Exterminate!

On the next episode of Doctor Who, the Doctor finally regenerates in female form as an African high priestess.

Meanwhile, in a vain attempt to appear more happenin', the Daleks don gold lamé Members Only jackets, then borrow some old robes from an Enigma video shoot to change up their winter wardrobe.

Just add Ecstasy. And patchouli-wearing, techno-loving Hippies.

* * *

I kid, but "L.S.I. (Love Sex Intelligence)" is one of my favorite songs from the '90s and I'd even say in my Top 25 for all-time pop favorites.

But the video, not so much.

Like me, the video has not aged nearly as well as the Doctor. But then I don't get a new body and face every time my contract runs out.

The video is definitely a product of its era--rave culture, which I only briefly experienced in my early 30s, way too late for it to have any effect. I already felt too old in my 20s; by the time rave got going, I was positively ancient.

Ancients of Mu. Heh.

Was this the beginning of Cool Britannia? Perhaps. After the synergy of the 1980s, I do think this is the point at which British and American pop culture began to diverge radically, at least for a period of time. First rave, techno, Madchester, and drum and bass; then Oasis, Blur, Suede, Lush, and all those other one-word bands. I don't know if they would qualify as shoe-gazers, but the era does seem full of navel-gazing.

But then, that's the experience of a then-30something American, who was living in Texas at the point, one who was well placed outside of the Gulf Stream of pop culture, one who had a better handle on what was happening in the states (Mexican and American) that bordered the Gulf of Mexico than he did on the sound of a bright cool Britain.

Would I do it differently? Should I have stayed in the mainstream rather than a backwater? I don't know. Sometimes I feel as though I missed out on something, excising myself from Washington, D.C. (a backwater in its own way, at least as far as happenin' international pop culture is concerned), at the beginning of the '90s.

However, I'm not sure I missed out on enough to make me truly regretful--other than for my lost youth in general.

* * *

Feh, regrets, I've had a few, but I've done it mostly my way so far. And yet, there has been this nagging question throughout my life: Canoe on the bayou or kayak on the raging river? April shower or eye of the hurricane? Champagne bubbles or supernova? Manhattan, Kansas, or Manhattan, New York City?

This feeling got to me again on a recent trip to Toronto, in which our hero, unable to find suitable parking at any West End TTC subway station, attempted to drive via Dundas, Bloor, and a number of wrong turns into the artificial heart of Hogtown. Mission accomplished, physically and vehicularly unscathed but psychologically frazzled, a situation made no better by the sky-high parking rates, humidity, and sensory overload of Buskerfest. (Not an intentional destination, I can assure you.)

I realize at moments like this that I'm not Kingston--a place visited in the spring for a job interview--but I'm not necessarily Toronto either. If anything, I'm more Montreal, a large city in which I feel extraordinarily comfortable--serene, sophisticated, soul-nourished, stimulated, safe, satisfied.

Which is problematic when the man you love lives in the TO suburbs and is unlikely to shift from that spot anytime soon.

This is also problematic because I haven't had a clue on what to do next for a couple of years now, and I don't have the stomach for more of the same. No plan, no direction, no emphasis, no ideas of any permanence.

You could say I'm living more in the moment than I ever have. But you might also say I'm rudderless, listing, unable to see beyond the end of my small craft. The world looks flat from this vantage. I could fall off the edge at any moment.

Forget the peace at last vs. blitzkrieg bop metaphors. This is more rock-meets-hard place, a spot that is hardly comfortable but all too familiar.

Whinnying and whining, or, a horse is a horse (of course)

"Maestoso Basowizza & Oberbereiter Hausberger"
by Machoxx - Licensed under CC BY-SA
3.0-2.5-2.0-1.0 via Wikimedia Common

A horse is a horse, of course, of course,
And this one'll talk 'til his voice is hoarse.
You never heard of a talking horse?

Well listen to this. I am Mister Ed.

--Mr. Ed theme song (Source: http://www.lyricsondemand.com/tvthemes/mredlyrics.html)

Sometimes I think I'm a Lippizaner. At other times I realize that I'm just a Belgian Heavy Draft--or, worse, an old nag, a worn-out old workhorse.

Last week I managed to feel mostly like the latter. I don't want to get too specific--and, in general, I don't in this blog, which is kind of a drag for both you, the reader, and me, the writer. But let's explain a bit anyway.

I realized early in the week that I was probably passed over for a promotion--or at least a new focus--because I was denied an opportunity earlier in the year. Big Daddy said yes, but Brick said no. The two people who were allowed to do so were assigned to a new initiative that has a direct relationship to that opportunity and, in part, the work I do.

