Maybe the only thing that will make me hate life less at this moment in time

Annie - I Know Ur Girlfriend Hates Me [New] by elpolemico

¡Ay! ¡Un gusano del oído!

I don't know why this song suddenly popped into my head this week, but it's been consistently there since at least Tuesday. Thus it's become my "gusano del oído" ("earworm" translated into Spanish . . . perhaps) du jour, de la semaine, au what-have-you.

This one takes me back . . . to San Antonio, actually, where I used to see this video on Telehit, the best music video channel there ever was, short of (or on par with) MTV US pre-1984. Yes, that good. Telehit is based in Mexico City, so it had at the time I watched it a real "chilango" vibe, exceedingly cool, trendy, and sophisticated, even though it was cranking out tunes and style for teens and tweens in an economically challenged, developing country.

Contrast that with MTV, except for maybe the first couple of years, which you would never know is broadcast from New York City. Its hipness has always been what the suburban kids think is stylin', which to me has always seemed unforgivably white bread, even when they're going all gangsta. It's almost as if MTV is ashamed to set an alternative tone for a horribly square country.

You certainly don't see that on TV in the UK, which so often seems very London in 'tude, for better or for worse. (I keep thinking of my recent date with Keith Lemon on BBC when I was in Scotland recently. Not likely to be the next Dancing with the Stars export, I am quite sure.) But here in the good ol' US of A, all we get is . . . a corporate California interpretation of sophistication, even when it's being channeled from Manhattan.

So, yeah, I am pissed off about being back home. How did you ever guess? My anguished wanderlust is high in the dark clouds of plaintiveness ready to throw myself over the next exquisite precipice of drama. Bring me Edelweiss! Please! (And major special pretzels if you get that reference. You've been reading liner notes!)

So much so that I'm daydreaming of my old life in "exotic" Texas, where it's no doubt 110 degrees in the shade (if you can find any), and they've just lethal injected another poor miscreant. Pretty pitiful when all that looks much more appealing than my so-called life in Pittsburgh.

"¡Gritar! ¿Quién? o ¿Cuál? Da igual, te juro da igual."

For those who like rain

And thunder and summer storms . . .

Je suis arrivé, j'ai vu, j'ai vaincu

Well, maybe not quite conquered, but you get the gist . . .

Here's part of the reason for the long silence: Paris. I'm hoping to make up for lost time in the coming weeks.

Enjoy!

Irreversible, actually

Spotted by my friend the Music Lover at Macy's Waterfront over the holiday weekend.

Despite the some marketeer's best efforts, you can't undo the gay.

Just ask Robert L. Spitzer.

Spot the typo

When you think of Columbine . . .

. . . you really should think of this instead.

In the contemporary American mind, the word "columbine" is by necessity associated with a very unfortunate event from 1999, the Columbine High School massacre. Maybe not so much for Americans who were young or not yet born when it took place--there have been, I'm sure, hundreds of similar incidents since then, across this great, gun-loving, mass-murdering, suicide pact-vowing land of ours.

Nonetheless, the columbine is also a quite beautiful flower, something I did not know until a few years ago, well after the massacre. And even if a gun were held to my head (if you'll pardon the expression), I couldn't have identified the flower.

So pleasant happenstance: The other day I was walking past an urban farm lot in Homewood on my way to work when I spied these beautiful flowers. Have camera phone, will shoot to still, so I popped off a few and posted for friends on Twitter and Facebook. And then the magic of technology and the global community who knows a heck of a lot more about plant life than I do, I learned that these are indeed columbine.

Sad to think that such a gorgeous, delicate creation can be associated with such a tragic event. I might make a plea to say that this doesn't have to be the way if only we'd get beyond serious about gun violence and gun control in this country--but I'm sure no one could hear me above all the target practice and police stand-offs.

So instead, I'll just shut my mouth and let us all enjoy the view.

Greek to me

A subdued scene from my second belly-to-the-bar moment at the St. Nicholas Greek Food Festival in Oakland this week.

And quite literally, I do mean "belly" and "bar": Please note the juxtaposition of the "pastries" area with the full-service bar. In a church fellowship hall no less.

'Cause that's how we roll in Pennsylvania.

After lunch, I did a lot of groaning and shifting in my chair, as well as mispronouncing the dishes that I ate for my Greek-heritage boss. Not one to let any mistake go unchallenged (bless his spanokopita-filled heart), he spent a portion of the day correcting me in front of my office mates.

"It's not 'mous-SAK-a' and it's not 'MOUS-sak-a' either. It's 'mous-sa-KAH!'"

"OK . . ."

"So what else did you have besides moussaka?"

"Well, I had a 'sa-la-DAH!' and a 'so-DAH!'"

Please let it be known that you may be able to employ me, correct me, humiliate me, fill me full of Greek food and send me scurrying down the hall with relief on my mind (or wherever), but, oh yes, I will prevail.

Think it over . . .

. . . life ain't a four-leaf clover.

A delicate flower for all you delicate flowers and followers out there.

Happy Wednesday. Now get back to work!

Bon jour!

This is how I get ready for work every morning.

Commence countdown to Paris . . .

* * *
A couple of possible translations of the lyrics. Not for the easily offended!

Here's Take 1. And now here's Take 2.

Apparently, the Cuizinier referred to in the lyrics is a French rapper not admired for being a nice guy.

Nevertheless, it's got a good beat and is easy to dance to. The only criteria you need to enjoy.

Ah men

Are you there, god? It's me, Margo Channing.

Please grant me the serenity to stop fantasizing about another long-distance relationship with a semi- mostly completely maybe unavailable man and the courage to shtup become enamored with crush on someone in my own area code for a change.

Ah men.

Pittsburgh and me, keeping it classy

We made Gawker! For all the wrong reasons!

Hockey will (not) set you free

I'm very late in getting to this one, being that some weeks ago the Penguins went down faster and more dramatically than the Hindenburg in a lightening storm. But this is too funny not to share, despite the fact that this meme--I think that's what the kids call it--has been done to destruction and, well, sorry about the Nazi Germany imagery.

My favorite moments:

• "I trusted all the praise on Roots Sports all year long . . . " 
• "Johnson couldn't stop a slapshot from a 6-year-old" 
• "It's OK, Pirates games are still fun sometimes." 
• "There is only one possible explanation for this . . ." 

But there are many, especially if you know anything about Pittsburgh or sports. So put your historical squeamishness aside and enjoy.

Squeezebox

Good lord, neighbors. Again? I swear I want to go to bed early one night/wake up late one morning without having to listen to a rendition of "Squeezebox" by the Who played solely on bedsprings.

Straight to video

Normally, I don't do video . . . but I'm trying to stay hep and fly, so here goes, my second attempt at a homemade video: A brief, 49-second scene from my neighborhood in Pittsburgh, Easter Sunday morning 2012.

You're gonna have to turn up the sound REALLY loud to hear the bells and the birds (and, alas, the lone gas-guzzler driving by).

Happy whatever-you-celebrate--or don't.

