Five years and counting

Heinitz coal mine, Europe, before 1930. Public domain. Via Wikimedia Commons.

I finally figured out what I want my next big accomplishment at work to be before I retire.

To not die.

Third time's a charm

Quid pro quo. Via Wikimedia Commons. Public Domain.

Il Douchey is so pathetic that he's not even the 1st president to be impeached. He's a lowly *3rd*.

Mofo can't even fuck up with distinction.

You bet your life

Source unknown

The not-so-secret word is "plague."

The generational divide

Headline, News24.com, 12 December 2019

I have a strange sense of humor, a strong sense of the absurd, and I am not always appropriate in public or private. But these days I try to embrace it.

This image is a pretty solid example of all of the above, a headline from the South African news site, News24.com. It's a horrible thing to happen, a family is murdered in their own home. And it happens all too often, in the U.S. as well as in other countries.

But the thing I just can't wrap my head around is why the headline notes that the family was watching Generations, a very popular South African soap opera, when they were murdered.

I'm just having trouble understanding why this point is germane. Would it have been more or less horrible if they were watching 7de Laan, Isidingo, or The Bold and the Beautiful instead?

I'll see myself out now.

Jaundice is the new black

Melania: I need new dress to meet Queen on big London trip. I am bored of these clothes.

Stylist: Mrs. Trump, perhaps your dresses could reflect a theme, such as the success of American industry and brands across the globe.

Melania: Yes, that is good idea.

Some time later ...

News anchor: First Lady Melania Trump appeared today in London wearing what was described by her stylist as her tribute to French's yellow mustard.

Music Togo

I don't understand any of this, but I love it just the same.

Impeachy keen

Fat, dumb hicks

1967 Elcona Mobile Home by M. Thivierge. CC BY-SA 3.0 Unported.
Via Wikimedia Commons.

Word to the wise and not so wise: You should avoid pissing me off online.

[Not me]

"In both states [Alabama and Mississippi], the primary product is fat, dumb hicks, with substance abuse problems, who live in rusty single wides, and who hate everything and everyone."

[Me]

"Why is it bad to be fat? Why is it bad to live in a trailer? Why do you think people in these states have substance abuse problem[s]? And even if they [do], shouldn't we as a society be more compassionate toward those with addictions, especially since those addictions are often facilitated by poor or nonexistent medical care?

"Statistics might lend credence to your general observations about weight and substance abuse, but they can't explain away the need to insult people who may not have had your advantages (I'm assuming) in education, income, and technology.

"I also wonder, is it helpful to disparage great swaths of the population whom you might like to agree with you on social issues or political matters at some point? Or is there room for collaboration--or even just coexistence?

"I feel rage and spew vitriol toward the willfully ignorant as much as any liberal, but I don't think 'fat, dumb hicks' are the problem. I think it's more down to the willfully ignorant upper classes either not caring about the challenges faced by those 'fat, dumb hicks' or eagerly manipulating those 'fat, dumb hicks' into doing what keeps the upper classes happy.

"While 'fat, dumb hicks' have agency, let's not pretend the deck isn't [heavily] stacked against them [as it is, all poor people]. Let's not pretend that sitting back in our liberal cocoons and insulting people does either them or us any good."

***

Lordy.

The thing is, I get the sentiment, I feel the frustration, and I'm sure I've been as uncharitable as this poster to an article in The Washington Post that I read earlier today. Seeing people repeatedly vote against their own interests, watching people react to cheap patriotism, witnessing people toast and adore a treasonous Soviet asset, a mean-spirited jerk, a willfully ignorant, screw-the-little-guy president is maddening and enraging.

But it's not just the "fat, dumb hicks" who do these things, even though they're trotted out at every rally President Slimeball conducts (and then quickly leaves town without paying his bills, much as he's done his entire trash-strewn life). There are plenty of middle and upper class people who have done the same--and they influence or control the flow of money in my home country more than the "fat, dumb hicks."

How are we ever gonna fight the good fight if we turn against one another? How are we going to lift every one up by pushing down further the people we think are already beneath us, lower than the low, and deserve it for being born economically or culturally poor or poorly connected? How are we going to get people on our side--or, more appropriately, how are we going to get on their side--by constantly signaling through word and deed that they are not worthy or worthwhile? Why would anyone want to side with a liberal if you can only be a liberal on someone else's terms, not your own? I think we have to ask ourselves, is the point of all this to give the "fat, dumb hicks" agency--or is it just to make them bend to our will, just as conservatives have tried to do to the rest of us?

I think I know the answer to this last question, and it's not good. Maybe we should study hard and take the test again.

Tickle your fancy

Are we not men? No! We are Jermaine Jackson and DEVO! performing together in a Halloween special in 1982!

Honestly, back in the day, I never understood why this song was not a number 1 in the U.S. Instead it had to "settle" for top 20 pop/top 5 R&B. Nothing to be ashamed of but a chart ranking middling enough to guarantee obscurity within just a few years.

Get this: You had a member of the Jackson mafia family, which was everywhere in the early 1980s. You had the ultra hip new wave band DEVO, which was probably at the peak of its alternative popularity. (At least if memory serves from my college days.) You had an incredibly catchy hook ("Let me tickle your fancy/let me excite your soul") and a highly danceable beat. And you had a very adorable and sexy Jermaine doing his best work, a few years before he'd crash and burn his credibility with a duet with Pia Zadora.

In essence, you had 1982 in a 3-minute pop nutshell.

Maybe it was racism--"black people don't play rock 'n' roll" and all that bullshit. Maybe it was a less popular Jackson in the spotlight (neither feast nor fowl, neither Michael nor Janet). Maybe it was a song stuck between worlds, not R&B, not rock, attempting to appeal to too many audiences through the talents of two slightly less than high profile performers. (How is this that different to "State of Shock," the Michael Jackson-Rollling Stones hit from 1984?) Maybe it was danceable but not in the right way - too alternative, not Hi NRG, disco's cheap, tacky, easy little sister. Maybe it was too perfect of a song and sounded like a lot of other stuff on the charts at the time. Which maybe it did, maybe it didn't.

Regardless, I thought this was a perfect pop gem at the time and still do nearly 40 (!!!) years later. Frankly, as old as it is, it still seems more exciting, entertaining, and authentic than every piece of pop pablum on the scene at this time.

Yeah, I'm *that* old.

March of the Faucettos

I ain't tappin' that: "My Faucet" by Marcus Quigmire.
CC BY 2.0 Generic. Via Wikimedia Commons.

I have a dripping faucet in my bathroom. Maybe it only needs a washer, maybe it's something more. I do not know. I'm not a plumber. It's been like this for a week. The whole week, in fact, has been like this for a week.

So I called maintenance for my building, but they can't--or won't--do anything about the problem. I do not know why.

They tell me to call a plumber. Which is complicated by the fact that I don't own but rent a condo, so I have to get my landlord's permission to call a plumber.

And why do I rent a condo and not own one or rent an apartment instead, you ask? Because I live in a city that dreams of being socialist but is actually quite the capitalist--or perhaps is just shitty at and indifferent to both, like it is at pretty much everything service-oriented, transportation-based, or creative and inspiring. (Worst public art ever.) And thus there's no money in apartments, and only the wealthy can afford to own the condos. And while I do ok, I'm not at the "I just spent a million maple leaves on a 300 square foot condo" level of income. Maybe in another year. Or fifty.

Anyway, the landlord is cool, go ahead call the plumber, and I'll reimburse you, no problem. She's like that, and I believe her.

So I call the plumber and am asked what kind of faucet is it? As in what brand.