Also last week, I was passed over for a position for a state organization in my profession of choice because--well, who knows? I don't know exactly why. I haven't schmoozed the right people enough? I'm not employed at a rival institution in the "centre" part of the Commonwealth? I work in the independent fiefdom of West of the Alleghenies? Believe me, Pittsburgh is a land unto itself, in Pennsylvania as well as in human consciousness.

I may have done myself in on this one. I edit a journal sponsored by the organization. Due to other commitments and in an effort to give someone else a chance to edit the journal (really, altruism!), I expressed an interest to pull back over the next year but to still keep my hand in. I enjoy the work, I have a lot of expertise in the area, and my continued participation is beneficial to the organization because of other affiliations I have.

But when the new, untried editor was offered a position as liaison to the organization's board--serving as the main contact between the journal and the board--I became concerned and asked about my status on the board. When I learned that I did not have one--never mind that I have made significant contributions to the journal's contents and success and that my affiliation with the publisher is key to this success--I became angry. After wisely (?) talking it out, and encouraged not to jump to conclusions, I calmed down and followed my co-editor's suggestion: Request that I be made a member-at-large on the board because of my experience and connection with the publisher. Doing so would help them in more ways than one: It would allow me to contribute the organization in other ways, including writing for its blog. And doing so would give me some much-needed credit for my expertise, as well as an official role in the organization.

However, I was told no, I wouldn't be made a member-at-large. I was told that my editorship was valued and that I could continue as long as I wanted to, but that I would not become the liaison to the board. And then I was told that if I wanted to, I could ask to be considered for the liaison position--in two years' time.

Nothing like feeling appreciated for the work you do, the weekends and weeknights spent editing, re-editing, proofing, soliciting articles and peer reviewers, and counseling authors--all for exactly $0.00 per year.

The final bailiwick of hay to go up in flames this week was my not winning an award for "best in show" at my, um, "corral." This award goes to the person in the corral who has contributed the most to "horsemanship" over the last year, i.e., who's made the most significant contribution to my profession. I was nominated, which is lovely and it's always nice to be nominated and we're all winners really . . . but I did not win.

This surprised me, which probably neighs loudly about the state of my unbridled and easily bruised ego these days. I wasn't eligible to be nominated previously--I am a visiting horse, not one with a regular stall in the barn, on contract rather than tenure-track--but I learned later that the eligibility rules had been changed because someone had wanted to nominate me but previously could not.

I lost out to a very good show horse indeed, someone who I think is deserving but someone whose influence is much more specific to our horse farm--and not even within our corral. He does some work in Pittsburgh that is well-regarded, he does a very good job at what he does, and he is well supported by his boss (there's a hint for you), and he is well-liked. Yet I would hardly say he has made significant contributions to the profession, certainly not at the regional or state level or even within the corral itself.

The previous winner was also a worthy horse, but even his influence was strictly local, limited to just our institution. And I nominated him for the award.

So I'm beginning to wonder if I'm knackered if I do, knackered if I don't.

As a colleague told me, "the other horse was tough competition, and you don't have as much of a local profile as he does." Really? But I co-edit a statewide journal, working closely with the authors to improve their works and can copy edit like a mad fiend; was elected president of a regional organization this year; make presentations at the local, state, and even national levels; serve on committees in my organization; am well-regarded by my colleagues (or so I hear); and do my job well, despite being hamstrung by Brick's conflicted interests on a regular basis . . . how am I not considered "tough competition"?

And essentially, the statewide organization is telling me my profile isn't high enough and certainly not likely to get any higher under the current regime, despite editing its journal (and being eligible to "edit it for as long as I want") and being a key presenter at its spring conference.

Admittedly, I've yet to find a real way to break into things at a national level, especially as I'm not high enough in the organization to get my pick of conferences and committees. (Although my work is good enough to be used by Big Daddy at a major national conference last summer and at an international one this year.) And even within our organization, I seem to be more "show" or "place," rather than "win," in the race due to . . . whatever. I'm called upon often, I do the work that needs to be done, I generally do well at it, I am often praised for it by at least my colleagues . . . and yet, I feel like I get very little respect from above and only little opportunities that are not exactly challenging, especially when I've done so much else and so much more over the last 19 years.

A little more whinnying and whining--and if you've made it this far, why not buy a ticket, sit in the orchestra stalls, and hear the whole horse opera?: I was even turned down for a position this year, although on paper I was by far the more qualified candidate (but admittedly lacked the necessary permanent resident status or citizenship to work in the country where the job was located).

So I'm left with this feeling that I'm good but perhaps not good enough. Maybe I'm not as brilliant as I think I am (which, for the record, I don't), or maybe I'm just underselling myself. The director at the place where I failed to get the other job told me I was an "impressive candidate" and encouraged me to apply for several other positions, both there and elsewhere, but at a much higher level.

