Streetcar Stories: Black shoes, black belt

Black belt. Public Domain. Via Wikimedia Commons.

A man bounded onto the streetcar on my way home yesterday. He was 40, had lived in Texas much of his life, but was originally from Toronto, having left when he was 13.

I know all this not by sight but because he told me and another passenger soon after he sat down.

"I'm so confused," he said. "I don't recognize anything. I don't feel like I fit in here." He didn't say this morosely but with a smile and a laugh, one part amazement, one part exasperation, and maybe even one small hint of desperation.

I smiled genuinely but as I do so often in life, kept a certain amount of distance between me and the conversation that the man and the other passenger were having. Honest, I'm not trying to be aloof--it's just self-preservation in a world that I often find overwhelming and confusing myself. In my heart of hearts, I want to be open to the world, but the reality of said world often makes me think better of it. As I've said before, people can surprise you--sometimes in a good way but other times in a disappointing, even frightening way.

I let the other passenger do the talking and listening for a while.

The car stopped at Bremner Blvd. and the other passenger exited. I thought, well, I can exit, too, as a way to end the conversation, then walk the rest of the way home. But for some reason I decided it against it.

The man smiled, and all of a sudden, I heard myself say, "For what it's worth, I feel out of place here, too. I'm from the States originally, and I don't feel like I fit in either. And I've lived here for four years."

Which is completely true. Canada is like America's slightly off doppelganger. Things look similarly on the surface, but when you get below the surface, nothing seems the same. It's jarring--people sound mostly the same, English is the predominant language in Toronto, the accent and vocabulary are similar, and yet it's all different as well. Queen's Park, Parliament, hockey, cottage country, Harvey's for hamburgers and Second Cup for coffee, the prevalence of marijuana smoke and no one particularly stressed about health care costs. At least when I'm in Argentina I know the culture is different and I have to communicate in a different language. But in Toronto ...?

"Where are you from?"

"North Carolina originally. But I lived in Texas for many years as well."

"Ah, a Southern boy!" Which is a funny thing for a 40-year-old man to call a 57-year-old man, but I took it in the spirit intended.

We compared notes about Texas, having both lived in San Antonio.

"I don't know what's going on. I spent my time in athletics, then the military. Not like this, playing football, sports, the Army, not trying to ..." his voice trailed off. "But my Dad said, 'Come on up!' so here I am!"

He got up, ready to exit the car at the next stop, my stop.

"I have a question for you," he said. Which always makes me nervous because in my younger days, when someone said this to me, it usually resulted in some wildly indecent or offensive comment in a public place from a man or a woman with few boundaries.

"Can you come over here so I can ask you?"

Oh dear god. What in the name of ...?

Foolhardy person that I am, I walked closer. There were others around, and he wasn't using his inside voice, so I figured I could easily escape or deflect an unwanted comment if I needed to. I knew where my wallet was, and it was not easily accessible to him.

"I'm going for a job interview. I have a dark blue coat, dark pants, white shirt, and a red tie. Should I wear black shoes and a black belt or brown shoes and a brown belt?"

That was the question?

"Well, you might get by with either. Personally with the white shirt and red tie, I would go with black shoes/black belt. It can depend on how dark the blue is but black would be the safer choice, in my opinion. It won't look odd or out of place."

"Great! All I have are black shoes and a black belt! I don't have time to get anything else!"

Yes, that was the question. Frankly, having seen enough men wear brown shoes with a black belt, I was impressed that I didn't have to explain to him why that would be a bad idea.

"Thank you, man! I really appreciate the advice. Thanks for talking with me."

And with that he bounded off the streetcar and headed out into the world.

I lost track of him in the crowd at Queens Quay and Spadina. I walked along the waterfront, deviating from my normnal route a little and watching my back, then arrived safely at home.

Blue jeans sur la plage (Summer soundtrack #3)

From Québec avec summer amour, Les Hou-Lops (or, if you prefer, Les Têtes Blanches, which appears to have been an alternate name for the group), performing their non-iTunes available hit from 1965 or so, "Blue jeans sur la plage."

Poker face

Ivanka playing poker #UnwantedIvanka.

(Author's note: Not my work, sadly, so whoever did this, you are my hero/ine!)

A fistful of dollars

Headline from PBS News Hour, July 1, 2019

Ripped from the headlines: "Trump lashes out at N.Y. governor and attorney general over business probes."

Bummer.

I think everybody should just get off President Trump's ass, at least for a little while.

I mean, come on, after last week's deep and extensive probing in Japan by Vladimir Putin, Kim Jong-Un, Mohammad bin Salman al Saud, and countless others, I'm sure our Butt Boy in Chief is just plain worn out. No wonder he's so riled up!

Classic! (Summer soundtrack #2)

Only five years late to the party. Nevertheless, I'll keep dancing.

Streetcar Stories: Hot fuss in Hogtown

"Flexity Outlook" on Spadina Avenue by Booledozer. Public Domain.
Via Wikimedia Commons.

[Author's note: This text was written while riding the 510 Spadina streetcar in Toronto on June 28, 2019.]

There's a group of elderly New Yorkers on my streetcar right now, two male-female couples easily in their 70s. Footloose and fancy-free in America's hat: Canada.

That accent is a dead giveaway. But who am I kidding? At this point in life, everyone living between Philadelphia and Boston sounds the same to me. I've never had a good ear for the nuances of Yankee accents; it's even worse now that I live in Canada.

One of the older gentleman is wearing a Killers t-shirt, aka The Killers, the contemporary rock group from Nevada.

Or so I'm assuming. He could just be advertising his default approach to problem-solving.

Killer is also the crankiest, snarliest member of the group.

Partner: "Have a seat. You should sit down before you fall."

Killer: " I don't wanna sit down! I wanna go to Chinatown!"

Killer groused for a while longer until a woman riding on the car told him that Chinatown is a way's off and that he should have a seat and relax (as if!), that she'll let him know where the stop is.

But sit down he did and stay mostly quiet. But then his fellow travelers started in.

"Is this Chinatown?"

"Is it this stop?"

Announcer: "This is Queen Street. The next stop is Sullivan Street."

"Is this Dundas?"

"Where is Chinatown?!"

Finally the lady who helped earlier told them to exit early and walk up the street.

"Which way is up the street?"

🤦🏻‍♂️

So lessons learned:

• Canadians are nice, but only up to a point. I think the Canadian woman offering assistance finally just gave up on their sad-sackcloth and ashes routine and told them to exit early. And I can't say that I blame her.
• Americans are less nice - at least this American is. I would have left the car much earlier and prayed they ended up murdered moments later by disgruntled former cast members of Canada's answer to the soap opera (smh!), Degrassi Junior High.
• Toxic New Yorkers are the world's worst ambassadors. And if you need further proof, take a gander the Baby-in-Chief in Japan this week, who has managed to sell us out to the Russians, the North Koreans, the Chinese, and the Saudis. Winning! So much winning!
• Toxic New Yorkers are why we should very carefully select our next president--unless we like being yelled at by confused, irritable, clueless, nasty-tempered, and perpetually aggrieved seniors on a non-stop basis.