And I'm like, I don't know, it's in the bathroom, it's a bathroom sink faucet and there's no brand name on it. (I double-checked.)

"We only service Moën faucets." You know, the expensive, stylish ones, that emit a stream of lukewarm water onto a flat rock. The water glides from the flat rock into a tray, then dribbles into a minuscule drain, and eventually plunges into Lake Ontario or some such. And somehow you're supposed to shave in this sink, the Rube Goldberg machine of modern plumbing.

Well, hunh, I'm pretty sure there are other types of faucets out there, not just Moën, but never say never. You live in Canada, you get used to fewer retail options. (Really, are Grape Nuts that hard to import?) I'm guessing because it's a small country that, as mentioned, has a peculiar, middling, I dunno what do you wanna do? I don't know what do you wanna do? relationship with socialism, capitalism, and pretty much everything animate or inanimate.

"Do you have the parts?"

Well, no, because I don't know what the problem is, so why would I have the parts? It's probably a washer, and if it is, I'm sure you could spare one, but, honestly, I'M NOT A FUCKING PLUMBER SO HOW THE FUCK SHOULD I KNOW?!

Interior monologue only, I promise.

"Well, we'll replace it with Moën and charge you for it if you don't have the parts."

Seriously, is Moën the Faucet Mafia and if you don't use them, you end up with a dead horse in your bed?

"Send us a picture of the faucet, try to identify it, and we'll get back to you next week."

Oh, I'll get right on that.

I suspect that if I were to do business with them--which I won't--they'd replace the entire sink, maybe even the cabinetry and the mirror, even though the faucet only needed a washer, because they feel impelled to make everything Moën.

(Or as one of my friends said when I related this story to him: "Sorry, you're going to have to move.")

I know Greta Thunberg won't be pleased with me, but I'm thinking of letting the faucet drip until it becomes a water feature or a fountain. (It's dripping hot water, so let's call it a hot spring or a thermal bath. Les Bains au Harbourfront peut-être ....) Then maybe I can build condos and retail around it, make lots of maple leaves, and retire early.

Screw librarianship. I think I should have become a plumber. I would have made a lot more money and get away with baring my teeth and my ass to the world for fun and profit.

¿Qué será mi vida?

Like I said, always choose disco.

Choose disco

This is probably way too much yellow fabric and blue eyeshadow for a rainy October morning, but some of us choose to jumpstart the day with drugs while others, like me, choose disco.

The Gibson Brothers (who, despite the Anglo sounding name, were actually Francophones from Martinique) represent a phase of late 1970s French/Belgian pop hitmaking that no one other than me would possibly be interested in. Long live the production team of Daniel Vangarde and Jean Kluger!

From this era and from this production team, I am particularly fond of "Cuba" but also of another Gibson Brothers' hit, "Qué Será Mi Vida (If You Should Go)," which was popular the year I made my debut at the cotillion of publicly acknowledged homosexuality. That is to say, bounded out of the closet and into the hearts and minds of a small but highly valued group of family and friends.

Cuuuuubaaaaaa, quiero bailar la salsa ....

The party's over (or at least in the minority)

Justin Trudeau in 2019. Public Domain.
Via Wikimedia Commons.

I have a lot to learn about the Canadian political mindset. Despite having to form a minority government, the Liberals and Justin Trudeau really didn't take that much of a hit, losing fewer than 20 seats since the 2015 election. Every Toronto riding was won by the Liberals.

And yet, especially over the last two years, the bloom has definitely been off the Justin Trudeau rose, at least if you were to believe comments made in public news forums and by opinion makers, ethics review boards, and non-Liberal politicians. 

I'm not sure what my lessons learned are. The Doug Ford Conservative government in Ontario hurt Conservatives overall? The opposition choices were unappealing (Conservative Andrew Scheer), untested (NDP Jagmeet Singh - or "too ethnic"? Something few Canadians would confess to, at least in public), or region-specific (Bloc Québécois Yves-François Blanchet) to make much of a difference? Canadians aren't as progressive as they virtue signal? (Poor showing by the Greens, lacklustre showing by the NDP.) Or people voted strategically for the Liberals to block the Conservatives?

I know Justin Trudeau plays very well outside Canada, but I've had an increasingly hard time taking him seriously over the last year, after some broken promises, fake virtue signaling, and fratboy douche privilege displaying. (Blackface, brownface, and a certain smugness papered over by nice hair and a good complexion.) When your alternatives are Doug Ford, Boris Johnson, Donald Trump, and Mauricio Macri (Argentina's current failed-state leader), I guess you can't help but look good to the world. Nevertheless, the world deserves better.

Surprisingly, I've sort of overlooked his ethics violations in the SNC-Lavalin affair: I thought that was more a tempest in a teapot, perhaps a disappointment to some but seeming more like an example of honest/dishonest politicking than anything else. At least it was real if not necessarily ethical.

One thing I hear a lot about here is about the "failure" of the U.S. political system to have more than two parties. Well, in this election, we had six vying for a majority in Canada, and I can't say that the results were all that different than with just two. It's a parliamentary system, so it's different from the outset--technically, you're voting for the party representative for your riding, not for the prime minister. And yet there are still some of the same challenges - uninspiring leaders, tepid voter turnout (about 66%, still much better than in the U.S.), middling results, and the reality that the Conservatives won the national popular vote, yet still are in the minority parliament-wise.

So maybe the lesson learned is that politics and governance suck everywhere, even in the most "enlightened" of spaces?

Oh, sooorry you had to read all the way through for me to reach that conclusion ....

* * *

The outcome of the Canadian election tells me that I am actually not a Supposed Former Drama Junkie after all. (Alanis Morissette reference, y'all. #CanCon)

Seriously, I find myself somewhat disappointed, even aggravated by the rather drab outcome--even though I should be pleased with the outcome, at least in theory.

"Rob Ford at the 2013 Beaches Easter parade" by
Bruce Reeve. CC BY-SA 2.0. Via Wikimedia Commons.

Mulling it over today, I kept thinking where is the drama? Where is the marching in the streets, setting couches on fire, and breaking storefront plate glass windows? Where is the plan to start campaigning beginning one minute after midnight on the day after election results are announced? Where is the name-calling, whining, and stamping of feet? Where is the endless dissection of results, the ad nauseum ruminations the election's Deeper Meanings, and overwrought analyses of the thoughts and feelings of white working-class voters?

My goodness, last week there was a 24-hour period in which President Shitstorm (aka Mussoleaky aka Il Douchey aka Donald Trump) and his mobster cabinet messed up more than all six Canadian political parties have done in the last four years. Hell, probably in the last four decades, given how the national ethose appears to be "safety first."

Maybe I need to detox for a while from the clusterfudge that is U.S., U.K., and Argentine politics. Or maybe Canadian politics need to be crazier. we hardly knew ye!
Rob Ford,

Maybe I need to sit down, shut up, and be careful of what I wish for?

Yeah, that, too.

Two can play

Governor Goodhair goes down

Fantasmas en la casa

As we move from summer to fall in the Northern Hemisphere, it's time to think about tea, fuzzy sweaters, crisp air, and warm fires--or not, depending on your preferences.

Fun Argentine pop group Miranda! will share the moment with us--in beautiful San Carlos de Bariloche no less.

"Pero no, no, no, no, no, no ...."

Dancing with the Soon-to-Be-Behind-Bars

Disgraced former White House Press Secretary Sean Spicer
salsas with tears in his eyes

That moment when you realize, nope, I'm indeed completely devoid of shame ...

That moment when you realize it might have been better not to have responded to that email from a Nigerian prince ...

