Today´s rock en español treat--Mexican music group Café Tacuba (or "Tacvba," if you insist) performing their 1990s hit, "El baile y el salón"--"The Dance and the Salon."
I don´t know if this would be considered a typical Café Tacuba song in that, from what I recall, none of their songs are "typical," i.e., their sound is highly varied. I remember some punk/metal-sounding numbers, some ballads, some "cod reggae" (or am I mistakenly channeling Juanes?), some pop, and then something like this, a jazzy, breezy little pop tune that sounds joyous and practically effortless.
I was fortunate enough to see Café Tacuba in concert in San Antonio in the late ´90s--in a nightclub of all places in the far northwestern suburbs. You could do that in San Antonio because Latin pop and rock, while listened to, were secondary, maybe even tertiary, in popularity to Tejano music, Norteño music, and other variations on what might best be described as Mexican and Mexican-American folk and country. Heck, I suspect even salsa, cumbia, and other Caribbean and Latin music styles were more popular in San Antonio than Latin pop and rock en español.
And while at the time I considered that something of a sad testimony to San Antonio´s lack of verve and cultural focus, in retrospect, I think I was just mistaken and misinterpreting the reality in which I lived. Despite being a self-touted "gateway to Mexico"--despite one, in fact, being part of Mexico--I always thought the city looked inward, not outward. But it was and is a majority Mexican-American city, a full 150 miles (250 kilometers maybe?) from the Mexican border and 300 miles or so from the nearest major Mexican metropolis, Monterrey. Thus there was no reason San Antonio should carry out my fantasy of living in Latin America. It was always fine as is, as a Latino city. It´s just that I wasn´t as interested in that aspect of the culture. While I did my best to appreciate it, the culture didn´t belong to me.
In life, I´ve struggled with the idea of appreciating a place for what it is rather than what I want it to be, which may explain why I´ve tended to move around a lot and moved to another country at the ripe old age of 54--and still have the urge to move again one or two more times before all is said and done. Maybe I don´t know what I want, or maybe I--altogether now--"still haven´t found what I´m looking for."
I suspect it´s the latter, but it begs the question, "Does what I imagine, does what I want, actually exist?" Maybe, maybe not. Maybe what most of us get in life is a momentary taste of what might be--a nibble, a morsel, enough to make you crave more, rather than a wealth, a cornucopia of flavor, and full satiety.
Yet I still want to be satisfied. Maybe that will come through more travel and a sooner-rather-than-later retirement, being able to do what I want when I want, rather than being tied to a schedule and responsibilities. Money is an issue. As is time. Always time.
In the meantime, though, these little memory trips down Latin America way help get me through a cold Canadian reality, allowing me to live in my warm South-of-the-border fantasy, despite what the weather and the culture want me to conform to. And maybe that´s good enough for now and even forever, in case the fantasy never becomes reality.
But I still hold out that, in time, the fantasy will become my day-to-day life. Otherwise, what´s the point of striving? And I´m always ready for more striving, as long as some success comes with the effort.
Your daily dose of Rock en español: the video for La Ley performing ¨Día Cero,¨ their huge hit (at least in Latin America) from 1997 or so.
Twenty years later, this remains a favorite of mine. I don't remember when or where I first heard it--perhaps San Antonio's former Latin American top hits station, La Romántica, or maybe one of the Saturdays I used to stay at home to watch "Telehit," Mexico's real answer to MTV, which was rebroadcast on Galavision. I don't even fully understand the lyrics to the song, mainly because I haven't taken the time to. But the mood the song creates, the sound both of the music and the singer's voice, that's what has always captivated me.
But maybe now, twenty years later, it's time to understand the lyrics. There are a few that I get easily through listening: "En ese un camino largo" (on this long road) and the title itself (Day Zero). But others, not so much, and even when I read the lyrics, I'm not sure I fully understand. The limits of my Spanish, alas.
Which has got me thinking: It's time, past time, to work on my Spanish again, to visit Mexico again, and to visit places I've longed to but haven't found the time to or didn't have the money to before--Buenos Aires would be at the time of my list. Cuernavaca. Antigua, Guatemala. Bogotá. Cuzco. Havana.
Now I have the money but often not the time. Nonetheless, this is goal worth working toward in 2018.
¡Buena suerte para mi! May today be Day One of my quest to explore and learn from nuestro mundo.
If you've given more (or less) than a cursory glance at this blog, it's of course no secret that I have a thing for soap operas. And this "thing" extends to soaps from many countries and in many languages--at least in languages that I understand or that are subtitled to aid in my understanding.
I chalk up the life-long interest in soaps to my upbringing when the daytime soaps were a big part of our family's life. My grandmother was a CBS soaps fan (As the World Turns, Guiding Light), my Mom, an NBC one (Another World). Growing up, I watched Another World and Dark Shadows(ABC) with my sister and brothers. I distinctly remember Rachel #1 (Robin Strasser) purposefully spilling the beans to Alice Matthews that she was pregnant with Steve Frame's child (Steve was Alice's fiancé--trust me, this was explosive stuff in the late 1960s). I also clearly remember Barnabas enclosing the Reverend Trask behind a brick wall, a la The Cask of Amontillado, leaving him to die. (Trust me again, Trask deserved it.)
