Helpful hints from Hell-o-wheeze

"A small cup of coffee" by Julius Schorzman; CC BY-SA 2.5

Tips for making good coffee with a Keurig--

1) Use filtered water--it's tap water, sure, but a good filtration system will remove at least some of the additives (and funny taste) found in "city water"

2) Buy your K-cups on the cheap at Costco or Target--you often get 18 or more per package for the same price as 10 or 12 per box at your grocery store

3) Clean and recycle your K-cups--or use a reusable K-cup and make your own using your favorite brand or variety of coffee

4) Even though it's early in the morning and you're very, very sleepy, have enough damn sense to put the damn cup under the damn spout of your damn Keurig before you press the damn "brew" button--and for heaven's sake, don't walk away from the damn machine while it makes your damn coffee

5) Keep a mop and roll of paper towels next to your Keurig--you just may need it

She's loose!

Welcome to my world--Freeassocsylvania.

My friend Oresund, who actually grew up in la Suisse, recently posted this image to her Facebook page--in a fit of World Cup fever for the Swiss national team, I believe.

Not that I really understand what's that all about, but I am to be live-and-let-live on this topic. Despite my Euro pretensions, I'm strictly a North American guy when it comes to sports. Or, rather, I'm a North American gay guy of a certain age, a non-native of Pittsburgh, which means I really don't give a fatted calf about sports, American or otherwise.

Oh, there's the rare eye candy on the football field, at least if you're into the Zeb Atlas-esque overbulked bully boys of the pigskin. Frankly, I find hockey players far more masculine, handsome, and sex-ay (envision a bearded Kris Letang, par example, or a spiffed-up Maxime Talbot), regardless of the tendency to require dental implants by the age of 23.

"Soccer," though, really does seem to have the best-looking men. There's Ronaldo, of course, the Portuguese one, although he's a little too slick for my taste (as The Onion put it recently, a body slathered in hair gel makes it easier for him to get away from others on the field). There's David Beckham, of course, but shhhh, don't speak, just stand there in your underwear, Dave. Tim Howard bearded, please--but, really, hombre, it's time to walk away from the tattoo needle. Past time, actually. And Mario Balotelli--although I could never date (or anything else) a man with such ludicrous hair, at least when it seems styled so in an un-ironic way.

I'm actually more partial to the unassuming masculine charm of Landon Donovan, truth be told.

Anyway . . . is there anything more boring than a gay guy detailing all the men he's attracted to when there's absolutely squat chance he'll have the opportunity to explore such untoward interest? I think not.

No, where this is supposed to go is here: 




An oldie but a goodie from 1981--SCTV Network 90, a quirky and quite hilarious Canadian comedy import that I used to watch during my college and working adult years. I distinctly remember watching reruns shown late on weeknights on one of the Washington, D.C., public TV stations. I stayed up often to 3 am to catch it, then had to be at work by 8:30 or so later that morning. Oi, youth--although I pretty much have done the same thing as a 50-something "professional," either watching "The Best of Will Farrell" Saturday Night Live reruns on VH1 or trying to get members of my Irish-themed Sims 3 family to improve their cooking, logic, or guitar skills.

If ever there would be a "This Is Your Life" segment about me--either on TV or on Judgment Day--this video should feature prominently in my story. It still makes me guffaw 33 years after it aired. Why? Golly only knows. There's just something inherently silly about it, but clever, too, reimagining all those late '70s/early '80s "Break Out the Bull" commercials for Schlitz Malt Liquor as a "vehicle" for Shelley Winters (or John Candy impersonating Shelley Winters). How can you not laugh at that?

"She's loose!"

Ah, now that's worth a personal tour of Freeassocsylvania, I hope.

Life itself is breathing

From Gray's Anatomy at
http://www.bartleby.com/107/138.html
(public domain)

Who knew?

"Me so horny" and "me so thelioma" are not even close to being the same thing.

Hands clean

"We'll flash forward to a few years later/No one knows about the two of us"

I heard this recently for this first time in ages, and it really took me back . . . to getting to see Alanis Morissette in concert in Chicago with my dear friend Fouchat, a birthday treat from him way back in . . . 2006? 2007? 2008? I honestly cannot remember anymore. My life in Pennsylvania has become something of a blur, especially during the Pittsburgh Era. The year 2007 runs into 2008 into 2009 into on and on and on. Seven years in da Burgh, ten years in Pennsylvania, the longest I've lived anywhere except my home state of North Carolina. Who'd have ever thought it possible?

Oddly Alanis didn't perform this in concert that night, despite it being a top 30 hit for her in the U.S. The concert took place not long after she had broken up with Ryan Reynolds. Pity that--while I generally loathe his movie choices, he is always pleasing to look at.

Or possibly at the time he had just married Scarlet Johansson? Honestly, I can't recall.

At the time I figured the reason was because the song was about Ryan R. and still too sensitive a subject. But lo and behold, the back story to the song is far more interesting in a gossipy, TMZ sort of way. According to Alanis, she had a secret affair with an older man when she was much younger. The video hints at this--Alanis is seen in bad '80s hair, then during her Jagged Little Pill angry-young-woman phase, then supposedly today, older and wiser. And the speculation on the 'net is that the man in question, who bedded, betrayed, and begat her, is none other than Full House's Dave Coulier, a man no one has thought much about since the mid-90s.

Timewise, I don't think this quite works out the way the web would have you believe. Alanis would have been in her late teens, maybe 20 tops, when she was dating Dave; he would have been in his mid-30s. But Alanis has said the affair "Hands Clean" is based upon life that happened when she was too young, 14, which would place events in the '80s when she was on TV, not in music. The dates don't match for "Hands Clean," although they might match for "You Oughta Know," the jagged little pill of a song that brought her to international fame.

Who can say? And who could imagine that Dave Coulier would inspire such passion and anger? But smarminess pisses me off as well, so there you have it perhaps.

Oh, Alanis. I feel your pain. We all make terrible choices in friends and lovers when we're younger. Despite my questioning your inspiration, you at the very least made some very fine art out of the experience. The video alone, which illustrates the commodifcation of emotion--the moment, songwriting, the recording, the selling, image-making, production and distribution, and finally karaoke--is a pearl, a ruby, a diamond of meaning and talent.

So kudos, brava, and any and all accolades coming your way--they're well deserved.

Hair apparent

I'm going really retro tonight--retro Canadian no less--heading to "dahntahn" Pittsburgh to see none other than Gino Vannelli in concert.

And I'm très excited! Gino's one of those quirky performers I have enjoyed over the years. Oh sure, for a not-in-the-know homosexual kid in the 1970s, Gino was sweet-and-salty eye candy. That hair! (Meaning, that chest hair!) The tight trousers. The overall exotic look. The Italian from Montréal singing in English. The seductive kinda pop/kinda jazz song stylings. Pretty heady stuff for a young lad who kept sneaking peaks at the cover of the Storm at Sunup LP at whatever record store I happened to be skulking through.