That moment when you hear Mephistopheles laugh and you realize the joke's on you for eternity ...

That moment when you hear an announcer with a British accent intone, "Performing the salsa, Sean Spicer and his partner Lindsay Arnold!" and you finally realize you've died and gone to hell ... and you totally deserve it.

Poultry in motion

"Portrait of Argentine Actress Eva Duarte" (later Eva Perón)
by Annemarie Heinrich. Wikimedia Commons. Public Domain.

So my all-things-Argentina sojourn continues. And--you're forewarned--likely will for some time.

Currently I'm reading this biography of Eva Perón, Evita: The Life of Eva Perón by Jill Hedges, which is really very good, painting a more more nuanced portrait of Evita than you might get from other sources (such as musicals), but not shirking from her stridency, score-settling, and authoritarian tendencies either.

There is lots to recommend the book--it is thoughtful, sympathetic but clear-eyed, well written and well researched. But for now I want to focus on my favorite anecdote so far, one that brings into glorious flower (or do I mean feather?) the Peróns' mid-20th-century pro-level trolling. This anecdote has both a literary connection (Argentine author Jorge Luis Borges) and a library connection (Borges worked as a librarian for a time during the Perón era and then immediately afterwards, too).

Apparently, during the Perón era, Borges made many ugly public and private statements about Eva's origins--as did many Argentinians on the right, left, and center. If you were shocked how mean people, pundits, and politicos were to Hillary Clinton as a woman in power, really, you will fall to the floor in a faint when you read stories about the vitriol directed at Eva.

Eva Perón's origins were indeed poor, murky, and humble--one of five children born out of wedlock, her mother, Juana Ibarguren, was the paramour of Juan Duarte, an Argentine landowner and rancher who had another, legal family. By all accounts, he kept Eva's family to the side and never really provided for them in a significant way, especially not after his death.

Imagine growing up like that--fatherless, shunned, hungry, treated like trash, your mother working constantly to provide for five young children. Imagine how hungry for justice, sincere kindness, and social acceptance that you would feel as an adult. 

Then imagine having to hear famed author Jorge Luis Borges, a man in the 1940s with an international literary reputation, a man of the oligarchy, claim--based on no evidence then or now--that your mother at one point ran a brothel and that you and her sisters were prostitutes in said brothel for a time.

Hedges argues that it was likely quite the opposite, that Eva's mother worked hard, overcompensated, and raised her children to be as good, clean, and proper as possible so that they would not be tarnished for life by their illegitimacy and poverty.

Borges kept telling these tales throughout his life, including (and especially) when Eva and Juan were in power in the late 1940s and early 1950s.

Coincidentally, in those days Borges had a government or quasi-government job as a librarian in Buenos Aires. Of the good, the bad, and the indifferent that the Peróns did during their reign, they tended to practice "clientelism," awarding the spoils of war--i.e., government jobs--to their supporters, poor, middle class, and wealthy.

Borges was not one of those supporters, obviously. So they offered him a "promotion": A plum position as an inspector for poultry and rabbits at the Buenos Aires municipal market.

I don't know if he took the job, but he likely wasn't happy about the offer. I imagine that he thought his privilege would excuse his being a jerk but surprise! No.

I do know that there are a number of librarians I've worked with that, if I were in charge, I would promote to poultry inspector in a heartbeat. Who knows? They might be good at it, better than they were as librarians, colleagues, and human beings, but I fear incidents of salmonella and bird flu would skyrocket during their tenure, nonetheless.

All's well that ends well, I guess: When Perón was ousted, Borges became head of la Biblioteca Nacional de la Argentina, the Argentine national library. Years later, he still repeated those stories and continued to display his right-wing, oligarchic street cred as a big supporter of Chilean dictator Augusto Pinochet.

Maybe a little more time in the chicken coop, stepping around and through all that chicken shit, would have adjusted Borges' attitude some. But probably not.

Poor you, poor me, poor us

Street scene, Purmamarca, Argentina

Is Argentina a poor country?

Well, as far as poverty is concerned, it may all depend on how you define it. Using the World Bank's World Development Indicators from 2018, approximately 7% of Argentina's population lives on less than $5.50 USD per day. That's compared to 1% for Canada, 2% for the US (still shockingly something like 6 to 7 million people), 21% for Brazil, 35% for Mexico, and a whopping 57% for South Africa.

However, viewed another way, according to the the CIA World Factbook (2016, 2017, et al.), 32% of the Argentine population lives below the national poverty line--compared with 9.4% for Canada, 12.3% for the US, 4.2% for Brazil, 46% for Mexico, and 16.6% for South Africa.

Say what? The numbers are all over the map (literally) and don't necessarily translate well when comparing one country to another.

***

Viewed more subjectively, Buenos Aires looks great, like a stunning, slightly funky, "exotic" capital city, every so slightly lived in. At least that's the case if you stay in Palermo, Retiro, Recoleta, downtown, and most of the city proper. (In comparison, tidy Toronto is so un-crumpled, so unlived-in, so anodyne, and quite tedious, so much so that I almost cried upon landing back home.) I'm not sure what Buenos Aires is like in the poorer, more industrial suburbs, although a ride in from the international airport in Ezeiza reveals its share of tenements--but no corrugated shacks or squatter camps, at least as far as I could tell.

If you watch the Argentine news or current affairs programs there, you see your share of people of different income levels and social classes. And inevitably, like much of the rest of the Western world, the lighter the skin, the higher the social class/economic level tends to be (although not exclusively).

Despite the prevalence of Turkish soap operas, there is at least one Argentine soap, El Marginal (which was available on Netflix at one point--but not in Canada), shown on Argentina's public TV broadcaster, that takes a very gritty look at life among the poor, prisoners, ex-cons, petty criminals, and other "marginal" people.

Farther afield, the city of Salta in northwestern Argentina feels like a rather pristine Spanish colonial city with modern conveniences. "Salta la linda" doesn't have the glamor and cash that Buenos Aires does, however. Smaller Altiplano indigenous communities like Purmamarca and Humahuaca look more "developing" with unpaved streets and adobe buildings--but the restaurants at least have wifi.

Suffice it to say that Argentina is poorer than the US and Canada but does not feel desperately poor. Nonetheless, how do you maneuver this as a tourist without looking clueless or insensitive?

I still stayed in nice hotels and ate good food, but I tried not to overdo it or be ostentatious, much as I live in North America. I shopped some, both from stores and street merchants, including those trying to get by selling dishcloths, tissues, candies, and other small items, all part of the more informal economy. Did I need dishcloths while in Argentina? Not necessarily but they did come in handy. And as allergy-prone as I am, tissues are always in season.

I generally gave some money to those on the street, when asked, same as here. The "need" in Canada is sometimes questionable--with young guys on Queen West requesting money "for their band" or street people near my building asking me if I have something "better" than the $1 or $2 coin that I offered. While in Argentina, I didn't constantly pass out cash, only if I was prepared to, able to, and felt comfortable doing so.

***

What was more challenging was knowing how to handle a situation like the one I'm about to describe.

One night for dinner in Salta, I passed by the more elegant option recommended to me by a fellow tourist, instead opting for the old and familiar--McDonald's. Hey, what can I say? I was just feeling a little homesick that night and not very adventurous, especially after my lunch of "cazuela de llama" (llama stew) earlier that day in San Antonio de los Cobres. So I kept it simple: A grilled chicken sandwich and fries, a Diet Coke, all a prelude to some vanilla soft-serve, which I'd been craving all week for some reason.