Later, along with some combination of friends, family, and coworkers, I watched All My Children, Texas, Days of Our Lives, Santa Barbara, One Life to Live, Guiding Light, and now, occasionally, The Bold and the Beautiful. I never got hooked on The Young and the Restless, As the World Turns, or General Hospital, even as a social habit. You can imagine that with the demise of nearly all soaps on American TV since 1999, it's been a lonely, frustrating time for a dedicated soap aficionado.
Orange is the new Itatí Cantoral
Thus over time I've turned to soaps from outre-mer, such as Britain(EastEnders, Coronation Street, and the execrable Hollyoaks, which if I were a particularly stupid trashy teen from the UK, I might find it appealing, but since I'm not, oh well . . .), Australia(Neighbours, Home and Away),South Africa(Egoli: Place of Gold, 7de Laan, Muvhango, Isidingo, Generations), and especially Mexico and Latin America.
See what I mean about a "thing"?
* * *
I'm not sure what triggered the memories but over the last couple of days, I've had flashbacks to scenes from a number of Mexican telenovelas that I've watched over the years--or, rather, over the decades, as I got turned onto novelas during my first trip to Mexico in 1989. That was an eye-opening, mind-expanding, and life-affirming vacation, exposing me to various aspects of Mexican art, language, music, society, business, transportation, religion, and government. And I was only there for 10 days!
Fernando Colunga, '90s novela star. And to think I dated a guy who looked similar to this and broke it off because I thought he was boring ...
My Spanish--learned in high school and college--was fairly rudimentary then. It got better after I moved to Texas in 1995. And while I've never been fluent, I managed to get more competent when I had a Mexican boyfriend who had limited English. Much of the responsibility for communication fell on me, and I gladly accepted the duty.
I've had less opportunity to speak Spanish since moving back east in 2004 and even less than less opportunity since moving to Canada in 2015. But I try to keep up as best I can. The trip I made to San Antonio about a year ago really sparked a renewal in interest. Even at my ripe middle age, I still yearn to be more fluent in Spanish and still regret that I didn't pursue my original plan of an undergraduate degree in Spanish back in the day. A missed opportunity, but honestly, I couldn't see any future in it at the time. I wasn't planning to teach, I wasn't good enough to translate or interpret, and I didn't see myself going on to a PhD in anything. Never mind that I've used Spanish in most of my jobs. Never mind that I still like to speak it when I can. Never mind that I always have felt more comfortable--and more alive!--in Mexico than I have in the colder, blander climes of the U.S., Europe, and, alas, Canada.
I still love English--its fun, flexibility, and global influence. But ay, dios mío, why didn't I move to Mexico all those years ago? Why haven't I traveled more in Latin America--to Buenos Aires or Cuzco or San Juan--especially now that I have the money to do so? Why haven't I taken a Spanish course in Costa Rica or Colombia, similar to what I did when I took a French course several years ago in Montreal? Might I be able to at some point in the future, when retirement finally releases me from the day-to-day and hum-drum of this working life--live, travel, study? Espero que sí.
In the meantime, I'll have to content myself with memories of '80s and '90s telenovelas de amor.
* * *
First, a true confession: Even though Betty la Fea (Ugly Betty)
was a huge hit when I lived in Texas, I never watched it. Probably a
mistake because I missed out on a cultural moment. But, truth be
told, I've never been a fan of the Cinderella nature of some of the
novelas--which makes it challenging to watch them because so many have
the same plot: A poor, innocent, humble but ultimately gorgeous girl
from the barrio meets an incredibly handsome, if somewhat spoiled
and arrogant, aristocrat. He is engaged to a she-wolf, a demon, a viper
. . . an Itatí Cantoral, for example. Eventually he pays
attention to the poor wallflower who, overnight, blooms, and he comes to
his (deeply romantic) senses. He breaks it off with the banshee, but
she won't let him go that easily. That or some handsome ne'er-do-well
pursues the princess-in-waiting until he's about to discover the flower
of her secret. Struggle, drama, vengeance, some more drama and struggle
ensue, et voilà, the protagonists find their way to each other, marry, and (one assumes) live happily ever after.
There's only so much syrup I can drink, only so much cheese I can snack on.
Besides it's not my story, it's not my desire: I just can't work up a
lot of energy about these "hetero-normative" fantasies. (I don't
seriously call them that; instead, I just call them boring, predictable
storylines.) I much prefer the humor and plot intricacies, the drama,
and the survival-against-all-odds storylines.
Sí, Eduardo es más macho que Jack Lord
Another true confession: While I saw episodes of Teresa,Salma Hayek's
breakthrough role, when I lived in Texas, it was only after she became
famous. So I have no idea if I would have spotted a star being born. I
do know, however, that I could never get into the Teresa storyline, even in reruns. And what was with all the wind? Another cultural moment missed.