And looking at the 2016 election process and results, whether it's Bernie or Babyshambles, apparently many of us do.

Mystery candi-date

Every now and again, I need to see this to know I'm still alive.

This is a TV commercial from 1965 for the Mystery Date board game. In my childhood, I would have given my eye teeth (it's a Southern thing) to have owned this game, let alone played it.

I could argue that I was fascinated by the technology--turn the door knob, get a new picture!--or just loved the music ("Or a dance!"). But, come on, even I'm not that disingenuous.

The fact is I wanted to meet my own dreamboat, not something little boys in the North America of the mid-'60s could own up to. And come to think of it, even now, 50 (gulp) years later, it isn't easy for many to admit and embrace these thoughts and feelings.

But at this moment in time, that's neither here nor there, neither a complaint nor a lament, neither pride nor shame. Rather, in this era of non-stop politics, I would like to make the point that playing Mystery Date is akin to picking a Democrat for U.S. president.

Except even Milton Bradley and young girls in the '60s had enough sense to know you don't give the people 20+ candidates to choose from and expect them to sort our their dreamboat over two nights in late June while discussing health care and immigration policy. In Spanish, ferchrissakes.

So maybe we could install a big door at every polling both and let the people spin the door knob and take a chance. Or maybe we could just have each candidate pimp themselves out by sharing their best photos and musing over their ideal date, sort of a Bachelor or Bachelorette for the Age of Wonk.

And while I know all the good gay money's on Pete Boot-edge-edge and Beto O'Rourke, I've still got my eye on that thinking man's bit o' crumpet, Eric Swalwell.

But then I did always prefer the dud over the dream.

(Sorry, Eric. I actually think you're a dream in every way, but a punchline is a punchline is a punchline.)

I think this very non-scientific method could work. And chances are in your favor that you would indeed get that dream candidate and four fabulous years of dancing--or bowling!

Just don't blame me if you open the door and staring back at you is Oprah's spiritual advisor Marianne Williamson or, the gods help us all, New York Mayor Bill de Blasio.

Right back atcha, bitch

"Does it ever stop?"

I'm sure this is the question hundreds and thousands of migrant children hold in concentration camps, asylum seekers drowning while crossing the Rio Grande, and assorted others trapped in an unforgiving, illegal system ask themselves everyday, Mr. President.

Pressure off (Summer soundtrack #1)

And I'm only four years late!

To me this song epitomizes the year 2015 in music (Nile Rodgers and Janelle Monae as guest artists).

To me, this song also epitomizes the Duran Duran sound, look, and ethos--the band to dance to when the bomb drops, as Simon Le Bon reportedly once said. The song sounds great--it is perhaps a progression in sonic quality--but I'm not sure it's really a progression in sound for the band. I'm no Duran Duran expert, but this wouldn't sound out of place on Astronaut, Medazzaland, or even Notorious.

And maybe that's OK. Duran Duran is nothing if not consistent and yet still remains exciting to watch and listen to, even after all these years.

Having said that, I'll never understand Nick Rhodes whole look. Is smug gender-bending with an unnatural hair color still a thing?

Oh, scratch that. I forgot the era in which I'm living.

People will surprise you

"The Plaque at the Stonewall Inn" by Grace Mahony.
CC BY-SA 4.0. Via Wikimedia Commons.

I'm going to put aside the curmudgeon, the malcontent, the very-disappointed-person that I can be for just a moment to share a "Happy Pride Month" story.

Trust me, I don't do this lightly. I'm generally not a very sentimental person, and I'm not a very good Gay with a capital G kind of guy in that a lot of conventional LGBTWhatever touchstones--like Pride events or every time a Q-list celeb proclaims, "Some days I feel like a woman"--just leave me uninspired. I know I should be feeling a certain way, seeing gay life and politics through a particular lens, feeling "the struggle" and recommitting myself to fighting the good fight and being out and proud. And yet mostly the inner snarky 14-year-old boy in me wins out, and all I can do is shrug and say, "This is lame."

***

This week a friend posted a photo on Facebook from the end of grad school, now 24 years ago, when a bunch of us celebrated by going to Ocracoke Island (off the North Carolina coast) and renting a portion of a beach house for a week. I don't remember whose idea it was and who organized it (not me), but it was a great idea, a way to bring about the often-wished for "closure" and to say goodbye before we moved on with our professional and personal lives.

My only regret from the week is that more people weren't invited along because grad school was kind of a golden time for me. There were a lot of people I enjoyed getting to know then, and it's unfortunate that time has moved on and I haven't kept in touch with all of them. And, word to the wise, if you let friendships lapse, sometimes you just can't return and pick up where you left off.

So on this trip, the friend who posted the photo (let's call him Doe, because he has the most beautiful dark eyes) brought along a friend of his (let's call him Jed), who was not part of our grad school circle, a friend that Doe knew from "real life" outside of grad school, and pretty much Doe's best friend. Jed was alright, but initially maybe a little surly and closed off in a sort of typical Southern straight guy way, very much the North Carolina Bubba with a strong hick accent and the sort of traditional redneck interests to match. (Or that's how I remember it: All I recall is an interest in cars and country music, and I'm not even sure about those two.)

Jed was nice looking, but I wasn't attracted to him in that way: I was very much in love at the time with someone (let's call him ... or never mind) who now I wonder what I ever saw in him--and, besides, Jed was dating (let's call her) Melanie, a fellow grad student, and while I wouldn't have described it as the love match of the century, Melanie and Jed seemed happy enough.

As time passed, Jed loosened up some and ultimately was very funny and entertaining. But snob that I can be sometimes, I just thought, oh dear, he is such a Bubba. I'm sure I was thinking something like, "The sooner I leave this all behind, the better!" And yet in three months' time, I moved to Texas. So clearly I have a history of reaching questionable conclusions and making curious decisions based on those conclusions. (Still, my time in North Carolina and my time in Texas were some of the best of my life so far.)

But at that moment I didn't know where I was going--I still hadn't found a job yet and was likely occupied with my own personal concerns at the time. For example, this trip confirmed that I had developed a fear of heights, something that continues to this day. (The clue: I stayed in the beach house's lighthouse-like tower--tall, narrow, and vertical, like every condo building in Toronto--and felt the room spin and the urge to throw myself down the stairs every time I lay my head down on the pillow.) In addition, I probably spent a lot of time thinking how, once again, I was "the only gay in the village." Nobody made me feel uncomfortable--quite the opposite in fact--but for better or for worse, a sense of being "the other" follows me pretty much wherever I go.

To tell the truth, I was actually not the only gay in the village. There had been another grad student invited along on the trip (let's call him Jot), who prior to the trip I was told was dating a woman, a friend of Melanie named--

"Hold on. Jot is dating a woman? Like a real woman?"

"Yes, Jot is straight."

"Uh, Jot is not straight. Honestly, if he's straight, he's the nelliest straight guy I've ever seen."

"Well, he and (let's call her) Barbarella are engaged to be married."

