When I was 15, it was a very good year . . . for music

I think we can all agree by now that my taste in music--and most other forms of popular culture--is a mixed bag, ranging from the almost-credible to the incredibly dodgy.

Australian and South African soap operas, Fannie Flagg novels, lustful or wry commentaries about French TV personalities, the Sims, ABBA, shortwave radio, the Minogue sisters, '60s James Bond movies, Eurodisco and other music that is more about the beat than the lyrics--guilty, guilty, guilty, guilty, guilty, guilty, guilty, guilty, and so very guilty.

And so be it. I am what I am, and to deny these rather camp cultural tastes is to deny myself, my identity, which in large part is that of a gay white American man in his early 50s with a slight Southern accent and somewhat leftist politics who can't drive a stick and avoids pretentiousness and math as if they were plagues from the heavens. I'm weary of apologizing for myself and tired of feeling embarrassed about my likes and dislikes--even though I am doing a bit of both, right here and now.

I do have other interests, ones that are slightly more highbrow, especially when it comes to movies (ahem, film) and fiction (ahem, literary fiction). I should share more about those and maybe I will in the year ahead. Admittedly, it is tougher to write about the "serious" stuff and somewhat less fun. Perhaps this belies some serious intellectual laziness on my part, I would wager. Or, again, am I dissing myself over my true interests so as to seem weightier, to be taken seriously? Yes, that too.

Goodness knows I struggle with this at work too often, pretending to being into what I do when, really, I think my interests within my profession lie elsewhere and are much more basic. They're more about helping people, relating to them, figuring out their needs, than shilling to them about another new, half-tried technology or half-baked theory.

My profession is crazy these days. But it doesn't mean I have to be, too.

And, thus, I present to you "Fly Butterfly" by Ruby Manila.

This is one of those songs that has teased my memory for years. I used to hear this--or something like it--on my shortwave radio in the late 1970s, but I was never able to identify the performer, the song title, the country of origin, the year of release, or even the exact station I was listening to (although I had a pretty good idea it was being broadcast on a German station or one in the Benelux between 1976 and 1978). I heard it more than once during the era but could only remember the refrain, "fly, fly (or high?), butterfly (butterfly)," sung by a smooth, high female voice, counterpointed by a ridiculously deep male voice.

I adore the song--it's quintessential Eurodisco, with the swooning vocals, skanky bass, and seductive beat, perhaps more 1976 than 1978 in sound, but who's counting? It's not quite as I recall it--I don't remember any of the lyrics other than the chorus; I remember the music being slightly more electronic and faster in beat; and I remember the singer's voice as being a little higher--but it is the song. Maybe there was another "special disco version" or someone else covered the tune. Regardless, this is it, and I'm glad to finally discover it after nearly 40 years of off and on searching.

How did I find this? I'm not sure I can even recall the exact steps. For years (at least five, maybe longer), I've searched repeated for the phrase "fly high butterfly song" and "fly fly butterfly song" or simply "butterfly song 1970s" via Google, YouTube, and some online music forums. You'd be surprised not at how many references to butterflies in the 1970s you might find in this way but perhaps at the number of songs you might discover.

Such as this:



Which is close. Right genre, right era, right region.

And this:


Which is not but was popular in the early '70s and was covered in other languages and by other artists.

Apparently, too, these guys had a hit with a song called "Butterfly" in the 1970s, but I kept getting pointed to this instead:



No, I don't understand it either. On many different levels. When it comes to "schlager," I realize that even I have borders of camp that I won't cross.

For some reason, last night, after a day of housework and sleep, I was obsessed with the idea of finding this song (plus one other, which we'll get to in the near future). I tried my usual searches and came up empty. And then I got creative (or overcome by the dust and cleaning chemicals, take your pick) and branched out a bit. I can't remember what exactly I typed in the search box: Some combination of "butterfly, fly, disco, song, 1977, 1970s" or some such. This search somehow miraculously led me to this page, which identified a song title and a singer, although providing more lyrics than I recall. And this information quickly led me to discover the video that started off this post.

There are a few other references to the song: For example, this page and this page. But that's about it, at least for now.

