Letter perfect

One perhaps can assume that "Colon" is an alternate spelling for "Colin." Otherwise, I find it an odd custom to celebrate one's digestive tract. Especially with donuts.

 

Walking the line

Reese Witherspoon at the Cannes Film Festival.
CC BY-SA 3.0. Attribution: Georges Biard.

It's OK, Reese Witherspoon.

Personally, I was already embarrassed by your behavior when you made Sweet Home Alabama.

As a Southerner, you really, really, really, should have known better.

I can only assume you were drunk when you signed your contract and disorderly when you acted your way through that cornponefest.

Cute Southerners in the form of secondary characters in one of your movies (or you, for that matter) are just fake and annoying.

Y'all.

Now this is more like it

Crocuses, Pittsburgh, 29 March 2013.

It hit 50F today! Let the bacchanal in homage to the Sun Gods begin!

Erie-ly comforting

A Great Lakes beer and some dodgy TV. Cold comfort for a blustery week.

Dude

From my Facebook feed; probably one of the
reasons I spend less and less time on Facebook

Dude?

Really, dude?

Dude.

Really.

Dude . . .

Just . . . dude.

And on the sixth day of spring . . .

Good morning, Pittsburgh - 25 March 2013

. . . I lost the will to live somewhere under six inches of snow.

Soundtrack for a chilly Saturday

* * *

Later that same day . . .

Another suitable song for this chilly Saturday suite.



While I love Grimes's music, her videos make little sense to me. This one's about as close to reality as she gets.

Finally!

Bad focus, bad lighting, bad photo, but a beautiful sight: The first crocuses (croci?) of spring 2013.

And 4 to 6 inches of snow in the forecast for Sunday night.

So close and yet so far.

Into the groove

Some over-the-weekend record-shopping with my friend The Music Lover at Jerry's Records in Squirrel Hill resulted in this inexpensive discofied and soul-fired gems.

1. A special edition Donna Summer 12-inch disco single featuring the full-length version of "Love to Love You Baby" on side A and "Try Me I Know We Can Make It" on side B.

I vaguely remember seeing this years ago when I was but a mere ovum. An odd little item but Casablanca Records was nothing if not excellent at marketing new versions and offshoots of their highly successful catalog. Remember when On the Radio: Donna Summer's Greatest Hits, Parts I and II, were repackaged so you could buy each volume separately rather than together?

Neil Bogart was a music, marketing, and merchandising genius, I tell you what. Legend has it that he was the one who came up with the idea to change "Love to Love You Baby" from a 3:30 single into a full 16-minute plus symphonic, orgasmic opus. And thus a galaxy of stars were born--Donna Summer, Giorgio Moroder, Pete Bellotte, Neil Bogart, Munich's Musicland Studios, Casablanca Records, and disco as a cultural phenomenon.

One funny thing about this record--it's a gatefold, so when you open it, you'll find in very creamy, romantic script the lyrics to "Love to Love You Baby." Which begs the question--people used to sing along to this in the '70s? It boggles.

2. A "Spécial Instrumental" edition of French disco band Voyage's first two albums, featuring instrumental versions of various tracks--including hits such as "Souvenirs" and "From East to West"--some of them greatly shortened from their original takes.


I have to admit I don't get the purpose of this record--the originals were fantastic with superlative vocal work chiefly by Sylvia Mason-James. These perfect little gossamer-winged angels of pop, Balearic in style long before Balearic was cool (in the mid-'90s, if I recall correctly). Oh la la. Probably some DJ concept that I don't understand--or the French label Sirocco was picking up ideas as it blew past Casablanca.

3. An early Bohannon album, Keep on Dancin', appearing on the Dakar label in 1972 (according to the record itself) or 1974 (according to Wikipedia). Regardless of the exact year, that album cover so clearly tags the release from the early 1970s: A lovely young woman in the fugliest sort of "Cherokee People" corduroy-chic ensemble you could ever imagine. With a tambourine and one maraca!

I never listened much to Bohannon at the time (covers like this might explain that). I knew about him, saw his discs in the stores, but didn't have enough curiosity to explore further. Even after hearing him name-checked in Tom Tom Club's "Genius of Love" ("Bohannon, Bohannon, Bohannon, Bohannon . . ."), I smiled knowingly but ventured squat. Only recently when another good friend requested one of his albums (impossible to find his work on iTunes, please note) for Christmas did I start to check out his music.

Here's one not on the album, 1975's "Bohannon's Beat," which should give you an idea about his barebones, funk-dance style.

4. and/or 5. Alas, I did not buy--a choice between Donna Summer's Four Seasons of Love album (with poster!) and Biddu's Rain Forest, assuming I had both at home. What an unpleasant surprise to realize that I do not, in fact, own these records--although I still think Four Seasons of Love is tucked around here somewhere. Hopefully they will be there when I return after payday.

I'm nothing special, in fact I'm a bit of . . . an inductee into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame!

It's a mystery to me why I haven't been to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame yet. It's only 2 hours up the road in Cleveland, but I've become too Pennsylvanian in outlook and now consider Ohio a foreign country, apparently one requiring an invitation or a visa to visit.

Pittsburghers, for the record, love to hate Cleveland (and Philadelphia and Baltimore and practically any other city with a rival team, whether a worthy adversary or not), so whenever I suggest to someone that we should make the quick trek to the city on the lake, it never gets much of a reaction. Other than a silence meaning "no."

But hey, Pittsburgh! Cleveland has an airport that offers more non-stop flights, for less than you do. Cleveland still has a Saks Fifth Avenue and had a Nordstrom long before you did. Cleveland has a waterfront, one with some parkland, so that you can actually see the water, rather than one being hidden from view by a train running alongside of it, blocking all access.

Just saying.

And, again, Cleveland has the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, while we have, what is it? Oh yeah. The Western Pennsylvania Sports Hall of Fame. It staggers the mind, really.

Say what you will, whiny white boys: "They let Madonna in, and Donna Summer in, and ABBA in, so it's not really rock-and-roll." Good lord. I feel like I've been hearing that argument for 50 years. Yeah, it's popular music, maybe not "classic" (barf) rock-and-roll. Gotcha. However, I still find your definition of rock-and-roll unnecessarily limiting.

Free your mind, the rest will follow: Listen in particular to Benny Andersson's explanation about ABBA's musical heritage, a very European musical heritage, one that is decidedly different than that of American and British rock-and-roll. It's an intriguing musical lineage, involving rock, classical music, pop, German schmaltz, French chanson, and a host of other influences. You don't have to call it rock-and-roll, but it is something quite powerful, well-crafted, clever, and catchy. As Frida notes in her portion of the acceptance speech, the members haven't performed together as a group since 1982--and yet, 28 years later, they are still recognized for their artistry and popularity, enough to warrant acknowledgement by the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Nope, it doesn't mean they're rock-and-roll. It doesn't even mean they're good, as the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is no guarantor of quality, the Good Pop Music Seal of Approval.

However, I do think it means that ABBA "arrived," ABBA made it, despite the odds and the odd derision. I'm glad to hear Benny explain their music and their sound so well. I'm pleased to see the Swedish Third Way applied to music. I'm happy that ABBA is still with us (and with me) all these years later.

One from Frida

Despite the week being full of Agnetha news, of late I've been appreciating Frida more and more. She sang lead on some of ABBA's more experimental songs--such as "The Visitors (Crackin' Up)" and the aforementioned "Like an Angel Passing through My Room." She also sang lead on some of ABBA's best-loved classics, such as "Fernando," "Knowing Me, Knowing You," and the wonderfully campy Weimar-Republic-or-bust "Money, Money, Money," which she totally nails and completely takes the piss out of. (Forgive me, dear Frida, for my East End parlance.)