And still one more true confession: I skimmed Dos Mujeres, Un Camino, starring Erik "Poncharelli" Estrada, because my Spanish wasn't good enough then. But, hey, neither was Erik Estrada's . . . .
* * *
Instead, I remember bits and pieces of some novelas--Dulce Desafío, perhaps the first one I saw, starring Adela Noriega and Señor ¿Quién es más macho?¡Sí, Eduardo Yáñez! I always translate the title as "Sweet Rivalry," but I've also seen it translated as "Sweet Competition" (I like my version better). As far as I could determine, the story was centered around young female runners at a boarding school. I was never sure if Eduardo was the boyfriend or the teacher or the coach or all three--likely a character that would be frowned upon in our #metoo #timesup era.
Two other early novelas I remember . . . confusedly: Simplemente María and Mi Segunda Madre. There's probably no good reason for me to confuse them, other than I discovered them at about the same time, with Mi Madre airing in 1989 and María in 1990. Or vice versa. I forget which.
Mi Segunda Madre is a standout for its rather creepy, slightly surrealist intro (see below) and also for it's heavy use of music by Art of Noise, including, naturally, "Moments in Love." That really caught my attention as that was an album I really enjoyed then and still listen to from time to time. I'm not sure I remember the plot to Mi Madre or even ever understood it, but it had enough mystique about it to lodge into my brain, however piecemeal.
Simplemente María is memorable perhaps for all the wrong reasons--the cheesy intro (see above) with a too adult Victoria Ruffo trying to pass herself off as a simple india from the countryside. And those ridiculous children rubbing their eyes to convey crying, then waving maniacally as María heads off to el DF to find fortune, fame, and love, all apparently in her own fashion design business.
(Don't laugh! It could happen!)
There are others that I watched every now and again when I lived in Texas: María la del Barrio for one, which actually never really interested me in a major way.I think Thalía is a wonderful singer, a great little spitfire of an entertainer. But I don't know that I enjoyed her acting--and, besides, I never understood that whole Jughead del Riverdale barrio costuming they forced her into. ¡Híjole!
There was also Marimar (also starring Thalía) and María Isabel (also starring Adela Noriega). And let´s not forget Cañaveral de Pasiones (which I think translates as Plantation of Passions? But what do I know?). And many, many more--but above all else, there was Tú y Yo.
* * *
Fernando Carrillo spent too much time with the barbells and not enough time with the books
Los galanes--the hunks--of which there were many, although too many now seem interchangeably gorgeous, as if some hunk breeding experiment in the jungles of Colombia has gone wonderfully, horribly wrong.
I mentioned above Fernando C (sleep with), and Eduardo Y (sleep with and marry), two of my favorites. But there were many, many others, mostly of the "sleep with" variety and maybe even one or two "kills." There was Eduardo Capetillo as well--he of the lush chest hair forest (sleep with) and the impossibly cute button nose (kill). There was Francisco Gattorno, who was just so fine, so sleep with and marry.
And there were others who were just . . . annoying. Fernando Carrillo, for example (see photo). I know I'm supposed to be turned on by this, and I'm sure he's a lovely person, but he just looks . . . manufactured. I mean, if you turned him over, I'm positive you'd see an "Hecho en México por Televisa" sticker on what I can only assume is a delectable, well-chiseled ass.
Sigh. I like a slab o' meat as much as any gay man, but not just any slab o' meat. It's got to have some character--and look like it could sign its own name to a check or two. And, sorry, Carrillo, you just look a little dumb.
There was also Juan Soler(Argentine; sleep with, maybe cohabit with not marry) and Sebastian Ligarde(American and an out gay man at that; sleep with but his acting is always very OTT, so kill as well). And others that I no longer recall, despite once having owned a copy of People en Español´s "Top 50 Galanes" (or some such).
So the eye candy on novelas is of very high quality--obviously the makers of these shows know their audience consists of millions of straight women and gay men. But when it comes down to it, I don't actually watch the shows for their hunkitude (although I wouldn't necessarily turn the channel either). Instead, I watch them for the story, the drama, the acting, the sets, the cultural/educational moments, the Spanish vocabulary lessons, and for the lovely ladies who lead us through 180 degrees of emotions--from joy to rage to that gutted feeling you get in your stomach when it all goes pear-shaped and you don't feel you have a friend in the world who can help you out of the mess you're in. You know, love and its after-effects.
Antes de convertirse en actor, Eduardo Capetillo vivió en un parque zoológico
* * *
As mentioned above, my favorite novela back then and even today is Tú y Yo. From the looks of the intro and even many of the early episodes, the show resembles that old song, "The Cowboy and the Lady," brought to cinematic life. You just know that Tomás (Joan Sebastian) and Estela (Maribel Guardia) are going to be put through the mill of love but that, somewhere down stream, they'll find their way back to each other.
Except . . . well, why spoil the story? Let's just say that who you thought would end up with whom didn't go according to plan, and while apparently that was quite by accident, they made magic out of it, turning Tú y Yo into a sort of anti-novela telenovela.