I shrugged it off. My gaydar really stinks, I thought--except that secretly I was sure that I was right. And at some point before we left on that trip, Jot had an "old roommate" come to visit for a long weekend. And during said weekend, Jot and his old roommate pretty much blew the door off that closet.

So then I really was the only gay in the village ...

***

When Doe posted the photo, I saw that he had linked to Jed's profile. Hey, look, there's Jed! I thought. I'd almost forgotten about him! I wonder what he's been up to all these years ....

I clicked through and saw Jed looking pretty much the same as he did 24 years ago--still attractive and smiling a slightly bemused smile. Nothing out of the ordinary (other than 24 years of living had not reduced his youthful appearance), very much as I remembered him.

And then I saw that Jed had indicated he is married. I knew it wasn't Melanie; I had heard they'd broken up long ago. And, besides, the partner had a decidedly male name (let's call him Allis-Chalmers). I did a double-take and enunciated the words slowly in my mind: "Jed ... is married ... to ... Allis-Chalmers?"

This is surely a joke! He must have done this as a laugh! That Jed! Always such a kidder!

I scrolled a little more through his timeline and sure enough, there were several photos of Jed and A-C, some from what appeared to be a romantic vacation to a European country, perhaps a honeymoon, from a few years ago.

Talk about carrying a joke for a really long time ...

But then it sunk in: Jed ... is married ... to Allis-Chalmers! And that's a just wonderful.

***

I don't know why but this turn of events just amazes me in a very good way. I like the fact that Jed seems to have found his "true self," that he's found someone to love, and that they've spent time abroad. I like that Jed, who seemed like such a country boy, defied conventional wisdom and came out as a gay man, likely something that no one expected he would do, maybe not even himself.

I like that my friend Doe is still good friends with Jed--but then Doe is a thoughtful, kind, and deeply spiritual individual, so it makes sense that he would still be good friends with Jed when others might have let the friendship drop once Jed came out. (In a subsequent conversation with Jed, we both fessed up to having a crush on Doe. Doe was and still is quite dreamy!)

I like that Jed surprised me and taught me a lesson (which I will no doubt soon forget) about making assumptions, about presuming to know what someone is about based on appearance, accent, interests, etc. While Jot proved me right, Jed proved me wrong. I like that Jed reminded me that being gay and being a man can mean all kinds of things, not just the stereotypes that others have in mind nor the stereotypes that I have in mind.

So, Jed, you will likely never see this post, but I wish you and Allis-Chalmers all the luck and love in the world. Thanks for surprising me. Thanks for giving me something to be less cynical and more hopeful about.

Happy Pride to you and to everyone. At this moment, I feel very proud, of you, of me, of all of us.

Banana coward

Oh look, somebody's made an homage to Nigel Farage and his never-ending quest to be top banana (with a dash of salted caramel).

Consider him shaken--milkshaken--yet not stirred, at least not stirred to be a better human being.

European song stress, Part 1

It was something of a dreary, arduous week for me, work- and life-wise. All was fine, at the end of the day, but by Thursday I felt taxed and spent as if by a Republican Congress and still had a long Friday of meetings and machinations to endure.

So while contemplating my existence, scarfing down wine gums (the dinner of champions), and channel-surfing, it was a pleasant surprise indeed to stumble upon the 2nd semi-finals of the 2019 Eurovision Song Contest, on tape delay from Tel Aviv, airing on Omni, a Canadian TV channel devoted to multiculturalism as experienced in the Greater Toronto Area.

I settled in for the program and then made a note of the finals on Saturday night, which I ended up catching early and live on RTVE from Madrid (the pleasure and financial peril of a la carte cable offerings).

Alas, none of my favorites won this year, although I did get a couple of placings in the Top 10. I wasn't disappointed with the winner--the Netherlands! for the first time since I was 13! But never mind that--I'm now going to torment you with my favorites, much as I've been doing to myself and my Facebook friends all week.

Author's note: Updated Sunday, May 19, with commentary. Lucky you!

***

Malta!

Is this reggaeton? Is this trap EDM? Is this both or neither? I don't know, but it's obviously represents a musical trend (see "Replay" below and perhaps even "She Got Me").

No matter the genre, what I like is that it's just a very straightforward pop song--immediately hummable and singable, at least by me. I like the singer, too, 18-year old Michela Pace, who won a singing competition in Malta (Malta's Got Talent, Maltese Idol, ✠ Factor, I don't recall) et voilà, now she's on stage at the ESC.

I think she has a lovely pop voice with the most adorable little rasp or squeak--it will be interesting to see what else she can sing with it over time. I like, too, that she looks like a normal 18-year old woman: beautiful and real, not like she spent her wonder years on a Disney backlot in Orlando being groomed for show biz!

Despite the very contemporary sound and high production values, Michela and her visual representation hark back to what I imagine early Eurovision resembled, particularly from the 1960s: A fresh-faced young singer with a catchy tune, perhaps a bit of an ingenue or ever-so-slightly rough around the edges. Even the eye-popping, colorful, video and stage show, feels like a modern take on Flower Power and Rave culture.

Never mind that Michela wasn't even alive in those eras. She's got a good team that knows how to maximize her vocal and visual appeal.



Switzerland!

*Sigh* Isn't Luca Hänni just dreamy?

Seriously, he has looks and talent, a real flair for dance and acting (I love the whole "pumping heart" move near the end of the video), along with a powerful voice and an instantly addictive song.

So, yeah, he looks a bit young and innocent to be hanging out with these hoochies in the video, but he's old enough to know what he's doing, I'm sure. Apparently, prior to starting his pop career, he was a bricklayer, and I will just keep the smutty comments to myself, OK?

I've heard him compared to Justin Timberlake. I can see a slight resemblance in looks and style, but to me he feels less imitative than JT. No diss to Justin, I think he does well, and I don't fully agree with the whole "cultural appropriation" call-out of Timberlake in recent times. Yes, he can very WBS (white boy soul) but so were the Beatles and the Stones back in the day, Anglo interpreters of African-American music. It's a valid genre, although you may prefer the original to the translation.

I think Luca sits comfortably in the WBS pantheon, but he's so energetic, so spirited, that he transcends the classification, not unlike JT himself and certainly much more than JB (Justin Bieber) does.

Also, is it not amazing how Europeans, Africans, Asians, and others can not only speak in multiple languages but sing in them, too? Diction is hard, folks, even for native speakers. Imagine being from a country with four official languages and then learning English well enough to communicate and sing it in.

As a child growing up in North Carolina listening to shortwave radio and listening to ABBA records (a lifelong love inspired by the 1974 Eurovision Song Contest), all I ever dreamed of being was European and multilingual. And yet somehow I ended up semi-Canadian, bilingual (English and Spanish, not English and French), capable of quoting The Andy Griffith Show and A Tuna Christmas, and incapable of carrying a tune beyond the confines of my condo.

Life is strange, Luca is so far away, and a brick shy of a lay load.



Cyprus!