While seated at a communal table, I vaguely noticed that a young boy sat down near me. But I didn't really focus on him, as I was no doubt scrolling through my Facebook or Twitter feed or reading the news from home, with home still being the US, despite my life in Canada. The boy eventually got up and went to another table where he asked a young couple if they were going to finish their fries and if not, could he have them.

At that point, I paid attention. I hadn't seen that happen before--or at least not in a very long time, and certainly not in glamorous Palermo.

The couple generously gave their fries to him without even a second's hesitation. So I decided to do the same. It wasn't much--there weren't many left, as I'd been eating them absent-mindedly while engrossed in the access to the wider world provided by my phone. But, literally, it was the least I could do.

An image of Eva Perón, downtown Buenos Aires,
exhorting the wealthy to do more for the people of Argentina

I started to leave, making my way toward the ice cream, served at a separate counter. But then I paused. I have more resources at my disposal, I thought; I can and should do more.

But what exactly? If I give too much money, will I look ostentatious? As Americans, we have a reputation for overtipping, and sometimes this can be viewed as showing off, rather than being understood as carrying out an American habit of leaving an inflationary amount for service because we know wait staff in the US have to get by on tips rather than salary.

The boy was young, maybe 12 or 13 at most--and this made me hesitate doing more as well. Being an older man seen giving a young boy cash, would there be the perception that I was expecting something for my money, either by the others around me or the boy himself? I recalled urban legends from visiting Puerto Vallarta years ago, a city with a big gay vacation scene, that young men of unknown age might entice you as part of a sting, with the police nearby, ready to swoop in for a bribe to "help" you avoid jail time and embarrassment. This was not the same situation at all. Nevertheless, on the trip down, I'd also seen posters all over the Atlanta airport about human trafficking and the sex trade. Suddenly the topic felt very real, very present. 

I debated what to do: Give him a generous amount of cash, buy him a meal, offer him a smaller amount along with my fries, or something else entirely (up to and including walking away). I ended up making what I perceived to be the least ostentatious gesture: I gave him about $30 pesos, not even one whole Canadian dollar, my fries, and wished him well.

I'm glad I respected the boy's pride, his "space," and I'm glad I didn't do anything that would appear compromising to him, to me, or to others. But was playing it safe the best I could do? Did respecting someone's pride outweigh momentarily alleviating their very real need--hunger? Should avoiding confusion, embarrassment, and, yes, the appearance of criminality, take precedence over helping combat someone's hunger or destitution?

***

I didn't know then, and I don't know now, and I will likely never know.

I do know, though, that I skipped having any ice cream that evening. Suddenly I was no longer hungry. Instead, I felt ever so slightly more melancholy for the comforts of home.

Argentina, te quiero

Oh, don't mind me. I'm just stuck at home with an apres-trip head cold, feeling melancholy, with too much music on my hands ....

El día que me quieras

I've been traveling again. Can we guess where?

Star quality!

Elena Roger and Ricky Martin perform "What's New, Buenos Aires?" from the 2012 Broadway revival of Evita.

Fin del Mundo

Fin del Mundo? Bring it on, Señor!

Is it any wonder? (Summer soundtrack #7)

After a few years on hiatus, Keane has new music out, which is reason to dance in the streets on a hot summer's day. The new song, "The Way I Feel," sounds great, but I still consider "Is It Any Wonder?," a gem from 2006 (13 years ago!), to be peak Keane.

It's because (Summer soundtrack #6)

"I'm Not in Love" by 10cc is perhaps in my personal top ten--nay, my top five--of favorite songs of all time. It is the perfect love song, lyrically, sonically (is that a word?), emotionally, and atmospherically, and why there's not an internet radio station dedicated to playing it non-stop, 24 hours a day, I will never understand.

By chance, I was in Alley Cats, an excellent record shop in Orillia, Ontario, earlier this week when this was played over the sound system. And even now, nearly 45 years later, the song still gives me a chill.

In town on business, I had fun explaining to a younger colleague that this was the original version, that other versions she was aware of were (in my opinion) pale imitations. She knew versions that I did not (a live version by Robert Smith and The Cure apparently), and I knew versions that she did not (Olive's somewhat drum-and-bass version from 2000, to me a major disappointment from a group I had adored up to that moment), but we both agreed that the song, no matter who recorded it, is ethereal, lovely, and poignant.

Why I didn't buy the vinyl then and there, I do not understand. I do have a CD version from The Very Best of 10cc, but here's one occasion when I can agree with hipster audiophiles: The warmth and intimacy of the vinyl cannot be denied.

A mellow tune for summer, but even a long, hot summer requires its slow jams.

* * *

Here's a short BBC TV documentary about how the song was made.

Wow. Just wow. It seems incredible that someone would make this much effort--especially in an era when multi-tracking was new and tape-looping was novel and rare--to create "just a pop song." But indeed 10cc did, as did ABBA, as did the Beatles, as did Giorgio Moroder, and did many other greats (by my estimation at least).

This article, cited in Wikipedia has more backstory about how the song came about, particularly lyrically, spawning from a complaint by band member and lead singer Eric Stewart's wife that he didn't tell her he loved her often enough.

Pfft. Typical man. Can't say the words but can feel all the emotion. In time, he can find a way to tell the world the way he feels. And maybe eventually even you.

Nonetheless, with the end result being the exquisiteness that is "I'm Not in Love," I'd say Mr. Stewart finally and sufficiently got his point across.

Queer theory

I for one am looking forward to his theory as to why he's such a douchebag.

Bishop explains: You're gay because your mom had anal while she was pregnant with you.
🤔https://t.co/FCNJyFQzlL

— Q. Allan Brocka (@allanbrocka) July 26, 2019

Death of pie

Muskoka berry pie from the Mariposa Market,
Orillia, Ontario

Scene from a murder, 3 AM.

In the pink (Summer soundtrack #5)

It's OK, Duran Duran, your secret's safe with me: You basically ... let's be kind and say "co-opted" ... late '70s Roxy Music's style, sound, wardrobe, and lyrical content for your first, I dunno, five or six albums. But I forgive you.

This past Sunday, I went shopping, mainly for shoes but for other clothes as well. In my never-ending quest to get outside of my own self-induced ruts, I went into a store I normally don't visit: Le Château, a Montréal-based clothing store chair that has locations in Toronto and across Le Canada. What drew me in was this beautiful soft pink suit--not unlike something Bryan Ferry would've worn in 1979 or Simon Le Bon in 1983. And while I coveted it, I realized, too, that at 57, this is a dream best left to the past.

To tell the truth, I couldn't have worn it in the past either because I'd have been way too self-conscious. Not because of the pink color per se, although I do not look particularly appealing in pastels. But let's face it: I was never a pretty man, not in an '80s blond highlights, triangle-shaped face, androgynous features, Patrick Nagel print kind of way.

It was likely a painful realization at the time. But now? Well, now I seem content with some comfortable shoes, stretchy-waist cotton trousers, and checked and plaid easy-care shirts. The mighty have fallen, perhaps, but the mighty are a heckuva lot more comfortable than they were throughout much of the 1970s, the '80s, the '90s, the '00s, and probably even last week.

Twin screw steel steam cruisers

RMS Oceanic (1870). Public domain. Via Wikimedia Commons.

So in getting ready for another trip to Argentina in a month's time (aka Down Argentine Way Round 2), I've been re-reading Bruce Chatwin's In Patagonia. Which is a bit funny in that I should have re-read this a year ago when I was actually going to Patagonia. Instead, this time I'm going to Buenos Aires and Argentina's Andean northwest (Salta, Jujuy, Purmamarca, Tilcara, Humahuaca, etc.).