I am hesitant to do so, mainly because of the nightmare that is personnel management in any organization, something that requires every ounce of diplomacy, skill, and finesse and then only works for about a day before you have to start all over again.

And yet at 19 years of career and 52 years of life, I feel as though I'm punching way below my weight in this current job, having to get permission to do practically everything from a boss who tells you you're doing a great job, then nitpicks over every little thing, then praises you for your initiative, then tells others that you don't take enough initiative.

Again, knackered.

So onward and upward? Time to do some high jumps, chase some steeples, long for some furs? Make myself more taxed in my professional life in order to gain praise, awards, and income? Or just give up the race altogether, put myself out to pasture, and graze in the grass until retirement, a good 13 to 15 years away (if I'm lucky)?

I don't know the answer to all of this, and this has been part of the problem over the last three-and-a-half years. I feel stuck professionally, and I feel stuck geographically.

A horse is a horse off course in my case. Somebody skilled grab the reins, please, to prevent me from continuing to go in circles in the same stupid corral I've been stumbling around for the last three years.

Snort. Whinny. Neigh.

All this mendacity

Thick as (a) Brick - Source: Wikipedia

I have come to think of my workplace as similar in social structure and cultural milieu to the one represented in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof--either play or movie version, all y'all take your pick.

The head of our entity is indeed a Son of the South, one of the Caucasian persuasion and of a class accustomed to leading and ruling based primarily on privilege. While I can talk Southern with the best of them and am as pale as an Osmond's buttocks, I am definitely not a member of the landed class. I'm not denying that I benefit from white privilege--I most certainly do, probably in ways that I don't even realize. However, I don't think I've ever felt entitled to anything. Honestly, I'm too insecure in this world and unsure of myself to be acting out plantation and private academy fantasies. And too damn cynical.

So I like to think of our fearless leader as Big Daddy.

Hey, it's that or Foghorn Leghorn.

My more immediate overseer is obviously Brick, stressed out, unsure of which end of the stick to grab onto, all the while straining to live up to Big Daddy's vision. And BD is all about the vision thing.

And who am I? Maggie the Cat? Mewling, frustrated, repressed, ambitious.

Perhaps, but perhaps I'm more akin to Gooper and Mae, Brother Man and Sister Woman: (And, really, what was Tennessee Williams on when he came up with those nicknames?) More grasping and slightly White Trash when compared to Brick and Maggie.

I am definitely not Big Mama. This much I know. I simply refuse to play a character that old.

Alas, at the end of the day, I suspect I'm more of a "hand," either confined to the house or the field. Repressed, yes, but no matter. I just do what I'm supposed to do: Keep things running with no muss or fuss, nary a whine nor a whimper.

All the while looking for my chance to escape.
 

This bird has flown

"Robin Williams Aviano" by U.S. Air Force photo/
Airman 1st Class Tabitha M. Mans.
Licensed under Public Domain
via Wikimedia Commons.

Normally, I couldn't care less about "celebrity" deaths. However, I'm heartened to see so many post so many wonderful items about Robin Williams, on Facebook, Twitter, in blogs, and on traditional media.

The first time I saw Robin Williams was on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson way back when. I thought he was hilarious, clever, and intelligent. "Brilliantly funny" to use a movie poster cliche.

Oh, and manic. He was definitely always "on." I didn't always appreciate his manic energy--sometimes I just wanted him to sit down and talk to the the show's host, instead of riffing. But then it wouldn't have been Robin Williams.

I wish I could find a clip of one of the jokes I remember him telling on Carson. He was riffing and made a joke about San Francisco, where he lived. (When I lived there briefly in the summer/winter of 1992, I remember someone telling me about seeing him regularly, filling up his own car at the gas station at the corner of Market and Castro.) It went something like this, "You end up in a biker bar where there are these tough, rough, hairy men, all clad in leather, and then one of them walks up to you in a menacing way and says, 'I have this fabulous recipe for quiche!'"

I'm not doing it justice. I think this took place around 1980-83, about the time of my coming out of ye olde closet or soon thereafter. I remember laughing out loud, partially in shock that he had made such an obviously "gay" joke on national TV, partially because I knew he spoke the truth!

I never felt offended by the joke because it wasn't told with malice but, instead, with a knowing irony, joie de vivre, and affection. I think Robin Williams was one of the few comedians of that time (and even today) who could tell a joke about gay people and not have it be mean, unfair, cruel, or insulting. I actually found the joke a relief. I remember feeling, wow, we do exist in the world, people know of us and not everyone thinks we're horrible people. They can celebrate our quirks and campness, rather than focus on what they see as our deficiencies or "perversions."