I call this song "The Revenge of 'Fuego'," "Fuego" being Cyprus's entry to Eurovision in 2018, a song that came in 1st runner-up in the competition, thanks to the Vegas-or-bust performance by Greek/Albanian/TBD* star, Eleni Foureira. I think the winner, Netta's "Toy" was a standout and deserved the accolades it received, and the fact that "Fuego" came in second--a song literally and figuratively about being hot, which stands in stark contrast to Netta's ode to women's empowerment (and chicken clucking!)--is understandable. But, really, if you could have had two winners, Eleni would be right up there with Netta, at least in my humble pop-loving heart.

First, let me say that while I love "Replay," I get that it is in similar vein to "Fuego," a bit shamelessly in fact. Written by the same composer as "Fuego," it mines the same genre of, let's call it, Levantine reggaeton, that "Fuego" does, that "Chameleon" does, and to some degree, that "She Got Me" does. I think in some musical ways "Replay" improves upon "Fuego," but "Fuego" does feel more memorable in other respects. Maybe it's the lesbian leit motif in the video (by the way, how far apart are Cyprus and Lesbos?), not to mention the torching of a Mercedes or Rolls Royce that takes place near the end. No doubt a metaphor for British and German culture and power going up in flames with the rabble-rousing rise of the Mediterranean South. (Not really, but I'll be sure to use that idea in an overwrought research paper some day.)

Second, who ever thought that skullcaps and fetish wear were sexy? OK, fetish wear can be a little sexy, sure--in the parade of nations, Tamta appeared in a fuchsia mini, thigh-high PVC boots, and a crimped blonde bob, looking every bit the power pop diva (vintage Madonna but actually sexy)--but that diamond-studded belt as brassiere that she wears in the video just looks painful. And I am of the opinion that skullcaps should not be seen outside of a hospital operating room or a monastery, especially if they are fuchsia.

Having said all that, Tamta, a Greek national of Georgian heritage, has incredible stage presence. It comes across in the video, but it really comes across in her live performance. I think she does a good pop vocal turn as well, as evidenced here and in other songs of her I've listened to on Spotify.

Pop burns brightly, then quickly fades. Pop is short for "popular" but might also refer to the sound a song makes (pop!) when a hit explodes on the charts. Like fireworks, the flash is brilliant but quickly dissipates and all that's left is a residue of smoke and soot. So all this is to say we're not doing rocket surgery here (despite the appearance of a skullcap that looks like a brain worn on the outside of Tamta's head). But, dang it, I like my musical candy, and this is a darn fine example of the flash-in-the pan possibilities (and limits) of the genre.

* Check out this Wikipedia article (and take it with a grain of salt) to find out more about Eleni's heritage, real and imagined. Is she Greek? Is she Albanian? Is she part Brazilian? Is she part Italian? Who knows? But it's a little sad that Albanians are viewed so dismally in Greece that you have to hide who you are. Surely Eleni's va-va-va-voom-ness and talent should be enough to welcome her into your radios, TVs, and playlists.



Albania!

Yes, actually Albania. There is a bit too much fire and water for my taste in this video and it's questionable to take tips from your stylist who surely must have worked on the Game of Thrones set at some point, but this is Eurovision at its artiest--a popular song sung entirely in Albanian by a powerful voice that channels the Balkan/Bulgarian women's choirs that made the rounds of the hip-igentsia music scene a couple of decades ago.

I don't have much to say about this one, believe it or not, other than I love it. I might get up and dance to Michela, Luca, or Tamta, but I would sit down and listen to Jonida Maliqi anytime.



Slovenia!

This is my other arthouse favorite from this year's Eurovision--a very lowkey but rather stately pop song from are-they-a-couple-or-aren't-they performers Zala Kralj and Gašper Šantl from Slovenia.

(Yes, my international character keyboard is getting a workout today.)

The song and the performers do an amazing job of presenting a mood, an aura--the fact that it's sung in Slovenian seems beside the point. This to me is one of the best parts of Eurovision--that music can be sung in languages other than English and still be appreciated.

At least up to a point--countries can now submit songs sung in their language of choice, including English. It's an English-speaking world, the lingua franca of today, and thus many countries choose to put forward songs in a language not generally spoken in their countries. So I admire that Slovenia stuck close to its roots and presented a beautiful, haunting song that evokes a mood and perhaps a culture, too.

And just imagine! They made Slovenia famous and didn't have to strip naked, simulate lesbianism, or marry a swollen orange toad in the process!

Yes, Melania, I am looking at you ....



Lithuania!

Less arthouse and more just dreamy-eyed pop from the Baltic republic of Lithuania. Good golly, this guy is beautiful and has the voice to match. Again, a rather non-traditional choice, perhaps too lowkey in this pop pyrotechnic day and age--Jurij Veklenko didn't make it past the semi-finals, unfortunately.

But what a lovely, passionate tune.

Side note: Jurij has appeared at Eurovision before, as backup singer and stage performer in Lithuania's effervescent hootenanny entry from 2015. This is an adorable little number with two compelling performers--sort of a Baltic Barbie and Ken but with heart, joy, and moving parts. You can see Jurij in the background, but what makes his performance extra special happens at about 1:35.

"One kiss!" Indeed, Jurij, that's all I'm asking for, one damn kiss.



 * * *

Oh, I have more, at least three additional songs and performers that I would like to highlight. But it's a sunny, warm day in Toronto, one of the few, the proud this spring, and I have stuff to do, places to be, and stalking of Lithuanian and Swiss pop stars to do. So we'll hopefully pick up Part 2 later this week.

Dare to dream, bitches!

Grass clippings with a twist

Mate and bombilla in a calabaza.
Source: Wikimedia Commons. CC BY-SA 2.5

One of the things I forgot to do when I visited Argentina last year was drink the traditional beverage-- mate (pronounced "mah-teh"), or yerba mate, which, in theory, is sort of like a green tea, one of indigenous origin, existing prior to the settlement of South America by the Spanish and the Portuguese.

It's a popular beverage. I even saw someone on the Buenos Aires subway drinking it in the traditional way. There's a whole thing to it--a calabaza or gourd, a bombilla or silver or metal straw with one end serving as a sieve for the tea, and a traditional process for making it. You're supposed to pour the dry mate into the gourd, shake it to loosen the small bits, make a well in the calabaza with the bombilla, then slowly pour in warm water (not boiling). Next you let it brew a bit, then sip It through the bombilla. It has a social aspect, too, with people passing around the beverage to share.

The guy I saw drinking it was holding the gourd in one hand and had a Thermos tucked under his arm. He loosened the lid of the Thermos with his free hand and poured hot water into the gourd, all while perfectly balanced, without holding on to a subway strap or a pole. Impressive.

I've had mate before, years ago, in San Antonio, but I'd never had it done the proper way. So after the fact, I wanted to give it a try, and, figuring it might be a long while before I get back to Buenos Aires, I ordered a bombilla, calabaza, and mate through Amazon.

