What is was was a fool's ball

You can't play rock-and-roll on a diet of Quorn, veggie juice, and Linda Bloody McCartney's Tofu Treats! - Edina Monsoon, Absolutely Fabulous

* * *

A few things you should know about me, if you don't already.

• I hate football and most organized sports.
• I hate the Super Bowl.
• I hate crappy pop music.
• I hate Maroon 5.
• I hate Adam Levine.
• I hate gay men drooling over pictures of gratuitous displays of manflesh.

I don't mind the flesh itself, but I prefer not to act like a 57-year-old 14-year-old every time I see a naked body.

So you likely can surmise that for me a shirtless Adam Levine of Maroon 5 playing the half-time show during the Super Bowl is the equivalent of being stabbed in the head with an ice pick. Repeatedly and with gusto.

I mean, sure, yeah, Adam Levine has a good body ... I guess. But how can I say for sure? There are so many tattoos, so many, and I'm from a generation that thinks excessive tattoos look, well, excessive. And kinda trashy.

One might get away with a lot of tattoos and trashiness if one had some blue collar street cred--serves or served in the armed forces, works as a mechanic, did or is currently doing time in prison, etc. But on a pampered Momma's Boy of a pop star that is as manufactured and focus-grouped as his muscles, they just look trashy but in an inauthentic, calculated way.

I told one of my drooling friends that he looks like a Mexican sugar skull that got lost on his way to a Day of the Dead celebration. Like a lotería card mated with a Ken doll. Like the Guy Pearce character in Memento--or the actress who plays in Blindspot--if the hero were a smug putz who wants you to want his body but acts like he doesn't, that somehow he's above pimpin' himself while he is in fact pimpin' himself. No, señor

And for pity's sake, C A L I F O R N I A? Why? Why did you have a state's name tattooed across your stomach? Are you afraid you'll forget where you live? Is your city tattooed on your ass and your zip code on your wang?

I'm sure in real life Adam Levine is a lovely person, but he gives off (at least to me) a very fake vibe. My drooling friend thought otherwise, so what do I know? I never thought Donald Trump would get elected or Maroon 5 would have lasted past three albums.

In all of this, I can't help express a little sympathy for Adam Levine's wife, Namibian model Behati Prinsloo. Don't you just know she is grateful when they have sex with the lights off? Less reading, fewer visual distractions, and no secret desire to fake an orgasm when you're tired of trying to figure out Where's Waldo.

Lady B, thanks for taking one for the team, but hasn't Africa suffered enough? I think so.

Head case

To: Barron Trump

From: Yours Truly

Re: Football and head injuries

Your father is right to be concerned about the risk of head injuries that can happen while playing football.

However, please note that your father is a prime example of how you can be brain damaged even when you've never played football (or any sport) in your life.

(And golf doesn't count.)

Proceed accordingly.

Sin rumbo

"Sin rumbo" or "Aimlessly." If that doesn't describe me in 2019, I don't know what does.

But maybe that's a good thing? I mean, I feel less crazy, more lazy, and still daydreaming about Argentina six months later. Life could be worse, and, thankfully, at the moment, it is not.

Don't call me bambola

No social commentary required for this one--I just love this song, "Bambola," by Montréal-born Italian-Canadian Betta Lemme. Thus the song is sung in French, Italian, and English.

I discovered this song on my new favorite internet-streamed radio station, "La Première," from--wait for it--Saint-Pierre et Miquelon, France's overseas territory, Newfoundland-adjacent. Seriously, the islands are reputed to be more Franco than North American and the music the station plays reflects the metropole. Et c'est magnifique!

If you need a summer hit for these cold winter months, voilà! Ici Betta Lemme, baby.

Big trouble in little Jina

"Donald Trump's hair from behind, 2007" by Joe Shlabotnik. CC BY-SA 2.0
via Wikimedia Commons

From the article "Five Days of Fury: Inside Trump's Paris Temper, Election Woes, and Staff Upheaval," written by Josh Dawsey and Philip Rucker, and publishing in The Washington Post on November 13, 2018.

This may be my favorite quotation of the year:

“He’s just a bull carrying his own china shop with him when­ever he travels the world,” presidential historian Douglas Brinkley said.

It's pronounced "Jina," Doug. Otherwise, you seem spot-on to me.

Stairway to Hockeytown

"Batman riding the escalator? Sure" by GabboT
CC BY-SA 2.0 via Wikimedia Commons

On escalators and stairs in Toronto, there should be 5 options:

1. Walk on the left.
   
2. Stand on the right.
   
3. I have a hockey stick and can't control it.
   
4. I don't know where I'm going but I'm going to move really slowly and block your path; then, when I see that my destination is straight ahead, I'm going to run like a bat out of hell to catch it, your safety and survival be damned.
   
5. Like, I'm texting. So deal.

The Abuser-in-Chief

I've dealt with some horrible people in my time, both at work and in my personal life. I've discussed at length my torturous relationship with Cali, and I've expressed concern about my current work environment, which, despite being situated in the Paradise-on-Earth that is Canada, has its share of manipulative, passive-aggressive types.

The locals think they are cleverer than they actually are--they're not exactly opaque in their motivations. But Cali ... Cali, in retrospect, falls into the worse category of Horrible People: The ragers and yellers. People who dismiss our demand for respect and consider kindness as a weakness to be exploited. People who lash out with the intent to hurt and never apologize for the harm caused. People who torment. People who find the soft belly of our insecurities and drive a knife into them and twist.

Sometimes I've stood there and taken it because I didn't have a choice, or didn't have enough confidence to break free, or hoped with enough love and patience the situation would improve. But it never does. An abuser is an abuser is an abuser. He or she may treat you well and then treat someone else horribly--or vice versa--but it all comes down to the same thing: There is no reasoning with them, no excuse or amount of understanding that will heal them, no sufficient number of pleas or tears that will make them treat you better, and nothing, absolutely nothing that will keep you safe--except getting as far a way as possible as fast as you can. 

I don't say this lightly--I'm a great believer in human beings having the capacity to change, improve, and grow. Likewise, I can forgive a lot because people make mistakes, and because I make mistakes, and sometimes the best thing one can do is understand, forgive, and move forward. Rinse but never repeat.

But the type of abuser I've dealt with, like the type I see in the White House at this moment in time, I am confident that they will never change. What is their incentive to do so? They get what they want, and even when they don't, they can always blame it away on someone else. Cali did that--among other things, he was a ruthless yet piss-poor dissembler and an expert at turning around the situation to make him out to be the injured party and you out to be the guilty one. 

