And scene ...!

This is how I envision the TV show Roseanne will conclude now that its star and namesake has been fired for ugly, racist tweets that show an embarrassingly poor sense of timing and a shockingly limp sense of humor for someone who earns a living as a comedian.

It's a fine, unassuming spring day in Lanford, Illinois. The camera focuses on a small, comfortable, working-class home--the kind we all identify as emblematic of the Real America.^TM The camera deftly and calmly pans, slowly and surely honing in on the living room window, and then passes through to the living room itself. 

(Author's note: I haven't watched the reboot--honestly, I didn't like the original version. Too much yelling. Too much snark. Too much sniping. But I could've sworn Roseanne's family won the lottery at some point. You would think they would have upgraded their digs as a result. And no worries about educating me otherwise--once this post is complete, I will be fresh out of flying figs to give about this show and its star.)

In the living room, we find all the Conners sitting quietly in their appointed places. Each one is bound and gagged, as they are being held hostage at home by "those animals," aka notorious gang MS-33-1/3. The gang members brandish their legally obtained, generously available assault weapons. The gangbanger-in-chief comically twirls a mustache that would have been at home on the face of a Mexican revolutionary as envisioned by racist filmmaker D. W. Griffith.

The innocent members of the proletariat quake in their humble shoes, sweat through their honest George by WalMart apparel (no doubt stained with the sweat of a hard day's labor at a George Soros-sponsored Reeducation Center), and scream for their lives through the heavy-duty tape across their mouths. The Conners are panic-stricken, knowing that to die at the hands of a heavily hyped Mexican/Central American gang may be their fate, the worst fate of all (say, compared to being shot in the workplace by a sexually frustrated white guy with an AR-15, which is much more humane), and a fate that is only minutos away. ¡Ay, papi!

Roseanne, however, has managed to escape.

But instead of calling the police--too Deep State for her!--she heads toward the nearest Donald Trump rally--and as good (?) luck would have it, there's one happening next door, because His Lordshit is in the 'hood, stirring the pot, paying his disrespects to the survivors of a recent school shooting ("there were good people on both sides of that rocket launcher, both sides . . . "), and then will immediately be heading out for a $25,000 dry chicken dinner fundraiser with upper-class (or thereabouts) white gangbangers in downtown Chicago.

But I digress . . . .

Roseanne tries to corral the crowd into forming a well-regulated militia to save her family.

As bad (?) luck would have it, however, at that very moment, the crowd is watching a video about the disrespect Hollywood elites express toward Real America--a highlight being a clip of Roseanne in real life (very meta) screeching the National Anthem at a baseball game in San Diego back in the early 1990s.

The angry crowd turns on her. As they get closer and closer to attacking her, we suddenly see another (?) Roseanne waking up from an Ambien-induced haze, several spent smart (the irony!) phones strewn about her, each open to her Twitter account. Half the phones show the account as closed; the other half, open for business.

She struggles to emerge from her mental fog and rise from the couch. Once more or less upright, she begins railing at a crowd of diverse Americans, all silent while they watch her meltdown, screaming lines from notable "race" pictures of the 20th century:

"As God is my witness, as God is my witness they're not going to lick me. I'm going to live through this and when it's all over, I'll never be hungry again. No, nor any of my folk. If I have to lie, steal, cheat or kill. As God is my witness, I'll never be hungry again." (Gone With the Wind)

"Hoke, you're my best friend!" (Driving Miss Daisy)

"Mom! Dad! There's something I have to tell you! I'm Black!" (Soul Man)

"Take your stinking paws off me, you damned dirty ape!" (Charlton Heston in Planet of the Apes)⁺

"The white men were roused by a mere instinct of self-preservation, until at last there had sprung into existence a Great Ku Klux Klan!" (Birth of a Nation--this is delivered in pantomime as it's a silent film)

"I'm a Negro. I can't forget it, and I can't deny it. I can't pretend to be anything else, and I don't want to be anything else. Don't you see, Tom?" (Pinky by John Ford)

Suddenly the scene changes again--it's not a crowd of silent diverse Americans staring at her during her tirade. It's a pack of wild chihuahuas! Thousands and thousands of pissed-off wild chihuahuas!

They proceed to growl and foam at the mouth. They attack and begin to tear at Roseanne's limbs. The scene fades before things get too gruesome (it's TV after all). Lee Greenwood's "God Bless the USA"⁺⁺ swells on the soundtrack--intermixed with Roseanne's nasally shrieks and the high-pitched squeal of agitated chihuahuas--as the scene fades to black (again, irony!). "I'm proud to be an American . . . ."

Finally, before things get too dark (irony once again!), the Looney Toons/Merry Melodies theme music begins. A cartoon Roseanne pops out of the screen. "Th-th-th-th-th-th-th-that's all folks!"

And scene!

At least that's how I hope this plays out. I might actually tune in for this one.