But the man can sing and write and perform and do all sorts of musical things. The above clip shows him appearing on Soul Train, one of the first non-African American performers to do so. He sounds fantastic--that wonderful vocal range matched with passion and emotion in his voice, and the clever pop-jazz compositions that put him in the ranks (in my mind) of Steely Dan and Pat Metheny. I'm not sure he ever got the credit he deserved, but he's still out there in his early 60s. So he's doing fine.

I didn't dare buy a copy of Storm at Sunup back then. I had a pretty liberal record-buying allowance all things considered and often blew my wad (ahem) on disco and Europop. But for some reason in my mind, a lot of soul music and Gino Vannelli seemed like transgressions too far.

Chalk it up to latent racism and latent homophobia, mine and everyone else's. (And goodness knows, we've all gotten past those, haven't we?) A harsh critique perhaps but one that I think would be fair to say. But why Donna Summer and ABBA albums were OK and Gino Vannelli and Barry White were not is something I'm still figuring out. I think it's all about denial of self, a fear of being teased, a fear of looking foolish and "too" sexual, a worry over masculinity, apprehensions that have followed me into my early 50s.

It gets better, sure, but it's still always kind of there. At least if you're me. But like Gino, I'm still out there. I'm doing fine.

So forget all that--on to Gino! I'm going with my friend the Music Lover and really looking forward to it, despite an incredibly busy week distracting me with other meshugas. It's doubtful that Gino will show up on stage shirtless (my preference) or pantless (the Music Lover's preference). You can't go home again to the 1970s, despite my constant trying to. Nevertheless, it should be a good concert as Gino's still in fine voice (even if I fear he's gone very MOR at this late career stage).

And if I can see Carly Simon and Patsy Gallant in concert some day, then I'll have (almost) blacked out all the spaces on my own personal '70s rock-and-pop hall of fame bingo card.

Alas, the center spot, ABBA, will no doubt always be open.

Buon compleanno, Nutella!

Nutella is having a birthday this weekend. Looking 50 and fabulous, I must say.

Here's a little article from the BBC about Nutella, sort of a "This Is Your Life" take on the chocolate-hazelnut spread's story so far.

Lots of interesting tidbits here. For example, did you know that Nutella is *not* a health food? That while "a 400g jar contain[s] 52 hazelnuts, the equivalent of a glass of skimmed milk, and some cocoa," contents of said jar are 57% sugar and 32% fat--and "about a third of the fat is saturated"?

Well, sorpresa, sorpresa . . .

And here I thought it was about 1% cocoa and 99% methamphetamine.

* * *

Not to slight my other great love, speculoos cookie butter, I was heartened to see that it was no. 2 on the 2013 list of most popular Trader Joe's products. Also good to see another favorite, rosemary marcona almonds, at no. 18.

I am somewhat surprised that speculoos is "only" no. 2, though, and that TJ's triple ginger snaps (of all things) are no. 1.

I mean . . . come on. The speculoos has to be at least 99.9% methamphetamine.

Go, girl!

While I love the song, "I Was Gonna Cancel," the second single from Kylie Minogue's Kiss Me Once album, the video is a bit of a slow-burner for me.

Nonetheless, I'm warming up to it on a chilly day an ocean away from where all the Kylie action is.

I might have done it differently, but I could say that about any number of Kylie career choices. And, yet, 26 years later, she's still going. Sometimes with focus, sometimes haphazardly, sometimes unwisely, sometimes brilliantly (and I would consider "I Was Gonna Cancel" one of her better moments, at least during the Parlophone years).

Not that anyone's asking, but whose idea was it to make Kylie look so beautiful but so unglamorous in jeans and a white shirt? I also would have done some overhead shots to indicate patterns among the moving crowd, which I think would have been in keeping with the spirit of the song and the video. As Kylie posted on her Facebook page:

This video is an abstract look at pedestrian life and how we're all just trying to get through and rise above everyday challenges. Although the song talks about a real life event that happened the day I recorded the song with Pharrell, the video has a more conceptual approach and I love how surreal it looks. I found myself almost directing traffic and it made me think about how we're all just trying to negotiate our way through day to day life.

Nicely stated, Kyles.

Not sure how this single will fair. I like it much better than the lead, but . . . if I read one more quote about it not being a Kylie "classic" or her having no talent, despite the wonderfulness of the song's message and her performance, well, I shall be knocking people over the head with my first edition of Kylie: La La La.

The radical cat agenda

Evil cat menacing an innocent dog
(Courtesy of Birhanb; CC BY-SA)

The only reason I can figure out why the story about the cat rescuing the little boy in California who was being attacked by a dog is such a big deal--one that even the BBC felt it was necessary to carry--is that this is such a rare behavior for cats: Looking after and saving someone other than themselves.

Rescuing people from disaster is something dogs have been doing for centuries, so this is less newsworthy, I'm assuming.

I don't hate cats. Some I actually like. Some can be quite sweet-natured, cuddly even. Cats don't seem to always have an agenda, but maybe they're just more subtle about it.

I've been attacked twice by dogs (badly, scarily), so I don't love all dogs unconditionally by any means. But, overall, I'm admittedly more of a dog person than a cat person. While I fully accept the argument that dogs are sycophants, always trying to play you so that you'll give them food, lots and lots of food, it's my general observation that dogs are more agreeable company, sensitive to your feelings, and helpful to human beings.

When is the last time you saw a rescue cat sniff out a live person among earthquake rubble? I rest my pet carrier case.

Part of my issue with cats is their random nervousness, meanness, and outsized hostility to anyone who enters their physical space. I mean, really, it was just the damned door that slammed. You are not in a horror movie; that was not a serial killer. Jeez. Just lighten up, Whiskers.

Cats remind me of my former boyfriend, Cali, come to think of it. And with him in mind, I'd argue that if I wanted something around the house that shed everywhere, was moody and ill-tempered most of the time, and was fond of licking butts, I'd just as soon have another boyfriend than a cat.

But my real issue with cats is the unabashed cat lover. In modern times, there is an oppressive, inescapable Cult of the Cat, at least in evidence on the internet and social media. It's the whole nerd-geek, "I'm so special, quirky, and different that I'm actually cool!" agenda at work. Memes involving Jean-Luc Picard, bad jokes from George Takei's Facebook page, Harry Potter, Game of Thrones, kale as a viable nutritional source, tea instead of coffee (and herbal tea at that), gaming as some sort of divine ritual, righteous-if-shallow politics, zombies, and above all else, the worshipping of fur-shedding, hand-scratching, butt-licking, baby-smothering cats.