If people recall her at all in the U.S., other than as the "brunette from ABBA," it's from the heavy MTV rotation of her solo hit, "I Know There's Something Going On," featuring that trademark Phil Collins sound (before it became tiresome) and her sharp, slightly distorted vocals.

I have a good friend here in Pittsburgh who, instead, swears by her second post-ABBA solo LP, Shine, one I didn't even know existed until I stumbled across a cassette recording of it in a Washington, D.C., record (yes, record) shop sometime in the mid- to late-'80s. (It was never released in the U.S. but was apparently sold in Canada. Yet another reason to emigrate.)

Shine has its moments, but no, for me the best post-ABBA Frida solo album was her last (to date), Djupa Andetag (Deep Breaths), released in 1996. The album is sung entirely in Swedish, which seems like an odd move, but I happen to think she sounds her best on this album of any of her three post-ABBA recordings. Her vocals are less distorted, the production less bombastic. "Älska Mig Alltid" is a perfect example of the beauty and simplicity of the music, the songs, and her voice on this record.

Not everything is soft on this album. She performs a killer, bouncy duet with Marie Fredriksson of Roxette, "Alla Mina Bästa År," which I seem to feature on every other mixtape I make for friends. It's so joyous and uplifting, even though I get the sense that the Swedish lyrics may be slightly more melancholic than the music would lead you to believe.

Allegedly, Frida had plans to record another album after this one. But her daughter died in a car accident in 1998 and her husband from cancer in 1999, so plans were shelved. She's done some one-offs with Jon Lord, Swiss pop performer Dan Daniell, and Swedish guitarist Georg Wadenius, but apparently lives a quieter, less on-the-scene life in Switzerland. However, she has had a role in producing a series of live concerts, "Zermatt Unplugged," does charitable works, and shows up at ABBA functions, such as their induction into the Rock-and-Roll Hall of Fame in 2010.

Certainly if Agnetha can make another album, so can Frida. But I'm just happy she gave us this last, splendid, musical gift.

Tusen tack, Frida.

Der dunkle Engel

I think that translates as "The Dark Angel," although personally, I like the sound of "Der schwarze Engel" better. More dramatic.

Look, I'm still struggling with French. Don't expect miracles in the Germanic languages anytime soon.

This is the incomparable Nina Hagen (I mean, really, who else is this extraordinary?) performing "Like an Angel Passing through My Room" for what appears to be a German TV tribute concert to ABBA, the Swedish Fab Four. Despite some gasping for air between verses and the occasional glance at what? a teleprompter?,* I like this version. For one, it's Nina Hagen singing ABBA! Wow! For another, Nina really shows off the drama of the song and her own operatic training. The performance hints at the hey-kids-let's-put-on-a-show musical leanings of ABBA's songwriters, Benny Andersson and Björn Ulvaeus. Chess, Kristina från Duvemåla, and now Hjälp sökes--the tradition of the musical was there all along, if we had just paid better attention.

Over time, this has become one of my favorite ABBA songs. Oh, it's no "Mamma Mia" or "If It Wasn't for the Nights." Nevertheless, of late I have found myself humming along to it in the shower in the morning, sitting at my desk during the day, or while I'm running on the treadmill at the gym in the evening. It's a far more subtle, complex song, something that ABBA isn't generally recognized for, but which I think they should be.

"Like an Angel" was the last track on their last studio album, The Visitors. Even though they would release two more singles ("The Day Before You Came" and "Under Attack") and begin work on another studio album ("Just Like That"), this song seems like the perfect coda to their oeuvre.

Half awake and half in dreams
Seeing long forgotten scenes
So the present runs into the past
Now and then become entwined, playing games within my mind
Like the embers as they die
Love was one prolonged good-bye
And it all comes back to me tonight
In the gloom
Like an angel passing through my room

So this is goodbye. But goodbye forever? Is this the state experienced before sleep? Or is it the one lived just before death?

In retrospect, it definitely sounds like goodbye forever. Within a year the group disbanded, unable to complete their next album, and each pursuing his or her own musical interests. The times were changing, and even a quirky musical masterpiece like "The Day Before You Came" failed to make much impact on the charts in the English-speaking world. In 1982, Frida released a solo album, produced by Phil Collins. Agnetha would follow suit in 1983 with an album produced by Mike Chapman. Soon afterwards, the Bs would release the Chess concept album, created with Tim Rice.

The four of them made an appearance on Swedish TV in 1986 and at the occasional private event afterwards. But they wouldn't intentionally join together again until the premiere of the movie version of Mamma Mia! in Stockholm in 2008.

* * *

Among the many varied thoughts I've had in my head of late, ABBA once again keeps skating across the surface of my mind. It is odd sometimes to think that a group so decidedly heterosexual and goyishe would have such a deep impact on my life. But the Swedish Fab Four came along at a significant crossroads for me--puberty, self-awareness, discovering music and the world around me, the '70s. I think they provided a safe way for me to recognize my "difference"--my gayness, my feelings, my intellect, my worldview--without making it a harsh, frightening experience.

The world is harsh enough and the reality around us could be described as frightening on a good day (and those don't come by that often). ABBA gave me joy, an outlet for my emotions, and space for comfort and security. While the group's members were sexy and attractive, they weren't overtly sexual, even when singing sexed-up songs ("Voulez-Vouz," "Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight)." They sang often about love and loss, but they sang about friendship ("The Way Old Friends Do," "Chiquitita," "Happy New Year"); the mind, fears, angst, and loneliness ("Me and I," "I'm a Marionette," "The Visitors (Crackin' Up)"); the quirkiness, challenges, and disappointments of life ("Head Over Heels," "Slipping Through My Fingers," "Our Last Summer"); and even left-of-center politics ("Soldiers," "The Visitors").

It wasn't always deep, and it wasn't always great (catchy, yes). There are songs that make even a die-hard fan like me cringe over their goofiness. But it always seemed as though everything ABBA did was with care, purpose, and love. The fact that everything they did had a slight off-kilterness to it, that it wasn't in perfect English, that they sometimes wore the strangest costumes, and that it wasn't even remotely American made it, for me, all the more charming, engaging, and meaningful.

I didn't have a horrible childhood; in fact, it was pretty good. I wasn't unloved by my family; far from it, in fact--I've never felt anything but love from my parents and siblings. But as a child (and come to think of it, even as an adult) living in a culture that didn't recognize me, that often rejected me, that I lived far outside of, that I didn't feel a part of, perhaps I needed some extra affection from the world. And I got that from a Swedish pop group that seemed as quirky, misunderstood, slightly awkward, and "underdoggy" as I felt then.

I'm different than I was then--and then again, I'm not. ABBA was there then and is here again now.  When I need a little more love and comfort, their songs let me know I'm not so odd and alone after all.

__________

* This is just me being cheeky, Nina Hagen fanbase. I think the teleprompter is unlikely. Nina apparently sang a German version of this song during some concerts.

Abba-salute-ly

Funny how life goes. I've been in an ABBA mood of late, listening to various versions of "Like an Angel Passing through My Room" (Frida's, Madonna's, Nina Hagen's) and watching some ABBA specials on HuluPlus--and subsequently getting ticked off at the slap-dash, simplistic pop criticism doled out by the clue-challenged journo-hacks hired to "explain" ABBA to the masses.

Grrrrrrr.tumblr.com, as it were. But we'll get to that diatribe eventually.

Instead, today we are here to celebrate ABBA, more specifically, Agnetha Fältskog--she of the soprano, blonde hair, plaintive voice, and almond eyes--who, suddenly, after nine years, is on the verge of releasing a new solo album, entitled A, due out in May.

"When You Really Loved Someone" is the lead single, dropped today, along with the video. See above.

Well, of course, I love it. I suspect that I am genetically predisposed to.