I'll skip the critique of the book, for the most part. There are parts I remember reading way back when (mid-'80s), and there are parts I don't remember at all. (Which leads me to think that perhaps I never finished the book?) In some of the narrative, Chatwin comes across as very, "oh look at me, a Brit traveling the world, and passing judgment on the odd unfortunates I meet." To be expected perhaps, but we can't all be as woke as we are today. (Heavy sarcasm.)

But other parts, specifically the history of seafaring around Cape Horn, including that of a family relation of humble origin who rose to the rank of captain for a New Zealand shipping line, have been oddly fascinating.

In one part of the story, the engine fails on a ship his great-uncle (I think) is commandeering. It is a hybrid vessel: A steamship but one that has sails, which, after the engine fails, allows them to limp slowly toward Cape Horn with the hope of arriving eventually in port at Punta Arenas, Chile. But they have to be careful as they move to the cape for fear of catching a current that will set them adrift in the South Atlantic--not to mention the worry over smashing into the rocky coast of southern South America.
 
Chatwin remarks that the ship had no radio. According to my quick research at 3 am Sunday, ship-to-shore communication apparently didn't exist until the last few years of the 1890s, thanks to the pioneering "wireless telegraphy" inventions of Guglielmo Marconi. Further, such communication wasn't in common use until the early part of the 20th century. Thus there was no way to communicate what was happening on board, even as the ship moved closer and closer to shore.

Chatwin also mentions that another ship around the time had broken a propeller and, as a result, had been set adrift in the South Atlantic for four months before it was discovered. (This event served as the basis for Falk, a novella written by Joseph Conrad, which I'm now trying to track down for a hopefully quick read.)

While 125 or so years ago now seems like a long time ago, when Chatwin was writing his book, the events had taken place less than a hundred years before.

My points here are probably rather mundane:

• We're not as old, advanced, or as conscious as we think we are. 
• A lot has happened in the last century or two, so no wonder sometimes we feel like we're enduring cultural whiplash, a harsh and frightful spin on a carnival ride that is designed to thrill but ends up hurting as much as it satisfies. 
• These events put into perspective any flight delays we may have or any gastrointestinal illness we may have caught on board a cruise ship. 

Not that the latter aren't frustrating, awful, and even occasionally life-threatening, but the problems we experience now somewhat pale in comparison to never knowing if you are going to make it home despite "modern" (then steamship) technology at your disposal.

Maybe our ancestors were just a lot more used to risk and danger then. Maybe in some respects and in their own way they were braver, smarter, cleverer than us, even if they didn't know the same things we know now. Maybe this will make me less anxious about taking the small risks I take in life, which, while significant to me, seem quite tame. And that's OK. I'm a relatively tame guy.

Maybe, too, pondering what my ancestors endured and how I have benefited from it will make me whine less about the momentary discomforts of modern life.

But I doubt it.

Jock itch for the brain (Summer soundtrack #4)

Ah la la la la la kill me now please.

The thing is, I despise this song, at least lyrically--it's sexist, braggadocious bullshit. And yet "Sweat" by Jamaican reggae shame band Inner Circle has been stuck in my head for the better part of a week now.

So I'm adding this song to my summer soundtrack if for no other reason than it'll remind me that summer isn't always easy-breezy Cover Girl. No, sometimes it's crappy reggae reminding you that Hell is other people's music, trying to enjoy summer in the city, and in doing so, sweating so profusely that you end up with the worst case of jock itch you've ever had in your adult life.

Not that this happened to anyone I know, of course.

In praise of termites

A chainsaw artist has unveiled a sculpture of First Lady and Glamour Model Melania Trump in her home town in Slovenia. (Yes, she's an immigrant--but a genius!)

I dunno. Melania looks a little wooden.

But at the same time, amazingly lifelike.

Streetcar Stories: Black shoes, black belt

Black belt. Public Domain. Via Wikimedia Commons.

A man bounded onto the streetcar on my way home yesterday. He was 40, had lived in Texas much of his life, but was originally from Toronto, having left when he was 13.

I know all this not by sight but because he told me and another passenger soon after he sat down.

"I'm so confused," he said. "I don't recognize anything. I don't feel like I fit in here." He didn't say this morosely but with a smile and a laugh, one part amazement, one part exasperation, and maybe even one small hint of desperation.

I smiled genuinely but as I do so often in life, kept a certain amount of distance between me and the conversation that the man and the other passenger were having. Honest, I'm not trying to be aloof--it's just self-preservation in a world that I often find overwhelming and confusing myself. In my heart of hearts, I want to be open to the world, but the reality of said world often makes me think better of it. As I've said before, people can surprise you--sometimes in a good way but other times in a disappointing, even frightening way.

I let the other passenger do the talking and listening for a while.

The car stopped at Bremner Blvd. and the other passenger exited. I thought, well, I can exit, too, as a way to end the conversation, then walk the rest of the way home. But for some reason I decided it against it.

The man smiled, and all of a sudden, I heard myself say, "For what it's worth, I feel out of place here, too. I'm from the States originally, and I don't feel like I fit in either. And I've lived here for four years."

Which is completely true. Canada is like America's slightly off doppelganger. Things look similarly on the surface, but when you get below the surface, nothing seems the same. It's jarring--people sound mostly the same, English is the predominant language in Toronto, the accent and vocabulary are similar, and yet it's all different as well. Queen's Park, Parliament, hockey, cottage country, Harvey's for hamburgers and Second Cup for coffee, the prevalence of marijuana smoke and no one particularly stressed about health care costs. At least when I'm in Argentina I know the culture is different and I have to communicate in a different language. But in Toronto ...?

"Where are you from?"

"North Carolina originally. But I lived in Texas for many years as well."

"Ah, a Southern boy!" Which is a funny thing for a 40-year-old man to call a 57-year-old man, but I took it in the spirit intended.

We compared notes about Texas, having both lived in San Antonio.

"I don't know what's going on. I spent my time in athletics, then the military. Not like this, playing football, sports, the Army, not trying to ..." his voice trailed off. "But my Dad said, 'Come on up!' so here I am!"

He got up, ready to exit the car at the next stop, my stop.

"I have a question for you," he said. Which always makes me nervous because in my younger days, when someone said this to me, it usually resulted in some wildly indecent or offensive comment in a public place from a man or a woman with few boundaries.

"Can you come over here so I can ask you?"

Oh dear god. What in the name of ...?

Foolhardy person that I am, I walked closer. There were others around, and he wasn't using his inside voice, so I figured I could easily escape or deflect an unwanted comment if I needed to. I knew where my wallet was, and it was not easily accessible to him.

"I'm going for a job interview. I have a dark blue coat, dark pants, white shirt, and a red tie. Should I wear black shoes and a black belt or brown shoes and a brown belt?"

That was the question?

"Well, you might get by with either. Personally with the white shirt and red tie, I would go with black shoes/black belt. It can depend on how dark the blue is but black would be the safer choice, in my opinion. It won't look odd or out of place."

"Great! All I have are black shoes and a black belt! I don't have time to get anything else!"

Yes, that was the question. Frankly, having seen enough men wear brown shoes with a black belt, I was impressed that I didn't have to explain to him why that would be a bad idea.

"Thank you, man! I really appreciate the advice. Thanks for talking with me."

And with that he bounded off the streetcar and headed out into the world.

I lost track of him in the crowd at Queens Quay and Spadina. I walked along the waterfront, deviating from my normnal route a little and watching my back, then arrived safely at home.