* * *

⁺Author's note: Is this racist, ironic, or both? Despite being based on a French science fiction novel from the early 1960s, I saw this movie listed in an article on the web as being one of the most racist of all time. Given the year of release (1968) and the things going on in the US in the era (where do I begin?), I had thought of it as racist for some time. To me, it's interesting to view it as another Middle America exploitation film of the 1960s, not unlike Wild in the Streets (a camp classic!).
Nonetheless, I confess, I don't know whether this is me being ironic and camp or me being racist. I sincerely apologize if I pulled a Roseanne here. That was definitely not my intention.

⁺⁺Author's note: And is this classist against white working-class Americans? Again, I can no longer tell. I mean it is poking fun at white America's sentimental approach to God and country, and my heritage is as a white working-class American, so, yeah, I'm teasing, but I mean it, so it probably is offensive in that regard. Again, I apologize--to you and to myself.

A new day . . . of Twitter reckoning

Clearly Canadian . . . and guaranteed to rot your gut faster than poutine encased in a pastry made from Tim Horton's doughnuts, deep-fat fried, coated in Oka cheese, then soaked in maple syrup and the residue of a thousand melted Coffee Crisps.

Ah, je souhaite . . .

File under "gifts from Twitter": Israeli artist Riff Cohen performing "À Paris." This is a lovely, sexy video the current host for the @MoroccoCuration account sent me, after I shared with him a favorite of mine, "Ya Salam" by Moroccan performer, Ahmed Soultan.



The Riff Cohen video reminds me of my trip to Paris this past summer. It doesn't hurt or help that I spent the morning going through photos of that trip in an effort to cobble enough together for some Christmas gifts.

Nevertheless, there are far more naked, writhing men of color in these videos than I managed to encounter en France or anywhere else in recent memory.

I really must remember to come back sluttier and less shy in my next life.

Ah, je souhaite . . .

Twitterpated--but with a purpose

I think anyone who knows me, really really knows me, is aware of the fact that I am spending way too much time on Twitter these day.

Well, perhaps you do know me and don't know this--because, duh, I've been spending so much time on Twitter lately, I haven't exactly kept up my conversations on Facebook, via email, phone, LinkedIn, or in real life.

Alas, my bad. I have become rather hopelessly Twitterpated.

Anyway, I have spent enough time on Twitter to coax in about 100 followers (chiefly thanks to Twitter-friend Hanna), many of whom, I'm led to believe, are actual persons, not merely porn bots--or as I like to call them, Twookers = Twitter hookers. And yes, I'll be registering that trademark in the very near future.

I've also mustered up just over 2,500 tweets. No, we really don't want to think about the per capita ratio of tweets per follower. It's way too depressing for me, and way too annoying for everyone else.

In addition to sending a lot of tweets, I get/follow/receive/insert appropriate nomenclature here a lot of tweets in return. A lot of them are "conscious" tweets. By that I mean there are lots of people and lots of causes. It's nice to see people so motivated--and much more motivated than I often am about issues (or getting my carcass to the gym on a regular basis). I think like most people I alternate between being oblivious and feeling helpless. And sometimes, well, ye olde compassion fatigue sets in.

As I told my Twitter-friend Jen recently, I have enjoyed Twitter for the conversations and the connections, thanks to efforts like the #LocationCuration projects that have sprung up around the globe. I also like a good joke, to be silly, to hear about others' lives, and to share a little of my own. And, hey, I will never turn down a good recipe or the chance to laugh at myself about something absurd I've done or experienced.

But maybe I can do a little more.

Twitter has definitely made me feel more connected to people around the world. I get to chat regularly with people from the U.S., Canada, Ireland, Mexico, the UK, Sweden, Australia, Argentina, New Zealand, Indonesia, India, Russia, and probably a few other locales that are escaping memory at the mo'. And the more we talk, even with our misunderstandings and prejudices getting in the way from time to time (who, me?), the better I feel about living, breathing, and reaching out.

One way to reach out--to make me feel less lost in my own head, stuck in my own inertia, and more involved with the world around me--is to donate time, as well as a little needed money.

* * *

The Charities

So here's the deal. In commemoration of my 2500th tweet, I will make this pledge: I will donate a small amount to a charity I'm familiar with and/or have supported in the past. It won't be much--maybe $75 to $100 US, depending on how this year's tax returns go.

You, in turn, will get to vote on which charity I support. See below for details.

Here are the now six, count 'em six, charities you can choose from--

#1 Direct Relief International - http://www.directrelief.org/ - they focus on providing aid and assistance in both the U.S. and abroad during times of emergencies and disasters, as well as ongoing help with world health issues.

#2 Global Links - http://www.globallinks.org/ - a Pittsburgh-based charity that provides needed/wanted medical supplies to nine developing countries. (Bandages, sutures, syringes, rubber gloves, and the like.) I've helped package supplies here before.

#3 Greater Pittsburgh Community Food Bank - http://www.pittsburghfoodbank.org/ - even in the world's wealthiest country, food insecurity and hunger are ongoing worries for many. I've helped distribute food for them; it's quite an undertaking and one of the more satisfying experiences I've had since moving to da Burgh five years ago.