None of my usual searches and sources have turned up a roaming mp3 or even an unwanted vinyl for the tune. But never say never. I found the song, I found the artist, and in good time, I'll add the music to my collection.

Along the way I think I also discovered another lost part of my youth and thus nother part of me. Misspent you say? Wasted you infer? I beg to differ. I wouldn't be me without all the Ruby Manilas and Fly Butterflys in my life. Perhaps that means little to you--but if you've gotten this far in the post, I suspect it means something--but it increasingly means a great deal to me.

Exposed

So this is me--or was me when I was maybe 8, maybe 9. In 1969 or 1970 I think. In my homemade sports coat. With a full head of medium brown hair with natural highlights. Blue-green eyes, pale skin, and an angular face. I was effin' adorable if I do say so. Those were the days.

Like I've said before, it's been one heckuva ride since late 2010 or so. I have survived, maybe even thrived at times. I have also cried and sometimes wished I could curl up and die. Yep, I essentially became a country song: "Dreams of the Everyday Housewife," "Take This Job and Shove It," "Your Cheatin' Heart." "Sleeping Single in a Double Bed." "Crazy." But thank goodness not "Red Solo Cup."

I don't know if I'm ready to tell all just yet, although it does need to come out one way or another, in therapy, with friends, or here. But today I hope to start saying more, sharing more, showing more, and maybe even allowing myself to feel more. Hopefully I'll do the latter in a way that's constructive to me, not in the way it often happens, making me more timid, shy, and reserved than I truly am or want to be.

And hopefully it won't be too boring for you, dear reader.

Assuming there are dear readers out there. I see page views. I look at the stats and search terms used. I know you're out there. A lot of you are into Ivan Watson, Laurent Debesse, Gregory Fitoussi, and even Esta TerBlanche. And a lot of you are, interestingly, in Russia.

Which leads me to fear that my posts are the punchlines on Late Night with Boris Badanov or The Tonight Show with Lyubova Lenina. But the comments are so rare and so few, albeit positive. I have only a few followers that I know of. I keep talking, and I keep wondering if anyone is reading, thinking, laughing, understanding, or feeling anything at all.

That's how I started out in this venue at least, talking. I've kept a journal off and on for years, but not long after I moved to Pennsylvania, I decided to move it online, during the mid-2000s blog craze. I have years with of posts online, in this blog and another. Nevertheless, over the last few years, it's been more the case that I talk and write little and mean even less--and the meaning of that meaning is that I'm mean with my meaning, meaning I'm stingy with and shy about what I say and share. I give you mixtapes, podcasts, playlists, snarky humor, rarely known celebrities, and nature photos, but not much else. But then you don't give me much either, dear reader. And I kinda wish you would.

Times have changed. Reading has moved on from long form to short form and then on to nano form. From essay to blog to Facebook post to 140-character tweet to no words at all via Pinterest and Tumblr.

And yet I keep talking and writing. It's what I know how to do. While I don't know who is reading and understanding, I have to keep doing it, for my own sake, to state who I am and share what I can in the hopes that it will make me more understandable and feel better understood.

Who knows? Maybe reading and writing in long form will become retro chic one day? Like vinyl. Like "mid-century" furniture. Like Steampunk but without the ridiculousness.

But maybe to get more--readers, understanding from others, understanding myself--I have to give more. There's a thought, an obvious one, but one that's been a long time coming. Over the last decade--corresponding to my time in Pennsylvania, wouldn't you know--I've just felt that the more I've given, the less I've received. It's either been unwanted, ignored, or thrown back in my face with a stinging critique, a could-try-harder shoulder shrug or a how-stupid-are-you glare. Whether that's really what has happened or I've just been ultra-sensitive--being an aging stranger in a strange land, as it were--I could not say. Regardless, the result has been that I've given less and received even more of less. Almost to the point in early 2013 where I gave next to nothing and again, received the most of less, the least.

But in May 2013, things changed for the better. I met a great guy, and we have fallen in love. A year-and-a-half later we're still together and thinking about spending more time, maybe even the time of our lives, together.