Trump is even worse, and he carries out this abuse in large and small ways, simultaneously among his inner circle and with the world as his stage.

This week I watched that sorry excuse for a human being and a president call people doing their jobs--and doing them well--stupid. Although I know nothing should surprise me anymore, this level of meanness and disdain still shocks. God knows it's hard to listen to that pus-filled sac of a president demean women, men, people of different religions, different ethnicities, and different social and economic classes--and to repeatedly get away with it. It's like reliving my own experiences day in and day out.

If you think you will never be directly affected by Persimmon Hitler's hatred, you could count yourself lucky, but I'd suggest you should just wait and watch. Your time will come. It always does. It's who they are. You are useful in the moment, they will exalt you and your abilities for a while, but then they'll toss you aside as soon as they can. Just ask Jeff Sessions and Trump Wives No. 1 and No. 2. Ask Tiffany. Ask Eric, too.

We can dismiss Orange Julius Caesar's behavior as stress, Alzheimer's, mental illness, narcissism, being a "creative genius," being powerful, being dumb, having a crappy childhood, being abused and becoming the abuser, what have you. But ultimately there's no excuse, no explanation valid enough. The president is a venal, mean-spirited jerk. Maybe he's nice to his family (although I doubt it), but so far, he's exhibited no redeeming qualities whatsoever. Any "likeability" is self-serving and insincere.

At the end of the day, he's weak and insecure, all the hate he feels for himself projected outward onto everyone else. Being a horrible human being and the attention he receives from being one are his only validations. And, alas, at my most uncharitable, I think that describes Cali to the core as well.

In the meantime, we can do our best to tune him out but also pay attention to what he and his cohorts are doing. We can resist and find some space away from him. We can celebrate our victories and do our best to have more.

It will take some time, but we will survive him. I hope the mid-terms show in some small way what's possible when we stand together and fight back.

The next time we won't be so foolish. I have to believe that in the future, we won't let this happen to us again anytime soon. 

Baby Shambles had a craptastic week

This week, whenever I watched the President of the United States lash out at reporters, French leaders, Jeff Sessions, the wilderness, what have you, I thought of this video from SCTV.

Hint: The President is John Candy playing Shelley Winters.

President Baby Shambles had a craptastic week (e.g., the Democrats taking over the House of Representatives in the 2018 mid-term elections). And I for one can't think of a more deserving person.

Slav to the rhythm

Melania Week continues!

"It is not concern and focus of mine," she said. "I'm a mother and a first lady, and I have much more important things to think about and to do."

"Things like 'What ridiculous-looking, developing nation budget-busting outfit will I wear to meet the President of Burkina Faso?' or 'How constipated should I look for this photo op with these Border children?' or 'If I slap my husband's paw away, will it cause the Twitter to go apeshit?' or 'Do I have a child? And what is his name? Is it Eric?' You know, important things like that. Things that matter."

Melania Trump: The gift that keeps on giving ... the gift of comedy. Or the gift of nausea. Or the gift of dreaming about the return of the guillotine. Take yer pick. 

Poor little rich model

Oh, please.

Try this:

1) Pick a better husband.

2) Don't repeat his birther lies.

3) Don't pretend you didn't cheat your way to an Einstein visa.

4) Do something meaningful other than your fake "Be Best" campaign.

5) Stop seeing yourself as a victim when you are clearly not--or at least not for the reasons you think you are.

Seriously, if you and that orang-uturd you're married to and those inbred in-laws of yours had made the slightest effort to bring people together instead of sowing disinformation and driving an even bigger wedge between people, maybe you'd be less "bullied." Maybe you would have ended up with much better results for your modest efforts. Maybe you might be liked or respected, however begrudgingly.

But y'all went in a completely different direction (remember "American carnage"?), so reap what you sow, babe.

Soft serve

From Bloomberg News, 10 October 2018.

Guuuuuuuuuurrrrllll...

Come on now. You know your man ain't provided really hard evidence in a very long time.

Pleading the pith

For your consideration ... may I humbly suggest to you that the next United States Ambassador to the United Nations should be ... Melania Trump!

Here me out:

She is glamorous. As Our Fearless Leader has already noted, Nikki Haley made the job of UN ambassador look glamorous again--and that is perhaps the real meaning of MAGA, Make America Glamorous Again, in a particularly gilded age, sketchy finances, Queens-to-Manhattan way. Melania could continue what Nikki started. She's a model, so style over substance is what she excels at.

She would be his second choice, after Ivanka, and this is likely not the first time that has happened, so she's used to it.

She speaks something like 250 languages. If she speaks only half of them with the joie de vivre that she communicates in English, we're sure to reduce our chance of global warfare by at least .05%.

She could return to New York, where, like Eva Gabor before her, she would rather stay. (She gets allergic smelling hay, I'm assuming.)

She's so smart! She came to America on an "Einstein visa" even after having her photo taken dressed in a bikini, kissing an inflatable whale. (No, not that whale.)

She already has the wardrobe for international travel and diplomacy. (See photos.)

She's--let's be honest--useless, which is much how the Trump administration views the UN. Thus we can all focus legitimately on what she's wearing and not what she's doing because she won't be doing anything!

It's the circle of life. Sort of.

Brie at last!

Ladies and gentleman, the least cheesy soul singer
I know, Mr. Barry White. By Fotograaf Onbekend / Anefo -
CC0 - Wikimedia Commons

It's ecstasy when you lay brie next to me.

Long live love

When life gets to be too much, as it often does these days, I choose to "Walk on By." I keep "Wishin' and Hopin'." I want you "Back in My Arms Again." I want love to live on and on and on.

I return to the 1960s and 1970s, my childhood, when I was generally unperturbed by much of anything--except perhaps disturbing images of angry segregationists, race riots, the civil war in Biafra, and the Vietnam War. But what did I know then? They were just flat images on a black-and-white screen.

I return to the music of the 1960s and '70s, the Burt Bacharach-Hal David songbook, the Kenny Gamble-Leon Huff songbook, and to a host of lesser known (to me) songwriters, musicians, and singers from that era. Simple, melodic, hummable, singable pop that reminds me of the other images from my childhood--The Ed Sullivan Show, Where the Action Is, Hullabaloo, Shindig, evening variety shows, and Saturday afternoons with American Bandstand and Soul Train.

Here are a few songs that help me get through the day--some I remember from the time, some I've only discovered in adulthood. I hope they help you cope and persevere in trying, confusing, and frustrating times.

Aquarela

It's happening

Because Supreme Beings always deserve more contemplation.