Compare that with Eddie Murphy's jokes about Michael Jackson and Mister T from around that time, where gay men were always the butt-end punch line (pun sort of intended) of a very smutty joke.

But then Eddie's reportedly always had more to deflect than Robin Williams did.

I also thought Robin Williams was incredibly attractive. Not in a classic, "pretty" way, but in a rugged, masculine way. He must be one of the few Hollywood types that stayed hairy, that didn't feel the need to shave and wax everything in slash-and-burn fashion. I liked his sometimes stocky build, his burly arms, his biggish nose. He looked like a real guy, one who seemed comfortable in his own skin, who could be who he was with no apologies but without rampant braggadaccio either.

So what's the point of all of this? Oh, perhaps I'm riffing as well.

Let's just say that it makes me sad to think of Robin Williams being so depressed when he had made so many of us laugh so much over the years. He certainly brought humor and kindness to my little world, in ways that I bet he couldn't imagine.

I can't imagine the pain he was going through, if he felt the impulse to take  his own life. Having experienced depression myself over the years, even recently, I know what that can be like. Everything on paper looks good; your life seems to be in order and makes sense to everyone--except you. Whether it's your own insecurities and sensitivity, whether it's the casual slings and arrows from those around you, whether it's the confusing, conflicting nature of a world where Robin Williams can exist along side of epidemics, aerial bombings, beheadings, stonings, rape, murder, and people who find their previously unknown relatives after 30 years have passed, it all can be too much sometimes. It makes you question yourself and your illusions; it makes you wonder about the viability of the world around you. It makes you wonder whether it's worth carrying on, even if saying goodbye suddenly would bring so much pain and sadness to those who love you.

It makes you wonder if someone as talented and beloved as Robin Williams can't make it, what hope is there for the rest of us?

Now I feel the need to watch The Birdcage, another good example of his being camp and funny but always with affection. I also want to see a bunch of other movies I missed out on over the years and then watch every episode of The Crazy Ones, his recent TV show for CBS, in which he was, once again, brilliantly funny.

Too bad there aren't many repertory cinemas around these days, where his films could be shown on the fly, in rapid succession, in public. Where the laughter, sadness, and wistfulness could be shared with others, rather than experienced and endured alone.

Last night I dreamt that Don Draper loved me

"Don Draper Wiki" by Promotional Photo. Source: Wikipedia

They're baaaaaack. My odd, more than likely Wellbutrin-induced dreams, that is.

Last night I dreamed that Don Draper left me cooling my heels in an office building lobby while he went up to his office with "an old flame." Some tacky blonde shiksa who worked a perfume counter or ran a flower shop. I can't remember which.

I sat in the lobby for about 10 minutes. It became a lunchroom for office workers, then a "Borscht Belt" neighborhood block party. I figured it was pretty obvious that Don wasn't coming back for me anytime soon. He didn't owe me anything, we weren't a couple. We were "just friends," but there had been some low-grade tension between us, and I had secretly hoped it had been of a sexual nature.

I started to walk home, trying to thread my way through the boisterous neighbors. I ended up walking along the river where I ran into an old friend. We chatted for a few minutes and then he invited me to have a drink with him at a bar downtown. I agreed.

We caught up on each others' news, had a couple of drinks, and I bitched about "this guy in my life" who wouldn't treat me right. I vowed never again would I take his B.S.

The "old friend" invited me back to his place, but I declined. I needed to be alone.

I arrived home and my brother was there, asking me about my evening. I started to explain what had happened, when ol' Don himself rings the doorbell and asks to see me. My brother lets him in and departs. Don says hello. He seems more brooding than normal, then starts asking me questions: Where had I been? Where had I disappeared to? Why? 

When I told him I'd decided not to wait around, had ran into an old friend, yadda yadda yadda, he had the nerve to ask me, "Did you sleep with him?"

I told him that was hardly relevant or any of his concern, given his recent actions and the platonic nature of our relationship.

He then grabbed me, kissed me passionately, and professed his love for me. We then started talking about us and our future together.

And then I woke up. Of course.

Oh, don't worry, I know it won't last. The point is that Don Draper told me he loved me! And I didn't have to sleep with him to make that happen!

The moral of the story? When you're dealing with the Don Drapers of the world, treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen. He fell like a debutante's dress on prom night.

But come to think of it, so did I.

The secondary moral is this: Don't watch a documentary about the Borscht Belt or an interview with Elizabeth Moss right before bedtime when you've got a belly full of fish tacos and lemonade.

You're welcome, world.