Trolling for beads

Is this what you buy the person you love if the person you love spends all their free time in chatrooms and on message boards blaming Bush/Obama/capitalism/socialism/conservatives/liberals for all of life's ills?

'Cause if so, somebody owes me some damn Trollbeads.

Ah ah ah choo!

The world's most relaxed dog

Found him!

It's a Kansas thing

Cherchez le garbage can

Mesdames et messieurs, je vous présente "Cherchez le garçon" by Taxi Girl.

Save your prayers for this one.

Man, this one's so 1981, it makes my vinyl copy of Gary Numan's "Cars" ache.

My dear French people: This was incredibly cool in 1981, I'll grant you that, but I opine that you do better when you take English and American trends and make them your own. (See Mikado below.)

However you say "just sayin'" in French, that's what I'm saying.

Still, no doubt, I will be humming this lil' ditty the rest of the day.

Nous devons adorer les Français. Maintenant!

We should bow down and worship the French.

Any nation or cultural group that could create the above--"Naufrage en hiver" ("Shipwrecked in Winter"?) by early '80s French pop duo, Mikado--deserves the highest honors our universe can bestow. Something more than a permanent seat on the UN Security Council, a few phrases adapted into/stolen by English, and repeated thumbs-ups to Nicolas Sarkozy for having a hot wife.

More, definitely more.

In my mind, you could not ask for a more perfect blending of electro-pop, vocals that touch upon both ennui and seduction, and Pierre et Gilles style. And if you do want more, well shame on you.

There's no problem in America that can't be solved by putting this song and video on heavy rotation throughout the land. (At least problems of an aesthetic nature.) I see a million billion rednecks' heads exploding every time this tune is played on CMT.

Get 'er done. Now!

A deviation. Or three.

"You can't get what you want . . ."

Finish that lyric with the appropriate line--

a) "But you get what you need"

b) "Until you know what you want"

c) All of the above

If you chose c) all the above, you're incorrect (the answer is technically speaking b) ), but you're actually "more correct" in a greater, more global, psychological-lil'-ol'-me sense.

Short version? I went to see the Iranian film A Separation last night. I heard from yet another old boyfriend (that makes three since Valentine's). Yesterday was the 5th anniversary of my father's death.

Quite a little trifecta of angst, no?

Long version? Well, how much time do you have?

* * *

First, the movie, which was quite good. I don't know that I thought it was Oscar-winner worthy (Oscar-nominated worthy, most definitely), as I think our illustrious Academy of Motion Picture Sales and Special Effects tends to pick the safest Best Foreign Film every year. #MyOwnOpinion as the kids say on the Twitter. But my opinion and general sense of ridiculousness are what you visit here for, n'est-ce pas?

The movie works on a couple of levels--one being that it shows you a very different world from our own, in which women's fixed roles in society and the pervasiveness of religion, repression, and class affect people's judgments and abilities to act on their own, in their own best self-interest, and in the best interest of others.

Oh hahahaha, had you going there, didn't I!? I know, like, right? How is that any different that our own world? It seems to me to be just a matter of degrees and a few chadors added as part of the set design.

Seriously, it does show differences, how life might operate under a system where religion and the state have a significant role in every aspect of life. But it's really not that different. If anything, the issues at hand--the classic who's telling the truth, what is real and what is not--are universal. Everyone has a version of truth in the story, everyone has their prejudices and perceptions that affect their version of the truth. Their guilt, their needs, their shame, their frustrations. Peeling back the layers reveals even more layers and then finally . . .

As of this writing, A Separation has now been showing in Pittsburgh now for at least three weeks, testament to its appeal and universality I would like to think. If you get the chance, do go see it.

* * *

The story begins with a married couple, Nader and Simin, talking to a legal or religious "interrogator" (according to IMDB, that's the role) about a divorce. Simin wants to leave the country to find a better life for herself, her daughter, and her husband, Nader. Nader, on the other hand, feels he cannot leave the country because his father is infirm and needs constant, round-the-clock care and oversight.

Nader's father has Alzheimer's, which just so happens is the same affliction that befell my father and eventually took his life.

Upon realizing that, I almost left the movie theater. It was, after all, the fifth anniversary of my Dad's death, an event that even just a week earlier had me in tears while I was getting dressed for work. I just wasn't sure I could handle watching the movie in a public space. On the one hand, the movie struck too close to my heart; I wasn't sure I could watch the movie without being overcome with grief and emotion. On the other hand, if the movie got Alzheimer's wrong, dramatizing it for cinematic purposes rather than giving it a more reality-based portrayal, I would get angry and spend the time cursing under my breath at the actors on the screen.

As it turns out, Alzheimer's only played a role in the plot, not *the* role, serving as a catalyst for many of the events that take place. And the way the disease was portrayed seemed emotionally and factually accurate as well. Nader struggles with his job, his life, and his father's care-giving. The efforts to provide for his father's well-being strains and disrupts his life and his family. Simin, who in some ways seems heartless for leaving Nader at that moment, merely suffers from frustration and bad-timing; she clearly loves her husband and her father-in-law and is concerned for her family's well-being, taking great steps to assist and protect them.

In desperate need of assistance, Nader (with Simin's help) hires Razieh to provide care-giving to his father. She, like many of us in this situation, barely understands the problems and needs that Nader's father has. She tries to give him instructions that he clearly can't comprehend. Razieh's daughter Somayeh (perhaps the most adorable little child ever seen on screen) mistakenly lets Nader's father escape from the locked apartment and wander into the street. Nader's frustration grows with Razieh, his father's care-giving, and the complex, desperate situation.

I still found myself cursing under my breath at the screen. Well, not so much cursing, as barking out information. "He can't understand that!" "Watch the door!" "You need to speak slowly!" "What's the underlying need?" (this latter command in relation to why Nader's father kept trying to get out in the open and down the street to the news vendor). "Understand that, and he won't try to escape!"

Of course, it's easier to see all this from hindsight. In the middle of it, trust me, it's difficult to see much of anything, at least if you're a close, impatient relation of the person suffering. My own experience with my Dad during Alzheimer's was somewhat limited as I didn't live in the same city, state, or region as he did. I saw him on periodic visits home and witnessed a generally happy man but one whose mental and physical capacities were gradually in decline. I'll spare you the details, but it's important to note that Alzheimer's not only affects memories of people, places, and times; it eventually affects the remembrance of basic functions, such as walking, eating, and swallowing.

Trying not to take the former personally is a serious challenge. You want your father to remember you, to be the man you always knew him to be. The latter underscores the point that there's nothing personal about Alzheimer's. Stuff happens to people you love, and often it's completely out of everyone's control. It's not all about you. It's not all about me either.

* * *

The return of yet another old boyfriend warrants a post all its own. In fact, each and every one that has reappeared in some capacity in my life since February deserves some digital space and time from me. Eventually, eventually.

For now, it's all a bit too new, and I don't want to talk about it too much, at least until I've sorted things out a bit more in my head.