Imagine me and you, I do

We meet every night at 8

In the spotlight

Wouldn't that be cool?

Supreme beings

We were not worthy then. We are not worthy now.

Water, water everywhere

And not a drop to think.

When that Kanye performance from last night's season opener of Saturday Night Live keeps reminding you of the wrong stuff.

Time for a tango

My vacation in Argentina already seems like it took place a hundred years ago. I realize more than ever that I dislike my job, have quickly grown weary from all the sniping on social media, and am tired, tired, tired of the political and cultural drama that my home country keeps exporting to the world.

So let's listen to a tango and forget it all for a while.

I captured this short video of a bandoneón player at the Agüero Subte Station in Buenos Aires on or about 28 August 2018.

Animals that look like Brett Kavanaugh

I wish I could take credit for this specific juxtaposition of images. Someone on Twitter beat me to it and, frankly, did a better job than me.

This has been a theme rolling around in my head all week, given the angry, petulant, hysterical, aggressive, and highly partisan behavior of a man who sucks at job interviews. Hello, angry drunk possum! Meet angry drunk rapey mendacious candidate for the Supreme Court of the United States, Brett Kavanaugh!

I personally might have gone with an angry cornered badger, just not necessarily a honey badger, which seems at least to have a useful purpose in life. I also considered a weasel and a ferret, although I don't think they are particularly aggressive or prone to assaulting women. 

A gaboon viper or a spitting cobra might also be a contender, one of those animals that serves no other purpose than to kill people that startle it. (Sorry, I can't bring myself to post a pic of one or the other. You and Google Images are on your own.)

But, truly, an embittered possum in a nest of beer cans--and Miller High Life, no more, no less, the "champagne of beers"--really is the coup de graceless.

Bravo, Twitter! You may offer the sensory overload of standing in the middle of large party with everyone alternating between drunk-crying, drunk-laughing, and drunk-screaming but occasionally something useful cuts through the bile. And this week it was a possum with a beer tooth and a federal judge in need of an anger management course or a prison sentence, take yer pick.

A matcha made in heaven

Tea for two? No, all for me.

Green tea-flavored KitKat Bar is very green tea-y.

Earthy but highly edible.

I'll take 50 to go, please.

Going with the Flo

My hometown, mostly underwater, September 2018.

That ain't rat

People keep posting this to me on Facebook. I keep telling them the correct phrase is "Namaste rat cheer."

Pffft. Yankees.

The tango singer

Last night, via the TuneIn app on my Roku, I was listening to the French radio network France Bleu via a radio station in the overseas territory of St. Pierre-et-Miquelon, just off the coast of Newfoundland. Don't make me try to explain how I got to this place in my life, but if you've read this blog before, it all makes a weird kind of sense.  

Et voilà! This song by French singer and actor Vincent Niclo started playing, a recent release in France (May 2018 or so), which builds upon the tango track "Libertango" by Argentine songwriter and performer extraordinaire, the late, great Astor Piazzolla. So there's no escaping the importance and influence of the tango, a uniquely Argentine art form that has transported itself from the brothels and bars of 19th-century Buenos Aires, across continents and cultures, even to the present day.

Mural at the Carlos Gardel subway station, Buenos Aires

Monsieur Niclo is not the first to draw inspiration from the Astor Piazzolla original. There's this from back in the day, "I've Seen that Face Before" by Grace Jones, which converts "Libertango" into 1 part reggae, 1 part new wave, 1 part chanson.

Mon dieu/Dios mío. Shaken and stirred. I was tango before tango was cool (or 1980s cool rather than 2010s cool).

But not really.

I don't know that I've always appreciated tango music or tango style. Over the years, it has been fairly well neutered in North America for camp drama and comic relief. I remember taking my mother to a performance of the show Tango Argentino back in the day and once bought a Carlos Gardel CD but mostly I remember just being puzzled by the tango. Sometimes you have to grow up and grow into these things.

And grow I did on my recent viaje "Down Argentine Way," but not by hanging out at tourist trap tango performances on the streets of San Telmo or the concert halls of the Café Tortoni. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.) Rather, tango is almost everywhere in Buenos Aires--in the monuments in the Abasto neighborhood, where Gardel grew up, to the memorials in La Chacarita Cemetery, where Gardel was laid to rest after the plane crash that took his and many others' lives in 1935, at the height of his popularity.

Details about the mural

But tango is not dead, a thing of the past, a historical note. It lives in the present day in Argentina. The streets and the Buenos Aires Subte are alive with tango. It lives in the recordings of the Gotan Project and Vincent Niclo. It is part of the visual and literary culture of the city, the country, and the world. And there seems to be no risk of its disappearance even in the fast-paced and rapid-fire life we experience--perhaps because tango represents a valued link to the past, to culture, and to an often unrecognized and unheralded heritage of African and Indigenous, working class and immigrant, sex and sexiness, Spanish and Sicilian and Serbian, that make up Argentina and the world, and that too often we try to plaster over.

Or maybe it's just fun. Remember fun? Nothing wrong with fun at all. I fully support fun's candidacy in all future elections.

As the saying allegedly goes in Argentina, "Gardel sounds better everyday." Such is tango. And gracias a Dios (o lo que sea) for that.

Sunrise, Puerto Madryn, Argentina

Who knew I could be up this early and happy about it? (Please don't tell my employer.)

Las ballenas francas australes de agosto

More Southern right whales (ballenas francas australes en castellano), this time viewed from the beach at Playa el Doradillo, near Puerto Madryn, Argentina.

The Southern right whales of August

I'll be dreaming about my holiday in Argentina for months to come. Whale-watching off the coast of the Península Valdés and Puerto Pirámides is one of the many reasons why.

Volveré al sur

Quiero el Sur / I love the South
Su buena gente / Its good people
Su dignidad / Their dignity

So ... guess where I've spent the last month getting ready to visit, visiting, and returning from a visit to? Hay tres opciones, mis amigos:

• Heaven 
• My future homeland  
• Argentina 

 Trick question. The answer is all of the above. Sin duda.

Down Argentine Way

"You'll find your life will begin the very moment you're in Argentina."

I'm down Argentine way for the next couple of weeks, a bucket list trip full of wanderlust and worry, risk and reward, excitement and empanadas.

While I'm not quite convinced it will be as effervescently energetic and jaw-droppingly jivin' as a performance by the Nicholas Brothers, I have exceedingly high hopes for my first real vacation in years.

So hasta la vista, baby! But never fear, the gods willing, I'll be back.

