. Edward Snowden? Don't make me laugh! See, the thing is, to be Christ-like, you have to be unaware and unconcerned that you're being Christ-like.

I reckon the last person on Earth that deserves the crown, at least as far as I'm aware of, was Nelson Mandela. May this great human being rest in peace and continue to teach us about strength and forgiveness for generations to come.

* * *

In short, I have never had any talent for being a Christian. 

Plus in matters secular, I have never had any talent for finding Easter eggs. This carries over in other areas of my life: Sometimes I just can't see beyond the surface of things, or rather, I can't see the particular thing I should see because of all the clutter of the other things I see. Let's be kind and call it "sensory overload," but it could be that I'm just very, very dense.

The one time I was successful at Easter egg-hunting is also one of my favorite Easter memories. We were visiting my grandparents for Easter, as we often did (so, see, this holiday was important to at least some of my family), who lived on a small farm in Eastern North Carolina. It was pouring rain, so we couldn't hunt for Easter eggs outside, which given my general lack of expertise in this area was perhaps secretly a blessing to me.

Nonetheless, my family hid the eggs inside the house for my cousins and me to find. I was probably still a failure as a "hunter" that day, but I did at least find some eggs that time--and if I recall correctly, I found them more than once because we hunted Easter eggs repeatedly inside the house on that rainy day. Those eggs were cracked and squishy to touch by the end of that day, dirty from so much rough handling, but that is what I remember most and cherish about Easter.

Oh, and the candy, of course. Chocolate, of course, and now later in life, I've come to appreciate jelly beans, although as kid I thought they just looked weird and their pleasures too fleeting.

I don't know why you should care about any of this, but it's my weird way of saying Happy Easter, Happy Passover, Happy Spring, Happy Sunday, Happy Three-Day Weekend, Happy whatever you may or may not celebrate.

In this time of birth and renewal, here's to your successful hunting and gathering of whatever you may be looking for.

This is Syrious, Part 2

Carrie doesn't live here anymore

I nabbed this from a Facebook friend. I have no idea where he got this from--maybe he created it himself.

Regardless of the source, it is brilliant. A tip of the hat to its creator.

This is Syrious, Part 1

How much you wanna bet this is a daily occurrence at Kasa Kardashian?

By way of background: "Pepsi's New Kendall Jenner Ad Was So Bad, It Did the Impossible: It United the Internet." 

I'm a lumberjack and I'm definitely not OK

. . . with this shit.

Douchebags in the woods: The no. 1 cause of suicide homicide in the lumberjack community.

Canada remembers: Who shot J.R. Ewing?

From the Canadian tabloid 24 Hours (Toronto)

Canada remembers who shot J.R. Ewing in 1980.

However, it doesn't remember that J.R. was seriously wounded, not actually killed in 1980.

Sigh.

I wouldn't tap that

Well, somebody had to say it ....

Courtly behavior II

Courtly behavior

I can see Canada from my house

"Palin while visiting Ketchikan during her gubernatorial
campaign in 2006" by Bob Weinstein. CC BY-SA 3.0 Unported.

I'm seeing buzz on Twitter this morning that Sarah Palin may be nominated as United States ambassador to Canada.

As the kids might say, 😲

Or maybe, 😳

Or maybe, 🙄

Or maybe we're all just laughing our tuques off.

A few quick observations--

• What did Canada ever do to hurt the U.S. so badly? Yes, some Canadians could earn an Olympic medal in patting themselves on the back, being self-satisfied about their nation and their lives compared to their American cousins. But is that any reason to inflict Sarah Palin on them--or anyone? I mean, if the Trump administration is so interested in torture, might I suggest letting Sarah set up her own Abu Graib-like black ops re-education center somewhere outside of Kotzebue?

• So much for the northern escape route. You thought you could treat Canada once again as your safety school (thank you, Stephen Colbert, for that observation) and flee Trump's America by trying to emigrate to Canada--without having a real sense of how to do it or how difficult it is to do. 

But the best way to do that is to vote--and not vote conservative, right wing, alt-right, Republican, or Jill Stein.

• Tut, tut, really, there's nothing to worry about: Sarah's sled dogs will turn on her and eat her alive before she gets as far as Dawson City.

Or she'll quit midway through her term.

Either way, problem solved.

* * *

A silver lining?

Canada, like most Western nations, has concerns about low birthrate, an aging population, and how to maintain societal viability under such circumstances--and immigration, especially immigration that favors young families, is one way to address that.  

(Editor's note: As I have discovered in my efforts to apply for permanent residency in Canada, one gets zero points for being over 50, single, and childless. This means that even with a work permit, a master's degree, a lengthy professional record, fluency in English and some competency in French, not to mention a well-paying job, I still just barely score high enough to be considered by using the Citizenship and Immigration Canada online analysis tool. But such is life.)

But if Bristol Palin joins Sarah in Ottawa and continues to promote abstinence-only sex education in Canada--all the while caring for her two children born without benefit of marriage--the Canadian birthrate will sky rocket!

Cross-border diplomacy achieved--and problem solved again.

Angry Spice

Editor's note: Normally, Saturday Night Live clips from official sources (e.g., NBC television) are blocked for viewing outside the U.S. However, I can view this (not from an official source) clip in Canada, so I'm assuming you can view this regardless of your location. Watch it before it's removed for copyright infringement.