Musically, it seems spot-on--contemporary but age-appropriate, a big, booming heart-acher of a love-lost song. No rappers were used or abused in the making of this tune. Not once does Agnetha reference a moment in which she looked across the dancefloor and met someone's gaze and immediately fell in love at first disco beat. (Oh, yes, Kylie Minogue, I went there.)

Lyrically, I was a little suspicious at first. Gary Barlow? The earnest one from Take That? I just don't know about that.

But there was nothing to fear. If "When You Really Loved Someone" is proof, he, Jörgen Elofsson, and Peter Nordahl have done Agnetha proud with a beautiful, lush, romantic, heartbreak of a song, which gives me much hope for the album. Agnetha is often at her best when she sings about the torment of love, longing, and loss. Cue "S.O.S.," "The Winner Takes It All," and "The Day Before You Came."

Let's go deeper and reveal a little more than I'm normally comfortable sharing: It's a song that has kept me on the edge of sadness all day long, at work, in the car, in therapy, at home. Perhaps it was a delayed reaction to Saturday's viewing of the Peter Haneke film, Amour, then the pressure of  trying to hold my emotions in check during the dinner afterwards. Maybe it was due to seeing Agnetha perform again after so many years away--or the fact that someone who was an important part of my childhood is now much older, and in truth, only 11 years older than me. Possibly it's my own fear over aging, death, stagnation, and missed opportunities. I should be married. I should have bought a house. I should have a more satisfying job. I should be more creative. I should be fluent in French and Spanish and Afrikaans and Swedish. And I should be doing all of these things elsewhere, probably in Europe.

While we shouldn't underestimate any of these--and they all lead back to one another, eventually--there's probably even more to the story: A couple of "anniversary" moments on the horizon and, oh yes, the flaming out of yet another relationship mere weeks ago.

These days, I don't believe I'm normally that emotional or this sensitive, although my therapist, family, a few friends, some ex-boyfriends, and a frustrated boss or two might beg to differ. I haven't always, but I try now not to be overly sensitive, romantic, emotional, or melancholic. Why?  Because I don't need to be, and I don't want to be. And because, in this thing we call culture, those feelings are so uncool.

Yet they are part of who I am, as true and vulnerable as my love for an ABBA song, even a silly, jolly one like "Mamma Mia" or "Honey, Honey."

Let's put aside for a moment how others see me and how I project myself because gods know whether I can make any sense out of it: During one recent 12-hour period, I had one friend tell me that he could never imagine my getting angry or out of sorts about anything and another friend tell me that when she first met me, she wouldn't have wanted to run into me in a dark alley, as I came across so brooding and forbidding.

Instead, I think underneath both of those facades is the emotional me that I pay a therapist biweekly to help me own up to and deal with more honestly. That me has been squelched too often in an attempt to please everyone and protect me from others. It's what I've always done to cope. It's just that as time goes by, I feel much less inclined to keep up the pretense.

Lately, to my and my favorite mental health professional's credit, I've done a better job this go-around not pretending like everything's alright with me, I'm doing fine, don't worry about me, I'm dancing as fast as I can! That's the standard-issue me. This time, I've at least said out loud that I'm hurting. I've shed some tears over it. I've been angry, sad, and remorseful. And I'll admit it: I've even felt relief and some happiness over the change in my relationship status--from "involved/complicated" to "single (again)."

Sometimes I can't help but think, if he and I could only go back to last September, who we were then, everything would be fine. But that would mean going back to who we were last November, December, and January, and sporadic moments at other times now and ten years ago. And that I have no desire to do.

So for now there's love and there's loss and there's defeat. And there's freedom and there's joy and there's tranquility.

It may take some time to sort it all out. Until then, I've got Agnetha to lend me some comfort. As goofy as it may sound, she and ABBA have always been there for me, celebrating the joy and commiserating over the sorrow. And there's no shame in that.

Doh! I'm sorry! I signed away your civil rights!

From the National Public Radio news website, 8 March 2013

Ripped from today's headlines: Former U.S. President Bill Clinton thinks the Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA) is unconstitutional.

I'd be more impressed with this statement if he'd never signed DOMA into law in the first place.

I mean, really, I never thought a professional man-and-attention-whore like Bill Clinton had a problem with same-sex marriage (especially the part where two women marry each other and especially their honeymoon). Instead, I just figured it was the expedient thing for him to do, to sell out my fellow queers in order to maintain his popularity and stay in office a little while longer.

Now Mr. "High Rhodes Scholar" thinks legally preventing people from getting marriage is unconstitutional, that whole "late unpleasantness" preventing interracial marriage in the Southern States being all fiddle-dee-dee.

Might this opinion and resistance have mattered more, oh say, seventeen years ago?

But it's OK. I once thought using a cigar as a sexual aid with an intern who was not your wife in a room adjacent to the Oval Office was rather a bad idea--for reasons of marital infidelity and anti-smoking.

Now I just think it was rather predictable. I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner in fact.

So Bill and me, we're both a bit tardy in coming around to a different way of seeing things. It's just that in his case, he's also a bit of a 'tard.

The sexiest man alive, Glorious Soviet People's edition

"Daddy Bear" Mikhail Gorbachev
Source: Russian International News Agency
(RIANOVOSTI) via Wikipedia

The sexiest man alive. For as long as he's alive.

What say ye to that, "Boi" Putin?

Jus' sayin', Mikhail Gorbachev is The Man and always will be, while Vladimir Putin will forever remain the boy who would be tsar. Seriously, if you have to show up shirtless on horseback every so often to prove your testosterone count is still high, then perhaps you're not as strong-like-bull as you let on.

But Mikhail--what a man, what a man, what a man!

I was in Leningrad--excuse me, St. Petersburg--in 1985 when Mikhail came to town and walked through the streets to meet the people. I was in Washington, too, in the '80s when he did the same there.

Both times were electric. And both times, dammit, I missed meeting him.

From an outsider's perspective, I always thought Gorbachev was a terrific leader, pushing the boundaries of the Soviet system to open the country and the culture to the wider world, which, in theory, should have been a great plan. Compared to Ronald Reagan (ptui), he looked so vibrant, serious, intellectual, and forward-thinking, a liberal Communist leader, a real progressive chelovyek, if you will.

OK, so I only have an inkling of the "Backstage in the USSR" drama that went on during his era. And, let's be honest, one coup, some aborted attempts at creating alternative parties, and a long period of "Putinstroika" later, we can see that things didn't quite turn out the way we all wanted them to. A heavy, heartfelt sigh to that, tovarishchi.

Nevertheless, Gorbachev for me will always be one of the bravest, most daring, most vital, and most visionary leader of the later half of the 20th century.

Source: U.S. Department of Defense and Wikipedia

And just to completely cheapen the moment (as only I can), also one of the hottest. No (complete) joke, I always thought Micky G was so fine in a mature, Russian "daddy bear" kind of way. I know, I know, my Freudian slip is showing, but for reals, how could you not be tuned in and turned on by his politics and his persona? No need to overcompensate and be all attention-whorey like some politicos we know. Uh-uh. Mikhail, in the heady, trippy days of glasnost, had it going on and on and on. He is the Quiet Storm of Soviet leaders.

You can laugh, yes, but not too much. I once had a friend who use to sing the virile praises of Israeli leader Benjamin Netanyahu.

Personally, I don't get it. There's obviously no accounting for our tastes in men, but at least my choices have the better politics.

For the Bible FX tell me so

Facebook is rapidly losing my interest and dissipating my patience. I know far too many people from high school, too many spouses of distant friends, who have very different approaches to life than my own.

Oh, I know, I know. I've heard of The Filter Bubble. I'm an "information professional": I get that Google, Facebook, and others are commercial enterprises and only show us what we're interested in, siphoning away differing opinions and worldviews. (It also means that I've heard of the book, read the reviews, but not actually digested the text.)