It took a couple of weeks to arrive. There's a whole post in the making about the complexities of Canadian customs and duties and what Amazon.ca and other retailers have to do to get your merch to you. Amazon.ca works well, generally, and is affordable, generally, but for other retailers based in the States (and let's face it, most retailers are based in the States) is more complicated and costly to get what you want in a timely manner.

Understandably, Amazon doesn't have warehouses full of mate, calabazas, and bombillas at their Greater Toronto Area distribution center in Brampton. (If there were an Amazon.ar, I'm sure they would.) So the mate had something of an arduous, roundabout journey to get here: The mate was packaged in Argentina for the Spanish market (and then perhaps further distributed to Syria and Lebanon, where the drink apparently is popular), then sold by a German online retailer, to some guy with weird tastes in Canada.

Thus mate is a global drink--or at least one that tastes like something that's been shifted around the world in an old container ship for several years. A container ship repurposed from an oil tanker that, in turn, had been repurposed from a fish trawler.

Sorry, Argentina, I love you, and I know mate is your national beverage and all that, but this is the most disgusting thing I've had in a long while--and I grew up on collards, pot likker, and Cheerwine.

What does mate taste like? Well, how to describe ... here are some possibilities:

• It's like drinking smoky yard waste that have the appearance of existing in a state somewhere between liquid and solid. 
• It's like you put a metal pipe into a storm drain near a golf course and thought, wow, I bet this will taste good. 
• It's like you fell face first into a bayou down stream from an alpaca rendering plant and thought, well, come to think of it, I am thirsty .... 
• It's like you gathered together a bunch of moldy, used chamomile tea bags, then repeatedly shot them out of a cannon, then hosed them down with a cocktail made from rancid Lilac Vegetal and Jean Naté cologne, and then made a tea out of it.
• It's like Walt Whitman traveled to Argentina and then wrote an ode to the beverage, entitling it "Leaves of Ass." 
• It's like the Grassy Knoll was made into a beverage that assassinates your tastebuds over and over again.

Most people I gather drink it straight, but others add a little sugar or honey, and others add lemon or orange peel. Some like it hot (or at least warm), and some like it cold. But even some sugar wouldn't fix this lukewarm mess. Dumping the entire yield of the Caribbean sugar crop and the Florida citrus crop wouldn't mask or erase that unmistakable taste of a beverage that I am guessing was originally proposed as a dare or revenge. And neither rain, nor snow, nor heat, nor gloom of night could make mate taste like anything other than the grass fire it is.

History tells us that the beverage originated among the Guaraní peoples of South America. I can only assume it was offered to the Spanish as revenge for smallpox. It seems like a fair if somewhat passive-aggressive exchange--an "I hate you but not quite enough to kill you" approach to the problem of the European conquest.

Hours later I couldn't un-taste the mate.

I think back to the guy on the subway with the calabaza and bombilla. He was at most thirty-something and attractive in that dirty blond German-meets-the Global South way (which I already have a weakness for), wearing a tanktop and jeans. I must admit that he had a slightly earthy, slightly peculiar, slightly funky aroma about him--which, months later, I realize was the odor emanating from the mate and not the man.

Apologies to Argentines, Paraguayans, Brazilians, Uruguayans, Syrians, Lebanese, and anyone else who imbibes mate and might be offended by this review. I know mate is a cultural thing. I know I should be less judgmental and "Western" in my thinking. Perhaps it's an acquired taste.

A taste acquired after a steady diet of Liquid Smoke, kale juice, and the sweat from Diego Maradona's jockstrap. Or mulch, napalm, and the runoff from a 19th-century gaucho's bathhouse. Or roadside weeds, singed hair, and the overflow from the mop bucket used at Eva Perón's mother's boarding house.

Thank goodness all those Italians moved to Argentina and brought with them their espresso makers, wine, sparkling water, and fancy sodas. 

Mate, me mata--Mate, you're killing me. And I'm not quite ready to die just yet.

"You disgust me!"

Take a mental health break with Jeanine Pirro pic.twitter.com/M2d2vHyNdo

— The Daily Show (@TheDailyShow) May 9, 2019

For several days, I've been trying to find this Daily Show video, "Daily Affirmation with Jeanine Pirro," to share with the wider world. Pirro's raging smoker's voice is every bit as beautiful and life-affirming as she is herself on her Fox News hot mess of a TV show.

"You disgust me!"

Don't you know she was a dominatrix in a previous life? And maybe still is in this life.

Big pimpin' on Facebook

College-aged Pornhub star son with nipple, arm, and abs

Good golly, I have been tested this week.

On Facebook, if you can read about my tacky tastes and blunt assessments of our political world or hear my loudmouth opinions and silly jokes, you're part of my "inner circle" list, people with whom I share some history and humor and hold some views in common.

There's an "outer circle" of people I know professionally, "impersonally" (not well at all), used to know (many [but not all people] from high school), and those who can't resist making a leering, off-color, rabidly crazy, or otherwise inappropriate remark whenever I post a photo or share a thought.

I'm lazy and should clean up my timeline, but there you have it.

As you may have detected, I can be ... snarky. And sometimes certain people in the outer circle provide a certain amount of ... snarkspiration,™ if you will.

This is one of those times.

Tormenting me in particular at the moment:

• There's the person who named her child after an internal body part because she goofed on the original spelling. Or so I'm assuming.
• There's the guy who is a champion of self-promotion and insists on using a photo in his media releases (sorry, I mean posts) with the most egregiously waxed eyebrows this side of RuPaul's Drag Race. 
• There's the gal with perfectly normal eyebrows whose every photo looks like it's part of a weird "Country Christian Playboy" portfolio. Barbie Benton meets The 700 Club. Or some such.
• And there's the couple who seem to love their college-aged son a little too much. The lingering close-ups of his muscled torso while he preens for the camera seem too close, too adoring for comfort.

Dear lascivious parents, just so you know, the images didn't go unappreciated by likely-not-your-target-audience. Unless of course you're aiming for the kid to fund his way through school with a sideline pay-to-play jack-off site. And, if so, I need a password!

There's probably nothing inherently pornographic about these parents pimpin' out their favored son. (It should be noted that the other young man in some of the photos--a brother or half-brother or step-brother apparently--doesn't seem to get the same amount or depth attention.) If anything, Junior's fit physique seems as praiseworthy as every other moment or accomplishment in the young's man life, all of which are treated with adoration and veneration and recorded for posterity, in either still or moving image.

We can always assume that a well muscled torso will catch my eye. It's just that there are so darn many of these photos and videos--Junior goes swimming! Junior works out! Junior checks out his definition in the mirror! Junior shows off his guns! Junior meets other muscle men at the gym! So, naturally, I look, question the intent of these photos (Junior's smile--not shown here--seems as posed for maximum effect as his muscle shots), and tsk-tsk-tsk the hapless parents.

Meanwhile, I work out a script in my head involving Junior the horndog's fiancée making him wait 'til marriage, and one of his muscle-bound friends at the gym help him relieve some pre-wedding night tension in the locker room ....