So cuddly--how could you not welcome this into your home?
(Courtesy of Luis Miguel Bugallo Sánchez; CC BY)

No, none of this makes you cool. Not in the least. You're just tedious, boring, and narcissistic. You're the human cultural equivalent of Washington, D.C. A lot of us are tired of your navel-gazing, poor-excuse-for-a-hipster, allegedly clever and sub-ironic behavior and wish you would just go away. To a galaxy far, far away, for example. And take your damn cats with you.

And if you don't feel this way or understand this complaint then . . . maybe it's time to take your cat for a walk.

Good luck with the leash.

Work it on out

Wakey wakey. It's Monday, peeps. Time to find your groove on the trek to work.

Here's mine. Now it's yours.

Benelux-urious dreaming

Tram 25 at the Damrak, Amsterdam
(CC0 - Courtesy of Wikipedia)

I'm somewhere in Amsterdam on a trolley, and I start talking with this young woman from Texas. She looks around and points to the city and asks in her vaguely remembered twang, "Is this your heritage?" I say no. 

Meanwhile young guys keep walking up to flirt with her and one sits in her lap. They look at me. I look at them. They are sexy, but they are not interested in me, specifically. They're just 18 and perpetually turned on by the world. I'm just in their line of sight, their aura, for a brief moment.
 
I turn and I'm now talking with a 30-something Dutch businessman on the same trolley. His hair is a mix of red and blond. He's burly, slightly chubby, and professional-looking in his gray suit. Handsome but in an unassuming way. 

We talk about Brussels. I tell him I think Brussels has the most beautiful public square in the world, and I get a picture in my mind of a morning-bright plaza, crisp and springlike air, and bold-colored flowers everywhere. 

The businessman looks forlornly out the window as we pass a neon-lit bookstore. It's named Loekers or Lookers or something like that. "I was offered a job in Brussels once, but it didn't work out. I was supposed to end up in Brussels," he sighs.

The trolley rolls on. The city passes by. I ask how and where to get off the train. I want to go to Brussels now. I get off the trolley with the Texas girl and the Dutch businessman. It's a sparse, suburban station. There's no one around, even though it's late afternoon, and the station should be full of commuters.

We start to walk through the neighborhood. The houses and buildings are odd and moon colony-like with small, recessed windows and queerly pitched roofs with off-center peaks. The village makes me think of Le Corbusier, and I wonder if he designed it.

And then I wake up.

Maybe I should lay off the Gouda before bedtime.

* * *

My wise sister  had this to say about the dream: 

Your life is in transition (train). You don't want to lose connection with your past (Texas, the girl gets off train with you). You would like to go somewhere exotic and new (Brussels), but the transition is slow and uncertain (walking through sparse neighborhood). Freud's got nothing on me. You're welcome.

Spot-on I'd say. 

More about that transition soon, I hope.

I remember Donna

How did I miss this back in the day that was 1998? Oh yes, I was in Texas.



Or this? Oh yes, I was living in Pennsylvania.



Well, I'm still here (for how much longer, who can say?), but I least found this. A few months late, but nevertheless . . . .

A London spring in Pittsburgh

It's a cool, misty spring in Pittsburgh, rarely above 60F/15C. Rain, light and heavy. Cloudy with sunny spells. Not humid, not hot. This could go on forever, and I think I would be mostly happy.

May 2005. I have London on my mind. July 2012. And Paris, too.

Shaken and stirred

Sean Connery in Marnie, 1964

Yesterday, as I was leaving The Porch, a restaurant in Schenley Plaza in Oakland, a waiter said goodbye to me. Not just any waiter, but The Waiter, this gorgeous, burly, virile man that I've admired from afar for some time now.

He has waited on me before. Always says hello, always fills my water glass. The perfect gentlemanly waiter/stud.

This time was different, though. He held the door for me as I was leaving. He looked at me and smiled and said, "Sean Connery! Goodbye, Sean Connery!"

Now I'm not under any illusions. I'm pretty sure he wasn't thinking of Dr. No or Goldfinger Sean Connery. I suspect he was thinking more of Red October or The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen Sean Connery.

Sean Connery, 1988; photo by Alan Light

On any other day, I might have been a bit depressed by the thought that I look like a graying, bald, 60+ Sean Connery--especially since I'm only 50+.

But you know what? In 1964 or in 1988, there is no bad Sean Connery.

Thank you, handsome waiter. I would have kissed you on the mouth and followed you home if I wasn't already spoken for.

Twin bed!

Time of the season

This season's MadMen musical inspiration, both real--"Elenore" by The Turtles) (and here I thought they were only good for "Happy Together")--and imagined--"Lavender," a recent release by Ray LaMontagne that sounds so much like the 1960s, it makes me want to don some paisley and bellbottoms and grow out my muttonchops. That is to say, groovy, baby.



Hard to believe this is the final season (even if it is spread over two years). As frustrating and opaque and imperfect as you can be at times, MadMen (really, *Megan* Calvet? Trés Montréal, oui, mais Megan est française--ou ses parents sont français, au moins--pas montréalaise, je crois), I will miss you like I miss the '60s.

Meaning vaguely, hazily, but still acutely.

Good mistake

I have no idea what this song and this video are about (though I sorta kinda half-understand the video). But I like them both nonetheless.

Thanks once again KCRW for giving me something to move to, no matter how depressing, foreboding, and sinister the groove.

Kale-ing me softly

Whether you prefer kale "smooties" or kale "smoothies," just please stop it already. No one cares about your sad little eating disorder.

According to this recent article in the Huffington Post (which, no doubt, was pilfered from a legitimate news source), the dreaded, overrated kale is number 8 on the list of hipster foods suffering from overexposure.

Huh, number 8. Only number 8? I would have clocked it in at number 1. Kale: The Kim Kardashian of produce. Never was appealing, never will be.

Or better still, the Miley Cyrus of vegetables: Once a simple, assuming, harmless green, now with carefully calculated media coverage and a starring role riding nekkid on a wrecking ball, kale is now omnipresent and oppressive in his domination, making fun of Sinead O'Connor's mental health issues and passed out cold from overindulgence on 420 day.

 

Or something like that.

For frisee's sake, even the French are getting into the trend. What a world, what a world.

I recall once being at the local food co-op and overhearing a mother and child in the produce section. "Oh look, Nebuchadnezzar, kale! You know how much you love kale!"

Ol' Neb must have been all of 2 years of age. No 2-year-old loves kale. (I'd argue, no one loves kale, but like Kim or Miley, we've been told it's interesting so often that we have almost come to believe it.) No, a 2-year-old's palate lacks the desperation and emptiness of a crunchy mother.

And any mother that would foist upon her 2-year-old a heaping helping of kale is just asking for a visit from Child and Family Services.

 

So try our kale smoothies, eh? How 'bout I give you my even-better-for-you Southern variation on that odorous concoction you're gagging down--the collard smoothie. Made with mustard green frozen yogurt. 