And I like that fact, especially when it comes to turning off and tuning out all the gun-toting, Bible thumping, homo-bashing, Chick-Fil-A-eating, universal healthcare-fearing, Obama-hate-mongering "friends" I have who barf up their intellectual cud for me on a daily basis.

Oh, I have learned to give as good (or as bad) as I get, but at the end of day, I really just want to send Mark Zuckerberg a black rose and close my Facebook once and for all. I'm sure he's all in tears over the thought of saying goodbye to me.

Anywho, The Bible series apparently debuted on TV last night. I don't even know what to say regarding this post. The "doubters" will be impressed by "awesome" special effects? Somehow I don't think so. If Charlton Heston parting the Red Sea didn't knock 'em out, I don't thing some of that ol' Industrial Light & Magic is gonna do the trick either.

Bring Charlton Heston back from the dead long enough to let him shoot himself in the foot with his own AK-47? Now that would erase any doubt.

For the record, I'm agnostic, which means I'm too befuddled to be a true believer (or even a Belieber) and too lazy to be an atheist.

Regardless of my thoughts on the matter, though, I truly hope this friend heard God's voice speak to her last night--at least long to tell her to change the channel.  

The Bible series is on The History Channel, not Discovery.

Mon nouveau copain

Am I bleu? Non, not with Grégory Fitoussi by my side.

My new boyfriend: Incredibly talented and gorgeous actor Grégory Fitoussi from the French policier, Engrenages (English title: Spiral)--sort of a Law & Order: Paris. S'il vous plait.

This pic I nabbed from my TV doesn't begin to do him zhoos-tees!

Currently, we're seeing each other nightly on Netflix streaming. And my fantasy Grégoire never disappoints.

No one will ever love you

. . . Like I love Nashville. If you're not watching, you should consider doing so. And this from a guy who detests most contemporary country music.

#TeamDeacon #TeamRayna #TeamGunnar #TeamScarlett #NeverTeamJuliette

Maybe I don't, maybe I do

So how did I miss an entire week of my life online? I feel like I had so much to say this week but so little time.

Let's see, there's my distressed relationship with Pittsburgh to tackle . . . the odd dinner out with acquaintances I had last Saturday at the world's least spicy Mongolian barbecue restaurant . . . every crazy person I know from high school on Facebook (guns! liberals! guns! liberals!) . . . Oscar Pistorius and an extended riff on gun control (seems like a natural follow-through, that) . . . some pop music . . . my success in French class this week . . . my "soup for one" status (as far as I can; it's, as the kids say, complicated) . . .

How about discussing another movie instead? I'm sure that won't bring up any of these issues. No. No way.

* * *

At the moment, I am really happy with my decision to cut back on cable and make better use of my Roku and its various offerings--Amazon Instant and Amazon Prime Video, HuluPlus, even the semi-gutted Netflix streaming service. I'm watching more movies and TV shows and being more intentional in my viewing habits, which are good things indeed.

Winter will end eventually (or so Punxsutawney Phil tells us), and I'm sure I'll get busy with life, work, and French before too long. Maybe I'll even exhaust my movie/TV queue(s) and subscriptions, unable to find anything interesting to way, 57 channels and nothing on and all that. I doubt it, though. My interest in music is like the universe, ever expanding. With some new options for finding and viewing film and TV, I foresee a fetishistic future in media consumption for my own bad self.

Having a little free time right now and this extra access is allowing me to go back in time to watch some things I've been wanting to see for some time. Cases in point: Old episodes of Dallas; an episode of House, M.D., starring South African actor Neil Sandilands (not-so-secret crush #1,748); German classics like M and The Marriage of Maria Braun; the occasional silent; and an Israeli film from the 1980s, I Don't Give a Damn (originally titled Lo Sam Zayin in Hebrew).

This is one movie I've wanted to see for a long time, since I first read a review about it when I lived in Washington, D.C., and where it was shown either in theaters or at some film festival. Can't remember every detail.

Was it worth the 25-year wait? Well, I wouldn't go that far, but it had it's moments, good and not-so-much.

The storyline roughly goes like so: Raffi (played by actor Ika Zohar) is all happy-go-youthy and full of joie de vivre upon finishing university (or high school at a more mature age) and starting his obligatory military service in the Israeli Defense Forces. Plus he's in love! However, he is severely wounded while on patrol and becomes a parapalegic, turning him (spoiler alert) into a bitter, angry, hopeless young man, who punishes those around him for loving him.

Good enough but not quite. Ika Zohar does a great job in conveying Raffi's full range of emotions, but I'm not sure the script is there to allow him to portray fully Raffi's plight, the practical realities of his situation and his existential crisis. How will he make a life for himself on his own when he has to be carried into his parents' hillside home? How will he make love to and make a family with his girlfriend, Nira? His virility and pride damaged, his shame at his perceived weakness pronounced, his future erased. Is he still a man? Can he live his life? Defend his country? Retain his humanity?

Well, I'm not sure the script gives us all of that to work with, but the review I read years ago--from what I recall through the hazy newsprint of history--made it sound like the film would address at least the existential crisis of youth at war in modern Israel.

And maybe it did. There's a long, talky scene at the beginning of the film that wasn't even subtitled but is referred back to at one point in the film. The impression I got from the reference and the scene is that there might have been a whisper of an homage to All Quiet on the Western Front (book or movie version) in which the young men get their mojo on for the "fun" of war, only to later have their fun taken away from them, some of them for good.

It's also possible that I know less about modern Israel than I think I do. (Ha ha. Really, I know next to nothing about most everything.) There were probably any number of subtle (to me) references to modern Israeli life that I just didn't pick up on, that were lost in translation, one way or another.

But at times the movie comes across as hopelessly '80s, like an After-Hebrew School Special. Nira, the love interest, represents everything cloying and contemptible about the "kooky girlfriend" character in movies: She's got a Madonna-esque "Borderline"-era fashion sense (about four years too late, I might add), fugly big hair in desperate need of less humidity and more conditioner, and a manic approach to life that would have made me angry and caustic long before I became injured in war. Again, I don't think this is the actor's fault necessarily. I know less about acting than I do modern Israel, but it seems like she's trying to make the best of a bad script situation.

Still, I'm not sure I'll ever forgive anyone--actor, writer, director, lighting crew, gaffer, best boy, what have you--involved in the "bagel clown" scene, in which Nira visits the military hospital to pass out kisses and bagels to the patients. That's more than enough detail; I don't want to spoil the execrable surprise for you. Suffice it to say that when Raffi reacts badly to Nira's visit, I think it might have been less due to the bitterness over his situation and more about his mortification over having made such a unfortunate choice in lovers.

The way Raffi's sister-in-law is portrayed is hardly any more favorable. Again with the big hair, the poor fashion choices, and this weird sense of (read: lack of) boundaries! She's forever flirty with Raffi, before and after injury, even going so far as to pose for him in photos, dressed in a skimpy bathrobe, naked underneath, and showing more side boob than I would be comfortable seeing from a member of my family, close or extended. Is this any way to treat a wounded soldier? I would think Raffi has suffered enough.

My riffing on the horror of mid-'80s women's fashions aside, there are other problems with the movie for me. I didn't get a strong sense of any sort of existential crisis--What are we fighting for? What are we dying for? If this is now life we have been given, how do we survive it and thrive in it? Maybe it was there, maybe it wasn't, and maybe it wasn't even the point. But then what was the point?