Life before the Internet ruined everything

"Schwarzweiß-Testbild der 1950er und 1960er Jahre
auf Philips-Fernseher TD1410U ("Starenkasten") von 1952."
Wikipedia Commons (public domain).

Someone at work yesterday made the comment that they felt "nostalgic for life before the Internet."

To be honest, from the looks of him, I'm not sure he's old enough to remember life before the Internet, bet let's assume so until proven otherwise.

But that and another recent conversation about TV test patterns (yes, it was a thing) got me trying to remember what life was like and what I liked about it.

Before we get too far into this and you decide to brand me a Luddite and report me to the Social Media Police, I do want to stress that I appreciate life in the Internet age a great deal. I love the connectivity with both people and information. I love the community, the communication, the getting a glimpse of lives lived elsewhere--which has always been an interest for me.

But . . .  sometimes . . . I feel a few things have been given up along the way for the sake of information and connectivity . . . and I'm not sure we're any better (and possibly a lot worse) for it.

Below are a few examples from my memory banks. I'd be curious about what you remember and what you liked as well.

• Not necessarily pre-Internet but ... A limited number of TV channels meant that we all generally watched the same programs and could talk about the same shows and understood the same cultural references. So there's your communication and connectivity right there.
• The challenge of "discovery" -- meaning that as information wasn't so readily available, when I found what I wanted or needed, it felt a bit more special. Discovery felt more remarkable. Now I rarely get a thrill from my information and research discoveries.
• I sometimes think the quality of my friendships was a bit stronger. There was no social media, so I couldn't tune into everyone's lives as easily and thus perhaps paid more attention to those around me (maybe? maybe not!). Also, I used to write letters, long, glorious letters, to those who didn't live nearby, and I used to receive long, glorious letters from those who lived far away. Nowadays I'm lucky if I can string together a couple of paragraphs, my handwriting has become atrocious, and almost all the mail I get relates to buying or selling condos. (That may be specific to Toronto, however.)
• I used to read more and create my own, temporary world through the book I was reading at the time. Or did the same through shows I watched--for example, soap operas. I'd match Dark Shadows or Another World when they were firing on all cylinders with True Blood or This Is Us. I admit to having dodgy taste, but fork it, I'd take life in Collinsport or Bay City any day over a real or imagined Pittsburgh.
• I miss receiving magazines in the mail. And holding the newspaper, smudgy ink and all, and reading it daily.
• I miss mail in general. And stamps--although I still collect them. I used to decorate the envelopes of letters to friends. (I'm sure the post office hated it, but I enjoyed doing so.) My personal favorite decorated letter was sent to a friend in Australia back in the '80s and referenced the plot of the Oz (wouldn't you know it?) nighttime soap, Return to Eden. "On the next Return to Eden, Stephanie Harper suffers major plastic surgery setback." And side by side I featured a picture of the lovely Rebecca Gilling (who played Stephanie H.) and Jamie Lee Curtis's melting face from one of the Halloween movies, imposed over a background of the Sydney Harbour Bridge and some kangaroos. (Perhaps you had to be there.)
• Encyclopedia(s) and reference books. Out of date, sure, but did you need the latest information or could you improvise with what you had? Sure you could.
• Shortwave radio. That was a big hobby for me growing up and has influenced my life even today--the music I listen to, an interest in travel and culture, a love for information, a fascination with people from other places and what life is like where they live.
• Regionalism. I miss the uniqueness of language and culture in places. Sameness makes it easier to communicate but it also makes things duller. In North Carolina, grew up calling a toilet a "commode"--very polite and rural Southern. We called the 6-peanut-butter-crackers-to-a-pack "Nabs." We all wanted to go see Tweetsie Railroad and meet Mildred the Bear. I can still sing the advertising jingle for both Cheerwine and Ivey's. Those weren't all felled by the advent of the Internet, but it's part of a similar story--consolidation and homogenization in American if not international culture. Yawn.
• International Communism. Seriously. Totalitarian regimes were at least about something, a worldview, a cultural and economic philosophy, even if they weren't always sincere. Nowadays we get dickishness passed off as ideology. In business attire, ferchrissakes.
• Ditto for "Americanism." We ran rampant over the post-war world but at least you knew what we were about--liberty, opportunity, freedom of choice, better consumer goods, making money, exploiting resources (and people along the way), defeating international Communism -- even if we didn't always live up to the liberty, opportunity, and freedom parts, at home or abroad, as much as we said we did. But think about it--would you rather be exploited on the way to a) getting a washer & dryer or a car or b) for an extra bag of millet and increased boot production in your industrial sector? Don't kid yourself, champagne supernova Socialists: You would choose a) every time. (Who even knows what millet is, let alone why you would want more of it?)

Yeah, I know, nostalgia's for suckers. For everything I miss, there are probably a zillion things I don't--and with good reason. Lack of access to information might mean more ignorance--although more information doesn't seem to have made us smarter, that's for sure. Old-styled Americanism and Communism abused and killed people. Opportunities for "deviant" behavior or "alternative lifestyles" were definitely circumscribed in a world with less information and connectivity. Even being a gender other than straight male or a race/ethnicity other than white seemed rather deviant back then. 

Still, it wasn't all bad, was it? I'm sure I was frustrated then as I am sometimes now, likely more so, but occasionally I feel like a few of my more cherished possessions got lost in transit while moving rapidly to the future.

So take at least some of the above with a grain of salt, a tongue firmly in cheek, the musings of a privileged goofball at 50+, whose greatest hits collection is dropping off the pop charts after a good run in the top 10, 20, 30, and 40.

I'm Weird Montag Yankingyourchainabit, and I'm here as long as you'll have me.

Now 'eat it.

Remade in the shade

And now for a shorter version of my "Made in the Shade" playlist from June 2018. Remade in the Shade focuses on the most mixable of the music from that playlist: A little bit of Poolside, a smidgen of Pino D'Angio, a soupcon of Silvetti, a big dollop of Stephanie of Monaco (because I can).

I think the DJs of the world have nothing to worry about. While some of my shorter mixes have attracted attention, what gets more noted and praised are my themed playlists--shortwave radio, Apartheid, things like that.

I don't have another theme in mind at the moment, at least not a fully formed one. But I'll get there. All in good time.

I hope you enjoy.

And, no, I have no idea why all the images I uploaded to MixCloud have suddenly disappeared.

The Little Red Hen

"I will," said the Little Red Hen. From The Washington Post, 25 June 2018

Well, damn. I did not see this coming.