But let's just say it was something of a cosmic, world-shifting moment to hear from the Baron after many, many years. Five I think? No, more than that, maybe six or even seven.  He called me up at work, having tracked me down through the wonder tool that is the internet. On the anniversary of my father's death.

And essentially the message was this: To ask my forgiveness for how things went down between us years ago.

I'm not a push-over these days. After an especially bumpy couple of years, emotionally and professionally, I have learned some hard, overdue lessons about life and about human nature. Since my Dad's death I have also become a somewhat quieter and more private person than before, not sharing myself too easily with others and finding it more difficult to make connections with people. I am a friend, a lover, a colleague, a brother, a son, and I serve in all those roles very well and genuinely. Nevertheless, only a few, only the trustworthy, get in too deep.

But since my Dad's death and other life events, and with the help of a good therapist, I have also somehow become a little lighter in spirit, freer to feel like myself and be that person in public, come hell or high water. I have learned to take life's setbacks and hardships less personally than before. It's not all about me, after all. Sometimes people are just shitty because that's what they do. It doesn't mean that I necessarily did something to bring that out in them and cause them to treat me shabbily. It doesn't even mean that's how they well and truly are. Maybe that's just them at that moment in time. Maybe they're not even being shitty; maybe they're just trying to live their lives, and somehow we end up on the wrong end of their behavior or our perception of their behavior.

Best to just let it go. It's not about you. It's not even about them.

* * *

By no means have I become the Zen master of Pennsylvania. While maybe just maybe I'm expressing some new-found maturity, it doesn't take me long to return to my slightly more paranoid, hyper-sensing side. Nor does it take me long to balance the uncertainty with my lighter, jokier, sillier self.

After seeing A Separation, I couldn't help but compare our situation, the Baron's and mine, to the theme of the movie. What is true? What is truth? Who is telling the truth? Is it possible to have more than one truth in any given tale? Misconceptions, misunderstandings, missed connections, mixed emotions--it's all in there, with an unhealthy dose of religious guilt and social shame tossed in for ill measure.

I think we have the makings of an Iranian movie about our lives. Lots of misinterpretations of meanings, lots of unanswered mysteries, lots of repressed desires. In honor of all that Mahmoud Ahmadinijad has wrought in the lives of people, gay and straight in Iran and elsewhere, let's call it . . . A Deviation.

Curse you, Ahmadinijad. But praise be to "allah" you (groan) in my life, past, present, and future. You make it what it is, and it's pretty damn alright most of the time.

Mutual surrender

The mood du jour is "mutual surrender."

And despite the incredibly godawful '80s hair and style, what a wonderful world it would be, indeed.

The it's-not-OK corral

I spent Thursday afternoon in lockdown in the office building where I work because a man with two semi-automatic handguns woke up that day and decided to go on a killing spree at the Western Psychiatric Institute and Clinic here in Pittsburgh. As the result of his actions, two died (one of them being the shooter himself) and seven others were injured.

I was never in any danger during this event. My office is at least three or four miles from the hospital, although it is a branch of my employer's operations, and, thus, when they went on lockdown in Oakland, so did we. I think everyone in my office felt a little nervous at first, dis-eased by the unknown, the drama, and the repeated and rapid-fire (if you'll pardon the expression) calls and texts received from our employer's post-Virginia Tech warning system. A few of us were inconvenienced because we had appointments at other offices near the hospital, but I think everyone was pretty clear on not needing to venture near the neighborhood after this incident.

So impact on us? Minimal. After a couple of hours of being stuck inside our offices, we relaxed and propped open the card swipe-protected door, so that we could go to the bathroom and the water fountain.

We even resorted to some black humor. One of my colleagues, upon hearing that a police officer had been grazed by a bullet in the shootout, joked, "I can hear it now, 'I shot the sheriff, but I did not kill no deputy.'"

Ha.

"Just make sure you're singing it like Bob Marley and not Eric Clapton," I quipped. "I can't stand the Clapton version of that song."

Double ha. We slay us, don't we?

Except that two people did get slayed, the shooter and a 25-year-old psychiatric nurse named Michael Schaab, who worked with geriatric patients and had just gotten engaged to his girlfriend in February. Apparently, too, this was the second (and last) child of Mr. Schaab's parents, Mary and Harry Schaab, to be murdered. Less than two years ago, their daughter Nancy, 26, was killed during a domestic dispute by her boyfriend.

If you were ever trying to find a pure example of the meaning of the word "tragedy," here's where you would start.

Of course, we didn't know any of this at the time. Nevertheless, that joke's not so funny anymore, is it? If it ever was.

Given the details that we now know, I do feel especially reprehensible for my part in trivializing the afternoon's events. No family should ever have to endure what the Schaabs are going through. My heart goes out to them. The whole city's, the entire nation's should as well.

I'm not some moral puritan who thinks you can't have a laugh, even a bitter pill of one, at someone or something else's expense. Gallows humor is a coping mechanism, pure and simple, something we do as a way to scare away the distress and alleviate the upset from horrific events. For good or for ill, I think we Americans have excelled at this over the last decade or more. Lordy, we've had to, given an up-and-down economy, lingering social ills, threats of domestic terrorism, and the bizarre, incendiary actions of some to impose their visions of law and order upon us. It's laugh or cry most days. The gods bless The Daily Show with Jon Stewart and the Colbert  Report. Many of us would have caved ages ago without them.

Moreover, humor, black or otherwise, is just a part of our national character.

As I state to others elsewhere who decry some of the events that take place in our country, these now-almost common workplace shootings a case in point, we're Americans, not Europeans. We're not even Canadians. We made a conscious decision more than 200 years ago to separate ourselves from European rule and to embrace a New World culture.

While our cultural stock is made up of Europeans, it is only partly so. Besides, Europe's a big, diverse place. Our heritage hails from all parts of Europe, not just Britain or Northern or Western Europe. We are Southern European and Eastern European as well, as much Italian and Jewish as we are German, English, and Irish, I would argue. And we are also African, Latino, Asian, and indigenous as well. Heavily so and increasingly so and hooray for that.

I'd argue that we're actually spiritually more akin to Mexico, Brazil, Argentina, and the rest of the Americas. After all, we all fought for independence from a "foreign" power. Even English-speaking Canada, our long-lost cousins, whom, on the surface, we resemble in language and custom more than just about anyone else on the planet, seems different from us in its view toward Europe and our approach to "civilization."

Hold the pickles, hold the lettuce, special orders don't upset us: We have it our way. We're Americans. We're not exceptional, just different.

Maybe we're too rambunctious, too hard-headed, too conservative, too hot-blooded, too quick to react, too non-contemplative, too everything. I try to look at these as less "too muches" and more neutrals: It's who we are, for good, for ill, for better, for worse.

Nonetheless, I must admit that the "toos" still drive me crazy from time to time. Or even often.

* * *

Maybe we're more violent, too--I just don't know. I tend to think we're maybe less different than we might imagine ourselves to be. Europe and Canada have had mass shootings as well. It's just that we also have easier access to firearms and a cultural norm that says they're OK--corral or no corral--to use.