 

Yeah, shut up already about the kale.

The Great Pretender

Chrissie Hynde returns with a song that rhymes "dark sunglasses" with "ruling classes," produced by Björn of Peter, Björn, & John.

The album this is pulled from is called Stockholm, because La Hynde recorded it in my favorite Northern European capital. Now how can you not be intrigued and attracted.

Personality-wise, I have always found Chrissie kind of a drip. In interviews, she's always seemed like something of a prima donna to me, despite her upbringing in Ohio of all places.

But the life of the artist is never easy, I would imagine. You have to have a supreme belief in yourself to succeed. And while I think such a person would be horrible to know in real life, who am I to judge?

Or rather, I'm quite happy to judge, but I'll keep my distance all the same, except, for the most part, from the art said artist creates.

On the next episode of MadMen . . .

Don and Meaghan go to Paris and meet Serge Gainsbourg and Brigit Bardot.

No, not really, but I can dream.

Happy birthday, Ford Mustang. Leave it to the French and Serge to sum up your very American, very international appeal.

* * *

But my original idea isn't so ridiculous. Although I kinda suspect Brigit could manger Meaghan for le petit déjeuner.

The fresh prints of Pittsburgh air

The smell of fear? #WinterDriving

Undercover . . . sure . . . yeah . . .

Photo courtesy CBS News/AP

File under "Who's zooming who?"

There are so many things wrong with this story. Where to begin?

First of all, I refuse to believe that Amish women are this ugly. I've seen plenty around Pennsylvania and despite eschewing moisturizer and makeup, they look lovely to me. Not like . . . this.

As my friend Vicious said, "Harrison Ford he ain't."

Hell, he's not even Tennessee Ernie Ford . . . Edsel Ford . . . or even Rob Ford.

Second of all, as my mother Vivien Leigh kept repeating, "But why a woman?"

Whose bright idea was it to dress up as a woman to lure a potential child predator? Was it the cop's? Really? I mean, dressing up as an Amish man just wasn't feasible? It seemed somehow savvier and stealthier and more appropriate to dress up as an Amish woman to lure the creep out into the open? Huh. Who'd have thunk.

I guess we should be grateful said policeman didn't decide to dress up as an Amish child.

Third of all, as my friend the Gladman put it, "Wait a minute, which one's the pervert?"

Exactly. Except that, for the record, I'm not bothered by this experiment in gender-bending. I'm just more, like, why pretend, dude? Hello, Pot, this is Kettle calling . . .

But I leave the best response until last. Courtesy of my friend Svetlana Amerikana:

"Ladies and gentlemen, meet the winner of Ru Paul's Buggy Race."

Oh, how I wish I had said that . . .

The reunion we've all been waiting for

Left to right: Benny, Frida, and Björn (Agnetha's off-camera apparently)

Glad to see these guys back together again and touring this summer.

But I have to wonder . . .

Where's Agnetha?

A $15 skam*

"I'm so embarrassed to be seen wearing a $15 skirt from Sweden's answer to The Gap."

Apparently "H&M" stands for "humiliation and mortification."

* * *

*And "skam" is Swedish for "shame."

A Parisian in America

The beauty of a lot of French pop--at least in my mind, at least in my ear--is that you never know if you're listening to something real or just some grand absurdist joke.

With Claudettes no less.

This is not a criticism, mind you. It's what makes--in my mind, in my ear--French pop so exceptional. Not to mention merveilleuse et extraordinaire et formidable.

Vraiment, you don't get this kind of crazy fabulousité in American pop, at least not in the mainstream (which, come to think of it, is what pop is). Maybe some in British pop--or at least from time to time. Maybe some others, too, like Norwegian pop star/DJ Annie back when she was doing "pop with jagged edges" like "Chewing Gum" and "I Know Ur Girlfriend Hates Me." Not so much nowadays. Can't see Katy Perry tackling this. Lady Gaga thinks she's Katerine, but she's not even close.

Anyway, chapeaux off to Saturday Night Live and their sketch "Les Jeunes de Paris" for introducing me to the psycho disco vision that is Katerine and Ses Claudettes Enceintes. 

Could it be that Americans are slowly but surely pulling our collective, national head out of our collective, national butt and paying attention to life beyond our borders? Or at least the kind of life that interests little ol' moi? Incroyable!

Leave me alone

From the BBC World News website, 5 April 2014

So, naturally, you would shoot your way to an honoring of your leave request, no?

I know I should feel more sympathy for a guy who clearly is disturbed--no sane person would kill three people and keep on shooting, aiming to end a few more lives (or so I'm assuming). Depression, anxiety, possible post-traumatic stress disorder, and the recent passing of his mother.

And what kind of pencil-pushing, penny-pinching bureaucrat would deny his leave request in the first place?

Nevertheless, the correct response is not, "Hey, I know, I'll just get a gun and kill lots of people."

Except unless you live in the US of A. At least if history-repeating-itself over and over again is any indication.

Thanks, NRA and Congress. You're doing a heckuva job blaming video games and attempting to repeal healthcare reform. Respectively or otherwise.

2014 divided by 1974 = This

Somebody's been listening to their Dad's record collection.

My simple art

My Simple Art Mix (version II--new and improved) by Montagsonfire on Mixcloud

This is what I do with myself when, after weeks of work and travel, I finally have a free weekend.

Enjoy--or be very worried over the amount of time I spend on not doing housework and exercise.

My bad

. . . joke of the day, that is.

It's a fact: "Sharon" isn't the last name of the lead character in the cartoon version of The Little Mermaid.

You're welcome.

My latest groove

Sunny Levine (and if that isn't a California name I don't know what is) featuring Orelia, "Wouldn't It Be Wild?" Courtesy of KCRW, of course.

It's just sand in my shorts that's making me cr(ank)y

The movie's entitled Beaches because they didn't have the guts to call it "Bitches."

I remember seeing this not long after my brother died and thinking, this is the worst exploration of loss and grief and resolution you could possibly imagine. Done by someone who has never experienced any of the above.

While at the time it felt as though I were alone in that conclusion, I was heartened to see years later in an episode of Absolutely Fabulous ("Death," 1994), one of the guest characters lay waste to the movie's "depth."

Sondra, a particularly unctuous pop psychologist from California ("I brought you a copy of my new book, Hey! It's Great to Grieve!"), noted that she, too, had felt great sadness in her life.

"You are talking to someone who has sat through Beaches twelve times."

Yep, that would count as profound suffering in my book. I'd be crying endlessly for sure, mostly at having been tortured by all the schlock and histrionics.  

Beaches gives a whole new meaning to the term "water-bored-ing."

A message to myself, 02.14.2014

I don't know about our love, but mine is definitely insane. Much like myself.

Happy Valentine's, losers. And I include myself in that category, most definitely.

A message to my love, version 12.31.2013

Another year, another heartache, another chance at life and love and whatever happens in-between.