I will have to do some digging in Spanish-language newspapers to give you the full story because I might not recall it correctly 20 years later, and it´s delicious enough that you´ll want to savor every second, in and out of love. And when I discover it again, I'll write a fuller reflection on Tú y Yo. But not today and probably not tomorrow. But soon. Stay tuned.
Oye, after all this, you weren't expecting a season-ending cliffhanger? Chavos y chavas, you need to catch up on your stories.
While you do so, perhaps you'll enjoy the show's intro from 1997.
And all these years later, I still love that song and still adore that show. Es algo personal. It takes me back to my life in Texas, my semi-regular visits to Mexico, to a couple of sweet boyfriends, to great memories, and to feeling alive and happy, like I'd never felt before and hadn't experience recently until I moved to Canada to be with Cairo. Then as well as now, I had my left foot in America and my right one in, well, otro mundo, another world.
And one of these days both of my feet are going to be firmly planted in one world, a beautiful world, a loving world. And I pray to the gods, Christian, Aztec, and otherwise, that that world calls itself Mexico.
Or at least San Antonio. Or maybe Tucson. Or even Santa Fe.
I'm still trying to fathom why anyone would eat a Tide detergent pod, regardless of the challenge or even the flavor. (Spring Meadow Some Velvet Morning Phaedra Is My Name or whatever is not without its appeal, I'll grant you that.) I mean, I know it's the age of Xtreme!™ everything, but still ... detergent ... in a pod.
The most wild 'n' crazy challenges involving (in)digestibles I accepted in childhood were as follows:
In the late '60s, a cousin dared me (or I offered all on my own, I don't remember exactly) to eat dirt. True to my word, I did. It was ... grainy. A little sandy. Kinda earthy, you might say.
Sometime in the early '70s, my sister and I dared each other to try a dry nugget of Gravy Train, our dog's preferred dinner. It was ... rusty. A little crunchy. Kinda canine, you might say.
That's it, kids. And guess what? I'm still going strong at 56, despite a little arthritis in my hands and a certain fondness for sugary snacks.
Meanwhile, if you drop a pod of Tide, you'll be lucky if you survive until 16, physically or mentally.
It's your life, of course, and I, a Friend of Little Debbie, would be presumptuous if I were to tell you what to eat, gluten-free, vegan, or phosphate-feeble. Science, medicine, government, and the media--well, they say no! don't do it! you could kill yourself! But, hey, it's your Sophie's challenge.
Just know that if you do decide to taste the Tide pod rainbow, you'll be doing us all a big favor--one less stupid person to have to look after into Social Security, let alone the SATs. Our tax dollars not at work if you cark it. Hallelujah anyway.
But then again, if you go forth with tipping the Tide velvet and end up just brain-damaged, our insurance rates will go up, and we'll hate you with the fierceness of a thousand bottles of Sunlight dishwashing detergent. So, rather you don't eat the Tide, please.
My latest music offering on Mixcloud makes an aural examination of the music of the Apartheid era. Not the cheeriest of topics for the holidays perhaps, but there you have it.
In a separate post, I promise to explain what prompted me to create this mixtape. There's also a second volume in the works that will be posted shortly.
One day I'll explain why I think the Jot the Dot cartoon scarred a generation of Southern white boys, including me. OK, only me.
In the meantime, I'll just say that I'm disappointed in myself. I figured out that John Edwards was no choir boy long before most realized it. I should have figured out that Charlie Rose's "aw shucks, ma'am" routine was total b.s. as well.
So last week was hard, questioning-my-outlook-on-life hard,
questioning-my-life-choices hard.
My professional life overwhelmed me
once again. It made me extremely anxious and wondering if I should be
doing what I'm doing or whether I'm even a functioning adult. Am I too
nice? Am I too generous? Am I easy to manipulate? Am I patsy, a sucker, a
chump?
But at some point on Friday, after some of the noise and
stress of the last couple of days, weeks, and months started to fade away, I realized I had survived and actually come out pretty well in the end.
I momentarily neutralized some bullies I work with (chiefly two
man-babies I have to deal with on a regular basis). I survived an
embarrassing moment. I took responsibility for a problem.
I treated people well. I supported my staff and I was supported by them
and by my superiors in return. I presented a case that showed smart
financial management, that got some people the resources they needed but
on my terms, not theirs (meaning I didn't scheme and connive to make it
happen--I used honesty and transparency instead). And I came out on
top.
I realized I don't have the ego to be in the spotlight for
too long. I realized dealing with mean people is one of the hardest
things for me. I realized my job is 99.9% operational and not very
creative, which is a problem that I haven't figured out how to fix. I realized I really really really
want to retire.
But maybe for a moment
I also realized I'm fairly smart, not a dummy, not a chump, not a
sucker. I realized that when push comes to shove, I will stand up for
myself. I realized that while I'm a bit too methodical sometimes, that
can be a plus, especially when you're dealing with other methodical
people. I realized that while I'm prone to anxiety, probably more than
most, I am also a fairly well-functioning adult.
I walk on the
high wire, the tight rope. I wobble, I stumble, I trip, and sometimes I fall. But thanks
to the people around me--family, partner, friends, colleagues, and
more--and thanks to me, I can hang on. I can fall into a
safety net if I need to. And I can shake it off and get back on the wire as many times as I need to.