The scenes, even the sex scenes, are filmed at a curious distance, never in close-up, making for a very "flat" experience. You never feel close to the action, the emotion, or the intimacy--except in one scene where you see the ugliness of Raffi's wound, which seemed far too fresh for as far along as he was in his treatment. You follow the plot points and witness the emotions: Raffi is angry, frustrated, bereft, and embittered by his experience and existence. I'm not sure you ever feel it, despite Ika Zohar being a very convincing actor in my estimation. This lack of a emotional connection is a very curious thing for a movie that could potentially be as emotionally explosive as any shooting or bombing.

Did I ever talk about The Bubble, another Israeli movie I watched last year? I don't think so.

Despite feeling a bit punk'd at the end of it, The Bubble did a far better job at conveying the feelings of the characters and the intimacies they experienced, positive and negative. Despite mining a similar vein--the young and the Israeli dealing with the harsh realities of an intractable conflict--it packed much more of an emotional and psychological wallop.

Alone, the way the romantic and sexual scenes were filmed between the two leads (both men) felt far more personal and seductive, despite actually showing less. Yes, perhaps that does say more to my affectional orientation, but the boom-boom-boom-let's-go-back-to-my-room scenes in I Don't Give a Damn were more explicit and yet, less impactful. I saw Nira's knockers indeed, but I also got a lot of visuals of Ika Zohar's virility, too. (Not as much as desired, perhaps, but a good amount, all the same.) And yet . . . due to what? Unfriendly lighting? A wide shot? The egregiously cheesy score? Or the perfunctory nature of the prurience? I felt less. Much less.

My feeling somewhat brutalized by the ending of The Bubble is to the point--I felt enough to feel bad, to feel fooled, to feel abused. With I Don't Give a Damn . . . well, heck, I didn't even feel enough to give a fig, much less a rat's or a crap.

* * *

Obviously this movie resonates in contemporary times. More than a decade later, American forces are still in Afghanistan and Iraq; Israel and Palestine are still locked in a seemingly unresolvable conflict; and there are growing conflicts in Mali and Nigeria, to name but two. And another day, another dozen people are shot and injured or killed in America, thanks to a powerful membership organization, a weak central government, easy access to firearms, and a portion of the population that seems to have a profound misunderstanding of the Constitution, as well as a serious disconnect between real-and-imagined risks to their persons and property.

The level of firepower seems to have become more dramatic and fatal in recent years, with smaller packages, bigger explosions, and more dedication to the zealot's creed of might-makes-right (whether that creed is yours, theirs, or ours). The severity of injury and carnage, coupled with improved, rapidly delivered medical care, has created a number of men and women, adults and children, in Raffi's situation.

Or maybe war has always been like that. I think of the American Civil War and the "Great" War, also known as World War I. Lots of injury, lots of maiming, lots of death, physical as well as psychological.

So not an untimely movie to watch at all, even if the particulars of the story are removed from my day-to-day life experience.

* * *

And yet, I'm not unfamiliar with anger, at least being on the receiving end of it. My father, bless him, suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder from his experiences as a young man in World War II in the Pacific Theater, experiences that followed him through life, only being relieved it seemed when he developed Alzheimer's in his 70s.

My Dad was a great guy in many respects. Funny, kind, disciplined, and loving. I would have never made it through high school, college, and graduate school without his and my mother's faith in me. I would be a much bigger emotional mess than I am sometimes without his and my mother's love for me, never feeling it slip away, despite the challenges I presented to them. I will probably never be able to fully express my joy and security at being the son of my truly wonderful parents.

Not everything was seamless or perfect, mind you. My Dad could also be extremely short-tempered, sensitive, depressed, mean, angry, and physically and psychologically "imposing" at times. He had his moments, not all of them good or kind or welcoming. Whether this was due to his experiences at war or the fact that he was one of 11 children born to a working-class farm family in rural Kentucky in the 1920s or some other reason, I could not say for sure.

I have had my moments, too, rest assured. I've had periods of depression, anger, mean-spiritedness, and childishness. And I've had moments of great kindness, generosity, thoughtfulness, and joie de vivre as well. We're all only human after all.

Not all of our wounds are physical. Not all of are wounds come about from war on the battlefield. The wars at home can be damaging as well, to one's body and to one's soul.

I Don't Give a Damn made me think of other people I have known in my life, in the past and in the present, who were extremely, unfathomably angry, with their histories and with their lives, sometimes this anger manifesting itself with the world at large or even me in particular.

I've felt a bit like Nira at times, trying to love someone who is too angry to accept your love and to love you in return. Because they feel too guilty about it, if that's indeed what it is. Shame, guilt, hurt, disappointment, irritation. Or perhaps they just don't love you, specifically, for who you are or are not, for what you represent or don't.

I can't say that I've felt a lot like Raffi ever, for at least any extended period. I've had my challenges in life and still do. I suck at saving money. I'm unsure about my career. I've lost a brother and a parent. I've had lovers cheat on me and have been forced out of jobs, all within the space of a week. I'm over 50 and single and can't say that I see a lot of life-partner prospects in my future, with yet another one slipping through my fingers only recently.

But, all in all, it's been a pretty decent life so far. Maybe not everything I've ever wanted or needed or deserved has occurred, but a lot has. Plus there have been some pleasant turns along the way, people and events and moments happening that were wonderful, unexpected, and exactly what I needed or wanted or deserved, even when I didn't know it. And I'm healthy--if a tad wide shot-friendly myself at the mo'.

So how do I, a Nira, love someone like a Raffi? Is that possible? Or even advisable? At what point does such a love transform from being a joy, to a joyful dedication, to an obligation, to a chore, to a misery? I can only play the "bagel clown" for so long before I run out of energy or, truth be told, interest.

Nira and Raffi found a way in the movies. I'm not sure that's possible off-screen, at least for me and my situation. I'm not sure I want it to be either, the pleasures and the gifts too fleeting and now, no longer there. Love overburdened by pain, frustration, and a sense of pointlessness and failure.

Does that make me a weak lover? Or a wise one? At this moment, it feels like some of both.

So, yeah, clearly, I still give a damn. Not that that matters a damn.

Memory bliss

While working out at the gym last night (butch, I know!), I was tuned into my TuneIn app, listening to La Máquina del Tiempo, an "oldies" internet radio station (featuring mostly Europop from the '80s and '90s, to be honest).

The "Time Machine" can be a mixed bag, to be honest. I've heard some great, fun pop from the '80s in particular (things that I remember from then or managed to miss the first time around). And then I've heard some clunkers--anything by Phil Collins or an odd Mike Oldfield remake of "Family Man" by Hall & Oates. Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot. Seriously. A veces, La Máquina del Tiempo está rota. Completamente rota.

And then at other times, the Time Machine is working brilliantly and something like "Set Adrift on Memory Bliss" by P.M. Dawn goes on rotation.

Wow. I'd forgotten how much I adore this song and the whole P.M. Dawn sensibility from the early-mid '90s. I always thought the was one of the better examples of music sampling from that era--and any other. "Set Adrift on Memory Bliss" takes a readily identifiable riff from "True" by Spandau Ballet (a great pop song in and of itself, even if a tad "New Romantic" in retrospect) and out of this, creates a stellar, unique pop experience in its own right. A classic begets a classic. Why this isn't near the top of the "World's 100 Best Pop Songs Ever" playlist is beyond me.

PM Dawn also had a wonderfully crazy and cool style or look or vibe: Kinda hippy, sorta New Age, very rave culture without the obvious drug use.

I have to admit that I haven't thought much about P.M. Dawn since the mid-'90s, although according to Wikipedia, they're still around, despite some challenges.

Thus, once again, I find myself part of the problem, rather than part of the solution. But maybe a few iTunes or Amazon MP3 purchases will help my karma.

Beauty stab

Courtesy of Wikipedia; used for purposes of commentary and review

Editor's note: Finally, as promised/threatened a couple of days ago, my thoughts on the South African film Beauty (Skoonheid in Afrikaans). 