Of course, for all the schadenfreude, I dare not think too much about people snickering over my ridiculousness, ignorance, and out-and-out dumbness. In my own way, with my tacky tastes, my silly jokes, my blunt assessments of our political world, my loudmouth opinions, what have you, I am sure I provide some schadenfreudic satisfaction to others.

Snark giveth and snark taketh away.

But at the moment it giveth more than it taketh--and this makes my mouth hurt from having to bite my tongue so much.

Poker face

A Friend In Need by Cassius Marcellus Coolidge (1903).
Public Domain. Source: Wikimedia Commons.

Random Saturday thought.

That painting--or rather, series of paintings--of dogs playing poker makes absolutely no sense.

No dog could keep a poker face even if the promise of a lifetime of treats and belly rubs depended upon it.

Impeachment keen

Spring is here and a not-so-young country's fancy turns to ... impeachment.

America has but three candidates to choose from in what must be the worst conceptualization of The Dating Game ever imagined by an overtired, undercaffeinated blogger, i.e., yours truly.

Bachelor No. 1, America's Vegan Horndog, Bill Clinton; Bachelor No. 2, American's Top County Commissioner with Some Pretty High-Falutin' Aspirations There Buddy, Richard Nixon; and the man of the hour, Bachelor No. 3, Civil War-era Mack Daddy and something of a dead ringer for my Uncle Lonnie minus the quiffy hair, Andrew Johnson.

Confidentially, the distinctions and nuances of their situations evade me, dear reader. I am sure you will not be surprised to learn that I am not a presidential historian, nor do I show up on evening current affairs programs to play one on TV.

Therefore, all I can say is that I don't think even Andrew Johnson's mother talked about his presidency as much as MSNBC does.

And that's what I like about the South

The Peachoid water tower, Gaffney, South Carolina
Wikimedia Commons, CC0

So a few of my colleagues went to Atlanta, Georgia, recently for a conference. Since then I've been asking them about their trip, particularly related to food and language usage, two of my favorite themes.

For example,

Colleague #1: "I was talking with this native Atlantian ... is that what you call someone from Atlanta?"

Me: "Atlantan. They're not from Atlantis, they're from Atlanta. You could also say, 'Yew from Lanuh?' This is another acceptable way to refer to someone from Atlanta."

Colleague #2: "We went to this restaurant featuring traditional Southern foods ..."

Me (inside my head): *You found a place that serves Moon Pies and Sun Drop?!*

Colleague #2: "I tried the cornbread. I must say it was rather dry ..."

Me: "Then it's the real deal. If it takes sweet, then that's just cake, also known as Yankee cornbread."

Colleague #2: "But they gave us this little dipping sauce ..."

Me (inside my head): *WTF?*

Colleague #2: "It was like a broth. They said it was made from vegetables. They cook the vegetables in this broth and then use the broth ..."

Me: "Pot likker. You mean pot likker."

Colleague #2: "Yes! That's it! They said it was called 'pot liquor.'"

Me: "So you were with our vegetarian colleague at this restaurant? And she had some of the pot likker?"

Colleague #2: "Yes."

Me: "Did anyone mention to her that pot likker is likely not vegetarian? If it's done authentically, then the vegetables are cooked with bacon, fat back, salt pork, bacon grease, something with meat. It's definitely not vegetarian."

Colleague #2: "She wondered."

That thing: Advenures in cooking

My waffles will never be this pretty nor will my strawberries ever be this fresh.
A Belgian waffle with strawberries by Parkerman & Christie.
Source: Wikimedia Commons. CC BY-2.0.

 

That thing.

That thing where you want to make waffles, but you think you know the recipe well enough that you don't need to look at it, but you do anyway, but not closely, so you add in 2 cups of sugar and some pureed strawberries, which makes the batter very sweet, and then when you cook them, they want to burn, and you can't figure out why, nor do you understand why these are the only waffles you've ever made that don't need any syrup, why it's practically built in?

And that thing when you read the recipe carefully this time, and realize that while the strawberries were a nice touch, you only needed 2 tablespoons of sugar, not 2 cups, and the high sugar content meant that the waffles have a *sugar crust,* which is the thing that was making them burn, but nonetheless, they don't really burn, they're edible, in fact they taste good, if a little sweet?

And that thing where you shrug it off, thinking OK, you're a little dumb like that sometimes, or don't spend enough time reading, or you need new glasses, or you were just really, really, hungry, and, oh my, wouldn't a nap be lovely right now?

Yeah, that thing.

Not quilty!

This may be my favorite tweet ever.

The typo in and of itself is hilarious. But the comments are priceless.

I'm still trying to work on a riff involving quilted Northern toilet paper and the phrase, "Does a Barr shit in the woods?" Even though the toilet paper bears represent the Charmin brand, not the Northern brand.

I'll keep at it, dear reader, for both our sakes.

Barr none

If nothing else, yesterday's U.S. Senate hearing starring Attorney General William Barr was entertaining--at least if you are easily entertained by animatronic animals featured in Disney's Country Bear Jamboree.

Nevertheless, the performance of the lead, Lying Sack of Shit Bear, could use some finesse.

Boys with Luv and BBQ sauce

Posted on BlogTO, 30 April 2019

This just in: K-Pop boy band BTS spotted dining at Korean restaurant in Toronto.

Next up: Justin Bieber, Shawn Mendes, and Johnny Orlando seen drinking double-doubles and slamming maple glazed at a Tim Horton's in Seoul.

I have a difficult time taking BTS and all the other K-Pop stars seriously (Blackpink?). But I gotta hand it to them--it's no mean feat to be scoring top ten albums and singles on the North American charts while singing in Korean.

Bravo. Kudos. Gangnam style!

Between Marshall's and Hell

This is what happens when you have no gay friends to go shopping with pic.twitter.com/lpC8uvGgpu

— Mister Race Bannon (@MrRaceBannon) April 29, 2019

Gurl, no. Just no.

You look like That Girl! swapped clothes with the Hamburglar from McDonalds.

You don't need a gay man to tell you to wear something else--you should be able to figure this out on your own, horizontal stripes being a big no-no for us full-figured guys and gals. But we gay men--at least those of us born with the aesthetic gene--can tear you down, boost you up, and make you laugh all at the same time.

Sarah Huckabee Sanders, you and all those faux Christian ladies down South *need us.* But you're just too mean, vindictive, and homophobic (aka Southern Christian) to deal with--and not interesting enough to be around to make it worth our while.

So you're stuck in limbo between Marshall's and Hell for eternity.

And you deserve it, so no more tears, enough is enough, from me.

***

Update: If you look at the original pic, you'll see that SS is wearing bright blue shoes with this ... outfit. Swedish-flag blue (is she a secret Socialist???).

So not only is she mingling That Girl! and the Hamburglar, she's clearly channeling a grade-school fascination with Smurfette.

Lawdy.

Also, as a counterpoint, this could be what happens when you do have gay friends and go shopping with them--and they hate your ass.

Juice, baby!

Say what you will--this is the end of the world as we know, we are a nation in decline, we are living through dark times, ya-ya-yi, ya-ya-ya--but as long as we still keep making pop like "Juice" and performers like Lizzo, America will never die.