Oh to know what I know now way back in 1991. I felt so old then, even though I was not yet 30. But already I was out of the dance club and into . . . what exactly? Certainly not the streets. Hibernation maybe. Escape. Transitions.
A year or so after meeting my friend S., a friend I've now had for nearly 30 years. Several months before leaving Washington and only once creeping back to live in its shadow again. Two years before graduate school. Two years before meeting G. Four years before moving to Texas, which feels like home to me and perhaps always will. Thirteen years before leaving Texas and moving back east. Twenty-two years before meeting Cairo. Twenty-four years before moving to Canada. Twenty-six years before now.
Some moments during the previous 26 years have been, frankly, terrible, including this last week or so. And then other moments have been spectacular, such as living with Cairo and talking to him this week, during one of my sadder, more frustrated, more anxious times.
My father's passing. But my mother still lives and is as vibrant as ever.
I still loathe my job and am wary of my colleagues. And yet I had probably the most successful week I've had since arriving in Canada two-and-a-half years ago, have a great staff and supportive bosses.
One of the biggest reveals this week was that once my anxiety and stress subsided, I realized that I had actually had a good week, at least professionally speaking. The anxiety has been too much of late, but I'm actually doing OK.
Would I go back in time? Would I do anything differently? Maybe or maybe not.
Except maybe . . . I'd dance more, even past the age of 30. To hear that piano again, those drums, that whistle, that call to "hold me baby/drive me crazy/touch me/all night long." To put aside the fears imagined and real, to trust in myself, to take a moment, to enjoy, to cavort, to laugh, to be carefree, sans souçi, to grab life and run with it. That I would do, at least for one night, return to the scene and dance, dance, dance away the heartache, dance away the tears.
But then I'd hurry right back to the present to savor what I have now, the good and the bad, and look forward to a better tomorrow, week, month, and year ahead.
Quite bizarrely, I find myself liking Taylor Swift's "Look What You Made Me Do," several weeks after everyone else has moved on. I still don't hear the "I'm Too Sexy" melody, but I don't necessarily need to--it's a clever, catchy, dramatic bit of pop, and more distinctive than most of the stuff out there at the moment. (Not that I have a good sense of what's au courant. All they play in Toronto is wall-to-wall Drake, Canada's Rapper.)
Having said that, I think it's high time we issued an amber alert for Taylor Swift's soul. It's been missing for years, if it ever existed at all. I suspect she sold it to Mephistopheles sometime around the age of 10 and that her real name will eventually be revealed as Taylor Faustus. In another scenario, I imagine in her spare time she's busy spinning straw into gold trying to figure out the name of that little guy that put her in this predicament. Talk to some of those German-Americans around Reading, Pennsylvania, Taylor's hometown. They know.
The weird thing for me--and this is no great reveal as I've wondered about this for some time--is how real is any of this? Was Taylor ever a good girl? Is she now a bad girl? Does she have a beef with Katy Perry? Is she just serving as a beard for any number of fey pop stars and movie actors? And most importantly of all, why do any us have to give a shit?
It's not the details of a thousand cuts that keep me puzzled and pondering, however. It's the whole "star-maker machine," the pop culture industrial complex. Britney and Justin did it back in the day. Madonna has always done it. Bowie is Bowie because of it. Our "dizazsthuh" of a president currently revels in it.
"It" being this fabricated narrative that keeps us watching, turned in, and tuned out to the stuff that really matters--family, friends, human rights, economic equality, and real music.
But what do I know? I'm seriously considering paying for and legally downloading this ditty.
So keep on groovin', TS Industries, Inc. You're manufacturing some memorable, interesting-sounding pop.
I know 1941 was a harsh year in human history, but, oh, to be this joyous, to be this carefree, to be this liberated from the worries of the world once again.
"The
initial explanation offered by some neighbors of both men and the
attacker's lawyer -- that the episode occurred due to a dispute over
leaves or grass trimmings -- was even stranger.
"Rene
Boucher pleaded not guilty Thursday morning in a Bowling Green [Kentucky]
courtroom to misdemeanor fourth degree assault charges stemming from the
Nov. 3 incident in the gated community where the two men live."
Strange? Strange that someone would attempt to beat the crap out of America's no. 1 Jheri Curl right-wing politician over something as innocuous as lawn clippings? Ha. Have you met Rand Paul?
In a matter of seconds, I came come up with a number of reasons why Mr. Boucher might want to (literally) crush on Paul:
He calls himself Rand. Actually, his name is Randal (one 'l' because I guess he secretly harbors being a character in a Game of Thrones novel?), and apparently he was not named after Ayn Rand, even though he studied her writings.
He studied Ayn Rand's writings and calls himself Rand, nonetheless.
He's a self-described libertarian. Give my regards to the NRA, Randy.
That often smug look on his face.
That I'm-barely-tolerating-your-stupidity-infidel! tone to his voice during interviews.
The fact that he was born in Pittsburgh, grew up in Texas, and still turned out to be a dick.