Having said all that--and, more or less, unapologetically so, or at least nonjudgmentally so--at times like these, when yet another shooting occurs in a public space, I have to agree that the Canadians and the Europeans are onto something: Limit access to guns, and you'll have fewer shootings and killings, in public or in private.

It seems incredibly simple, and yet it is an idea that stands no chance of gaining traction at this time. For when a mass shooting happens in Europe or Canada, there always seems to be an examining of the national conscience and an attempt to mend the social fabric. In the U.S., the opposite seems to happen now: The more shootings there are, the less contemplation occurs.

When a mass shooting happens in Europe or Canada, there seems to be a concerted effort to further limit access to firearms. In the U.S., again, we do the opposite: Another shooting just seems to prompt more calls for even fewer restrictions on access to firearms.

After Columbine and then eight years later, Virginia Tech, you'd think we would have gotten the message loud and clear and taken immediate action to curb access, limit gun ownership, or at least the types of guns people are allowed to own. But no. Instead our fearless leaders and class-action lawyers recommended we put in more metal detectors and pursued less restrictive gun laws. Funny, huh?

Even after Thursday's shooting here in Pittsburgh, all the focus seems to be on what the hospital and the university had done or not done to prevent this sort of episode from happening. The very afternoon of the shooting, I heard a colleague say, "See, if we had laws in place that would allow us to carry guns on campus, this problem would have been taken care of in a second." Given the general level of punch-drunkeness that occurred that afternoon, I don't know for sure whether he was joking or not.

Nevertheless, even our state's governor, Tom Corbett, weighed in on whether the institution had done enough to prevent this horrendous event from happening. "Obviously it's very disturbing, and I think we need to review exactly what happened and what happened to the lack of security at that facility," the governor was quoted as saying.

Coincidence that the university and the governor are locked in a heated battle over state funding of higher education with plans to cut several million dollars more of the state's appropriation? Cynical me thinks not so much.

So lots of treating symptoms, but not much dealing with the problem, which to me is essentially this: Why should your right to bear arms supersede my right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness? Why do I need to worry that I will be killed at work or at the gym or at the mall or sitting in my living room watching TV so that you can have unbridled access to all kinds of weaponry, the vast majority of of it out of proportion to your actual need?

You want to hunt? I don't really get it, but I know it's a cultural thing in Pennsylvania and other places. So fine, go hunt. A simple rifle should do the trick. Level the playing field a bit and keep it moderately powered and low-tech. Give the deer or the elk a chance to kick your ass if you can't shoot straight. Seems fair.

You feel you need protection at home? Hmmm, I'm not sure I get your reasoning, that having a loaded pistol will do the trick, especially when so much can go so wrong in such a scenario. As far as I can tell, nobody uses a pistol to hunt; they use it to threaten or kill. I don't understand why you would want to do this, and I certainly don't support it. Here's a case where some additional paraphernalia, like door and window locks, might just take care of your worries without the need to go all Dirty Harry on someone's personhood.

As you feel so strongly about this point, I can be a little flexible on this point--as long as you keep the firepower low and your actions are aimed at stunning and scaring off, rather than killing anything that moves. Oh, and limit one per customer. And consider yourself forewarned: If you mess this up, the privilege (not the right) goes away. Blam!

Everything else? No. Banned. Completely. No exceptions. You may hate it. (In fact, I'm sure you will.) You may fight it. (In fact, I know you will.) You may offer up your curious interpretations of what the "Founding Fathers" intended in the Second Amendment. And who really knows since none of us was around much in the 1780s, not even our most decrepit citizens--our senior members of Congress and the Supreme Court. My layperson's interpretation of the Second Amendment reads it as though we were simply being allowed to form state militias, National Guards, as needed. I see nothing in there about the right to bear arms in the form of AK-47s or armor-piercing bullets. If you're going to be a "strict constitutionalist," as you so enjoy repeating at loud volume, then you have to always be one, not just when it suits you. Them's the rules.

So bitch all you want, rant, wail, berate, and threaten. I will, nonetheless, prevail. It's over. No more. Stop the shooting and killing. Stop pretending it's about your freedom when it's really about your unchecked irresponsibility and about gunmaker profits. Stop it all now. NOW. I deserve to live in peace, and so do you. If you follow my lead on this, we'll get what I want but we'll also get what you and I both need.

Still not convinced? For added incentive, look at this way: Just think how much we'll piss off the Europeans and Canadians by tuning them out, taking action, getting this right, and then stating that this was our intention all along. We just had to do it in our own way, our time, when we were ready and thought it was the best for us, best for the world at large--but not because we were paying any attention to them.

American exceptionalism, American difference, America our way. Call it what you will. Let's stop shooting one another and get back to living well through our unique ability to annoy the world around us. Just imagine being able to shout, "We're number 1! we're number 1! USA! USA" due to a dramatic drop in gun-related violence and homicides.

It'll kill 'em!

Sprung!

Awwww yeah, got me some crocuses in mah yard, boi!

(Imagine the preceding said in the voice of Flava Flav. You're welcome.)

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.

Anggun-in' around

Meet Anggun, Indonesia's biggest pop star (or so I'm told). She's not had much of a profile in the U.S. since the late 1990s, when her English-language album Snow on the Sahara made a dent in the American consciousness.

Nevertheless, she's still out there singing--in Indonesian, English, and French, no less. In fact, her English-language success has come about through her French connection, first having recorded in French and continuing to do French first, English second albums, thanks to a record label headquartered in France.

"In Your Mind" (see above) is from her 2005 Luminescence. (She's released two others since then--2008's Elevation and 2011's Echoes.) I like the sound of this one (sort of Indian, sort of Asian, sort of Middle Eastern, but still pop), as well as the message, which I think could be interpreted in a couple of ways. On the one level there is the simple idea of the lyrics: "You may be my lover, but I am my own person, and this should be no threat to you. So do please get over yourself."

On another . . . is there a subtler message to certain fundamentalist elements in the Islamic world as well? It's the same message in a sense: I am part of you, you are part of me; yet I can still be myself, a woman, which is no threat to you or to our way of life.

I don't want to make too much out of it or cast aspersions on cultures I know precious little about. Indonesia, I believe, is the most populated Muslim country in the world, and one that appears to have a less regimented approach to its culture, religion, and gender roles (when, say, compared to Saudi Arabia). Maybe there is a subtext here addressing more aggressive religious elements . . .

. . . Or maybe not. Maybe I'm just reading into the song too much of my own Islamophobia and Muslim misunderstanding. Instead, Anggun may be talking to the patriarchy in her and other cultures, including very much our own.

Because, truly, whenever I hear this song, I perceive it as a sort of anthem to those who are at risk in abusive, controlling relationships or who are in the path of dating violence. It might be a good song for every girl and every woman to commit to heart and witness to whenever some guy needs to be reminded where he stands and what dominion he has (or doesn't) in their lives.

Or maybe it's just a catchy pop tune. Up to you to decide.