Happy new year, y'all.

Well, d'ya, Cleveland?

Driving back from Cleveland on Friday night/Saturday morning, I was trying to find the right radio station for the drive home--something to comfort me, something to keep me awake, something to nourish my soul. In other words, nothing at all featuring the Top 40 hits of today, tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow.

Luckily, along the way, I discovered WCSB, the independent, alternative station broadcasting from Cleveland State University, via which I heard this fantastic, hilarious, and contemporary remake of Rod Stewart's semi-execrable-yet-perfectly-of-its-time "D'Ya Think I'm Sexy?" The group is the Hybrid Kids (sorta, maybe, kinda--or maybe it's just the musician Morgan Fisher--or his studio group, British Standard Unit?) and it's a contemporary song alright--1979 contemporary, released within a year of the original.

I was surprised to say the least to learn that this song wasn't new--although, admittedly, who but the very desperate or the very camp would do a remake of a top pop hit from 1978 at this late stage, nearly 35 years after the fact? Nevertheless, the biting humor and delivery, plus the industrial sound, make this cover version seem very current and relevant.

Maybe it's just that so much modern pop sounds so dreadful and synthetic. (Yes, I am old.) I couldn't help but wish this were some new, adventurous musical combo, attacking the "classics" and soon to set its sights on modern times, the usual suspects of Lady Gaga, Britney, Katy Perry, and whatever the boy band du jour is calling itself at the moment.

Alas, no. The late '70s and early '80s had it going on, and we're still utterly lost and hapless at critiquing pop culture, regressing almost to an early '60s let's-take-everything-at-face-value system--just with more tits and more asses.

Oh, but why be bitter? This little ditty sits so pretty in my consciousness now. It's just the brain food I needed to keep me going through the early daze of the holiday season.

Now if I could just do something about getting a decent flight out of Pittsburgh International. Or perhaps just up and move to Cleveland instead. This one little mindbender of a track gives me hope that there's some life out there after all in the Midwestern quadrant of American culture.

Even if the track's performed by a group of Brits.
 

Happy Thanksgiving, pilgrim!

Jonathan Frid as Barnabas Collins. From Wikipedia.

I spent a good portion of the American Thanksgiving holiday celebrating exactly how some of our Puritan forebears did: Eating too much turkey and standing idly by while our friends and neighbors were accused of witchcraft.

In other words, I caught up on several episodes of the 1960s gothic soap, Dark Shadows. I have been watching (slowly) the early black-and-white the return of Barnabas Collins episodes on Netflix, but my dear sister had purchased volume 5 of the DVD collection, covering part of the seminal 1795 storyline.

This is one of the major storylines of the series and probably my favorite era for the show. It goes like so: In the present day (1967), governess Victoria Winters (played by quintessential '60s beauty, Alexandra Moltke) has participated in a séance at Collinwood and has been accidentally transported back in time to the year 1795. There she meets the pre-vampiric Barnabas (Jonathan Frid), who is about to marry the love of his life, Josette du Prés (Kathryn Leigh Scott), fresh off the boat from Martinique with her family and scheming handmaiden, Angelique Bouchard (played by the frostiest of frosty blondes, Lara Parker), a real witch. No, really, she is a real witch. Except everyone thinks that Vicky is the witch--and she's about to be accused of such and tried by the evil, sanctimonious Reverend Trask (Jerry Lacy).

I know, I know: "It's a soap" you say. But it is a brilliant one. Despite the bumps and burps in the production, I still think it's one of my favorite TV series of all time. The creative forces behind Dark Shadows knew what it was about, and they did it well for a number of years. The costumes, the stories, the writing, the sets, the acting (yes, the acting)--all were focused on conveying a vision of this perfect, mesmerizing, frightening universe.

The contemporary American soaps--what's left of them--could learn a lot from a show that only lasted on air for five years and yet still commands an audience--on DVD, on Netflix, and in dreadful remakes--almost 50 years later.

Act II: A Homecoming

Twenty-five years in the making . . . and worth every second of the wait. Agnetha Fältskog may never be the most dynamic performer on stage, but it still seems like a major victory to see her on performing again after all these years, keeping current, in good voice, and looking serene and happy. It's a long way from the more fragile- and dissatisfied-seeming Agnetha of nine years ago, when she released the wonderful My Colouring Book.

Maybe this is my cue and my clue: There are indeed second acts in life, maybe even third and fourth ones. Thanks, Agnetha, for showing us (or even just me) the way with charm, grace, and humility.

Anger really should be an energy

And if it were, I could keep North America toasty warm all winter long.

The attitude will improve . . . someday. I swear.

Mmmmm, yes

Two weeks and counting until I reenter my own sensual world. Hurry sundown(s). Only 13 more to go.

No te preocupes--it's only Día de los Muertos

"2 Hearts" by Kylie Minogue, perhaps the only song off of her 10th album, X, that I actually enjoy. It's rather slight and quite atypical of the rest of the album, but her voice is in fine form on this track, much better than on many of the other songs from X.

This was her first album post-cancer treatment, which I suspect did a number on her energy levels and vocal chords. "But she can't sing!" Indeed, Kylie can, but too often in the 2000s I feel as though she's chosen not to, for whatever reason. Saving her energy for vamping, maybe. Compare her post-cancer treatment version of "Over the Rainbow" with her pre-cancer diagnosis version. Listen to "Aphrodite," the song that should have been a single, from the 2010 LP of the same name. Or tune into Kylie Minogue 1994. She sounds in great form on all of these. Because of her health issues at the time of X's recording and launch, I'll give her a free pass on, at least for her lackluster singing. I still can't forgive crap like "Wow" and "Nu-di-ty" though. Not feeling your best can only be excused for so far.

I really like the imagery for this video, even if, given her recent recovery from cancer, it can seem a tad gruesome. There is the fun glam band look--sort of a Muppets meet Mott the Hoople gone mod--which I have no problem with. But those skulls . . . they're a little macabre.

Which may be the point. The video imagery makes a bold statement: I've played chess with death, I kicked his ass, and I look great in a catsuit to boot.

That widow's weeds version of a Marilyn Monroe dress is not to my liking, however. William Baker giveth and William Baker taketh away.

I don't know if Kylie & Company were inspired by Día de los Muertos, Day of the Dead, the Mexican commemoration of All Soul's Day, in which ofrendas are built in honor of deceased loved ones and candy skulls and bread that looks like bones are everywhere. No matter. The video seems a fitting tribute to what was one of my favorite things about fall in San Antonio.

Te extraño, San Anto. Just not quite enough to move back.

Now *this* is a horror movie

Das Cabinet des Doctor Caligari -- a German Expressionist psychological thriller/horrorshow, made in 1920 and now in the public domain. (You're welcome, universe.)