That poncy hairstyle. Maybe it's real, maybe it's not a perm, but the tips and curls often seem gelled. The whole 'do seems like a desperate cry of regret from the Hair Club for Men.
The fact that he touts his credentials as a LASIK surgeon to qualify himself as an expert on health care in the U.S. LASIK: Plastic surgery for your eyes.
The fact that he lives in a gated community. (Just to be clear, a chain-link fence with a gate is not the same as a gated community....)
Skaggs said he "very much likes" both men, though he noted that Paul "is a very different character than most people.""He's
a deep believer in his own thoughts," Skaggs said. "And he believes his
own thoughts are right -- and they are right 100% of the time."
So while the specific triggering event might remain a bit of a mystery (my money's on a heady mix of yard waste and coveting/insulting thy neighbor's wife), there is no actual mystery in why someone would get crackin' on Pauly Bore. Heck, with that sense of surprise attack and the ability to break some ribs, I think the Tennessee Titans may have found a new teammate.
Mark
your calendars: CNN is reporting that the time to talk about gun
control has been set for Sunday, December 31, 2017, between 11:59:50 and
11:59:59 pm.*
*This appointment may be suspended if a horrific
shooting occurs prior to the designated time or is believed likely to
happen after the designated time.
(Hey, don’t shoot the messenger! The National Rifle Association sets the rules, not me.)
(Oh, who am I kidding? You’re totally allowed to shoot the messenger.
Wouldn’t want to be accused of interfering with your 2nd Amendment rights. Unfettered access to firearms über alles and all that.)
And because it's not a guns situation, can we assume that Our Fearless Leader won't be bothered when a brown terrorist or a white lone wolf starts "mental healthing" at him?
After all, the murderer isn't trying to shoot you. He's just trying to make a rush appointment for some mental health counseling.
Which he probably doesn't have access to because he has no health insurance... but let's not sweat the policy details of you and your colleagues in Congress.
Time to break out the handy "Mass shooting in US checklist":
Send thoughts & prayers but not actually do anything useful
Argue over semantics of the term "assault rifle"
Argue over semantics of the term "terrorist" - if Muslim use it, if
Christian/white use term "lone wolf" "mentally ill" "troubled past"
Congress does nothing but NRA increases donations just in case
Wait for next one, rinse, repeat
I'd like to add a couple of items to this checklist, things I've noticed that have become part of the "national conversation" that leads to total inaction:
Report statistics that state more people die from handguns, car crashes, cancer, etc., to downplay the horror of mass shootings and indicate that mass shootings aren't really a problem after all.
Argue that you can’t change or repeal the 2nd Amendment of the
Constitution. (Hint: Yes, we can. The 2nd Amendment is already a change
to the original Constitution.)
Argue that the 2nd Amendment is your right--and a superior right at that. Ignore all other rights.
Ignore the promise of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness in the
U.S. Declaration of Independence. Continue to believe that your right
to bear arms supersedes all other rights.
This has all the makings of the saddest, most nauseating, most boner-killing porn movie ever: First Son and Professional A-Hole Donald Trump, Jr., in the role of the twink starring alongside of (or, rather, in the service of) former Milwaukee County Sheriff and Professional Dickhead David Clarke as the daddy/master, XXX film's "exotic" African-American power top to Donald Junior's weaselly, beady-eyed, power bottom.
It's Diesel Washington (a personal favorite, a top with a sense of humor) versus Armond Rizzo (who I detest, in part because he looks like Donald Trump, Jr., and in part because he whimpers like a Japanese anime schoolgirl in most of his scenes). It's a horrible episode of Oz in which even Sister Peter Marie hopes all the characters rot in jail. It's a gold-encrusted Lawnguyland remake of The Boys from New Jersey, a C-list mid-'80s porno that an acquaintance of mine in Washington, D.C., back in the day had a prominent role in. A cute guy who I almost fell into bed with--but his performance in that pitiful porno tells me my more cautious than carefree nature helped me make the right decision once again.
Next scene please.
* * *
Earlier in the week, I tweeted this response to the picture you see at the top of this post--Don Junior and David Clarke together, bro-bracing one another, Don Junior's chest puffed out and Dave Clarke wearing a cowboy hat with a paisley shirt (da fuh?) because, I dunno, he likes irony.
And, like, wow! A few days later I (re)discover this movie, Answered Prayers, starring Diesel Washington and Chris Harder, amazing life-like porn simulations of Don and Dave. So I miscast the execrable Armond Rizzo for the humpdillyicious Chris Harder. My sin.
Chris Harder is a much better choice for the role. Somehow he manages to look fetching, dewy-eyed, non-simian, and just like Donald Junior. How is that even possible?
I actually think I've seen this movie, at least in 20-minute, uh, spurts on the internet. If I recall correctly, Chris Harder plays a messianic gay homophobic politician (no, really) and Diesel Washington plays his gay guru sidepiece. Or something.
What I saw in the movie was hot and obviously memorable in its way but, nonetheless, striving a little too hard to be provocative, powerful, and socially relevant.