Color me français

It was a mild Saturday in early March, so I had to make my semi-annual pilgrimage to see mon bon ami, Jean-Marc Chatellier, in Millvale, Pennsylvania.

Actually, I don't know Monsieur Jean-Marc at all. Just his baked goods, pastries, and kitchen creations. (He makes a really mean Quiche Lorraine, I must say, in addition to the croissants, Breton cake, and French macarons.) Which in and of itself is enough.

But, oh, when I see him in his bakery on North Avenue, I do want to go up to him, anoint his head with oil, wash his feet, and kiss him full on the mouth, just to show my appreciation for the existence of his bakery in lil' ol' Pittsburgh, USA. I'm sure he would be fine without my showing that kind of appreciation, of course.

Nevertheless, I try to remember to occasionally herald the people and places that make a difference in our world. We all bring enough negativity to our daily situations--oui, moi aussi, as shocking as that may be to you, dear reader--so when something comes along that's praiseworthy, I try not to hold anything back. Thus my sincere offer to, um, French kiss the Pastry-maker of Millvale.

Too much? Agreed, but aesthetic pleasures mean a great deal to me (despite my general aversion to cleaning my bathroom and kitchen with anything approaching regularity). Having a sweet spot in an aging, Appalachian milltown, one that produces pastries with panache, means a lot to me and to others residing here.  On purpose or by happenstance.

Alors, vive la pâtisserie! Long may it wave delicious and colorful fumes across the Allegheny and into the cold, gray heart of Steeltown.

To make up for the weirdness

As my friend The Music Lover and I just discussed, what was up with Sleigh Bells on Saturday Night Live last night? The voice of singer, Alexis Krauss, seemed totally lost in the mix, not just on "Comeback Kid" but for the second song performed as well.

What gives? If the sound quality was off in the first set, you'd think they could have at least fixed it in the second. But maybe that was intentional?

I mean, Sleigh Bills is a quirky outfit, music-wise--they do a lot with "noise" and distortion in their sound. I love it, but I kind of wonder what's the point of them performing live if you can't hear the singer or understand even a minimal amount of what she's singing.

Then again, in the video above, one of the guys in the band is wearing a Nirvana t-shirt. Nirvana. Now there's a group known for sound distortion and lyrical and vocal unintelligibility.

So, again, maybe it was intentional and that Nirvana t-shirt is speaking, erm, volumes, to us.

A funny thing happened on the way to the Swedish bombshell

I stumbled across this CD while browsing the CD bins at the Attic, one of Pittsburgh's finer vintage vinyl and CD shops. (OK, it's situated in inner-city-suburban Millvale, but who's counting?)

The Gaylords. And there's so many Gaylords they have not only their own section in the CD bin but enough materials to release a two-CD set!

Serves me right for looking for Ann-Margret records in the first place.

Dance away

Admittedly, I went a bit crazy with the Roxy Music homage this week--but, obviously, from the video above, I haven't stopped just yet. I should have definitely included "Dance Away," the big hit from their 1979 release, Manifesto, in my top ten moments in Rox-'n'-Roll history--a gorgeous pop tune with a haunting sound and poignant lyrics, such as--

It's funny how I could never cry/
Until that night when you passed by/
Hand in hand with another guy/
You're dressed to kill/
And guess who's dying?

Loneliness is a crowded room/
Full of open hearts that turn to stone/
All together all alone

There was I many times a fool/
I hope and pray--but not too much/
Out of reach is out of touch/
All the way is far enough

Yes, it's very romantic, maybe even a tad too too, but "Dance Away" is a precious little gem of an unheralded pop song, at least in my opining. Like I said about the discofied remix of "Angel Eyes," it might represent something of the beginning of the end for Ye Olde Roxy Music and the birth of NuRoxy--and you'd be perfectly fine in lamenting that, depending on your taste in such musical matters. NuRoxy was decidedly not Old Roxy, and while NuRoxy and Bryan Ferry solo transitioned successfully to a new, more glamorous era, some spark, some quaintness, some vitality of Old Roxy might have been lost in the metamorphosis. The caterpillar became a gorgeous butterfly, but the caterpillar itself was quite beautiful in its own right.

But what's past is past. It's no longer 1979. Or so I keep reminding myself.

Anyway, maybe this past week, Valentine's week, predisposed me to Roxy memories, placing me in a romantic, wistful, slightly mournful frame. For there were sharp reminders this week, little pricks (but not those kind of pricks) to my tender consciousness, that I am single again.

Normally, I do not necessarily mind this. I have been single before and, in fact, have spent most of my adolescent and adult lives being single. I do like it, maybe even prefer it at times, as it affords me a freedom that I would often rather have than be settled in with someone or some situation that limits or restricts me.

Let's be clear here: I'm not talking about having limitless sexual freedom. While I'm no Promise Ring-tonedeaf virgin, sex for me has primarily been about the expression of love, affection, communion, and even creativity, than it's ever been about a relentless physical need, frustration, conquest, challenge, goal, habit, or hobby. I find most people's expression of unlimited sexual freedom to be . . . actually rather limited. Personally, I know I do better being with someone I like, love, and trust--or at the very least have some sort of mental or personal connection with, not just a physical attraction to. Only then do I feel free.

Although every need has its place, its need to be met, and sometimes those needs need to be met sooner rather than later, love or no love, trust aside, caution to the wind, one way or another.

Ahem and amen.

I think what's really more important to me is the freedom to think, feel, explore, and be myself. I don't believe I'm that out there or radical in my thinking, constantly pushing toward the horizon and beyond to some personal Valhalla. No, I inhabit a rather more conventional world, some middle sphere, Swedish Third Way, intersex textuality (figuratively speaking) between the conventional and the radical, the traditional and the libertine. I'm not at home in either extreme climate, which makes it very difficult to find the right level of temperature in the either/or thermostat of our binary mindset.

And I've never found--or never found for long enough--someone else who occupies that same plane. Or maybe I just didn't stay still long enough to realize what I might have found.

So why suddenly all this candy-hearts-and-sad-lovesongs emotion? Well, it was a week, a week of trying to explain in French that I was "célibataire" (which means both single and celibate), of old boyfriends suddenly reappearing out of the mists of time, of underscored frustrations in life and work, and of course, Roxy Music.

Normally, this would get to me, but maybe only briefly and not so acutely. What's different now is that I'm 50 and single, I'm 50 and most of my friends live elsewhere, and I'm 50 and get more of my social interaction with my contemporaries online rather than in person. All very modern, I suppose, but not always a satisfying replacement for the real thing.

What's different at 50 is that I find myself to be a more relationship-oriented person yet realize that I am a person one who has rarely been in a relationship over the last 50 years.


* * *

Editor's note: This posting was originally much longer. I've clipped it here and hope to rework the other part into future postings. Patience . . .

Slave to Roxy

Well, I can't just do one post about Bryan Ferry and walk away, as if that's all I have to say. No. Roxy Music has been part of my musical history since at least the mid-'70s.