How and why do I love this movie? Let me count the ways--or not. It's late on Halloween after all, and I need to get to bed at a decent hour.

So the short version--to me this is one of the earliest movies I've seen so far that turns a motion picture into art. The acting, the storyline, the costumes, and mein himmel, those sets!

I try to turn people on to this film every chance I get, but to little avail. Not for everyone perhaps, but I was staggered by it the first I saw it, late at night on Turner Classic Movies sometime in the '90s. I had heard about it long before but had never managed to see it. Bucket list item nummer zweitausend vierundneunzig -- to see this film in a proper cinema.

Despite the silent movie style, I think the film holds up surprisingly well. I still find it chilling--but then again, I scare rather easily. You be the judge.

But bitte, Tim Burton and Johnny Depp, do not attempt a remake this movie. Ever. Despite your professions of admiration otherwise, clearly you didn't get Dark Shadows at all (which somewhat reminds me of Doctor Caligari, if for no other reason than the menacing atmosphere it conveys). If you attempt to re-lens this classic, I couldn't be held responsible for the eternal curses I would heap upon your damned souls.

Llámame, quizás

Paella valenciana - Photo courtesy of Wikipedia

So during one month, the National Security Agency collected data on 60 million phone calls made in Spain--not mainly on the plain nor in the rain, but the NSA would be more likely to know that than yours truly.

Really, hombres, finding the perfect paella recipe shouldn't be that hard. Try a cookbook.

¡Viva España!

You've (not) got a friend in Pennsylvania

This has been my ohrwurm for the week, "Let's Call It Off" by Peter, Björn, & John. I'm not sure why this has stuck in my ear so deeply and intently this week--it's been a pretty good week. I'm not thinking of calling anything off or out in particular. Maybe it's just the sublime catchiness of the song--the beat! those guitars! that calypso steel drum! the higher and lower timbers of vocals singing together! Again, with the modernized '60s sound for me. I'll never change my Merseybeat ways. No, never.

To my ear, Peter, Björn, & John don't always get it right. Songs like "Young Folks," "Blue Period Picasso," "Amsterdam," "Second Chance," and "Let's Call It Off"--these to me are perfect examples of their talent. I think I've never gotten past the excellence of the Writer's Block album--subsequent PB&J long-plays have left me a little indifferent, mainly because the music has become coarser--more rock-'n'-roll, less jangly pop--and the lead singer (to my listening) gets a bit monotonous after repeated listenings. It's why I like "Amsterdam" and "Let's Call It Off" so much--they vary the vocals and transcend the tried and true.

Probably time to go back and give Living Thing and Gimme Some a relisten. I didn't even realize there was a Seaside Rock LP until just now.

Perhaps PB&J are on my mind this week because it is fall in Pittsburgh--although at times this week, it felt like we'd shifted into winter, what with the howling winds, snow showers, and gray skies. The first or second winter I lived in Pittsburgh, can't remember which, I had the chance to go see PB&J at Mister Smalls in Millvale. It snowed that evening, and I bailed on the concert, not trusting my Mini to maneuver the freeway or the hills and dales of a Northside steeltown. It was probably a wise decision, given the Mini's subsequent performance on icy, snowy roads. And perhaps the concert was even sold-out (me and my poor planning). But it is (another) missed opportunity. For musical satisfaction, yes (I still experience pangs of regret for never going to see The Blue Nile when they performed in D.C. some 25 years ago), but also for my adapting to life in Pittsburgh.

I think it would come as no surprise to readers of this blog that Pittsburgh leaves me cold (literally, figuratively). I do not get Pittsburgh--or perhaps I do, and there's just nothing much for me to get. I have felt incredibly out of sync with the town ever since I got here, and the town has more or less has consistently reminded me of my out-of-stepness.

Where do I begin? And do I even want to? It didn't help that I moved here in grief over my father's death and did not take up readily some of the offers made to me for socializing. How could I at that time? I felt like I spent the first year or two here, wishing I was wearing a black armband, like some 19th-century mourner, to let everyone know to stay away. Now that I think about it, I probably did as much without benefit of the armband.

It didn't help that in my first job here, I spent more of it away than at home and did that for the first 3-1/2 years of my existence here. It didn't help that I couldn't get laid here to save my life, that Pittsburgh extended by a few years my mojo-less life in Pennsylvania, that once again I had to go to Canada to get anything going on. I know I'm getting older and maintaining my fighting weight is a constant struggle, but I don't seem any older or heavier than anyone else here. Why have I been unable to connect in that most quintessentially man-to-man way?

It doesn't help that people here seem brusque on the surface and somewhat depressed during the long gray months of winter. (If you can get behind the surface, they are ultimately OK.) It doesn't help that it is an insular town, disinterested in the outside world, isolated from it by the hills and the clouds to paraphrase my Central Pennsylvania friend NoRella. It doesn't help that I have never found a group to fit into, a community to be a part of, or encountered very many like-minded individuals with whom I could be friends, learn from, and share with. Which, for me, is what I'm here for, what we're all here for: To have fun, to be friends, to enjoy each other's company, and hopefully make one another's lives a little bit better.

It doesn't help that I am easily bored, getting older, and probably too cynical for my own good. It doesn't help that I gave up trying to love Pittsburgh, or even just to like it. It doesn't help that I can't even remember when I gave up. It doesn't help that I can't figure out how to get out of here, to move on to the next phase of my life, assuming there is one.

So maybe I do know why PB&J are stuck in my brain this week. Because I'm stuck in my brain this week.

Let's call it off. Let's call the whole thing off. Now how to do so? And when and where?

Doogie Wowser, or, a two-minute hate crime

From Suri's Burn Book. (It's a kind of Bible of celebrity children.)

Early in your life as a gay man, you get the question--either from people you know or from yourself:

"If you could take a pill that would change you from gay to straight, would you take it?"

I've always said no. I can't imagine being any other way. I am who I am. I like being gay. I feel it gives me a different perspective on life, culture, and society, and I wouldn't change that for the world.

(Plus hairy men are very sexy.)

Perhaps I would have had that worldview regardless--while outwardly conventional, I'm pretty on the inside . . . pretty jaundiced, pretty mistrusting, pretty cynical, pretty questioning authority, pretty nobody's fool.

OK, maybe not all of that is on the inside. Point taken.

I can't help myself from having a strong detector of bullshit, and goodness knows there's tons and hectares and kilos and acres of b to the s in the modern world. I would hope I would be that way, regardless of my sexuality and affectional orientation, but being on the outside looking in at the snowglobe of Western life, how can you be anything else but cautious and caustic? I'm not convinced it's any better in the non-Western world--in fact, I'm fairly sure it's not--but I only know one world, and I'm more than familiar with its problems, quirks, flaws, challenges, and . . . bullshit.

Anyway . . . back to the question at hand: Would I change being gay if I could?