Imperfect harmony

Cruel Summer Mix - Jihad Romeo Edition by Montagsonfire on Mixcloud

Cruel, Cruel Summer Mix - Peace Throughout the Land Edition by Montagsonfire on Mixcloud

My latest mixtape (with some DJ mix undertones)--this is quite obviously based on my previous mixtape, My Simple Metallic Heart, but, as the saying goes, nuevo y mejorado.

I've added quite a number of songs, mixed up and down and together, and added in a few sound effects along the way. There's one I may go back to add, but not right now. I've listened, tweaked, toyed, and battled enough already with this mix.

Sometimes I can hear two songs together and everything works out fine. Other times, I hear them together, but they are a complete mismatch in terms of tone, rhythm, and especially beats per minute. You just can't slap together a song that clocks in at 108 BPM with another that winds it up to 160. But you can cut, copy, paste, add sound effects, or leave out transitions altogether to tonally shift gears along the way.

Ultimately, though, I had fun making this mixtape, and I hope you enjoy it, too. It's not perfect, lacking in some ways--a couple of the songs go on way longer than they probably should, for example.

Lyrically, musically, and thematically not everything lines up in order. I didn't even try to, in fact. I want this mixtape to sound fun, to be upbeat. And yet, I want there to be a slight edge, a subtext: Dance away, all, but remember that there are people in the world who cannot because they are busy languishing in refugee camps or avoiding getting bombed or shot in their sleep.

Admittedly, the subtext is hardly "sub." What gave me away? The air raid siren? The gunfire from an AK-47? But at times like this, subtlety can only get you so far.

For once, I won't play it safe--my heart goes out to the people of Gaza. No, I don't think Hamas is "misunderstood" or a force to be reasoned with; they want Israel off the map in the worst way possible. But the Israeli Defence Force's outsized attack on Gaza civilians and Hamas' continued disregard for ceasefires that put its people in the line of deadly fire . . . how can you stand by and not be upset and worried? For the people of Palestine, for the people of Israel, for the world itself.

And I hate that I have to defend my concern for the people of Gaza by declaiming Hamas. It's important to be clear--We should not (and I do not) support or condone terrorism. But we shouldn't support it whether it's being conducted by our allies or our enemies, bands of revolutionaries or government military forces.

Simply stated, if you have the technology, as TV reports show, to pinpoint the bombing of tunnels and specific houses and buildings, then you can avoid the scattershot approach of targeting schools, homes, and hospitals and killing random human beings. Doing the latter, in an official capacity accompanied by uniforms, training, funding, legislation, and spokespersons, is state-sponsored terrorism, pure and simple.

I should be thinking about pools, vacations, time with the significant other, barbecues, gardening, and ways to get out of work early whenever possible. Instead, I come home every night and see our inhumanity writ large in the sky with missiles above Gaza City.

But what can we do? More than a mixtape I would like to think, but it feels like this is the only power I have at the moment. A way to make a statement, one made with feelings instead of words.

A mixtape, like peace, is imperfect and difficult to create and achieve. We do our best and hopefully we get it right more often that we get it wrong.

Peace be upon us all during this cruel, cruel summer.

Pierogibomination

I'd like to claim this is a joke, but no, it cannot be because our little corner of the world has never met something tacky it didn't embrace with both Buffalo chicken wing-greased hands--especially when it comes to worshiping our "Stillers."

If this news item isn't proof that all beauty has died, Western Pennsylvania Division, I know not what additional evidence you require.

One colleague at work deluded himself for a moment tby wondering whether the black pierogies were made from squid ink pasta. Oh, ha. I'd laugh if I weren't crying. Then the gold ones must be made from sunflower petals.

More likely Mrs. T's colored the pasta with runoff from coal mines or leftover asphalt from construction season.

Hard to fathom how one innocuous news report, one goofy product placement, one more White Trash Bed 'n' Breakfast offering could (further) crush my soul, but, alas, it has.

I am really hoping to be delivered from this evil to some place better in the near future.

And by better I don't mean heaven. And if it is indeed heaven, the streets better not be paved with black and gold anything. 'Cause then I'll know I've entered Steeler Heaven and my own personal Hell.

Your minimum daily requirement of a hard slap to the face

From the @IDFSpokesperson Twitter feed.

So, you see, in reality, the bombs dropped on Gaza by the Israel Defense Force are just delicate kisses, mere angels' tears, on the foreheads of Palestinian children . . . .

Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu has quickly replaced Dick Cheney and John McCain as my preferred "STFU [fill in the blank with the unfeeling, aggressive, rigid, dissembling, hard-to-believe-they're-human political figure of your choosing]!!!" scream at my TV whenever I watch the news.

And I can assure you that is no small accomplishment.