To be honest, I have mixed feelings about this turn of events, asking Professional Liar and Trump Administration Accomplice Sarah Huckabee Sanders to leave a restaurant, The Red Hen, where she was having dinner on Friday evening, June 22. It comes on the heels of both Professional Ghoul Stephen Miller and Professional Liar in Charge of Homeland Security Kirstjen Nielsen being driven out, on separate occasions, from Mexican restaurants in Washington, D.C.--in this case, by customers, not the owners.

I know people with "moral convictions" will use these events as excuses to exclude and deny service to all sorts of people, based on perceptions of race, origin, gender, appearance, sexuality, sexual orientation, religion, beliefs, politics, etc. And despite the attempt to parse the recent "gay wedding cake" decision by the U.S. Supreme Court, that the problem wasn't what you did but how you did it, the takeaway from this for some is that it's OK to persecute some "minorities" but not others. And some evangelicals see themselves as a persecuted minority. (Hint: Just because people don't like you doesn't mean you're persecuted. Maybe you've made a nuisance of yourself and wrapped yourself in the flag and Jesus's garments one time too many. Maybe you're just unlikable.)

But despite my qualms, I'm impressed with the consultation the owner of The Red Hen held with her staff and risk the owner was willing to take in order to take a stand. I don't envy the backlash she's no doubt already receiving, but I admire and applaud her actions and her explanation for why she did so.

These aren't normal times. And acting like bigots, oppressors, liars, accomplices, and oligarchs should be greeted benignly, graciously, or politely, ignoring what they do in order to feed, clothe, or house them--well, that ended the day Mexican immigrants were labeled as rapists, the day white nationalists were deemed just another "side," the day yet another black person got shot just for trying not to get shot, the day another woman was assaulted and no one suffered any consequences, the day a reporter with a disability was mocked, the day someone had the legal right to deny baking a wedding cake for a couple because they saw it as "supportive of their lifestyle," the day that ... well, you get the picture.

Gay people asking for a wedding cake aren't committing or carrying out a "lifestyle choice." Black people, Mexicans, women, the differently abled, immigrants, and all the rest of us are just trying to live our lives. With Sarah Huckabee Sanders holding this job, stonewalling and lying to the press and the American people, using religious beliefs to justify the administration's often illegal, often unethical actions--these are lifestyle choices, choices that do great harm to many people.

Last time I checked, ordering a cake from a baker didn't cause the baker physical or mental harm.

If someone denied people having dinner at a restaurant because they were perceived to be religious or evangelical or simply because they're white, I'd be bothered by that, too. A lot. And I would speak out against it. I don't accept bigotry toward anyone. I may have to remind myself of this from time to time--like all of us, I have my blind spots--but I'm not in a position nor have as my life's mission the desire to hurt or harm others. Unlike the current crowd in Washington.

In this case, simply being isn't the problem. Actively lying to, oppressing, and demonizing others, making their lives less secure, even threatening and dangerous, then expecting to get away with it without consequence, now that's a problem.

And, America, we have a problem.

We think you should see other people

"It's not us. It's you."

Broken

There are two songs running around in my head these days. This is one of them, "Broken" by lovelytheband.

Normally, the lyrics and the video would annoy the hell out of me--and they do somewhat. I'm old, folks, so the video views like yet another entitled guy fantasy about a goofy-but-you-know-really-just-so-cool guy who gets the girl of his dreams, despite his complete social ineptitude. And the lyrics represent another entitlement fantasy--applicable to guy and girl alike--about how, like, you know, we're so different from everyone else, we're so misunderstood. And yet we're the stuff of every '80s rom com or "teen picture" by John Hughes. Just insert bad-but-antiseptic Brat Pack member of your choice.

Nonetheless, the video balances out the lyrics--it's definitely not maudlin or twee--and the lyrics balance out the video--they're delivered in a sexy, upbeat, slightly wry fashion. And then the music--pure early '80s new wave pop--brings everything together in one fantastic, holy union. Bravo, my lovelies.

I still see a "damaged" Rob Lowe and a "hurt" Ally Sheedy--or some such--in angst over their misunderstanding parents, or their parents divorce, or the fact that their parents didn't send them to the Ivy League school of their choice, blah blah blah. But I'm getting past it. Like I said, I'm old, and this song really doesn't relate to me. I don't consider myself broken. Bent maybe. Bowed perhaps. Scratched. Twisted and turned. Burnt around the edges. Scorched all over. Mangled. Beat up. Battered. Exploded. Firebombed. Molotov Cocktailed. Bloodied. Tossed off a moving train. Rolled out of speeding car. Dropped from a vintage biplane with only a tattered parachute to save me from falling into a river of Australian saltwater crocodiles.  But not broken. Definitely not broken.

And yet, gosh darn it, it's such a danged catchy, and I do love me some LA pop. So why not? I'll acknowledge being broken in order to enjoy this tune.

Made in the shade

Still somewhat of a work-in-progress even after months of dillying and dallying with the mix. But done nonetheless--and just in time for summer--my latest mix, "Hot in the Shade."

I started this mix late last year, in part in response to the coming of winter but also as an homage to the people and culture of Puerto Rico, post-Hurricane Maria. I didn't stick with that theme; I couldn't do it justice. Nonetheless, I will return to it before long. I need more music from Puerto Rico along with sound effects so that the mix becomes a sound montage of and tribute to America's forgotten colony.

Es triste.

Let them not eat cake

A half-world of perversion and degeneracy for us.

But wedding cake only available in full-world.

Hair Apparent II: Days of Out Lives

Author's note: I intentionally wrote "Out" lives, not "Our." Honest.

* * *

As we know, I've always watched soaps, at least for as long as I can remember--and I can remember pretty far back, to the playpen era of my days.

Days of Our Lives has popped into view on more than one occasion--back in the early '70s Doug-Addie-and-Julie salad days; during the early and mid '80s "Fancy Face" (gag) Hope and Bo (aka Hopeless and Bozo) era; and in the I-live-in-Texas-now-and-everyone-I-work-with-is-watching-Marlena-being-possessed-by-the-devil times in the mid- to late '90s.

But I've been absent from the scene for a while now. I loved the punch and pathos of Nicole's (Ari Zucker) storylines throughout the 2000s and followed the delectable James Scott from his role as Ethan Cambius on All My Children to his role as E.J. DiMera on Days. But we also endured a lot of "chain-yanking" storylines-to-nowhere thanks to James Reilly, the man who brought us a possessed Marlena (Diedre Hall) and a multidimensional Kristin (Eileen Davidson) but also tortured us with tedium and frustration as Marlena became (and then unbecame) the Salem Stalker and Sami, Austin, Carrie, and Mike Horton went through various couplings and uncouplings with only Alison Sweeney (Sami) being worth the trouble of hating/loving.