Update 10 February 2017: And of course it's now gone! If you're in Canada, you can watch it here.

And that was the week that was.

If Melissa McCarthy doesn't get an Emmy for the prop-box alone, there is no justice.

But if Trump and Bannon have their way, there may indeed be no justice.

Race Bannon vs. Racist Bannon

Editor's note: I made this.

In case you're having trouble telling the difference . . .

It's an unfact!

Kellyanne Conway's grade school primer revealed.

Don't think too much about the use of the word "golden" in the title.

On second thought, maybe you should.

We're not into Barbie

And we can only hope living with a guilty conscience is even harder.

Chili con carnage

So what exactly is "American carnage"? I mean, other than an alt-right, ultra-conservative dreamscape for the coming four years?

As best I can figure, it's the filling for the "best taco bowls" served up at Trump Tower Grill.

Happy Veinte de Enero! I love Twitter-Manics!

American carnage

But for too many of our citizens, a different reality exists: 

Mothers and children trapped in poverty in our inner cities; rusted-out factories scattered like tombstones across the landscape of our nation; an education system flush with cash, but which leaves our young and beautiful students deprived of knowledge; and the crime and gangs and drugs that have stolen too many lives and robbed our country of so much unrealized potential.

This American carnage stops right here and stops right now.

--The Inaugural address of Donald J. Trump, the 45th President of the United States of America

Oh, American carnage. That ol' thing.

Been there, done that, got the blood-spattered t-shirt.

Star-Spangled Girl, or, Kellyanne's Kustom Kostume

Gurrrrrrl, please. 

This is what happens when you alienate all your gay male friends. They let you leave the house looking like a scarecrow in Revolutionary War drag. Or as a friend put it, "looking like a cashier at Burger Chef during the Bicentennial."

Thoughts and prayers, Kellyanne, thoughts and prayers.

Simply ravaging

"We must protect our borders from the ravages of other countries."

Bitch, please. You can't protect yourself from the ravages of time, spray tan, and combovers. How the hell you gonna protect our borders?

The gift that keeps on giving

"Eet ees peanut breetle. Ees from Cracker Barrel on New Dzhersey Ternpike. Vee stop before eenter Delaverr. Donal haf to pee . . . ."

"Hmm. Well. So it is. Now isn't that nice?"

In the bag

What exactly is going on here?

Looking at this photo taken during yesterday's Inauguration ceremony for the Pissy Mango, my best guess is that former President George W. Bush is trying to suffocate himself using a drycleaning bag that just blew in from the National Mall.

I don't blame him. Who among us hasn't contemplated that in the last 24 hours?

Miss ya, Dubya. Sincerely. And no, I never thought I'd hear myself say that either.

But Dick Cheney, oh so quiet these last few months, you can still go straight to hell.

* * *

Oh my gods, I spoke too soon! Look out Mr. Former President Bush! The Evil Cheney's right behind you!

Obama out

Give us this day

You're in? I'm not

"Sensor operated washroom fixtures" by Steve Mann.
Copyright 2004. License: CC BY-SA 3.0 Unported.

From today's news:

Don's What?--Portable Toilet Names Covered for Trump's Inauguration

Apparently, there is a brand of portable toilet called Don's Johns, which are being used at the upcoming Presidential Inauguration, aka The End of American Civilization As We Know It.

Obviously the company can't use its real product name because that would be demeaning to the President-Elect and the exalted office he is about to hold.

When contacted for comment, Donald Trump stated that he was surprised that so many porta-potties would be needed for the the Inaugural events on the National Mall. "What's the bigly deal? When I'm in the mood for a pee, I always just hire Russian prostitutes to do it for me," he noted.

I think I have to agree with the Golden Don on this one--what indeed is the bigly deal? It's not like they're called Trump's Dumps after all. Now *that* would be demeaning.

We're jammin'

"Country Bear Jamboree" by Whitenep - Own work, Public Domain

Just announced: Disney's Country Bear Jamboree agrees to perform at the Trump Inauguration.

Best responses to this news from Facebook friends:

"I thought the bear had more integrity than that" - my sister.

"And this is how bears get a bad reputation" - my bearish friend SK.

Worst kept secret

Who wants to be a vermillionaire?

I don't. Worst. Gameshow. Ever.

But I think I've figured something out. Burnt Umber Berlusconi's approach to politicking is akin to the marketing campaign for Rhonda Byrnes's The Secret.

"I know The Secret! And I'll tell it to you--in my book, available for just $39.99. Call now! Operators are standing by!"

Except that instead of selling anything, Creamsicle Mussolini keeps saying, "I know A Secret! Keep tuning in and I'll tell you . . . on Tuesday! Or maybe Wednesday! Not sure yet!"

True enough, we're not being asked to buy any specific product, but I'm sure we'll all end up paying one way or another.

Thanks to all those who voted for him, to those who felt it necessary to issue a protest vote, and to those who didn't vote at all. I'll wave at you from the northern side of Lake Ontario--although I'm not sure that will put out or just fan the flames of Conflagration, America's Favorite Bored Game.™

Oh well. You were great while you lasted, land of the free, home of the brave.