Congratulations, Benny. You've just given birth to a million new jihadis. And a billion others like me, ineffectual bystanders, people who would never take up arms against anyone yet who feel for the people of Gaza, the West Bank, and Palestinians everywhere, but who can only blog about it, tweet about it, post articles about it on Facebook, and yell at their TVs.

Touch me

Cathy Dennis-Touch Me(All Night Long) by val6210

Not quite sure why, but I've been having some serious flashbacks to circa 1990 (1989? 1991?) in the form of this video by Cathy Dennis for "(Touch Me) All Night Long."

Perhaps it's because it's around the time I moved out of Washington, D.C., and started the "great adventure" that has become my adult life: A return to North Carolina, a relationship, graduate school, a new career, a move to Texas, alleged success in that career, and a move to Pennsylvania for a new job and then another job in Pittsburgh. And then another.

Suddenly 23 years have passed by. Then I was not only moving geographically but also chronologically, psychologically, from my late 20s into adulthood. Now I find myself . . . where exactly? Smack in the middle of middle age . . . or at the end of it? Oddly, I feel that a simple song and video from 1991 represents that transition, from youth to adulthood, from a certain innocence and carefree attitude to . . . this: A career that feels like it has stalled in a city that I don't get or enjoy, five+ hours away from the man I love, working like a water buffalo in a field I find somewhat uninspiring, not having a lot of fun at the moment, not sure how to have more, surrounded by a couple of people I like and respect, but many more than I don't.

I'm not sure how to get out of this space. Therapy helps, as has a prescription to Wellbutrin. And a terrific boyfriend, a supportive family, and one or two sympathetic friends and colleagues.

But I'm still here and don't know how to get out.

Mind you, I don't want to get out "permanently." I just want to move on the next phase of my life, but I want to do so in a way that offers more satisfaction and happiness, that shows progress. No frying pan to the fire for me, please. I've done that too often in life.

The thing is, to move ahead, I have to move into the unknown. I have to take some chances. That seemed fine to do in my 20s and my 30s, even into my 40s. But now, in my early 50s, there are only so many chances left to take. Or so it feels. Any bad chance taken could result in serious problems, grievous harm, both financially and personally. And there's only so much time left to fix mistakes like that. Or so it feels.

I feel all my indecision and dithering is causing life to pass me by. And funny thing is, I felt that the first time I saw Cathy Dennis's video for "(Touch Me) All Night Long." I was all of 29 then, in a bar I almost never went to on P Street in Dupont Circle, having a beer, trying to meet guys, and waiting for something to happen in my life. I was then dithering over leaving D.C. and trying to figure out the next direction to move into. When I saw that video, I realized at that moment that club music and youth culture had changed, but I had been too busy with work and life to notice. I once again was not having any fun.

So what's the lesson here? More drinking? More bars? More fun? (Definitely to the latter.) And perhaps taking some chances, walking into the fog, being uncomfortable for a while, but having the hope and perseverance that I'll come out on the other side, fairly unscathed and maybe even better for it.

Not unlike when I left Washington. I didn't know exactly where I was going. Actually, come to think of, I was heading toward San Francisco. I had been thinking about graduate school, but I wasn't sure whether it would be in history or librarianship. I didn't have a source of income, just a little money put aside and an offer to come home for a while and figure things out.

In the end, everything worked out fine, or at least the way it should. Nevertheless, I'm just not sure I have that kind of confidence, ignorance, or blind faith to go anywhere at the moment.

And yet I feel my happiness and satisfaction in life depends on my doing so.

Bonne fête nationale, mes amis!

Monsieur Gainsbourg chante sa version de "La Marseillaise," l'hymne national de la France.

Sort of.

Because I can, that's why

I can't tell you how long I've been looking for a video of this song, one of my favorites by Samantha Fox. A posting on the Facebook page of Annie for "I Wanna Have Some Fun," led to me sharing this static YouTube video of the album version of "Hurt Me! Hurt Me! (But the Pants Stay On)," a minor hit for "the Fox" in the early 1990s. I remarked that I'd never been able to find an official video for this song, having only searched YouTube, et voilà! A fellow Annie fan shared this video with me.

It pays to get out of YouTube every now and again. Otherwise I would have never found this video by Annie herself.


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

Which probably remains one of my favorite pure pop tunes of the last decade.

You can snicker all you want, but I think Samantha Fox is a rather underrated pop performer from the 1980s and early 1990s. I mean, she sings a heckuva lot better than Paula Abdul ever did, had generally better production (at least in this case) than Kylie Minogue did at the time, had more sex appeal than early Whitney Houston, may she rest in peace, and certainly more presence than Britney Spears. Ever.

So what's the deal?