I don't know what prompted me to tune into Days recently--maybe it's as simple as I was home on a weekday and caught an episode, then caught another later that week, and then another. So now I find myself semi-hooked. Not committed, mind you, but intrigued at least. We had the return of Vivian Alamain (Louise Sorel) for a while and the disassociative identities of Abigail Horton DiMera, entertainingly portrayed by Marci Miller. We had a fun few days with Marlena, Vivian, and Kate (Lauren Koslow) being locked in a DiMera mansion secret room by Abby/Gabby/Dr. Laura, whiling away the time getting the play-by-play on Marlena's demonic possession. (Kate: "Well, you never really talk about it, and I've always wondered why.") There's enough story so far to keep me entertained, although I can't say that I really care about any of the characters.

But that could also be said about my approach to TV if not all media these days, whether scripted or reality-based. It's all a bit silly, whether it's Mad Men or Neighbours, The Handmaid's Tale or Isidingo, CNN or Dos mujeres, un camino. I can't get too worked up. I really can't be arsed to care because our media-makers no longer care. It's all circuses and no bread, but I need to cut down on the carbs anyway.

I predict that the revolution will be televised, but the broadcast will be interrupted repeatedly because the U.S. President tweeted out his daily grievances and character failings, there was a school shooting or a domestic/international terrorist incident, or Samantha Bee called the First Daughter a Very Bad Word. See you next Tuesday!

However, there is one character on Days that just might make me start "caring" (or something) again--and that is Xander, played by Scottish actor and Adonis-dressing-to-the-left-in-swimtrunks Paul Telfer.

Good gods in heaven, I would rob banks, birth children, and throw puppies and kittens from fast-moving Via trains for one night with Paul Telfer. Well, not so much him the actor (although I'm sure he has a lovely personality) or him the character (a bit too dark and menacing for my tastes), but his body, particularly his chest and the millions of dark hairs that cover its shapely greatness.

And by "night," I mean at least several weeks at a stretch, until one of us got tired of the other or had to go to work to earn enough to keep ourselves well-stocked in oysters and Viagra.

In the scene above, I honestly don't know how the actors kept their minds on their lines. Even the (I'm assuming) straight ones like Eric Martsolf (Brady Black), no shirtless slouch himself (although not my type at all). I don't think that even the most hetero of the hetero could look away from those headlights burning holes into your head where your eyes used to be.

I admit that it's slightly more likely that I would vote for Donald Trump in 2020 than it would come to pass that I'd do the beast with two backs with Mr. Telfer. Therefore, I'm willing to accept an alternative, a facsimile: Sex robots!

Despite the wailing of opinion writers and gnashing of Twitter users, I have absolutely no moral qualms about this cultural turn. In fact, I am already saving for my first one. Or ten.

Seriously, sex robots could help a lot of shy people like me loosen up and get better acquainted with our sexual natures--and for once in my gol'-darned life, sex robots would be all about me and my needs, not anybody else's. I don't care how intelligent they are, artificial or otherwise. I'm not investing in a platoon of willing, horny, hairy manbots because they're smart and good conversationalists--I'm opening a tax-free investment account with RBC because willing, hairy, horny manbots would be a hot way to spend a cold Canadian winter or even a mild but humid Toronto spring, summer, and fall. I figure by the time these fuck-machines take over the world, I will be dead and gone or at least too exhausted to care. By the time these digital manwhores start making policy and throwing the normies into jail, my Paul Telfer/Xander sex robot will have stopped being an object of my lust and instead will look as dated and dowdy as my youthful obsession with Gino Vannelli and his curly, flouncy hair (both head and chest). Bring it, WestWorld. I am not afraid. This is the kind of revolution I would embrace--likely with both arms and thighs.

Despite this wankfest designed as commentary, I do tend to shy away from these sorts of slavish devotions to actors and their bodies. I pride myself on being better than that, even though I'm not, just more discreet than most of my friends. Besides, living in the big city affords me the opportunity to fall in love a million times a day on the subway, the streetcar, and the street. It's always unrequited, slightly frustrating, but does no one any harm.

Nonetheless, a night with Paul Telfer (or his compliant robotic doppelganger) might keep me off the street for a few Days or more.

Call me, Paul. Write me, Apple. Do not text me, sex robot-hating moralists. We can make this fun, we can make this work, we can live a satisfying life of no-guilt, no-disease sexual pleasure with the biggest worry to health and humanity being some burnt-out motors and a few brown-outs in the neighborhood.

Unless some asshole scientist invents digital herpes.

And scene ...!

This is how I envision the TV show Roseanne will conclude now that its star and namesake has been fired for ugly, racist tweets that show an embarrassingly poor sense of timing and a shockingly limp sense of humor for someone who earns a living as a comedian.

It's a fine, unassuming spring day in Lanford, Illinois. The camera focuses on a small, comfortable, working-class home--the kind we all identify as emblematic of the Real America.^TM The camera deftly and calmly pans, slowly and surely honing in on the living room window, and then passes through to the living room itself. 

(Author's note: I haven't watched the reboot--honestly, I didn't like the original version. Too much yelling. Too much snark. Too much sniping. But I could've sworn Roseanne's family won the lottery at some point. You would think they would have upgraded their digs as a result. And no worries about educating me otherwise--once this post is complete, I will be fresh out of flying figs to give about this show and its star.)

In the living room, we find all the Conners sitting quietly in their appointed places. Each one is bound and gagged, as they are being held hostage at home by "those animals," aka notorious gang MS-33-1/3. The gang members brandish their legally obtained, generously available assault weapons. The gangbanger-in-chief comically twirls a mustache that would have been at home on the face of a Mexican revolutionary as envisioned by racist filmmaker D. W. Griffith.

The innocent members of the proletariat quake in their humble shoes, sweat through their honest George by WalMart apparel (no doubt stained with the sweat of a hard day's labor at a George Soros-sponsored Reeducation Center), and scream for their lives through the heavy-duty tape across their mouths. The Conners are panic-stricken, knowing that to die at the hands of a heavily hyped Mexican/Central American gang may be their fate, the worst fate of all (say, compared to being shot in the workplace by a sexually frustrated white guy with an AR-15, which is much more humane), and a fate that is only minutos away. ¡Ay, papi!

Roseanne, however, has managed to escape.