I've now watched it 1-1/2 times (hope to finish the last half of my second viewing today), so I think I've sorted through most of my thoughts and feelings about the movie. 

What follows is probably less a cohesive narrative than stream-of-consciousness observations. I will try to keep the spoilers to a minimum, but I can't completely promise to big reveal-free. So caveat lector and all that.

* * *

First, a little about the film: Beauty is the story of François van Heerden (Deon Lotz), a fairly well-off Afrikaner businessman (he owns a lumberyard/sawmill in Bloemfontein), married with adult children, who, we come to realize, leads a secret life: He likes having sex with other men. You could say he is a closeted gay man, but he is strongly anti-gay (and racist as well). Of course, that doesn't mean he's not gay, but he doesn't acknowledge that he is. In fact, he's quite adamant in his anti-moffie (Afrikaans for "faggot") proclamations.

Which, again, doesn't mean he's not gay. In fact, it probably means he knows the truth about himself, somewhere deep down, but is determined to keep it hidden and repressed.

At the wedding of one of his daughters, he's meets up with the adult son of an old friend. Christian Roodt (Charlie Keegan) is everything François is not--young, handsome, professional (he's finishing up law studies but also does modeling and commercials), single, with an easy, relaxed charm and an ability to be comfortable with all sexes, races, and (maybe even?) sexualities.

François quickly becomes obsessed with Christian, reading clues and misreading cues. Christian shows an interest in François, but . . . is François interpreting that interest correctly?

Anyway, that's enough of the plot for now. Nothing you couldn't find in any other review. On to the observations.

* * *

Is Christian gay? Bi? Curious? Or just a very accepting straight man? I can't decide. I think we are supposed to be as intrigued and confounded as François, noting Christian's interest in him, but also noting Christian's interest in François's daughter, as well as his male and female friends at university.

Christian's whole vibe is non-commital, but not in a cold, detached way. He is free-wheeling, easy-going, genuine (or at least superficially so) with everyone. He is young. He doesn't have to adhere to any one tribe or lifestyle. He's both a lawyer and a part-time model--professional and casual, intellectual and facile. He does stress to François that he's serious about law, but he's also into iPods (or at least begging his parents for a new one), beaches, and socializing at school. Maybe he's not "serious" in the bourgeois sense, but he is having fun and is more well-rounded of a human being, certainly more than his father, than François, and his "elders," who seem to associate only with others like them and only deal with money, work, and responsibilities.

There is one scene on the beach at Clifton (where "young people go to pose," as Christian's father puts it) in which we see Christian turn away from his female companion to look at someone intently off camera. Is it a man or a woman? We do not know, we never know. We can only speculate.

Same way at university. Christian is friendly with everyone but hugs a coloured male friend and even kisses him on the cheek. Again, is this proof that he is gay? François might think so (and this perhaps sets him further on his way, despite his "no moffies" policy), but maybe Christian is just a modern metrosexual man, expressing his affection for a friend in a non-traditional, non-stereotypical way. And if all you've ever known is a hyper-masculine culture--where brutality is strength and love and emotion are weaknesses--this may be the conclusion you draw, that Christian is more receptive to François's interest and attentions for the reason that François is offering them to him.

It's hard to envision François ever having been young, happy, or care-free. François is supposed to be in his 40s, married, with two adult daughters. He more than likely came of age during a rough-and-tumble time, the end of Apartheid/the beginning of majority government. He played it safe, going with the family plan and a solid, if uninspiring, business, turning wild nature into building blocks for houses, fitting round pegs into square holes.

Perhaps he felt he had to play it safe, that he had no other options, and couldn't see a way to step outside tribal expectations to be his own man and to be happy. Perhaps he just never really thought about it.

I've met guys like François, ones who didn't realize until much later in life that they might be gay, who still don't, into their 40s, 50s, and 60s, who are married with adult children and yet like to have sex with men. But who are not gay--or rather, don't see themselves ever living a "gay lifestyle." Maybe they kiss during sex with a guy, but just as likely they don't. Maybe they are the "receptive" partner during sex or maybe they're always on top. Maybe they enjoy sex with other men, or maybe they just consider it a function, an impulse, a compulsion, without really ever getting at the underlying need they're trying to fill. Gay bar? No way. Gay marriage? Hell no! Man-on-man sex at a rest stop or secured in an online chat room? Well, don't mind if I do . . .

And I've just as likely seen men who identified as gay who acted pretty much the same way. Gay in name only but still massively uncomfortable with the social stigma of homosexuality and their own innate desires.

* * *

Beauty is a slow film, and I can't decide whether this is good or bad. The pacing is that of an art film but also of some non-Western films I've seen. I don't know whether that's intentional or not. Is it a stylistic intention (or pretension?) or the sign of a filmmaker finding his way? I don't know. Beauty is, I believe, only the second film by Oliver Hermanus, a young South African director and writer. I'm intrigued to see his first film, Shirley Adams, the story of a mother in the Cape Flats section of Cape Town who struggles, financially and emotionally, to care for her disabled son.

What was a pleasant surprise for me was to learn that Hermanus is "coloured" or of mixed ethnicity. It surprised me because Beauty is such a "white" film. By that I mean that it delves deeply into this very narrow, privileged, exclusive world of Afrikaners of a certain age and class. At least from my non-South African vantage, it would seem that the director, a "coloured outsider," offers an exceptionally detailed portrait of this world, its privileges, its prejudices, the stories it likes to tell itself, and the ugly reality behind some of those stories.

A case in point--and one I wouldn't have gotten if I hadn't read some reviews of the movie from South African news websites: A significant scene takes place at an Afrikaner farm. And that scene is a "gay" orgy (or rather an orgy featuring men who have sex with men--but who don't associate with "moffies" or "coloureds"). It is, shall we say, highly detailed. If you've ever been to an orgy or a sex club (and I'm not naming names), then the scene is extremely, even uncomfortably evocative of what goes on, from the sounds of sex (flesh slapping against flesh) to the air of tension among those who are waiting anxiously for something to happen and to find out if they will get what they so desperately need from the experience.

So accolades to the writer, director, and all the actors for conveying that mood so well. But there's more to the story--this is an Afrikaner farm in the Free State: It apparently doesn't get much more Afrikaner than that. The romance of the farm, a yearning for a pastoral way of life, pre-majority government and perhaps even pre-Apartheid, being a recurring theme in Afrikaner culture--at least as evidenced by my sampling of media and news stories. Imagine an American movie that did the same, that took the perfect Little House on the Prairie mise-en-scène and upended it with a gay orgy or a meth lab (or both an orgy and a meth lab). That, I suspect, is what makes the scene even more culturally charged for South Africans and not something a casual viewer would glean without some guidance.

There are other moments like this--the wedding, the family dinners--that are exclusively white and painstakingly detailed, so much so that I assumed Hermanus was white, not coloured. Some of the media I've seen and read make it look as though South Africa is a far more white country than it is. According to current statistics available from Wikipedia, the South African population is roughly 79 percent black and 21 percent "other," including 9 percent white, 9 percent coloured, and 2.5 percent Indian/Asian. And yet commercials, magazines, newspapers, music, movies, and TV--at least the examples I'm exposed to (or looking toward)--are overwhelmingly white.

But it's also some of my own prejudice at work--being surprised that a "coloured" writer and director could so adeptly portray this white world. Being surprised that there is such a thing as a coloured writer and director from South Africa in the first place.

Shame, shame, shame on me. Next thing I'll learn is that Hermanus isn't even gay, despite looking good in a tank top and so accurately conveying a certain realm of man-on-man sex.

* * *

Rate this film. HuluPlus asked me to. Did I think it was OK or did I like it?