Great moments in my personal Roxy Music history #1: "Love Is the Drug"

The first Roxy song I ever remember hearing was "Love Is the Drug" on radio, circa the mid-1970s in North Carolina. It wasn't a huge hit in the U.S., but it is a totally unforgettable song.



To me, Rod Stewart owes scads to Roxy Music: "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy" seems like a mere sloppy disco reworking of this tune.

I have no idea what's up with the eye patch and the wardrobe (dear BF looks like he's a member of the Women's Air Corps in those epaulets and that cinched, high-waisted pants), but Bryan Ferry was always about style. Not necessarily good style in this case, but style of some sort.

Great moments in my personal Roxy Music history #2: "Tokyo Joe"



"Toyko Joe" was a 1977 or so solo effort by Bryan Ferry, after Roxy's first break (up). I remember hearing this on the BBC World Service Top 20 in 1977 or so--a fantastic year for popular music, with punk and disco at their peaks. "Tokyo Joe" to me sounds like it's trying to do a bit of both--a strong, funky baseline and beneath squirrelly vocals and lyrics. Vaguely reminding me of "Miss You" by the Rolling Stones. Or not

Great moments in my personal Roxy Music history #3: "Virginia Plain"



Early Roxy and "Virginia Plain," which I discovered after hearing Bryan Ferry solo in the '70s but before I was exposed to all the lush New Romanticism that came later, both in group and solo form. I really didn't (and still don't) know much about early Roxy, but two things led me to the discovery of their life before 1975.

One being reading an interview with Kate Bush in which she listed "early Roxy" as music she had enjoyed when she was younger--the stress being on "early" as opposed to "contemporary" (early '80s), after they'd gone all lush-life.

Two being hearing a re-release of "Virginia Plain" on the BBC sometime in the late '70s. Although Roxy was considered something of a glam act in 1972, there are elements here--the quirky vocals, the industrial sounds, the bleating horns--that make me think of punk. But what do I know?

Great moments in my personal Roxy Music history #4 and #5: "Angel Eyes"--both versions

Version #1 was featured on the album Manifesto, which I bought on vinyl my senior year of high school. I'm sure I was the only kid at Swansboro H.S. that owned that album--along with the complete back catalog of ABBA and Donna Summer, as well as some Blondie, the Stranglers, and Ian Dury and the Blockheads, to name a few.

Here's version 1 (no video), a much more rock-and-roll affair--



And here's version #2, a much glossier rendez-vous, ridiculously so, but absolutely gorgeous in all its discofied, flamboyant glamour--



I don't know what they were thinking when they recorded this version and made this video--it seems like the complete antithesis of early Roxy and probably represents something of the beginning of the end, at least if you loved old Roxy and hated the nu, improved version.

Still the video does seem like the coming together of so much Roxy style, so many Roxy album photos, all of which featured the top glamour-girls of the era, such as Jerry Hall and Amanda Lear ("girls" of the era, I should say, if the stories are true about Amanda Lear). In that sense, they were being consistent style-wise, but musically, they were already moving on to New Romanticism.

The gods help me, I was once in love with a man who wore a pastel lavender suit in a music video.

Great moments in my personal Roxy Music history #6: "Jealous Guy"



This, I believe, was done as a tribute to John Lennon, after his death in 1981. The NuRoxy visual style is in full force, the sound slicker, Bryan Ferry's Joe Crocker imitation is unfaltering, and despite the great hair, you know it's all going to end badly--he'll be looking like an old drunken Tyne & Wear type by the time he's fifty. Although, truth be told, he's well past that now and still looks fab. Dammit, I'm just a "jealous guy" myself.

But let's not overthink it: This is a lovely tribute to the late John Lennon.

Great moments in my personal Roxy Music history #7, #8, #9, #10, and beyond? Hey, well, just check out any of the tracks from Avalon, plus ones from his mid-'80s solo albums, Bȇte Noire and Boys and Girls.

If forced to get specific, then I'd readily recommend listening to "Slave to Love" and imagine it playing in the background of a scene from the British soap, EastEnders, as the characters Simon, Cindy, Sharon, and Ian double-date--only Sharon and Ian don't realize that their respective partners, Simon and Cindy, are lovesick for each other.

Kinda a perfect pop culture moment--and much more personal and emotional than the actual video for "Slave to Love," appearing below.



Not EastEnders, alas. This is strictly Dynasty.

Pity, that.

England's ruse

Oddly, while scoping out other Glen Campbell songs on YouTube,--namely, "Rhinestone Cowboy," one I never really liked at the time or even now--I was re-introduced to this early '80s, New Romantic jewel--"Avalon" by Roxy Music.

I've always loved this song (the whole album in fact) and the mood it evokes: One of romance, wistfulness, the blush of love, and heart-aching, dewy beauty of it all. I remember once reading that Avalon (the album) was the Great Dorm Room Make-Out Album of 1982, and having enjoyed dorm life in the early '80s, well, I can testify--but will never kiss and tell.

I have fond memories of the videos from the album, especially the one above, which received pretty decent rotation on early MTV, if I recall correctly. There was just something about that era that made Britain seem incredibly cool, suave, lovely, and stylish. A place of beauty and sophistication, where love with a slick-haired crooner in a white dinner jacket was simply a dance away. Videos like this certainly contributed to that impression, at least in my easily impressed psyche.

I wouldn't first visit England until 1993, then again in 2005, well past the New Romantic era, and well, let's just say that while I enjoyed my time there, it was no Roxy Music video circa 1982. (A Benny Hill video from 1982? Well, that's another matter for another post . . .)

But then again, a Roxy Music video from 1982 isn't the same Roxy Music video in 2012.

By that I mean, perceptions change. What seemed amazing, beautiful, cultured, and incredibly romantic in its day, now just looks like any ol' perfume advert.

So which came first, Roxy Music's neo-samba pretensions or Dior's 30-second elegant lifestyle commercials trying to get you to, oh by the way, buy a few liters of some perfume? Classic poulet vs. oeuf, that.

Anyway, I had a mad crush on Bryan Ferry for ages, and he's still cranking out the occasional romantic, melancholy cocktail of style and preciousness. I've even bought a few of them over the years.

But while I miss that era--the innocence, the charm, the style, the possibilities, and, god yes, my youth--watching this video, listening to this song, makes me wonder . . . was it all just a big fat stripey marketing lie? Nothing more than the selling of a lifestyle, the telling of tall, beautiful tales about "hauntingly beautiful" but vacant supermodels, along with the vending of a lot of vinyl, hair gel, cars, and clothes?

It sure looks that way, at least from the vantage of 2012.

I still love you, Roxy. I still swoon to you, Avalon. You were always how I wanted to see myself, aspired to be. Cool Britannia.

But maybe I'm more that kid on the couch in a small, suburban tract house, nestled among his sibs and parents, watching performances of "Wichita Lineman" on The Glen Campbell Good-Time Hour or "Harper Valley P.T.A." on The Porter Wagoner Show. Or was. And might wish to be again some day, if only for a moment.