No . . . except when I take a look at the Burtka-Harrises, aka Doogie Wowser and Companion (Vinnie Delpenis?), aka the Omnipresence of Self-Satisfaction that is Neil Patrick Harris and clan.

Oh, I'm impressed. It can't be easy being a child star, turning out to be gay, then forging a successful career in modern America as a fly white guy, a lothario on an incredibly execrable sitcom, a manorexic metrosexual of song-and-dance, non-threatening in a way, yet still able to share pics of your happy gay family with the celebrity-slavish world in which we exist.

But enough is enough. I don't want to be this kind of gay. I couldn't if I tried. And I would prefer no one else be either.

This is . . . not normal. And it's not progress either. It's playing to our stereotypes. We're cute! We're thin! We're family-friendly (in a fashion)! We're safe! We're dress-alike clones, sexless twins rather than same-sex lovers! Please don't think about us having butt sex or sucking each other's cocks!

Yes, I am playing to another stereotype: The gay man who treats other gay men with scorn, probably out of my own fear, loathing, and discomfort of our kind. But it's a chicken-egg scenario here: In a way, isn't NPH and family creating a hostile environment with all this perfection and wealth? Aren't we--the single or those of us in less fabulous relationships, the childless and those of us with "average," less print-model-friendly children, the middle class and poor, the non-white and the white cracker, the non-famous or even just the B, C, and D Listers--being held in a kind of contempt? Aren't we considered loathsome and actively being loathed? "Aspire to us! But you'll never be good enough to aspire to us! So fuck you!"

Fuck you back, Neil and Partner and your A-Gay world.

I'm dating someone right now, and, more or less, I couldn't be happier. We are similar, outwardly conventional, inwardly not willing to accept the status quo. Who knows where it will go or for how long? But I love this man because while we are similar in some ways, we are different from each other, too, physically and culturally. And we are different from the world in which we live, outsiders to our culture, gay or otherwise.

We don't want kids. We talk about living together and even marriage (jokingly), but I don't think either of us is into the ceremony or trappings, just the love and companionship.

More power to you if you want all of that. Clearly culture is on your side at the moment. But give the rest of us some room to breathe, to be ourselves, to be different.

That's the power of gay, the power of "queer," if you will: Being different and flourishing in our difference.

I did not come this far to be like everyone else. Or worse, like some happy freakshow families stereotype of heterosexual life.

/rant off.

Jihad me at "infarction"

From CBC News, 20 October 2013

Ah, Dick Cheney. Your overblown sense of self-worth coupled with your corrosive paranoia know no bounds.

Random idea: If you weren't such a horrible human being who caused so much harm to the world (whether through your tenure in the U.S. government or at Halliburton), perhaps there would be less for you to worry over.

But then, you wouldn't be the big Dick that you are, now would you?

I'm just a girl who loves horses

Image created by Nurmsook and taken from Wikipedia

My heart belongs to Heartland, the Canadian TV series based on the Heartland series of books by Lauren Brooke. (Or not, if the Wikipedia entry is to be believed).

I'm not sure I can explain this to anyone, let alone myself, why I enjoy this series as much as I do. It can be maddening at times, the plotlines, the plotholes, and the plot-by-numbers imagery in places. (Oh, we'll get to that, don't you worry.)

There's also the essential premise of the series, that Amy Fleming, the show's teenage heroine, is, in essence, a horse-whisperess, sensitive to the nature of the equine race. It's not quite as silly as it sounds, or as I'm making it out to be. Mostly Amy is just patient, caring, determined, and respectful in her care of horses. Amy's plucky but not in an obnoxious way. In fact, she is headstrong and often makes some dumb mistakes along the way--although these might not necessarily seem like mistakes to what I imagine is an overwhelmingly tween fanbase for the show. I'm sure she comes across as passionate to this crowd, a fiercely romantic and sensitive lead. To her credit, Amy is strong, self-reliant, and not often afraid, which are good values to impart to young women and men both.

You also have to accustom yourself to the idea that every guy wants Amy. Not that her portrayer, Amber Marshall, isn't gorgeous, the epitome of the cornsilk-and-sunshine-haired, Alberta blue-skies-and-eyes cowgirl. But it gets ridiculous sometimes, especially when Amy is so moody.

But ah, heterosexuality, I will never understand you.

I far prefer Lou Fleming, her more urbane (and thus more neurotic--this is the worldview of Heartland and probably Alberta in general, I would imagine) big sister. Played by the lovely Michelle Morgan, she, too, has her fits of pique and drama, but she's also got a good sense of fun, humor, sexiness, and slapstickiness about her. She's the brunette fall girl to Amy's straight woman, if you will.

Once you get past all that--as well as the idea that the books have the story set in Virginia, USA, and the TV series has been tailored to the mythical town of Hudson, Alberta, Canada, somewhere near Calgary--it can be a very enjoyable series.

Maybe it's the beauty of the scenery, which even transmitted through the network HuluPlus, looks gorgeous (and cold, I should add, very, very cold). The mountains, the snow, the rivers, the sun, the charming town, and the expansive landscape. It makes me dream of our own modern Wild West, except one with single-payer health insurance and same-sex marriage. On the surface, Alberta appears somewhat akin to Colorado in terms of scenery and culture. The good, the bad, and the ugly.

Perhaps it's the heartwarming storylines, which alternate between drama and humor, all of it very family-focused--but I hasten to add, not family wisecracky in a cheesy, American sitcom way, nor (un)subtly Christian-themed like I dunno . . . I try never to watch those kind of shows. I've heard the show described as a family saga, and I think that description is most apt. People do have sex in Hudson (at least out of sight). They kiss. They drink. They fight. A few probably even smoke (whether tobacco from Ontario or "tobacco" from British Columbia I could not say). So while the show is wholesome, it's not like it's Canada's answer to 7th Heaven.

In Heartland's case, by family-focused, I mean that stories revolve around the tight-knit Bartlett and Fleming clans and the people and events that come in and out of their lives. People have arguments, get jealous, laugh, cry, tease, do insensitive things, love, hug, shirk their responsibilities, are stubborn, are wise, and more--but ultimately they all come together for the common good.

With the exception of Val Stanton (Wanda Cannon), a character I love for her naked avarice, horsey set nouveau richeness, passive-aggression (at best), and that kinda ridiculous mid- to late 2000s Meg Ryan hairdo. What was that style called? "Suburban Soccer Mom Cornshuck Doll"? *Luv* it in all its horror! And Wanda Cannon plays the role with mucho gusto.

There are also the men, of which Heartland's casting directors have consistently selected well, in terms of physique and character. There's dueling Marlboro Men, Jack Bartlett (Amy and Lou's grandfather) and Tim Fleming (Amy and Lou's absentee father), who are strong-willed, ruggedly handsome, real men's men, and ultimately mensches, good guys even when they're not always kind or right. There's Lou's beau, Peter Morris, who arrives in season 2, a driven "oilman" who also manages to be funny, goofy, and romantic altogether. (OK, so that's a bit of a stretch--I keep envisioning Bobby Ewing blended with Laurel and Hardy--but I can't blame Heartland for trying and succeeding.)