Much like the pairing of Fils Trump and Père Clarke. And yet I have zero interest in enduring even the opening credits of that movie. Whatever the opposite of man-on-man erotica is, that's the clusterfuge offered by liddle' Don Junior and fake Davey Clarke.
Curse me and my over-imagination. Now I'll never be able to look at Chris and Diesel the same way again.
It's probably blasphemous to say this, but I love this version of Miriam Makeba's "Pata Pata," a remix by the duo Milk & Sugar (heretofore unknown to me).
Now I'm not saying I love it more than the original, so I've not completely lost my mind or my soul. But it is darn catchy and groovy, and the animated video is attention-grabbing and so much fun to watch.
It's a good remix that reveres the original rather than destroying it, with Makeba's voice front and center and her image singing from the heavens above down upon the more colorful and profane world below.
So, really, it's all very religious, perfect for a lazy Sunday before Canadian Thanksgiving. I know I'm thankful I found this song. And I'm grateful that through the miracle of the internet, I can share it with you.
I made this. Let's consider it a work in progress.
Somewhere in Puerto Rico in the aftermath of a hurricane, a certain someone has decided to play games with the people. Instead of giving them much needed supplies and food, he's tossed them paper towels--the quicker picker-upper under normal circumstances but not very effective in cleaning up destruction, flooding, power outages, and hunger.
I guess we should be grateful that his handlers made him leave his t-shirt cannon on Air Force One.
No matter. We can only pray that this soon results in a mutiny against the Bounty by the time all is said and done.
Alas, I don't own the copyright for this splendid photo, and I'm quite sure it's not in the public domain. The photographer is George Etheredge of the New York Times; the photo was published in a profile about DJTJr in the March 18, 2017, "Style" section of the Times. If you don't already subscribe to the Times, you should: It produces excellent journalism. I am a subscriber, and I'd encourage you to be one as well. It's one of the chief ways that we can contribute to fostering democracy and transparency in government.
"Papa?"
"Papa!"
"Papa, can you hear me?!"
The Great White Way's latest hit is Mentl, starring Donald Trump, Jr., Donald Trump, Ivanka Trump, Jared Kushner,Paul Manafort, Jeff Sessions, Michael Flynn, and an ever-growing stack of Russian nesting dolls, each one with a smaller and smaller sense of morality.
It's a sad, strange musical put on by the worst cast imaginable. It had tryouts in New York and bankrupted a number of theaters and backers. So why its backers imagined that this show would play well in Washington is anyone's guess.
With
a little luck and a lot of determination by the critiques, hopefully
the show will close before too many more performances ruin the stage in America forever.
This is my official groove of the week: "Feel It Still" by Portugal. The Man.
Hey, I don't name 'em.
It even makes my arthritic left knee want to dance--which I did just yesterday in my apartment, to no ill effect other than embarrassing myself in front of any neighbor who might have taken a gander through my open blinds.
I have no idea what the video is about, nor do I care. I rather wish all new videos just offered a creative setting for a straight performance with out all the "I'm getting my money's worth out of my film school degree" techniques, which ultimately are rather yawnable or just ruin a perfectly good song. Less is more. And some things are better left to one's imagination.
Any similarities to "Le Palladium" and every other 1960s (in situ or -esque) James Bond/surf punk tune is purely incoincidental, I can assure you.
It's Friday. It's time to hippy hippy shake it with "Le palladium" by Liz Brady, "une femme de Paris," who was actually born in Cairo to French and Greek parents.
This song is currently being used in a Stella Artois commercial in North America (the one with the guy doing "hat tricks" at a party).
The obvious sequel: Fifty Shades of Gravy and Mashed Potatoes
Hot off the grill! Kentucky Fried Chicken (KFC)releases a romance novel, Tender Wings of Desire, just in time for Mother's Day--because apparently in the U.S. a meal from KFC is Mom's big treat on her special day.
The novella is set in Victorian England and features Harland, a mysterious sailor (from Kentucky?), and the desperate choice of Lady Madeline Parker: Will it be an ordeal of precision poultry penetration? Or a life of mad, passionate plucking?
There's a video to advertise the book (see the link above), but for the life of me, I can't figure out why sexy, shirtless Jesus was called upon to shill chicken and romance.
Fishes and loaves, sure, but breasts and thighs? Well, pluck me.
Beautiful, yes, but just a humble box of Paas egg dye will do. Bulgarian orthodox Easter Eggs by Ikonact. 7 April 2007. CC BY-SA 3.0; Wikimedia Commons.
Easter has
never been an important holiday for me, in part because it has rarely resulted
in a day off (although in Canada at least Good Friday is a holiday) and
in part because of sunrise services as a child. I'm not a morning
person--despite the fact that I'm writing this at 7 am on Easter Monday. Insomnia is not the same as being a night owl, by the by.
Yes, I know I'm missing the point, that Easter is not all
about me and my very special needs, as rich and detailed as they may be. I'll save the exhaustive theological philosophizing for another time (and another person--again, not really my thing), but the religious aspects of the Easter story just do not add up for me. I'm not an atheist, but I am a realist. I'm intrigued by the idea of Jesus, but I just don't know that I should take his life story literally, that I consider him the one true Son of God, and that he died for my sins. (Because wouldn't that mean I get a free pass into eternity?) And don't even get me going on the Resurrection. Color me confused on this and many other aspects of Easter.