It is a hard film to "like" or to recommend because it isn't a happy picture or an easy one to view. It's slow with lots of vaguely intended scenes and tense, repressed, non-showy acting by the lead, Deon Lotz. Not much happens and then what does happen is horrible.

Like Shame (with Michael Fassbender), to which I've seen Beauty compared, it's a challenging movie to watch, one more noteworthy for its performances and character studies than for its plotting. Shame seems like an action thriller (Die Hard On, perhaps?) in comparison to Beauty's pacing and subtle storytelling. 

I didn't particularly like Shame, truth be told, even though I kept being told I should and why I was wrong not to. It's intriguing, and it doesn't spell everything out for you (Beauty does even less so), but it's hard to work up a lot of emotion over someone who is so unsympathetic--and this applies equally to Brandon in Shame and François in Beauty. François's behavior is more egregious, far less appealing than Brandon, who seems more like a victim of his own compulsions and history than François.

Perhaps.

Fassbender is certainly very attractive and looks good naked, a real specimen of modern Rand-ian manhood. There's a prurient interest in watching him do sex, although the sex is ultimately unappealing and unfulfilling. One review in the New York Times mentioned a subtle (or not) moralizing tone to Shame, and I think there's some truth to that. Brandon is another facet of the modern man, the single loner/loser who, along with his very married boss, seeks to prove his superiority through sexual one-upmanship. He's rudderless and foundering in a cold, sterile world chiefly of his own making. He's capitalism. He's America.

There's one scene near the end that to me (and the New York Times reviewer) underscores the morality at work in the storyline. I won't give it away completely, but it reminded me of that scene in American Gigolo where Richard Gere's character, in order to save himself, finally gives in and says he'll even do "fag tricks."

Poor baby. How awful for you, a man who gets paid to have sex with old broads to get paid to have sex with old geezers! The moment in Shame and in American Gigolo are not literally identical, but it's kind of the same subtext: I'm broken, I'm at my wit's end, I'll stoop to do something that I normally wouldn't do, that's even more abhorrent to me and the world at large. I'll have sex with another man! Yes, I've fallen that far.

Well, fuck that, fig and lit.

Lotz looks more like the rest of us, hairy and pudgy, and is less obvious in his motivations and intents. At the end, you'd like to think he could have turned back, found another way to deal with his feelings and frustration. You don't necessarily see him as a victim of his circumstances or particularly tortured by what he's wrought. Not because he isn't in some indirect way. It's just that he's so repressed and expressionless that he doesn't fathom what he's done or can't feel what he wants. In some ways, this makes him monstrous. In other ways, it makes you feel for him ever so slightly, although you can't forget, you don't forgive.

Beauty actually reminded me of a different picture, the Australian film, Head On, which details the story of a young, gorgeous Greek-Aussie guy (played by Alex Dimitriades), repressed in his emotions and confused in his sexuality, yet who aggressively goes after back alley sex with any willing guy, no matter how unsavory. He eventually has an epiphany about what he wants, who he is--but it doesn't play out the way you'd like to think it will. This ain't no Billy's Hollywood Screen Kiss.

Nor is Beauty. And yet Head On has stayed with me over the years, even though it, too, is a difficult film to recommend to others because of its darkness and unhappiness. I suspect Beauty will stay with me as well.

So if you're looking for a "gay" movie to warm the cockles of your heart--or the cockles found in any other region of your body--this is not the one.

But if you want to be challenged, intellectually and emotionally, want to experience another culture, another mindset, then, yes, walk this way. Go see this film. But prepared to be unsettled by it--and yet still feel the need to see it again. And perhaps again as well.

Candy heart rejects

From Wikipedia - Credit: Pschemp; CC-BY-SA 3.0

My contributions to a Twitter meme, #CandyHeartRejects:

SISTER WIFE #2

THIS END UP

SANITIZED FOR YOUR PROTECTION

DELIVERIES IN THE REAR

SLIPPY WHEN WET (Pittsburghese and Bon Jovi fans unite!)

TAYLOR SWIFT IS SO GONNA WRITE A SONG ABOUT THIS NIGHT

WHO'S YOUR DADDY? NO, SERIOUSLY, I NEED TO KNOW. I THINK WE MIGHT BE RELATED!

YOU'RE IN MY BINDER FULL OF WOMEN

I WILL POPE YOU FOREVER . . . UNTIL I GET TOO TIRED

GLAD U R MY REAL GIRLFRIEND (an homage to Manti Te'o)

And last and least (because I'm not particularly proud of this one, but it *is* funny) . . .

I LUV U (GENITAL) WARTS 'N' ALL

I'm here all week. Remember to tip your waiter.

Stop me before I eat again

Truth be told, I think Pittsburgh food is mostly godawful. Oh, I like pierogis, especially the sauerkraut-filled ones, and I've had some good pizza, but like the city itself, sometimes there's just no there there.

And by "there," I mean flavor. And spice. And taste. And appeal.

This is a town where everything comes with fries, even the salads, where Buffalo wings may have come as an uninvited guest from that town up the road but have found friends and family here (unlike yours truly).

I've had one or two good meals here (one at Tamari, this Latin-Asian fusion spot in Lawrenceville comes to mind--a trend that perhaps happened everywhere else years ago, but still, I wouldn't turn down a great meal--and a tasty mojito--just because it's a bit five years ago in culinary trending). But for the most part, I've been disappointed even by places that came highly recommended, that seem more style over ingredients.

But I shan't name names, at least not the bad ones.

Credit where credit is due, though: One thing Pittsburgh does really well is baked goods. There are a number of bakeries here, some new-fashioned but many old-fangled ones, even though some of those are on the way out. Food service work looks really hard with bad hours and tight profit margins. Baking looks even harder and I'm sure has been undercut by so many supermarket bakeries. I can imagine it's tough to make a go of it. Add to that it appears to be something of a family tradition and perhaps younger generations don't want to take on the work.

What a shame. Because the few bakeries I've had the pleasure of visiting in Pittsburgh and environs have been incredible. Kretchmar's in Beaver was probably the first one I visited, and it set a very high standard for the others, as did Carol's Pastry Shop in Zelionople and Moio's Italian Pastry Shop in Monroeville.

Oh, I like Allegro in Squirrel Hill, too, and I'm always going on about Jean-Marc Chatellier in Millvale. I've only had donuts from Stoecklein's in Penn Hills (they were delicious!) because it's too hard to find for a non-native like me. I've still yet to stop in at Prantl's in Shadyside because I hate the parking in that neighborhood. The point is, there are some excellent options for baked goods in Pittsburgh--A yeasty embarrassment of kneaded deliciousness, one might say. If one were so inclined.

But this week maybe I've had too much of a good thing. On Tuesday, Mardi Gras, one of my office mates and I went to Jean-Marc in search of King Cake only to find them sold out. So, naturally, we each bought a Breton cake and a six-pack of French macarons. It seemed like the thing to do.

Today, the beginning of the Lenten season, said office mate got a lead on King Cake from another shop, the Oakmont Bakery in one of my favorite parts of the Pittsburgh area, little Oakmont on the Allegheny. So we got one. And we also got a six-pack of pączki, a type of filled Polish donut (like a German Berliner, as in Ich bin ein a big jelly donut). Each.

Which is just insane. Financially, first of all--I mean, so much for saving on cable. At $1.50 per pączki (big enough for two meals, let alone one), this was not in and of itself an unwise purchase. Combine it, however, with a Breton cake, some macarons, gas money, future heart medication, etc., and, lordy, I blew any savings on pastries. Which just seems a little weird . . . and pitiful.

Healthwise, second of all and third of all--although it should be first of all--as much of a slacker I've been at the gym the last couple of weeks, I certainly don't need the calories. And I swear I was getting a contact high off the sugar and yeast alone. Thus, this week, I'm destined to take at least twelve steps toward a better, healthier life.