And there's perhaps my personal favorite, Amy's off-and-on beau Ty Borden, who manages to be both incredibly adorable and "safe" while also being fierce, proud, and even scary when provoked. There's a lot of power in Graham Wardle's small frame, both in terms of physical and spiritual energy.

Not every guy is golden. I can understand why Lou is underwhelmed in her romance with Scott, who just seems too dreamy and dewy-eyed to be her heart's desire. Likewise with rodeo cowboy Caleb, who is beautiful to look at and a fine actor but who looks way too pouty-lipped for a bronco-buster to be taken to heart. 

Nonetheless, I think Heartland does a good job of offering a guy for every girl (or another guy, if one should be so lucky). Personally, I struggle weighing the charms of Jack, Tim, and Ty (and Peter, Scott, and Caleb while we're at it. Often the macho Tim lights my torch more than Ty--I prefer prime beef over young buck as a general rule. But then Tim goes and does something douchebaggy, and the affair is over.

I like how, overall, the show seems to get guys right--as proud, competitive, intense human beings who fight when necessary but who can also be kind, thoughtful, sweet, and, yes, even communicative. Contrast the Heartland guys with any of the men from a David E. Kelley show (take The Practice, for example), in which the guys all seem neutered by the presence of the strong female leads. The men don't seem like men. They seem like Ken dolls: sexless, plastic, and compliant.

Oh, there are missteps in the show, plotholes you could ride a pack of wild mustangs through, imagery and cultural assumptions that make me want to choke on my beef jerky and pemmican. Like I said, everything urban is seen as dangerous, neurotic, and needy, whether it's Lou or her girlfriends visiting the ranch from New York ("New York City!"). I'm sure the First Nations population of Canada must have cringed and eye-rolled through the whole Victor Whitetail episode in season 2, in which Victor channels his native mysticism and general quirkiness to help a white girl get back her equine mojo. And we get it, we get it--Ty and the Ghost Horse are one and the same, wild mustangs that cannot be tamed without the love of a good woman/mare.

For the record, I really don't like horses. The Heartland cult of the horse even seems a little creepy sometimes, but then again, I feel that way about people's slavish devotion to cats, dogs, and other animals. Just what are y'all sublimatin'?

Nevertheless, I just finished season 2 this week, and I'm looking forward to season 3. If for no other reason than it gives me more time to work out my fantasy project, the Men of Heartland calendar.

I gladly claim copyright for that idea.

Love jihad

I am in lust with this song, "Love Jihad" by Skip&Die. That is all.

Who knew He was so needy?

So Jesus died for our sins. Thanks, I guess, but did anyone ask him to do this? A card or a gift certificate for an oil change would have sufficed.
Honestly, the people I am "friends" with on Facebook and the groups they follow and share with the rest of the world. Lord, save us all.

It's bad enough dealing with their crazy lust for guns/the permanent exile of illegal immigrants and welfare scofflaws (or whom they perceive as such)/the head of Barack Obama on a rusty trashcan lid. But then two groups--"FB/CuteguysOfficial" and "Shut-Up-I'm-Talking"--have to proselytize for abject Christianity and turn Jesus into some sort of passive-aggressive, stalkery boyfriend-savior.

I think it's fair to say that while I was raised Protestant and can appreciate its history, traditions, and even some of its practitioners (Jimmy Carter, for one fine example), I long ago gave up on participating in its activities and the whole let's-bash-you-to-death-with-the-love-of-Jesus mentality. I'm not sure I was ever on board in the first place, in fact.

I have nothing against Protestantism, per se. In fact, I rather like how Protestants fought against the hierarchy of the Roman Catholic Church and aimed to have a direct spiritual relationship with God, rather than through some dodgy intermediaries.

I also have nothing against Jesus, mind you. He seems like a great guy, one whom if we actually listened to, we might learn something, and actually treat people by the guidance of Christ's principles, something we often claim to do but fail miserably at.

But I'm bored and frustrated with this tradition. I'm not sure if Jesus is the son of God. I hardly think it matters. The more important thing is what did He (and God) try to tell us? How does it resonate in the here and now? Are we listening? And what will we do about what we heard?

From Planet Earth, Team America Division, in October 2013, I'm guessing we were all staring at our phones while He was talking.

Forward, left!

Cause I like to rock-and-roll to the Iron Curtain hitparade of yesteryear, that's why.

And given the fact that we're nostril-deep into "our central government is more dysfunctional than your central government" shit-nanigans mode at the mo' in D.C., couldn't we all benefit from a little Motherland love?

The answer is "da," comrades. Or possibly even "da da."

P.S. Say what you will about the decadent West, to our credit, no self-respecting Capitalist would be caught dead or alive in the Shapeless White Shift of Shame. There's some hope for us yet, tovarischii.

For the record

Photo snagged from the CBC News website, 25 September 2013

The new pope may be, by his own admission, fallible, but the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation is not, in my opinion.

I need to shake the hand and kiss the cheek of the stealthy web layout editor who matched this headline with this photo of the Con Artist Formerly Known as His Ex-cellency Pope Benedict.

Sinister, creepy, malevolent--all the while defending his "sex-abuse record."

Meaning . . . the priests under his leadership scored a personal best in sex abuse during his reign? Or he excused, forgave, and reassigned an extraordinarily high number of abusive priests during his time in?

Exactly what is the record you are defending, Benny? And will we receive be a free digital download if we buy the record? And will that record be the soundtrack for the recent blue movie, Scandal in the Vatican? 

(Editor's note: That one's definitely NSFW. Or even NSFHome. You've been forewarned.)

Oh, I guess I should read the article to understand the point. But, honestly, why spoil my fun in slapping down a hypocrite dressed in a man of God's clothing?

Hurt me! Hurt me!

Why was there never a video made for this classic? I feel cheated by life once again.

Seriously, I don't know why I love this song. But then again, I do. The beat is percolating. The samples are cleverly deployed. The intro and outro successfully comical. And Samantha Fox carries a great tune.

No, really. I think she was a more capable singer/performer than given credit for, her "voluptuousness"--and her eagerness to share said voluptuousness with the world--undercutting her talents.

Where are they now? I'm not sure. I vaguely remember reading something about Ms. Fox shilling some diet tea that had a tapeworm in it (unbeknownst to her, I'm assuming), becoming a born-again Christian, then unbecoming a born-again Christian. Then announcing that she was going to form a civil partnership in the UK with her same-sex spouse. So lots of searching for a role, a space, her own self.

All in all, quite a life--and some great pop music. Thanks, Sam!