But instead of calling the police--too Deep State for her!--she heads toward the nearest Donald Trump rally--and as good (?) luck would have it, there's one happening next door, because His Lordshit is in the 'hood, stirring the pot, paying his disrespects to the survivors of a recent school shooting ("there were good people on both sides of that rocket launcher, both sides . . . "), and then will immediately be heading out for a $25,000 dry chicken dinner fundraiser with upper-class (or thereabouts) white gangbangers in downtown Chicago.

But I digress . . . .

Roseanne tries to corral the crowd into forming a well-regulated militia to save her family.

As bad (?) luck would have it, however, at that very moment, the crowd is watching a video about the disrespect Hollywood elites express toward Real America--a highlight being a clip of Roseanne in real life (very meta) screeching the National Anthem at a baseball game in San Diego back in the early 1990s.

The angry crowd turns on her. As they get closer and closer to attacking her, we suddenly see another (?) Roseanne waking up from an Ambien-induced haze, several spent smart (the irony!) phones strewn about her, each open to her Twitter account. Half the phones show the account as closed; the other half, open for business.

She struggles to emerge from her mental fog and rise from the couch. Once more or less upright, she begins railing at a crowd of diverse Americans, all silent while they watch her meltdown, screaming lines from notable "race" pictures of the 20th century:

"As God is my witness, as God is my witness they're not going to lick me. I'm going to live through this and when it's all over, I'll never be hungry again. No, nor any of my folk. If I have to lie, steal, cheat or kill. As God is my witness, I'll never be hungry again." (Gone With the Wind)

"Hoke, you're my best friend!" (Driving Miss Daisy)

"Mom! Dad! There's something I have to tell you! I'm Black!" (Soul Man)

"Take your stinking paws off me, you damned dirty ape!" (Charlton Heston in Planet of the Apes)⁺

"The white men were roused by a mere instinct of self-preservation, until at last there had sprung into existence a Great Ku Klux Klan!" (Birth of a Nation--this is delivered in pantomime as it's a silent film)

"I'm a Negro. I can't forget it, and I can't deny it. I can't pretend to be anything else, and I don't want to be anything else. Don't you see, Tom?" (Pinky by John Ford)

Suddenly the scene changes again--it's not a crowd of silent diverse Americans staring at her during her tirade. It's a pack of wild chihuahuas! Thousands and thousands of pissed-off wild chihuahuas!

They proceed to growl and foam at the mouth. They attack and begin to tear at Roseanne's limbs. The scene fades before things get too gruesome (it's TV after all). Lee Greenwood's "God Bless the USA"⁺⁺ swells on the soundtrack--intermixed with Roseanne's nasally shrieks and the high-pitched squeal of agitated chihuahuas--as the scene fades to black (again, irony!). "I'm proud to be an American . . . ."

Finally, before things get too dark (irony once again!), the Looney Toons/Merry Melodies theme music begins. A cartoon Roseanne pops out of the screen. "Th-th-th-th-th-th-th-that's all folks!"

And scene!

At least that's how I hope this plays out. I might actually tune in for this one.

* * *

⁺Author's note: Is this racist, ironic, or both? Despite being based on a French science fiction novel from the early 1960s, I saw this movie listed in an article on the web as being one of the most racist of all time. Given the year of release (1968) and the things going on in the US in the era (where do I begin?), I had thought of it as racist for some time. To me, it's interesting to view it as another Middle America exploitation film of the 1960s, not unlike Wild in the Streets (a camp classic!).
Nonetheless, I confess, I don't know whether this is me being ironic and camp or me being racist. I sincerely apologize if I pulled a Roseanne here. That was definitely not my intention.

⁺⁺Author's note: And is this classist against white working-class Americans? Again, I can no longer tell. I mean it is poking fun at white America's sentimental approach to God and country, and my heritage is as a white working-class American, so, yeah, I'm teasing, but I mean it, so it probably is offensive in that regard. Again, I apologize--to you and to myself.

You'd be pretty if you smiled more

He only has the one look--and the one idea, which he picked up from a college course on Marxism in 1962.

Please, please, please don't run in 2020, Bernie.

Another day, another mass murder, Valentine's Day edition

"Give Blood" - Public domain

Wouldn't you rather shoot someone than see them run off with your new toaster?

DeeDee Snavely,
A Tuna Christmas

* * *

Let's weigh in on the latest mass murder, this one at a high school in Parkland, Florida. Why not? Or as the President would say, "What have you got to lose?" I'm sure my words will make all the difference in the world because clearly the National Rifle Association (NRA), the U.S. Congress, the President, and America's gun fetishists are swayed by words and moral arguments.

* * *

I've begun to look at the problem of mass shootings in this way--coldly, cynically, just like our political leaders and gun manufacturers' national "safe space" support group--in an effort to think about strategies that might help end this madness. Essentially, it comes down to this realization: The NRA isn't bothered by mass killings because they're actually good for business. When these crimes happen, more people buy guns, which makes gun manufacturers and retailers happier and wealthier. (Hello, Wal-Mart!)

Happy, wealthy manufacturers and retailers are then likely to give more money to the NRA and to conservative politicians. This, in turn, makes conservative politicians happy, wealthy, and supportive of pro-gun policies.

Which leads me to believe that the NRA's one true love is gun manufacturers and retailers. The image of the "patriot" defending his home(land) and his (property) rights, the brave little "citizen soldier," the well-armed militia--these are just ruses to make gun ownership and gun hoarding seem like patriotism and good citizenship. It brings in the rank-and-file membership, the on-the-ground support, but it obfuscates who their real passions are.

It's as if there had been a National Cigarette Organization (was there?) and the Marlboro Man was trotted out to show how smoking is the perfect symbol of manhood, rugged individualism, and The American Way.

But the first clue about the organization's intent is in the name--it's not the National Cigarette Smokers Organization, and it's not the National Rifle Aficionados League. The emphasis is clearly on cigarettes and rifles, the products themselves. All hail the goods!

* * *

For anyone paying attention, the bodies piling up, the gaping wounds, the kids on the floor screaming in their classrooms as bullets fly overhead, should have suggested long ago that gun manufacturing, selling, ownership, and frequent use are not emblematic of good citizenship.

But might this be an argument rooted in emotions? We're assaulted, figuratively and literally, by so many images of crime and violence, by so many actual crimes and violence, that it's become very easy--even very necessary--to turn on, tune in, and then drop out as soon as possible, in order to handle the reality overload.

So we become inured and even cynical about these crimes. Why didn't they run away? Why didn't they stay put? Why didn't they do more drills? Why didn't they report their fellow citizens for fiery words and thought crimes? Why are they crying? It's their fault, not ours, for letting it continue to happen.