Fade away? Well, that's a different matter. But at least we ain't going out without a party.

Notre Dumb-Ass

So horrible to watch the massive fire at Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris. Perhaps flying water tankers could be used to put it out. Must act quickly!

— Donald J. Trump (@realDonaldTrump) April 15, 2019

Or maybe we could teach thousands of larks to fly over the cathedral and spit in unison to dowse the flames!

Other possible and equally "helpful" responses from el Presidente:

"I like cathedrals that don't get burned down."

"Notre Dame means 'Our Lady,' right? Pfft. She's a 5 at best."

"If they raked the cathedrals like they do in Finland, this wouldn't have happened!"

Remember only you can prevent Notre Dumb-Ass from being reelected in 2020.

It's the neighbourhoods!

By Wladyslaw, Wikimedia Commons, CC BY 3.0

Somedays I imagine that at the beginning of winter, there was someone on duty at the City of Toronto Department of Public Works (or whatever we call it in Canada) who suddenly thought, "Heavens to Wayne Gretzky! We're dangerously low on the number of screaming, aggressive drunks in circulation! I better order more from Supply stat!"

Meanwhile, at Toronto Transit Commission headquarters, a similar scenario played out. "I swear on the name of Rocket Richard! We are almost out of screaming, aggressive drunks! I sure hope Amazon.ca can ship some overnight!"

And so now here we are, with too many screaming, aggressive drunks in circulation and fresh out of 30-day return options.

¿Qué vas a hacer?

"¿Qué vas a hacer?" a beautiful, romantic ballad by Ricardo Montaner. Which also happens to be the theme song for Campanas en la noche. What a coincidence!

Half a dozen glazed with a side of forced labor

From the Deutsche Welle English website, March 25, 2019

Goodness. First they came for Chick-Fil-A, and I said nothing--because my mouth was full of chicken sandwich. And then they came for Krispy Kreme and Dr. Pepper . . . .

These days, you can't even aspire to Diabetes Type II without worrying over the racism and fascism behind your fresh, hot glazed and soft drinks.

Even, according to this article, Panera's not safe.

So what are we supposed--oppress some animals and farmworkers by buying and making our own food? Return to our rustic, agrarian past? Should we now only use Nokia phones for communication and stick to non-premium cable for entertainment?

I'm going back to bed. I can't handle being this woke all the time. For one thing, I'll starve.

Happy Monday, but no, not really

For reasons that may eventually become apparent in this public/private mental space, aka my blog, it's more than a little odd and highly ironic that I would post one of the most lush, romantic songs I've heard in the last couple of decades on today of all days. But here we are, listening to Keren Ann channel Bob Dylan in "Lay Your Head Down" from 2009 or so, one of the best damn songs I've heard in recent years, musically, lyrically, and vocally--the whole pop package.

I saw Keren Ann in an interview on France 24 last week, and this song came back to me--too late, I'm afraid, but just in time as well--along with the memory of a concert I attended at the Andy Warhol Museum with the Music Lover back in my Pittsburgh days. It was Keren Ann, her presence, her voice, and an electric guitar, and that was all that she needed to play and sing her wonderful songs, songs that make me feel warm, comforted, and loved.

This is all very ironic, of course, assuming that I know what irony is and assuming that anything is ironic anymore.

Fight or flight

Photo credit: Meanwhile in Canada Facebook page

Today's challenge: A caption contest from the Facebook page, Meanwhile in Canada.

My response: Canada geese don't reach their full a**hole potential until they've had their morning cup of Tim Horton's coffee. Its watered-down taste, insipid aroma, and tepid temperature start the day off wrong for cranky Canada geese at home and abroad.

If only someone would introduce the geese to Tim's Dark Roast and a sour cream-glazed, there would be joy in Mooseville (and Gooseville) again.

Then again, could there be anything surlier and scarier than an over-caffeinated Canada goose? Well, sure, serial killers, but a goose on the loose is a close second.

Ring my bells

Campanas en la noche

So ... I discovered I can order à la carte on cable an Argentine TV channel, Telefe Internacional. Although I'm fairly certain I watched some of its programming while I was in Patagonia and Buenos Aires last year, all this time I thought Telefe was a religious channel--"fé" means "faith" in Spanish but in this case "fe" is short for "federal".

So not a religious channel. Not in the least it would seem.

Two nights ago, I started watching the telenovela Campanas en la noche (Bells in the night)--anything to avoid the 24-hour speculation-à-go-go on MSNBC and CNN regarding a certain report by a certain special counsel that finally has been sent to a certain attorney general who may or may not decide to disclose its contents. Ay, por Dios. And you thought there were no ridiculous plot twists in real life.

The story so far goes like so: The lead female character, Luciana (played by what I'm assuming is Argentina's answer to The 'It' Girl, Calu Rivero) is married to a possessive, abusive husband (Vito played by what I'm assuming is Argentina's answer to The 'It' Boy, Esteban Lamothe) while secretly in love with Luis (played by vintage galán Federico Amador), a man in the adult education class she teaches who she knew from years ago. Luis fled Patagonia with his daughter after being falsely accused of murdering his first wife, and Luciana apparently witnessed his escape.

Luis has remade his life in the big city, but it's not without its complications. Por ejemplo, his current partner just murdered a neighbor, possibly a prostitute, and has disposed of her body ... somewhere.

Another character is from Brazil and practices an indigenous religion in which she has horrific visions--such as one involving her own hand, her boyfriend's mother, and a circular saw. (Trust me, you don't want to know.) I've yet to figure out how she fits into the overall story, but it's a bizarrely entertaining sideplot nonetheless.

It's Argentina, where psychotherapy is common, so the female lead and her abusive husband are in couples therapy, and now the therapist has asked to meet with Luciana separately to get to the truth about her relationship with her husband and why she gave up her passion for photography. (Hint: She is repressed by Vito and her disapproving family.)

I picked up all of this from watching two episodes and reading back story on the web. Language-wise I'm getting maybe 25% (lots of rioplatense accents and grammar--ashá, sho, cómo se shama, y ¿vos entendás? to sift through). As a result, I'm feeling pretty hopeless.

So, in short, María la del Barrio this ain't.

Nevertheless, I'm going to hang on. As my friend Faby would say, "You know how it's going to end!" Yes, indeed. But the journey is nonetheless entertaining and fascinating and the acting quite good. If you've watched Estocolmo on Netflix, you will be familiar with Esteban Lamothe's acting chops (and exceptional hunkiness), and I suspect you may see him and/or Calu Rivero (poorly used) on a North American screen one of these days, should they so desire to make the move upward.

I know people dismiss telenovelas as pop pablum, but this is a cut above the usual, far darker and moodier even when it hauls out a few clichés. In fact, with my ongoing savoring of Argentine culture (with a splash of Chile, Peru, and Colombia on the side), I'm starting to get a very different picture of the Spanish-speaking world, having been mostly exposed to all things tejano and mexicano.