Blue jeans sur la plage (Summer soundtrack #3)

From Québec avec summer amour, Les Hou-Lops (or, if you prefer, Les Têtes Blanches, which appears to have been an alternate name for the group), performing their non-iTunes available hit from 1965 or so, "Blue jeans sur la plage."

Poker face

Ivanka playing poker #UnwantedIvanka.

(Author's note: Not my work, sadly, so whoever did this, you are my hero/ine!)

A fistful of dollars

Headline from PBS News Hour, July 1, 2019

Ripped from the headlines: "Trump lashes out at N.Y. governor and attorney general over business probes."

Bummer.

I think everybody should just get off President Trump's ass, at least for a little while.

I mean, come on, after last week's deep and extensive probing in Japan by Vladimir Putin, Kim Jong-Un, Mohammad bin Salman al Saud, and countless others, I'm sure our Butt Boy in Chief is just plain worn out. No wonder he's so riled up!

Classic! (Summer soundtrack #2)

Only five years late to the party. Nevertheless, I'll keep dancing.

Streetcar Stories: Hot fuss in Hogtown

"Flexity Outlook" on Spadina Avenue by Booledozer. Public Domain.
Via Wikimedia Commons.

[Author's note: This text was written while riding the 510 Spadina streetcar in Toronto on June 28, 2019.]

There's a group of elderly New Yorkers on my streetcar right now, two male-female couples easily in their 70s. Footloose and fancy-free in America's hat: Canada.

That accent is a dead giveaway. But who am I kidding? At this point in life, everyone living between Philadelphia and Boston sounds the same to me. I've never had a good ear for the nuances of Yankee accents; it's even worse now that I live in Canada.

One of the older gentleman is wearing a Killers t-shirt, aka The Killers, the contemporary rock group from Nevada.

Or so I'm assuming. He could just be advertising his default approach to problem-solving.

Killer is also the crankiest, snarliest member of the group.

Partner: "Have a seat. You should sit down before you fall."

Killer: " I don't wanna sit down! I wanna go to Chinatown!"

Killer groused for a while longer until a woman riding on the car told him that Chinatown is a way's off and that he should have a seat and relax (as if!), that she'll let him know where the stop is.

But sit down he did and stay mostly quiet. But then his fellow travelers started in.

"Is this Chinatown?"

"Is it this stop?"

Announcer: "This is Queen Street. The next stop is Sullivan Street."

"Is this Dundas?"

"Where is Chinatown?!"

Finally the lady who helped earlier told them to exit early and walk up the street.

"Which way is up the street?"

🤦🏻‍♂️

So lessons learned:

• Canadians are nice, but only up to a point. I think the Canadian woman offering assistance finally just gave up on their sad-sackcloth and ashes routine and told them to exit early. And I can't say that I blame her.
• Americans are less nice - at least this American is. I would have left the car much earlier and prayed they ended up murdered moments later by disgruntled former cast members of Canada's answer to the soap opera (smh!), Degrassi Junior High.
• Toxic New Yorkers are the world's worst ambassadors. And if you need further proof, take a gander the Baby-in-Chief in Japan this week, who has managed to sell us out to the Russians, the North Koreans, the Chinese, and the Saudis. Winning! So much winning!
• Toxic New Yorkers are why we should very carefully select our next president--unless we like being yelled at by confused, irritable, clueless, nasty-tempered, and perpetually aggrieved seniors on a non-stop basis.

And looking at the 2016 election process and results, whether it's Bernie or Babyshambles, apparently many of us do.

Mystery candi-date

Every now and again, I need to see this to know I'm still alive.

This is a TV commercial from 1965 for the Mystery Date board game. In my childhood, I would have given my eye teeth (it's a Southern thing) to have owned this game, let alone played it.

I could argue that I was fascinated by the technology--turn the door knob, get a new picture!--or just loved the music ("Or a dance!"). But, come on, even I'm not that disingenuous.

The fact is I wanted to meet my own dreamboat, not something little boys in the North America of the mid-'60s could own up to. And come to think of it, even now, 50 (gulp) years later, it isn't easy for many to admit and embrace these thoughts and feelings.

But at this moment in time, that's neither here nor there, neither a complaint nor a lament, neither pride nor shame. Rather, in this era of non-stop politics, I would like to make the point that playing Mystery Date is akin to picking a Democrat for U.S. president.

Except even Milton Bradley and young girls in the '60s had enough sense to know you don't give the people 20+ candidates to choose from and expect them to sort our their dreamboat over two nights in late June while discussing health care and immigration policy. In Spanish, ferchrissakes.

So maybe we could install a big door at every polling both and let the people spin the door knob and take a chance. Or maybe we could just have each candidate pimp themselves out by sharing their best photos and musing over their ideal date, sort of a Bachelor or Bachelorette for the Age of Wonk.

And while I know all the good gay money's on Pete Boot-edge-edge and Beto O'Rourke, I've still got my eye on that thinking man's bit o' crumpet, Eric Swalwell.

But then I did always prefer the dud over the dream.

(Sorry, Eric. I actually think you're a dream in every way, but a punchline is a punchline is a punchline.)

I think this very non-scientific method could work. And chances are in your favor that you would indeed get that dream candidate and four fabulous years of dancing--or bowling!

Just don't blame me if you open the door and staring back at you is Oprah's spiritual advisor Marianne Williamson or, the gods help us all, New York Mayor Bill de Blasio.

Right back atcha, bitch

"Does it ever stop?"

I'm sure this is the question hundreds and thousands of migrant children hold in concentration camps, asylum seekers drowning while crossing the Rio Grande, and assorted others trapped in an unforgiving, illegal system ask themselves everyday, Mr. President.

Pressure off (Summer soundtrack #1)

And I'm only four years late!

To me this song epitomizes the year 2015 in music (Nile Rodgers and Janelle Monae as guest artists).

To me, this song also epitomizes the Duran Duran sound, look, and ethos--the band to dance to when the bomb drops, as Simon Le Bon reportedly once said. The song sounds great--it is perhaps a progression in sonic quality--but I'm not sure it's really a progression in sound for the band. I'm no Duran Duran expert, but this wouldn't sound out of place on Astronaut, Medazzaland, or even Notorious.

And maybe that's OK. Duran Duran is nothing if not consistent and yet still remains exciting to watch and listen to, even after all these years.

Having said that, I'll never understand Nick Rhodes whole look. Is smug gender-bending with an unnatural hair color still a thing?

Oh, scratch that. I forgot the era in which I'm living.

People will surprise you

"The Plaque at the Stonewall Inn" by Grace Mahony.
CC BY-SA 4.0. Via Wikimedia Commons.

I'm going to put aside the curmudgeon, the malcontent, the very-disappointed-person that I can be for just a moment to share a "Happy Pride Month" story.

Trust me, I don't do this lightly. I'm generally not a very sentimental person, and I'm not a very good Gay with a capital G kind of guy in that a lot of conventional LGBTWhatever touchstones--like Pride events or every time a Q-list celeb proclaims, "Some days I feel like a woman"--just leave me uninspired. I know I should be feeling a certain way, seeing gay life and politics through a particular lens, feeling "the struggle" and recommitting myself to fighting the good fight and being out and proud. And yet mostly the inner snarky 14-year-old boy in me wins out, and all I can do is shrug and say, "This is lame."

***

This week a friend posted a photo on Facebook from the end of grad school, now 24 years ago, when a bunch of us celebrated by going to Ocracoke Island (off the North Carolina coast) and renting a portion of a beach house for a week. I don't remember whose idea it was and who organized it (not me), but it was a great idea, a way to bring about the often-wished for "closure" and to say goodbye before we moved on with our professional and personal lives.