This blasphemy, oddly enough, is in no way meant to besmirch Jesus as a human being or as holy person. My issue with Jesus is and has always been with his adherents, not the man himself. I suspect Jesus was a loving, intelligent, contemplative man who questioned authority and immediately endedf up on the wrong side of society and the law. It's an age-old story, although I would be hard-pressed to come up with anyone currently alive who is cut from the same cloth. Edward Snowden? Don't make me laugh! See, the thing is, to be Christ-like, you have to be unaware and unconcerned that you're being Christ-like.
I reckon the last person on Earth that deserves the crown, at least as far as I'm aware of, was Nelson Mandela. May this great human being rest in peace and continue to teach us about strength and forgiveness for generations to come.
* * *
In short, I have never had any talent for being a Christian.
Plus in matters secular, I have never had any talent for finding Easter eggs. This carries over in other
areas of my life: Sometimes I just can't see beyond the surface of
things, or rather, I can't see the particular thing I should see because
of all the clutter of the other things I see. Let's be kind and call it
"sensory overload," but it could be that I'm just very, very dense.
The one time I was successful at Easter egg-hunting is also one of my
favorite Easter memories. We were visiting my grandparents for Easter,
as we often did (so, see, this holiday was important to at least some of my family), who lived on a small farm in Eastern North Carolina. It was pouring rain, so we couldn't hunt for Easter eggs outside, which given my general lack of expertise in this area was perhaps secretly a blessing to me.
Nonetheless, my family hid the eggs inside the
house for my cousins and me to find. I was probably still a failure as a
"hunter" that day, but I did at least find some eggs that time--and if
I recall correctly, I found them more than once because we hunted
Easter eggs repeatedly inside the house on that rainy day. Those eggs were cracked and squishy to touch by the end of that day, dirty from so much rough handling, but that is what I remember most and cherish about Easter.
Oh, and the candy, of course. Chocolate, of course, and now later in life, I've come to appreciate jelly beans, although as kid I thought they just looked weird and their pleasures too fleeting.
I
don't know why you should care about any of this, but it's my weird way of saying Happy
Easter, Happy Passover, Happy Spring, Happy Sunday, Happy Three-Day Weekend, Happy whatever you
may or may not celebrate.
In this time of birth and renewal, here's to your successful hunting and gathering of whatever you may be looking for.
I'm seeing buzz on Twitter this morning that Sarah Palin may be nominated as United States
ambassador to Canada.
As the kids might say, 😲
Or maybe, 😳
Or maybe, 🙄
Or maybe we're all just laughing our tuques off.
A few quick observations--
What did Canada ever do to hurt
the U.S. so badly? Yes, some Canadians could earn an Olympic medal in patting themselves on the back, being self-satisfied about their nation and their lives compared to their American cousins. But is that any reason to inflict Sarah Palin on them--or anyone? I mean, if the Trump administration is so interested in torture, might I suggest letting Sarah set up her own Abu Graib-like black ops re-education center somewhere outside of Kotzebue?
So much for the northern escape route. You thought you could treat Canada once again as your safety school (thank you, Stephen Colbert, for that observation) and flee Trump's America by trying to emigrate to Canada--without having a real sense of how to do it or how difficult it is to do.
But the best way to do that is to vote--and not vote conservative, right wing, alt-right, Republican, or Jill Stein.
Tut, tut, really, there's nothing to
worry about: Sarah's sled dogs will turn on her and eat her alive before she gets
as far as Dawson City.
Or she'll quit midway through her term.
Either
way, problem solved.
* * *
A silver lining?
Canada, like most Western nations, has concerns about low birthrate, an aging population, and how to maintain societal viability under such circumstances--and immigration, especially immigration that favors young families, is one way to address that.
(Editor's note: As I have discovered in my efforts to apply for permanent residency in Canada, one gets zero points for being over 50, single, and childless. This means that even with a work permit, a master's degree, a lengthy professional record, fluency in English and some competency in French, not to mention a well-paying job, I still just barely score high enough to be considered by using the Citizenship and Immigration Canada online analysis tool. But such is life.)
But if Bristol Palin joins Sarah in Ottawa and continues to promote abstinence-only sex education in Canada--all the while caring for her two children born without benefit of marriage--the Canadian birthrate will sky rocket!
Cross-border diplomacy achieved--and problem solved again.
Editor's note: Normally, Saturday Night Live clips from official sources (e.g., NBC television) are blocked for viewing outside the U.S. However, I can view this (not from an official source) clip in Canada, so I'm assuming you can view this regardless of your location. Watch it before it's removed for copyright infringement.
Update 10 February 2017: And of course it's now gone! If you're in Canada, you can watch it here.
And that was the week that was.
If Melissa McCarthy doesn't get an Emmy for the prop-box alone, there is no justice.
But if Trump and Bannon have their way, there may indeed be no justice.