I still adore Mexico, but Mexico is not all there is, nor is Spain. I wish someone had turned me on to the breadth and depth of Argentine and Latin American culture and society much earlier in life, but here we are, at 57 years old,  an American living in Canada, partnered with an Egyptian, working with people from Australia, Britain, Turkey, India, Ukraine, and a host of other nations--and yet pining for another country, Argentina, a Spanish-speaking land that's kind of half-Italian (along with Jewish, German, and Eastern European) in disguise.

Che, esta es mi vida. Welcome to it.

Don't mind me, I'm just catching up on my ranting

From the Washington Post, March 19, 2019

Oh for fuck's sake.

Is Trump really getting worse? Is he really deteriorating? I respect Jennifer Rubin, the author of this piece, but just how many column inches and bits and bytes can we spend on dissecting the alleged mental frailties of someone who is essentially diarrhea in human form, excrement in a suit, vomit with a combover? Always has been, always will be.

At this point, I would prefer far less pearl-clutching and "bring me the smelling salts" Aunt-Pittypatting around--and might I add zero public foreplay between George and Kellyanne Conjob--and more thoughtful discussions on how to counteract and circumvent him, direct calls for his resignation, and out-in-the-open plans for carting his fat ass out of office and into prison.

To quote our fearless shithole of a leader, "What the hell have we got to lose" at this point?

A new Argentina ... obsession

My current musical obsession: Argentine singer-songwriter Marcela Morelo.





¡Disfrútate!

Language is a virus

Forty-nine Muslim worshippers murdered during Friday prayers by a so-called "white nationalist" who cites the President of the United States as an inspiration.

This is not my white house. This is not my white life. Well, how did we get here?

Sometimes there is not much one can say, at least not anything that can comfort the dead, the grieving, and the survivors.

Except maybe I love us all, and I'm so very, very sorry for our loss.

The rich also make bad TV

Verónica Castro by deissertv via
Wikimedia Commons. CC BY-SA 3.0 Unported

Tonight, in a desperate search for something, anything that would hold my interest longer than a nanosecond, I stumbled across the Mexican TV series, The House of Flowers (La Casa de las Flores) on Netflix.

Ay, Dios mío. This show will not be that thing--but I will watch a few episodes to be sure.

This is one of at least three Netflix programs made in Mexico. (There are also a couple being made in Argentina.) Believe you me, I'm glad to see some TV programs from Mexico, Argentina, and other Latin American countries, especially ones that move beyond the Cinderella storyline. You know what I mean: María meets Juan Pablo, María loses Juan Pablo, María wins Juan Pablo.

But, chavos y chavas, this just seems like bad, dumb, and dubbed (¡Que barbaridad!) Almodóvar.

A case in point--Bienvenidos al big ridiculous plot hole! The de la Mora family consists of fabulously wealthy florists. The only son Julián is screwing/in love (?) with both Lucía and Diego, but he can't come out of the closet. Meanwhile, Julián's dad Ernesto has been having a 20-year affair with Roberta, who owns a drag cabaret--and my money's on the eventual reveal that Roberta will turn out to be Roberto--that features some of the dodgiest quality female impersonators I've seen in the Mexican context (and I've seen my share). The family loves gay Diego (he's their gorgeous accountant and confidante), everyone despises Lucía, and Paulina's ex-husband is transgender. Julian is "artistic" (a design student) and does his mother's hair from time to time. AND HIS MOTHER IS PLAYED BY VERÓNICA CASTRO.

This last point makes more sense if you've been watching Mexican TV off and on since 1989, as I have. All hail the woman who starred in a telenovela called Los ricos también lloran (The Rich Also Cry, which seems like the quintessential telenovela title) and prominently featured the half-gay duo Erasure as guests on one of her mid-´90s talk shows, likely way before many did.

If you can't come out under those circumstances, Julián, then perhaps it was never meant to be.

So far the show has had its moments, such as any scene with Paulina (played by the fabulous Cecilia Suárez), a quick shot of Julián's bare butt (played by the bare butt of Dario Yazbek Bernal), interactions with the housekeeper Delia (played by Norma Angélica), the set design, the cinematography, the fact that it's always sunny in México City, and, claro, Verónica Castro.

But sometimes its plot points are puzzling--for example, why does Roberta commit suicide (not a spoiler--it happens early in the first episode)? Is there a reason why she would leave behind her daughter, son, and lover? She doesn't seem particularly unhappy or depressed, at least so far. Rather, the suicide just seems like a cheap trick upon which to begin and build the story.

And I'm not comforted by the fact that La Vero leaves at the end of season 1--and they're already filming season 3. That's a long haul of over-the-topness without la reina del over-the-topness.

Nevertheless, I will persevere, perhaps alternating between La Casa and Ingobernable, a political thriller starring alleged El Chapo amiga, Kate del Castillo.

It's this or Days of Our Lives and 7de Laan, and, híjole, I just don't have it in me at the moment for straight (so to speak) plot and limited self-aware humor. 

* * *

Update, 15 March 2019

So I watched episodes 3 and 4 last night and thought better of the show. I don't get why Julián is such a mess, but that's likely the American in me. On to episode 5, 6, 7, ....

Boy (I've got) problems

All is fine on the home front. Very good in fact. I just really appreciate the pop catchy-ness and geeky goofiness of this song by Carly Rae Jepsen.

Of course, I'm appreciating it four years too late, but this is how it has been: One long, mad blur since I moved to Canada in 2015.

Sometimes, like during the last couple of weeks, I think I'm finally starting to surface after being tossed into the deep end of life's pool and flailing about until I could muster a mediocre dog paddle. And then at other times, like during the last couple of weeks, I feel like I'm drowning in a weird, poorly chlorinated mix of exhaustion, frustration, and grief.

It's probably just March, in some ways the cruelest month, with the hope of a rejuvenating spring on the breeze but the icy shroud of an eternal winter not ready to release its clasp and fall to the ground.

There's still a lot of turmoil between the surface of my life that I need to find a way to fathom and float above. But, in the meantime, Carly Rae Jepsen, god bless her, helps a lot.

Let's dance.

Florida man's secret life as a prostitute

Business Insider, March 9, 2019

People are so puritannical!

I don't know why everyone is so shocked by this reveal, that a woman who ran a massage parlor business and sex-trafficked in prostitutes, would be a friendly acquaintance of President Donald Trump.

She a successful businesswoman with a good eye for talented whores. She knows a real money-maker when she sees it.

Ayer, hoy, mañana

"Mañana" by Usted Señalemelo. Still dreaming of you, Argentina.

Nerdnook of the North

It's amazing what difference a sunny day can make.

On February 27, we had heavy snow in Toronto from before dark until dusk. But on Thursday, February 28, and today, Friday, March 1, while there is still several inches of snow on the ground, it is at least sunny.

March has begun! And spring ... well, spring is just beyond the next snowbank, maybe in six weeks or so, if all goes well. While it still seems a long way off, it is much better than being 14 weeks from now, which it was at the beginning of the year.

Remind me of this when I'm still whining about the weather in March and April--not to mention July and August--OK?