My only regret from the week is that more people weren't invited along because grad school was kind of a golden time for me. There were a lot of people I enjoyed getting to know then, and it's unfortunate that time has moved on and I haven't kept in touch with all of them. And, word to the wise, if you let friendships lapse, sometimes you just can't return and pick up where you left off.

So on this trip, the friend who posted the photo (let's call him Doe, because he has the most beautiful dark eyes) brought along a friend of his (let's call him Jed), who was not part of our grad school circle, a friend that Doe knew from "real life" outside of grad school, and pretty much Doe's best friend. Jed was alright, but initially maybe a little surly and closed off in a sort of typical Southern straight guy way, very much the North Carolina Bubba with a strong hick accent and the sort of traditional redneck interests to match. (Or that's how I remember it: All I recall is an interest in cars and country music, and I'm not even sure about those two.)

Jed was nice looking, but I wasn't attracted to him in that way: I was very much in love at the time with someone (let's call him ... or never mind) who now I wonder what I ever saw in him--and, besides, Jed was dating (let's call her) Melanie, a fellow grad student, and while I wouldn't have described it as the love match of the century, Melanie and Jed seemed happy enough.

As time passed, Jed loosened up some and ultimately was very funny and entertaining. But snob that I can be sometimes, I just thought, oh dear, he is such a Bubba. I'm sure I was thinking something like, "The sooner I leave this all behind, the better!" And yet in three months' time, I moved to Texas. So clearly I have a history of reaching questionable conclusions and making curious decisions based on those conclusions. (Still, my time in North Carolina and my time in Texas were some of the best of my life so far.)

But at that moment I didn't know where I was going--I still hadn't found a job yet and was likely occupied with my own personal concerns at the time. For example, this trip confirmed that I had developed a fear of heights, something that continues to this day. (The clue: I stayed in the beach house's lighthouse-like tower--tall, narrow, and vertical, like every condo building in Toronto--and felt the room spin and the urge to throw myself down the stairs every time I lay my head down on the pillow.) In addition, I probably spent a lot of time thinking how, once again, I was "the only gay in the village." Nobody made me feel uncomfortable--quite the opposite in fact--but for better or for worse, a sense of being "the other" follows me pretty much wherever I go.

To tell the truth, I was actually not the only gay in the village. There had been another grad student invited along on the trip (let's call him Jot), who prior to the trip I was told was dating a woman, a friend of Melanie named--

"Hold on. Jot is dating a woman? Like a real woman?"

"Yes, Jot is straight."

"Uh, Jot is not straight. Honestly, if he's straight, he's the nelliest straight guy I've ever seen."

"Well, he and (let's call her) Barbarella are engaged to be married."

I shrugged it off. My gaydar really stinks, I thought--except that secretly I was sure that I was right. And at some point before we left on that trip, Jot had an "old roommate" come to visit for a long weekend. And during said weekend, Jot and his old roommate pretty much blew the door off that closet.

So then I really was the only gay in the village ...

***

When Doe posted the photo, I saw that he had linked to Jed's profile. Hey, look, there's Jed! I thought. I'd almost forgotten about him! I wonder what he's been up to all these years ....

I clicked through and saw Jed looking pretty much the same as he did 24 years ago--still attractive and smiling a slightly bemused smile. Nothing out of the ordinary (other than 24 years of living had not reduced his youthful appearance), very much as I remembered him.

And then I saw that Jed had indicated he is married. I knew it wasn't Melanie; I had heard they'd broken up long ago. And, besides, the partner had a decidedly male name (let's call him Allis-Chalmers). I did a double-take and enunciated the words slowly in my mind: "Jed ... is married ... to ... Allis-Chalmers?"

This is surely a joke! He must have done this as a laugh! That Jed! Always such a kidder!

I scrolled a little more through his timeline and sure enough, there were several photos of Jed and A-C, some from what appeared to be a romantic vacation to a European country, perhaps a honeymoon, from a few years ago.

Talk about carrying a joke for a really long time ...

But then it sunk in: Jed ... is married ... to Allis-Chalmers! And that's a just wonderful.

***

I don't know why but this turn of events just amazes me in a very good way. I like the fact that Jed seems to have found his "true self," that he's found someone to love, and that they've spent time abroad. I like that Jed, who seemed like such a country boy, defied conventional wisdom and came out as a gay man, likely something that no one expected he would do, maybe not even himself.

I like that my friend Doe is still good friends with Jed--but then Doe is a thoughtful, kind, and deeply spiritual individual, so it makes sense that he would still be good friends with Jed when others might have let the friendship drop once Jed came out. (In a subsequent conversation with Jed, we both fessed up to having a crush on Doe. Doe was and still is quite dreamy!)

I like that Jed surprised me and taught me a lesson (which I will no doubt soon forget) about making assumptions, about presuming to know what someone is about based on appearance, accent, interests, etc. While Jot proved me right, Jed proved me wrong. I like that Jed reminded me that being gay and being a man can mean all kinds of things, not just the stereotypes that others have in mind nor the stereotypes that I have in mind.

So, Jed, you will likely never see this post, but I wish you and Allis-Chalmers all the luck and love in the world. Thanks for surprising me. Thanks for giving me something to be less cynical and more hopeful about.

Happy Pride to you and to everyone. At this moment, I feel very proud, of you, of me, of all of us.

Banana coward

Oh look, somebody's made an homage to Nigel Farage and his never-ending quest to be top banana (with a dash of salted caramel).

Consider him shaken--milkshaken--yet not stirred, at least not stirred to be a better human being.

European song stress, Part 1

It was something of a dreary, arduous week for me, work- and life-wise. All was fine, at the end of the day, but by Thursday I felt taxed and spent as if by a Republican Congress and still had a long Friday of meetings and machinations to endure.

So while contemplating my existence, scarfing down wine gums (the dinner of champions), and channel-surfing, it was a pleasant surprise indeed to stumble upon the 2nd semi-finals of the 2019 Eurovision Song Contest, on tape delay from Tel Aviv, airing on Omni, a Canadian TV channel devoted to multiculturalism as experienced in the Greater Toronto Area.

I settled in for the program and then made a note of the finals on Saturday night, which I ended up catching early and live on RTVE from Madrid (the pleasure and financial peril of a la carte cable offerings).

Alas, none of my favorites won this year, although I did get a couple of placings in the Top 10. I wasn't disappointed with the winner--the Netherlands! for the first time since I was 13! But never mind that--I'm now going to torment you with my favorites, much as I've been doing to myself and my Facebook friends all week.

Author's note: Updated Sunday, May 19, with commentary. Lucky you!

***

Malta!

Is this reggaeton? Is this trap EDM? Is this both or neither? I don't know, but it's obviously represents a musical trend (see "Replay" below and perhaps even "She Got Me").

No matter the genre, what I like is that it's just a very straightforward pop song--immediately hummable and singable, at least by me. I like the singer, too, 18-year old Michela Pace, who won a singing competition in Malta (Malta's Got Talent, Maltese Idol, ✠ Factor, I don't recall) et voilà, now she's on stage at the ESC.

I think she has a lovely pop voice with the most adorable little rasp or squeak--it will be interesting to see what else she can sing with it over time. I like, too, that she looks like a normal 18-year old woman: beautiful and real, not like she spent her wonder years on a Disney backlot in Orlando being groomed for show biz!

Despite the very contemporary sound and high production values, Michela and her visual representation hark back to what I imagine early Eurovision resembled, particularly from the 1960s: A fresh-faced young singer with a catchy tune, perhaps a bit of an ingenue or ever-so-slightly rough around the edges. Even the eye-popping, colorful, video and stage show, feels like a modern take on Flower Power and Rave culture.