In this climate, though, however well-meaning, we keep using emotional arguments to win over the NRA and its supporters when for them--and perhaps most of us--emotions have nothing to do with it. For the NRA and its menage-a-trois relationship with manufacturers and retailers, it's all about the cold, hard cash. For the rest of us, we're just trying to get through the day, working for The Man, and hoping not to get shot.

I don't know how you easily counter the "pure" Capitalist reason of the NRA or the detached attitude many of us have to adopt to survive. Some people are cold and selfish, and nothing moves them to do the right thing. Others are just worn out and under siege.

But some shocks to the system might help. Normally, I would recommend a few well-tossed Molotov cocktails at appropriate places and persons, but then the NRA and its fanboys and fangirls would advocate that gasoline, lighters, and glass bottles should be restricted--at least until they could make some investments in the right natural resources and industries.

So why not use their implement of choice--guns of all varieties but perhaps with a special focus on the AR-15? I'm not suggesting anyone commit an actual crime. I mean, none of us is a terrorist or a mental patient, right? Ain't nobody here but law-abiding citizens!

Rather start by doing what's completely legal--show up packing heat in classrooms, hospitals, at your kids' recital, at weddings, and at funerals; "stand your ground" whenever you or your property feel threatened; tackle Wayne LaPierre, a member of the Walton family, or Marco Rubio because they look shady and like they might resist arrest.

And then if that doesn't do it, get more creative and emphatic.

* * *

In the U.S., we allowed slavery of African Americans until the 1860s, and once that was done, we had sharecropping and Jim Crow's spoken and unspoken laws to keep African Americans under society's collective thumb. Here's where I would make the stale ol' Southern argument--it was a matter of economics (and a lack of concern for human rights) that kept the system in place. There was money to be made and people's feelings to be disregarded. Capitalism excels at this.

Appealing to people's better angels did help reveal the tragedy, the horror, the abuse, and the cruelty. But it only went so far. People had to protest, fight, and legislate to make things better.

I think appealing to emotions, feelings, and our better natures is important, but sadly you can't expect everyone to be swayed by the same approach. They may not be swayed at all. And thus you have to take bold decisive action--protests, battles (literal battles, in the streets), court cases, and laws--to win.

So the overabundance of firearms to me is like the system of chattel slavery--it's abusive Capitalism and what's being abused is our human rights. We should look back to our past to see how we handled the great moral crises of our times, learn from them, and act accordingly.

Power pop

For the last two days, my #EarwormOfDeath has alternated between the Luis Fonsi/Daddy Yankee version of "Despacito" (the original, most definitely not the "Justin Beaver" version, a song I came to like very late last year, after everyone had said adios) and K.C. & the Sunshine Band's (but really just K.C.) 1982 (or 1984, but who's counting?) hit, "Give It Up."

Why you ask? Well, they're both very catchy, and they both make me think of Miami.. And February in Toronto is all the inspiration you need to contemplate and dream of Miami.

There's also the fact that pundit and journalist Ana Navarro (a personal fave for being something near nigh impossible these days--a Republican with a conscience, a heart, and a sense of humor) recently referred to Our Fearless Leader as "Despacito." Which can mean two things in Spanish--"slowly" or "a little slower" and "little slow one." I think it's safe to assume she meant the latter when referencing Our National Treasure of Humility and Good Feelings.

Ms. Navarro also posted a picture of her at Miami International Airport meeting Luis Fonsi. It doesn't get much more South Florida than that.

Speaking of which, last spring I flew through Miami International on my way to Jacksonville for a conference. And, ay, no puede ser, as they say in the 'novelas, that was the first Spanish-speaking country I've been to in many years. Seriously, at the airport, the default language for many personnel was Spanish. I had to keep switching back and forth between Spanish and English to communicate.

So how does K.C. & the Sunshine Band, the party band of choice in the mid- to late '70s (sort of way less ironic LMFAO of days gone by), fit into all of this? Well, my friend The Archivist's recently visited cold Toronto from South Florida and like a Florida iguana, she was stunned by the cold and nearly fell out of her tree. And then there's this South African radio station I listen to, Smile FM (and, yes, my South Africa obsession's still going strong), which twice recently has played "Give It Up," a song more than 30 years old (gulp), a hit when released in the UK in 1982, then a hit when finally released in the US in 1984.

The thing about "Give It Up" is that I guess you could call it goofy, shallow, throwaway pop, but it still puts me in a cheery mood enough that I do a little dance on the streetcar platform at 10 in the morning in -12C weather. Goofy, shallow, and throwaway maybe but also upbeat, well-made, and still boasting a lot of staying power all these years later.

Dear Reader, I just realized that "Give It Up" may be me, Montag, in musical form!

* * *

Thanks to the video, we all now know that Harry Wayne Casey dresses to the right.

Some of us might have preferred never to know, but I would argue that knowledge in any shape or size or color is important. And the more knowledge the better, especially when it's encased in tight aqua trousers.

Canadian content

"A Map of the Don Valley Parkway in Toronto, Canada ..."
by Floydian - Own work based on the map on page 3 of
the Don Valley Corridor Transportation Master
Plan Summary Report, CC BY-SA 3.0

New year, new blog: I'm pleased to introduce my newest blog, And Quiet Flows the Don Valley Parkway. 

This will be a companion blog to Montag's on Fire, i.e., it won't replace this blog but, instead, will allow me to pay attention to and explore different topics. This blog, Montag's on Fire, will continue to be about a bit of everything--culture, music, soap operas, thoughts, feelings, Donald Trump, whatever moves me. And Quiet Flows the Don Valley Parkway will allow me to be (in theory) a bit more introspective and critical about my experiences in Canada, where I've now lived for two-and-a-half years.

At least that's the plan as concocted on this snowy Saturday in Toronto, Ontario, Canada, North America, the World. Ask me on a sunny Sunday in spring and I might feel completely different about everything, from sauerkraut to freedom of speech. I always reserve the right to be un-pin-downable on various and sundry.

Some of that new Canadian content may appear here. Or maybe not. I haven't decided yet. But posts about Canada I've written heretofore will appear on the new blog. I'm even considering posting older tweets and Facebook commentary about Canada to the new blog, as a way to better chronicle my experiences over time. I have had many quick takes about my life in Canada that were sometimes better handled through a punchy post or trenchant tweet--and because I didn't take the time to write them in a longer format.

Regardless of whether you check out the new blog or stick with what you know, I hope you'll continue to enjoy reading and gaining a better sense of me--at least the parts I choose to share.

(Yeah, I'm like that.)