Nevertheless, despite the desire to return to a less crazy, more hazy-golden era, I would pay hard cash to get "Rhinestone Cowboy" unstuck from my head right now.

* * *

Oh, who am I kidding. I would *so* tell if Bryan Ferry had ever been involved in the kissing.

Southern livin'

As anyone who knows me is well aware, I am no fan of country music. In fact, I hate it, loathe it, detest it, abhor it--and besmirch it every chance I get.

I don't really listen to much of it either. (Ha!) But, naturally, that's never stopped me from having an opinion to share . . .

For me, contemporary country is like a lot of contemporary pop music. Despite the aw-shucks, shit-kicker, country-road cred it claims to have, the whole meshugas seems like a corporate job, music by committee, and rapidly becoming a parody of itself. Blue jeans, beer, "mah wuhman" being the one and only. "Red Solo Cup," the "Margaritaville" of the tailgatin' and suburban lawn-mowin' set. All that crap that makes America grate (sic).

Maybe if it all had more of a connection to the life of gay, 50-year-old, I'd get interested. But then I don't feel moved (to dance or otherwise) by any song performed by Lady Gaga or other performers that are marketed to my tribe. (Although, admittedly, "Poker Face" was kind of catchy.) It's even why I've gone off the once pure pop and stylish fun of Kylie Minogue, something I thought I would never do. But if your handlers are going to have you do nothing but bleat to the beat of disco lady-boy dance music instead of belting out adult-oriented pop, let alone songs that mean something to you personally, then, well, I can't be arsed to listen.

*Cough* Where were we?

Ah, yes . . . despite the repulsion toward I feel toward contemporary country music, I do listen to some from today (mostly alt-country stuff like Ryan Adams, Roseanne Cash, Shelby Lynne, and My Morning Jacket, to name less than a handful) and occasionally enjoy some from yesterday.

A case in point: Glen Campbell's "Wichita Lineman."

Mr. Campbell was featured in a profile on CBS News Sunday Morning earlier today. He now has Alzheimer's but, nevertheless, is performing on stage in a farewell tour with three of his children and even has recorded a new album, Ghost on the Canvas. According to the reporter on CBS Sunday Morning, this will, obviously, be his last tour and his last album of new material. As his daughter and wife noted, he forgets things, loses track in his daily life and on stage, yet still can perform from memory and with the aid of a teleprompter.


It was painful for me to watch the interview, especially at moments when his wife was discussing his Alzheimer's with him, a disease that he does not realize that he has. "What is it that we have?" he asked his wife. "You have Alzheimer's," she replied. "Well, I don't feel like I have it."

Oh. So early Alzheimer's. Dear Campbell Family: Hang on tight for when things move to middle or late stage Alzheimer's.

Because I've been there, done that. I've watched two family members fade away from Alzheimer's, the most recent one being my father, who died almost five years ago. That's quite incredible to me--that one can pass away from "memory loss" (although, in reality, Alzheimer's is so much more) and that my Dad's been dead for a long five years.

Anyway, on the plus side of the pain, the profile reminded me of listening along with my Dad and brothers to Glen Campbell records in the late '60s and early '70s and watching the Glen Campbell Good-Time Hour on TV with them, my Mom, and sister. Incredibly, that was 40 years back in time. While it feels like it was longer ago than just a moment, it doesn't feel that long ago.

But before I go all Our Town on you in this rambling little posting, let's just say a few things--

I miss my Dad, and I guess I always will. I didn't always get along with him, but there was nothing that tragic or complicated in our relationship: We just both had strong personalities and senses of self. (Who me?) I wish I had been a little more forgiving of that, and I wish he had been a little more relaxed. Otherwise, he loved me unconditionally; provided me with a home, creature comforts, and an education; and he and my Mom gave us security, safety, and honesty, things that are all-too-lacking in the present day. But, hey, I at least enjoyed them once. I know what they're like, how it's supposed to be. And I know enough not to settle for less.

Apparently, I don't hate all country music after all. I have fond memories of Glen Campbell along with a lot of other "classic" country-pop from back in the day. "Rose Garden" by Lynn Anderson. "Harper Valley, P.T.A." by Jeannie C. Riley. "Ode to Billy Joe" by Bobbie Gentry. Jim Reeves and Faron Young. Porter Wagoner and Johnny Cash. It wasn't so bad then, after all. In fact, a lot of it was quite good, catchy, satisfying pop.

My Southern roots are showing. I often forget about them these days, living on the wrong side of the Mason-Dixon Line, or get bummed out over them, especially seeing how some Southerners behave in the name of God, religion, America, and "rightness." But there's more to the tale: The music, the food, the literature, the landscape, the humor, the language, and, yes, even the people. Despite some cheap creeps and flint-souled folk, there are a quite a wealth of people just being people, just being themselves, and doing the best they can in the system and society in which they live.

But good lord, if I hear "Red Solo Cup" or "Margaritaville" one more time, y'all are on your own. Hell, even The Beverly Hillbillies got the joke better than contemporary country.

Une fleur

Only a fan video for this one, "Une fleur," by Québécoise chanteuse, Stéphanie LaPointe. I'm not quite sure of the lyrics, but the mood, the vibe, seems perfect for this spring-like day in February in Pittsburgh, where it's brilliantly sunny (that in itself a spring-time miracle) with temps aiming toward 50 F/10 C.

I even had a friend in Central Pennsylvania report that she saw crocuses (crocii?) in her yard this week. That's about a month to 6 weeks too early, if you ask me. We normally wouldn't see them in Southwestern Pennsylvania until maybe mid- to late March, being that spring really doesn't get going here until April.

But this has been an odd year to say the least, weather-wise at least. And I have the "spring" allergies and non-stop head colds to prove it.

* * *

By the way, "Une fleur" was, I believe, written by Québécois hipster-dandy-musicien Pierre LaPointe (no relation as far as I know), who is one of those performers I feel I am supposed to like but really feel quite "Gallic shrug" about.

Nevertheless, here's a taste of Pierre, one that has absolutely nothing to do with spring except perhaps in terms of color and spirit.



And the moral of the story is that, Pierre LaPointe notwithstanding, I wish it were spring already and that I were in Montréal.

A good heart

Ah, heck, let's give Feargal Sharkey a shout-out today as well. A bit more uplifting than my downbeat take on David Sylvian.

"My expectations may be high/I blame it on my youth . . ."

Or turning 50. Take your pick.

We're not New Wave, We're New Romantic

Funny how the past revisits your life every now and again, stealing its way into your present day, gently, sensitively, surreptitiously.

Recently, I stumbled across David Sylvian's Voice of the Beehive album (well, the CD version of it at least) at a local record shop (well, CD resale shop at least). An album almost forgotten to me but one that I listened to repeatedly for a period of time in the late '80s, when it was originally released.

I was living in Washington, D.C., then but traveling some. I think I had a cassette of this album with me when I went to Australia in September-October 1987. Or maybe not. I definitely remember sharing my Feargal Sharkey cassette with a guy on a plane to Melbourne sometime around then. Maybe I did the same with David Sylvian, too.