Hmmm, well, in a lot of her songs, she coos and baby-girl orgasms a little too much--but so does Britney in practically every record, and Samantha Fox simply does it better, with more feeling and lusty gusto.

It probably didn't help that she was everywhere, at least in the UK, at the time, and was better known for her busty portraits as a "page 3" glamour model in the British tabloids. Or that, according to Wikipedia (my source for all wisdom), she made some dodgy career decisions (shilling for a Leicestershire-based car company at the height of her popularity) or performed badly in some settings (such as the 1989 Brit Awards). Or that she has had a confusing, often contradictory personal life--from pin-up girl to born-again Christian to more-or-less out lesbian.

I think it's fair to say she was not seen as credible by many and grasping by others. But she did make some wonderful, pure-pleasure, pop records for a while, highly entertaining (at least to me), and later in life has seemed to try to give by through charitable works.

Samantha, I just hope you're happy and well. All these years later, you still make me wanna have some fun.

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

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

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

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


* * *

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

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

"Little-Known Facts about the Founding Fathers"

* * *

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



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

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

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

England 2 Colombia 0

CBC Music (which I follow on the Tweety) recently featured a best-and-worst-World-Cup-songs-ever roundup. I was entertained and pleased to see Ricky Martin finally get some credit for something musical--in this case, "Copa de la Vida," his World Cup hit from 1998. I'm going with the Spanish-language version, because (1) "cup of life" sounds goofy in English and (2) "Copa de la vida" was the first version I heard. Oye, it's a San Antonio thing.

No, for reals about Ricky Martin. I mean, "She Bangs" and "Livin' la vida loca" were ridiculous, but gah, I even miss '90s music these days, when there was a chance you might hear a song on the radio (at least in San Antonio) that didn't sound like it came out of a sterilized facility in an industrial park somewhere deep in the San Fernando Valley.

*Heavy sigh.*

But I digress . . .

While I was pleased to see some musical love for a post-out Ricky, I was nonetheless slightly perturbed that CBC Music didn't include my all-time favorite World Cup song in its best-of list. And that would "England 2 Colombia 0" by the late, fantastic Kirsty MacColl.

OK, so it's not a true, official World Cup song. Regardless, it is far more entertaining, celebratory (of life, of survival), and poignant than anything J-Lo and Pitbull could manage in a thousand years of trying--which, plainly stated, still wouldn't be up to the output created by a hundred monkeys locked in a room with a drum machine and Autotune.

Sorry, just a little bitter this morning. Kirsty was taken from her family and from us much too soon. Her own output was sporadic due to record company problems throughout her career, but I had followed her from sometime in the '80s when I used to hear her songs on the radio in Washington. I also probably had some glancing knowledge that she was the creator of the pop classic, "They Don't Know," made famous in the U.S. by Tracey Ullman, during the second British Invasion, late '70s-early '80s edition. And who could forget a song title like, "There's a Guy Works Down the Chip Shop Swears He's Elvis"? Well, I probably did forget about it until recently. But it's a rockabilly charmer worth recalling now.

So I am sad that Kirsty is no longer gracing us with her wonderful, whimsical, poignant songs, but I am also happy that if she had to go so soon, she went out on a very high note with the Latin-inflected Tropical Brainstorm album.



Here's another one from the LP, "In These Shoes?," which may or may not be the first song I heard from this album and one that still makes me laugh and groove. I am pretty sure I bought this record when I was still living in San Antonio, although I don't remember how or when I heard about it. Nevertheless, I pull it out every now and again and give it a spin and regularly use tracks from it on mixtapes I make for friends.

And now, through the miracle of the Internet, I'm doing the same for you.

RCMP (Royal Canadian Mounting, Please)

Some random TV offerings from Rogers Cable, suburban Toronto, June 2014. Please cast your eye beyond Juicy Black . . . and instead gaze upon the porn title, Canadian Quickies.

Now I will spend the rest of the weekend thinking up ridiculous titles for "Canadian quickies."

To-rut-oh! with Love (?)

Canada Goosing (?)

Have You Been Ridden by a Ford Lately? (?) (In homage to Hogtown's illustrious mayor)

Frottage Country (?) (Based on the expression "Cottage Country," used by Torontonians to refer to the Owen Sound-Barrie-Muskoka area north of the city near Lake Huron)

Other versions of "Cottage Country," which I'm too much of a gentleman to repeat . . .

And all those variations on a theme of beaver.

It's only going to go downhill from here. You've been forewarned.

* * *

All in all, though, it's not proving as promising as the recent discussion with my friends, Two P's in a Pod, in which we tried to develop 19th-century porn titles based on works of American and British literature.