So any lessons this week? Other than "don't eat your feelings"? Yeah, well, easier said than done of late, although seriously, I'm much better/worse at it when I'm stressed over work than I am over life. But point taken. I'll try to keep it to dry toast and mineral water the rest of the week.

Then again, bakery items and pierogis are the only things edible in this town. So, again, credit where credit is due: Pittsburgh is why I'm fat. If the salads were better and weren't loaded with French fries, it might be a different story . . . .

A Return to The Rover's Return

A scene from Coronation Street

Sometimes it's the little things in life that mean a lot. At least to me. And not including penises.

Finally finding a way to watch Coronation Street without moving to Canada or the UK--that may seem little to you but it's a huge deal for an Anglophile soap freak like me.


That must make me a Fairy Soap freak. But let's not call each other names.

Not that there would be anything wrong with going abroad, of course. Nevertheless, it's nice not to have to move right now, especially to a foreign country, and solely because of one TV show. Let there be a few programs involved. And some music.

Yesterday I subscribed to HuluPlus, in part because they recently began broadcasting episodes of Britain's longest-running soapie, Coronation Street. I know, I know, but really, this is significant to me: I've been watching this show in fists and starts since the first part of the 1980s, when it used to be broadcast on (I think) the USA Network during the early days of cable TV.

I've also seen episodes when I've visited Britain and Canada, where it's shown in the early evening, when in the U.S. we're normally watching . . . Wheel of Fortune.

Sigh.

So Corrie and me, we go way back. And not just Coronation Street: I've had a thing for UK soaps for some time. Initially, Coronation Street didn't impress me much--it seemed pretty dour in its '80s incarnation--but I quickly got hooked on EastEnders when it was shown on public television in the 1980s and 1990s. I still managed to catch it on trips to the UK and also got entangled briefly with the  characters and stories on Brookside (that body is still under the patio, for all I know) and even Emmerdale.

But the last couple of times I saw EastEnders, I barely recognized any of the characters and cared even less about the ones on screen. When I saw Coronation Street in 2005 and again in 2012 in the UK, and on several trips to Canada from 2008 to 2012, it seemed far fresher and funnier, though still very much a UK soap. Meaning the characters are more working- to middle class in income and more relationship-oriented, rather than being fantasy- and glamor-enamored like their American counterparts. In fact, I'd say in terms of "orientation," the British shows remind me of what American soaps used to be before people started coming back from the dead and their evil twins began making appearances during sweeps week. (Not that there's anything wrong with that either, but, well, maybe it's time to grow and change and get back to our roots.)

Yet despite the more reality-based approach, there's still plenty of drama, heartbreak, and humor on the British programs. As a result, I've been a furtive fan ever since.

And now for the low, low price of $7.99 per month I can be a more regular, reliable fan. Episodes are showing on HuluPlus (with limited commercials) with only a couple of weeks' delay. Just tonight I watched the episode shown in the UK on January 30th.

This is progress! This is what I've always wanted from media, to be able to learn about (or even escape to) somewhere else, to another world, either through a storyline, a character, or a taste of another culture. It hopefully explains some of the fascination with the South African soap, Egoli: Place of Gold, samba and bossa nova records, international movies, language studies, and French pop music, all of which I've waxed on about here.

But to get a little, I had to give some, and that something came in the form of dropping my $10-a-month subscription to TV5Monde, the French-language news and entertainment channel. While I was at it, I decided to reduce my cable bill a little, too, dropping from "HD Extreme" past "HD Prime" to "HD Select." And that meant that I also lost access to CNN International and BBC World (as well as BBC America and SoapNet, but it's OK, I don't really watch those anymore--and yes, I'm looking at you, Top Gear, as the internal combustion engine of all evil). I still get the basic run of American hi-def channels, including AMC (for MadMen), ABC (for Nashville), and PBS (for Downton Abbey), which are probably more than enough.

Nevertheless, I will miss the international news channels and especially TV5Monde, which aided with my French comprehension and kept me entertained with quirky movies and the occasional Vanessa Paradis sightings.

But I can always go back. I'm sure Verizon FIOS won't hold it against me.

Instead, with my Roku, my subscription to HuluPlus, my subscription to Netflix, and by renting movies and TV programs through Amazon Prime Video, I'm hoping to control my media choices a little better. And I'm hoping to expand my mind a bit--less didactic news programming, more creative film and TV. Or viewed another way--more fun, less drudge. Believe me, I need it right now.

Make no mistake, I'm still frustrated. Our America is such a small country in so many ways. So little perspective, such a tiny window to the world, constantly obscured by fog and soot and gray skies. Or maybe that's just my life in Pittsburgh. Nonetheless, I'm trying to grow where I'm planted--at least until I can no longer take it, rip myself out by my roots, and flee elsewhere, anywhere. Like somewhere that offers BBC World, TV5Monde, RTVE, RAI, and Deutsche Welle TV as part of a standard cable line-up. (Which, I hasten to add, is possible in border towns on the Mexico side of the Rio Grande. But not here.)

* * *

It won't be all soaps, American or international, I promise. I've also watched a movie that I was very eager to see, the South African drama, Beauty (Skoonheid). More about that soon, I hope. Plus I have lined up two Québécois films I've been trying to watch since 2010 or so--J'ai tué ma mère (or in English, Heartbeats, a lame retitling of a film whose title translates literally as "I Killed My Mother) and Funkytown, which looks to be French Canada's answer to Studio 54, Thank God It's Friday, and The Last Days of Disco, laissant les bons temps rouler into one. I have some Fassbinder films lined up, as well as some Italian neo-realism, and a few UK sitcoms.

Well-rounded. Which might also describe my butt if I spend the next few months doing nothing by watching TV.

Popcorn anyone?

Fifty Shades of Green

Anne of Green Gables gets made-over.

Into Traci Lords, ferchrissakes.

Read all about it on the CBC website.

Spice up your life!

And why the heck not? A more modern interpretation of Marcos Valle's "Os Grilos (Crickets Sing for Anamaria)," this one by once-and-former Spice Girl Emma Bunton.

Scoff if you must, but I really enjoy this version, which is musically very faithful to the song and yet makes it modern and accessible. It's pop, yes, but very sophisticated pop, something Miss Bunton has made a strong, if somewhat sporadic, effort at over the years. Check out this, which, in my estimation, is nothing short of a pop brilliance.

Great rendition, goofy fun video. My favorite comment on YouTube is the snark about the male companion in the video looking and acting like "every bartender in Benidorm." Ah, well. I'd export myself to the Costa Brava for some hombros and hombres like that if I could afford to do so.

Nevertheless, no comments about the most unsettling image from this video. See 2:15. The "brother" is caught stroking his cock!

*Crickets*

Crickets sing for Anamaria . . . but not for Montag 'cause it's too damn cold out

This is I believe the original version of "Os Grilos," or better known as "Crickets Sing for Anamaria," an instrumental samba from the mid-60s by Brazilian music maestro, Marcos Valle.

Long sentence--but there's a lot to be said. Especially the fact that I adore this song. So summery, so seductive, so deceptively simple. What a brilliant little composition, equal parts classical and rhythmic, European and African. And thus all Brazil.

I'd give just about anything to be able to create an artwork like this.

There are apparently multiple versions of this song by Sr. Valle and others. Truth be told, I actually think the Walter Wanderley Trio's version from 1967 was the first. You can find that here.

So far, I've tracked down Marcos Valle's first instrumental version, first English-language version, first Portuguese-language version, and at least a couple of modern interpretations by him and others. There will be more to come I'm sure. I even feel a mix coming on. After all, it is "Semana do Brasil" in the cold wasteland that is Western Pennsylvania.