Anyway, even though I sometimes, oftentimes, remember my Washington days with a certain bitterness and discomfort, I did enjoy the music, art, and culture I was exposed to then. I don't think it was a great town to be in to be tuned in, at least not in the '80s and at least not without a lot of money and an East Coast pedigree. Maybe there is no town like that, at least when you're in your twenties, and you're ready for your life to begin, not realizing that it already has. It's just another capitalist media fantasy, handed down, layered on, built up with the goal of increasing your dis-ease and making you want, strive, need, buy, break, die, then want, strive, and need, again and again.

But the times I visited New York then, often just going up for the day on the train, too cheap or too broke to stay overnight (a missed opportunity, no doubt), it did seem to be the place, at least in the mid- to late-'80s. Edgy, seedy, dangerous, forward, cool, powerful. Most definitely unlike Washington, where everyone seemed to be focused on an upper-middle-class sense of responsible cool and measured power of a different sort. Trenchcoats and 401Ks and liabilities and political maneuvering--and that was just among the clerk-typists.

If I had to do it all again, I'd probably do it all again, but I'd probably do it all again in New York or London. Or, heck, Melbourne. I'm not sure I would have been any more comfortable in my own skin there and then, but I think it would have been more interesting.

Having said that, I don't regret the times or the time in Washington. I just wish I'd done more with it, been less afraid, taken more risks, accepted more opportunities, and had more fun.

And I'm still feeling that way about my life today.

* * *

So one little David Sylvian album brought that all about.

It reminded me of then, and it reminded me of now, and it reminded me to feel: Moody, pensive, relaxed, luxuriant, sad, bittersweet. Something.

When was the last time I did that? Why don't I do it more often? Did I lose all feeling in my heart and my head after age 30? I can remember in my 20s having a glass of wine, listening to Nina Simone, sinking into the moment, shedding a tear or a giggle, enjoying my own company, and calling it a wonderful night.

And now . . . now it's TV and Twitter and Facebook and phone calls and trying to keep the stereo down so as not to disturb the neighbors (ironic, that), and staring out at the same street day after day, night after night, expecting it to look different each time. And not feeling anything at all, except . . .

The need for change is in my system again. It's been there for a while, and I've been too busy and dissatisfied with the day-to-day to notice it much. Maybe it's just the head cold and the cold medicine talking, but this year, or the next, but please God, not the one after, a change for the better will occur.

I turned 50 last fall, and I barely had time to notice it, so busy was I. But I feel it now. I'm still here. I'm still alive. And I want something more, something different, before it's too late. Or I simply forget to feel again.

One of my gayer moments

Ladies and germs, the new Madonna video for "Give Me All Your Luvin'," featuring Nicki Minaj and M.I.A.

Hmmm, what to say? I actually like the song--I mean, I'd even buy it, not just try to steal an "advanced download" of it from some murky corner of the internet. It's 3 minutes and 22 seconds of happy fun, cheekiness, and effervescence. Good show, Madonna.

However, I do tend to loathe the appearance of teenspeak in any contemporary song. "Luvin'"? Really, Madonna? Is Lourdes writing your lyrics now?

And while this is about as much Nicki Minaj as I can handle (love the look, love the sound, but can't imagine listening to a whole album of her), the M.I.A. portion is kind of a total waste of her abilities, other than to say, "Hey, look! I got another hip young singer to appear on my record! It's M.I.A.! 2010's Justin Timberlake!"

I am disappointed, though, that M.I.A. doesn't get to pop a cap in the ass of one of the football players.

I also think musically Madonna's slightly sucking the blood out of the Robyn back catalog. This is like a glam, what-me-worry? version of "Indestructible." Not a bad thing, but let's give credit where credit is due.

And the video? Well, we have Dick Tracey, we have the Kylie show (the first time that perhaps Madonna has copied Kylie rather than the other way around, ha), and we have an episode of Glee--or maybe even One Life to Live. Seriously, it's Starr-X'ed Lovers: The Musical. Or maybe even Prom Night.

So . . .

Was it worth it? Well, yes, actually. A nice song "event" in an American era that, at least for me, doesn't have many moments that make you want to scan the radio dial so that you can sing into the rearview mirror while driving down life's highway.

Will I buy it legally? Perhaps. Probably yes, in fact.

But for $0.99, not $1.29. I mean, come on, it's no Muppets' version of "Smells Like Teen Spirit." I have standards, you know. Which means I am cheap, and if I can get it for $0.99 on Amazon, I will.

I'm probably not giving ol' Madge enough credit, though. She's still workin' it, what, nearly 30 years after her debut. Impressive. In both staying power and musical ability. Who would have thought we would go from the Madonna of "Burning Up" and "Dress You Up" to the Madonna of today?

It is just difficult sometimes to separate Madonna the Talented Artist from Madonna the Attention-Seeking Fascist Fame-Monger circa 1985 to 1995 or so.

Sorry, Madonna, I'll try harder. You really do continue to put out some amazingly good pop art.

While the souped-up version of this song isn't my favorite take (I like the original, slower version best), the video to me represents some of her finer work. So in your face and so . . . life's a bitch and so am I. But with good reason and a purpose.

The "We the People"'s car

Spotted in Shadyside, Pittsburgh, today, a Beetle that's not afraid to wear its politics on its shell.

Look closely: We have the obvious "Te(a) Party" license plate, but also the "life member" (so amusing) of the National Rifle Association placard holder, and the "Jesus" and United States Marine Corps decals. All stuck to the back on the hippiest rendition possible of the current Bug model (i.e., those daisy light covers).

When I posted this on Facebook earlier today (with my own damn VIN showing--stupid! stupid! stupid! Once again God punishes me for my snarkiness), one friend commented that the plate should actually read "ASSHOLE." Fair enough.

Another thought that this model of the Beetle had no doubt replaced the bud vase with a gun post.

Me, I am sure the cigarette lighter is being used to charge up the driver's taser.

Really, there's so much going on, and so little energy in my death-rattled body (the head cold from hell continues) to convey it all, especially without an extended diatribe on Teabag Nation. And the less attention that group gets the better.

But really, Jesus and the NRA? The Tea Party and the USMC (kind of a major federal, taxpayer-funded initiative, that)? Dear driver, how in the name of Fahrvergnügen do you keep all those obstacles in your head without spinning out of control and crashing into the Jersey wall of Reality?

No worries. It's more of a rhetorical question. But I do find myself on the verge of a four-stroke engine of a mental brakedown (ahem) trying to comprehend it all.

Separated at birth II

Newt Gingrich and the Stay Puft Marshallow Man

* * *

Damn. I just realized Jon Stewart & Company made this same comparison a few weeks ago. Oh well. If you're gonna inadvertently copy, copy from the best. And, Newt, let's just say that Stay Puft is not the look you should be copying . . .

Separated at birth

Colleen Dewhurst and Ozzy Osbourne