While we have many nominees--

The Scarlet Leatherman

Uncle Tom of Finland's Cabin

Daisy-Chain Miller

Some Tail in Two Cities

The best one--The Importance of Being Harnessed--wasn't even mine.

I've clearly lost my way. In more ways than one.

Wacked out

Obscure reference alert: Peugeot still makes cars!

No, no, no. Only joking. The obscure reference is to Wacky Races, a Hanna-Barbera cartoon from *my* childhood being used to sell cars in Europe *today.*

Wow.

Don't get wrong; I find this commercial rather fun and charming. It just seems . . . odd.

But no matter. As my friend the Cartoonist (who originally shared this video on Facebook) put it, "At least they're finally marketing to our generation."

True that. Thank goodness.

Nevertheless, the commercial perturbs me because it brings up an age-old conundrum.

And that is this: Do I want to be with Dick Dastardly? Or do I just want to be Penelope Pitstop?

Muttley deserves better, by the way.

La mordita

Gol!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Luis Suárez, McGruff the Crime Dog Wannabe (Source:
Jimmy Baikovicius, CC BY-SA 2.0)

Sometimes when life gets too hard, all we really want is a shoulder to bite on.

My name is Victoria Winters

Alexandra Moltke as Victoria Winters, Dark Shadows, circa 1967

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: Victoria Winters (Alexandra Moltke Isles) should have been awarded a Daytime Emmy* for Most Fabulous '60s Look.

Followed perhaps by Carolyn Stoddard (Nancy Barrett).

I'm in full-on Dark Shadows mode these days. It happens every now and again throughout my life. First in the 1960s, when I used to watch the show with my sibs after-school. Then in the late '80s/early '90s, when I caught it again on videocassette (the VCR! remember when that and the fax machine seemed like the beginning of the Modern Era? No? Trust me on this . . .) with some Washington friends, one of whom --let's call him My Companion in Kylieness--I'm still good friends with, 25 years later.

And like David's mother Laura, Dark Shadows keeps rising like a phoenix from the ashes of my youth: I've watched episodes on DVD with my Mom and sister on trips to the Plains and New Mexico. And now in the 2010s, I indulge again, first on Netflix, from where it disappeared a couple of months ago, and now on HuluPlus, where it reappeared recently.

It was an incredible show. Some would scoff at that claim--it was a soap! The production was amateurish! The acting inconsistent! Every other piece of dialog was a question, repeating the previous statement but with an uplilt at the end!

Any reprise has been fallen flat--the very good remake in the '90s with Ben Cross and Joanna Going, and the horrid movie version a couple of years ago, unwisely updated by Tim Burton as yet another "daring" star-turn for Johnny Depp.

All true.

So what's the big deal? For me, surely, it stems from good childhood memories--even if it was a neo-Gothic horror serial, it reminds me of great times with my sister and two brothers, having a regular date to watch the show after school (and hiding behind our old blue-green couch when things got too frightening), a childish refuge from the struggles of life, both macro and micro, playing out around us.

But it's more than that: Dark Shadows had an incredible sense of place. Every scene, every moment, took place in this dreary New England seaport along the rocky shores of faraway Maine. The claustrophobic village of Collinsport, the cold and gloomy Collins Mansion and the Old House, where the sun never seemed to shine and more often than not, a terrible gale, the angry sea, and diabolical lightning crashed! boomed! and banged! around the characters, who live out a meager existence, forsaken by the gods, with the supernatural and melancholy as both their bane and their relief.

Funnily, in some superficial ways, Collinsport reminds me of my hometown in North Carolina, also a seaport built in the 1700s. Small, hemmed in, exiled, the comforts found there limited to a warm, kind family (of course), the sound of the bells clanging softly from docked fishing boats, seagull cries, fried seafood, and better weather.

Oh, and no vampires.

In Collinsport you had time travel, tears in the orderly narrative of the universe, transporting characters backwards and forwards, even in parallel eras. In Swansboro, you had time travel, too. All you had to do was walk down Front Street and see the widow's walk above the dentist office, the Porthole, the old house built in 1776 near the post office, and the Octagon Plantation on the edge of town. Fort Macon and Tryon Palace nearby, and New Bern and Beaufort, too, old seaports themselves. The Colonial Era, the Revolution, the War of 1812, the Civil War, and with Camp LeJeune and Cherry Point nearby, even World War II, Korea, and Vietnam, all coexisting. Not always peacefully, but along side each other. Backward, forward, parallel.

Collinsport is a bubble. Swansboro is a bubble. Black-and-white vignettes in an old photo album, reminding me of where I come from, what I'm made of.



This has not been a Dan Curtis production, but it's been a good life in many ways.

* * *

*Yes, of course I know the Daytime Emmys didn't begin until 1974, but a guy can dream.

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.