As I said, the point of this point, this post, is to share more. But not just with you, dear reader, but with my dear, my love, my guy, my beau, my Cairo. Today marks the day that I'm going to share in a big way--not just with you but with him, this blog and all my thoughts, interests, and obsessions, profound, petty, and persnickety. It's time, it's past time, to pass on this pastime. I hope he'll enjoy what he reads and learns, should he choose to read. I hope you will, too.

This shouldn't feel like such a big deal, sharing myself with the world. It would seem that I do it every day, not just here in these digital pages, but with friends, family, colleagues, and the boyfriend. Nevertheless, like I said, I've become stingy, careful, cautious, reserved, wary, or perhaps just afraid. Of what, of whom is hard to say, at least in one perfectly constructed paragraph. Thus, I'll try to take more time to explain myself than I've done "of late," since this blog began more than three years ago.

So here's a slow, careful tiptoe toward the cool end of the pool. Backstroke, float, crawl, over and under, dog paddle. Whatever, however. Let's dive in together.

State of independence . . . or slothfulness . . . or obsession . . . take your pick

I celebrated my independence in America much like a sloth would (if a sloth were human and had a modicum of free will, access to modern pleasures, and has become obsessed with whatever he turns his mind to)--

• Reading--well, sort of; mostly articles on Islamic and American constitutional fundamentalism, which dovetail unsurprisingly well together. but I have a few books set aside to read this weekend, so we'll get there by and by . . .
• Watching TV--As noted previously in this blog, lately I am obsessed with the classic, gothic soap, Dark Shadows, these days. Perhaps because Coronation Street is inconsistently updated on HuluPlus and I lack the attention span to focus on subtitles on episodes of Engrenages. Maybe I'll make it to something long-form by Sunday. I have a yen to watch Plenty, a movie I missed when it first came around in 1985, mainly because it stars Tracey Ullman, who I also seem to be slightly obsessed with (in a pop cultural way) of late.
• Cooking--or at least planning to do so. I'm trying to find and perfect a Korean barbecue recipe that isn't loaded with sake, given that my current significant other (yes, there is one) doesn't drink and I don't do much myself.
• Game-playing--I'm also obsessed with the Sims 3 of late, specifically one family, the McDermotts. This was a pre-existing family in the Riverview neighborhood, which I've expanded and refocused, making them Irish immigrants (Liam, Siobhan, Ronan, Connor, Blaithin, and hopefully soon Maeve) to my pretend Midwestern community of Clemmons Landing, immigrants who grow vegetables, harvest honey, and raise chickens--as well as teach school, rock out, fool around, create potions, and try to improve their social skills with middling success. More than you ever needed to know about my private activities. Again, obsessed.
• Exercising--at least some cardio on Thursday night and a long walk yesterday through Frick Park on what had to be one of most pleasant, low-humidity July days I've ever experienced.

And today, a day after celebrating my independence low-key style, I have a major headache. Oh well. Two more days of slothfulness should cure that.


* * *

Some funny for your post-independence pleasure, the wisdom of The Onion to balance out all the bombast and banality with some most-welcome, much-needed chuckleheadedness.

"New Study Finds 85% of Americans Don't Know All the Dance Moves to the National Anthem"

"Little-Known Facts about the Founding Fathers"

* * *

And one last video from the "I Remember Donna" series:



This is from 2005, less than a year after I saw Donna Summer in concert at Wolftrap outside of Washington, D.C., about a year after moving back east. Sometimes I question why I moved back east, and sometimes I question my decision to leave the relative comfort of outer suburban Maryland and go north, middle-aged man, to the Central Pennsylvania. It was surely a work decision but also a life decision, adventure over the status quo. Both work- and adventure-wise, life has more or less played out well, although not always smoothly, excitingly, or as anticipated.

But we'll get to that. Not today but soon. Perhaps this weekend as a sloth will also allow me the chance to contemplate and communicate a bit more about my feeling and thinking at the moment. Less pop culture, more pop psychology.

It's worth the effort--as long as it doesn't get in the way of my Sims-playing and Dark Shadows-watching.