Never mind that Michela wasn't even alive in those eras. She's got a good team that knows how to maximize her vocal and visual appeal.



Switzerland!

*Sigh* Isn't Luca Hänni just dreamy?

Seriously, he has looks and talent, a real flair for dance and acting (I love the whole "pumping heart" move near the end of the video), along with a powerful voice and an instantly addictive song.

So, yeah, he looks a bit young and innocent to be hanging out with these hoochies in the video, but he's old enough to know what he's doing, I'm sure. Apparently, prior to starting his pop career, he was a bricklayer, and I will just keep the smutty comments to myself, OK?

I've heard him compared to Justin Timberlake. I can see a slight resemblance in looks and style, but to me he feels less imitative than JT. No diss to Justin, I think he does well, and I don't fully agree with the whole "cultural appropriation" call-out of Timberlake in recent times. Yes, he can very WBS (white boy soul) but so were the Beatles and the Stones back in the day, Anglo interpreters of African-American music. It's a valid genre, although you may prefer the original to the translation.

I think Luca sits comfortably in the WBS pantheon, but he's so energetic, so spirited, that he transcends the classification, not unlike JT himself and certainly much more than JB (Justin Bieber) does.

Also, is it not amazing how Europeans, Africans, Asians, and others can not only speak in multiple languages but sing in them, too? Diction is hard, folks, even for native speakers. Imagine being from a country with four official languages and then learning English well enough to communicate and sing it in.

As a child growing up in North Carolina listening to shortwave radio and listening to ABBA records (a lifelong love inspired by the 1974 Eurovision Song Contest), all I ever dreamed of being was European and multilingual. And yet somehow I ended up semi-Canadian, bilingual (English and Spanish, not English and French), capable of quoting The Andy Griffith Show and A Tuna Christmas, and incapable of carrying a tune beyond the confines of my condo.

Life is strange, Luca is so far away, and a brick shy of a lay load.



Cyprus!

I call this song "The Revenge of 'Fuego'," "Fuego" being Cyprus's entry to Eurovision in 2018, a song that came in 1st runner-up in the competition, thanks to the Vegas-or-bust performance by Greek/Albanian/TBD* star, Eleni Foureira. I think the winner, Netta's "Toy" was a standout and deserved the accolades it received, and the fact that "Fuego" came in second--a song literally and figuratively about being hot, which stands in stark contrast to Netta's ode to women's empowerment (and chicken clucking!)--is understandable. But, really, if you could have had two winners, Eleni would be right up there with Netta, at least in my humble pop-loving heart.

First, let me say that while I love "Replay," I get that it is in similar vein to "Fuego," a bit shamelessly in fact. Written by the same composer as "Fuego," it mines the same genre of, let's call it, Levantine reggaeton, that "Fuego" does, that "Chameleon" does, and to some degree, that "She Got Me" does. I think in some musical ways "Replay" improves upon "Fuego," but "Fuego" does feel more memorable in other respects. Maybe it's the lesbian leit motif in the video (by the way, how far apart are Cyprus and Lesbos?), not to mention the torching of a Mercedes or Rolls Royce that takes place near the end. No doubt a metaphor for British and German culture and power going up in flames with the rabble-rousing rise of the Mediterranean South. (Not really, but I'll be sure to use that idea in an overwrought research paper some day.)

Second, who ever thought that skullcaps and fetish wear were sexy? OK, fetish wear can be a little sexy, sure--in the parade of nations, Tamta appeared in a fuchsia mini, thigh-high PVC boots, and a crimped blonde bob, looking every bit the power pop diva (vintage Madonna but actually sexy)--but that diamond-studded belt as brassiere that she wears in the video just looks painful. And I am of the opinion that skullcaps should not be seen outside of a hospital operating room or a monastery, especially if they are fuchsia.

Having said all that, Tamta, a Greek national of Georgian heritage, has incredible stage presence. It comes across in the video, but it really comes across in her live performance. I think she does a good pop vocal turn as well, as evidenced here and in other songs of her I've listened to on Spotify.

Pop burns brightly, then quickly fades. Pop is short for "popular" but might also refer to the sound a song makes (pop!) when a hit explodes on the charts. Like fireworks, the flash is brilliant but quickly dissipates and all that's left is a residue of smoke and soot. So all this is to say we're not doing rocket surgery here (despite the appearance of a skullcap that looks like a brain worn on the outside of Tamta's head). But, dang it, I like my musical candy, and this is a darn fine example of the flash-in-the pan possibilities (and limits) of the genre.

* Check out this Wikipedia article (and take it with a grain of salt) to find out more about Eleni's heritage, real and imagined. Is she Greek? Is she Albanian? Is she part Brazilian? Is she part Italian? Who knows? But it's a little sad that Albanians are viewed so dismally in Greece that you have to hide who you are. Surely Eleni's va-va-va-voom-ness and talent should be enough to welcome her into your radios, TVs, and playlists.



Albania!

Yes, actually Albania. There is a bit too much fire and water for my taste in this video and it's questionable to take tips from your stylist who surely must have worked on the Game of Thrones set at some point, but this is Eurovision at its artiest--a popular song sung entirely in Albanian by a powerful voice that channels the Balkan/Bulgarian women's choirs that made the rounds of the hip-igentsia music scene a couple of decades ago.

I don't have much to say about this one, believe it or not, other than I love it. I might get up and dance to Michela, Luca, or Tamta, but I would sit down and listen to Jonida Maliqi anytime.



Slovenia!

This is my other arthouse favorite from this year's Eurovision--a very lowkey but rather stately pop song from are-they-a-couple-or-aren't-they performers Zala Kralj and Gašper Šantl from Slovenia.

(Yes, my international character keyboard is getting a workout today.)

The song and the performers do an amazing job of presenting a mood, an aura--the fact that it's sung in Slovenian seems beside the point. This to me is one of the best parts of Eurovision--that music can be sung in languages other than English and still be appreciated.

At least up to a point--countries can now submit songs sung in their language of choice, including English. It's an English-speaking world, the lingua franca of today, and thus many countries choose to put forward songs in a language not generally spoken in their countries. So I admire that Slovenia stuck close to its roots and presented a beautiful, haunting song that evokes a mood and perhaps a culture, too.

And just imagine! They made Slovenia famous and didn't have to strip naked, simulate lesbianism, or marry a swollen orange toad in the process!

Yes, Melania, I am looking at you ....



Lithuania!

Less arthouse and more just dreamy-eyed pop from the Baltic republic of Lithuania. Good golly, this guy is beautiful and has the voice to match. Again, a rather non-traditional choice, perhaps too lowkey in this pop pyrotechnic day and age--Jurij Veklenko didn't make it past the semi-finals, unfortunately.

But what a lovely, passionate tune.

Side note: Jurij has appeared at Eurovision before, as backup singer and stage performer in Lithuania's effervescent hootenanny entry from 2015. This is an adorable little number with two compelling performers--sort of a Baltic Barbie and Ken but with heart, joy, and moving parts. You can see Jurij in the background, but what makes his performance extra special happens at about 1:35.

"One kiss!" Indeed, Jurij, that's all I'm asking for, one damn kiss.



 * * *

Oh, I have more, at least three additional songs and performers that I would like to highlight. But it's a sunny, warm day in Toronto, one of the few, the proud this spring, and I have stuff to do, places to be, and stalking of Lithuanian and Swiss pop stars to do. So we'll hopefully pick up Part 2 later this week.

Dare to dream, bitches!