#4 Heifer International - http://www.heifer.org/ - makes donations of farm animals to people in the developing world.

#5 The Rappahannock Council Against Sexual Assault - http://www.rcasa.org/ - recommended by Twitter-friend Carol, this organization's mission is to provide education, prevention, and intervention on sexual violence. And after a week or Rush Limbaugh calling Sandra Fluke a slut and a prostitute "for fun," clearly there's a lot of work still to be done here.

#6 The Trevor Project - http://www.thetrevorproject.org/ - helps provide counseling and suicide prevention for Lesbian-Gay-Bisexual-Transgender-Questioning youth.

* * *

Voting

You can post your votes to this blog or message me your choice (direct or otherwise) via my Twitter handle, @MontagsOnFire. Please submit your votes by 10 am Eastern U.S., Sunday, March 11, 2012--or whenever I get up that morning.

I'll try to have my donation made by the following day. In case of a tie, I'll split the donation in as many ways as is financially and charitably feasible.

So, come on, tell me how to spend some money--with a purpose.

So where were we?

Ah yes, sick with yet another head cold and shacking up with Twitter, that's pretty much what you need to know for the moment, with the promise of more to come this week.

In the meantime, a few images to entertain you, one still, one moving.

I have been in a reliving-my-life-in-Texas-with-regular-forays-into-Mexico mode. Some of this, a lot of it in fact, has been prompted by my recent addiction to Twitter and the "curators" of the world project. First, there was Sweden, then there were, all in a rush, Australia, the USA, Mexico, the city of Leeds in the north of England, and now, scheduled to launch on Monday,  "Basques Abroad."

I've really enjoyed these personal, thoughtful, and often very funny takes on life in different places and cultures. I've even suggested to the head of an international LGBT rights group about helping organize a "gay curators" group to talk about our lives in a more positive way than, say, any former Pennsylvania politician running for presidential office might do.

But again, we'll get to these and other topics about my current state of twitterpation.

The Mexico project has been particularly engaging to me. The first curator, Israel from Monterrey, did a wonderful week showing us around the city and talking about current issues in Mexican politics and culture. And now Penélope from Aguascalientes is showing us her city, showing off the local cuisine and sights, and introducing us to some Mexican cultural motifs, such as noted illustrator and political cartoonist, José Guadalupe Posada.

So it's all coming back to me now: The times I have spent in Monterrey, seeing some of the same sights; enjoying the discussions about food, having dined on some of the same dishes; the cultural and political moments, remembering classes I've taken, books I've read, and conversations I've had.

As Penélope took us on a tour of the Posada Museum this afternoon, I took this photo of some items in my personal collection, a couple of "calaveras" in the style of Posada and Mexico's famed Day of the Dead cultural motif.

The skeletal married couple (who me trying to make a cultural point?) are probably more in keeping with Posada's work, a critique of the upper classes, the Don Catrín and Doña Catrina of the late 1800s and early 1900s, too wealthy and too unworried about the masses, fiddling around while Mexico was about to catch fire and burst into flames of revolution.

Totally irrelevant to today's place and time, of course.

The vendor selling "elotes" or corn, well, that's just fun, and elicits a lovely memory of buying "elotes" along the street in towns on both sides of the border, hot, cooked corn kernels served in a cup with a mix of maybe milk and a light, creamy mayonnaise, and chili powder, and who knows what else. One of the best, most simple, most delicious foods I've ever had the pleasure of eating.

¡Viva México! Ay, Dios, what I wouldn't give for some of your cuisine and culture right this very moment. Why did I ever leave you? Why did you let me?

The moving image, well, hmmm, this is more of what you're used to in this blog, my less serious side. This clip highlights another delicacy of Mexican culture when I was living in its orbit in the mid-'90s to mid-2000s: The Mexican boy band.

Señores y Señoras, may I present to you one of the better ones, Kairo, and their huge mid- to late-'90s hit, "Dile que la amo" ("Tell her that I love her").



Where to begin with this one?

Oh lord, did we really all wear those pale blue jeans with white t-shirts, leather jackets, and black boots? I don't recall that just being a Mexican fashion faux-pas; I think that's pure '90s pitifulness.

But who's looking at the clothes? It's the two barely-singing, oiled-up dancers our eyes are focused on, natch. (Or at least that's where my focus is.) Those boys from Kairo and a zillion other Latin boy bands were almost too perfect in an Isla de Doctor Moreno kind of way. Not that I'm complaining. How I wish I could put in an order for some carne asada like that and have it shipped northward.

Nevertheless, why don't we see more of the lead singer, who is just so darned adorable? OK, I get it, maybe he doesn't have the body of the other two, and when dealing with video for teen girls and pervy, middle-aged men, muscle is the message. So keep the cute one in a leather jacket and tight jeans, while los dos musculeros hit the gym and keep at it with the steroids. Anything but that tucked out t-shirt that makes el monito look only tinier and more elfin.

Not a good look, Televisa, but I still wouldn't kick the little one out of my recámara for eating tostadas and salsa.

¡Ándale!