Act II: A Homecoming

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

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

Anger really should be an energy

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

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

Mmmmm, yes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now *this* is a horror movie

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

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

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

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

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

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

Llámame, quizás

Paella valenciana - Photo courtesy of Wikipedia

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

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

¡Viva España!

You've (not) got a friend in Pennsylvania

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Doogie Wowser, or, a two-minute hate crime

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

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

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

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

(Plus hairy men are very sexy.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

/rant off.

Jihad me at "infarction"

From CBC News, 20 October 2013

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

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

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

I'm just a girl who loves horses

Image created by Nurmsook and taken from Wikipedia

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

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

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

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

But ah, heterosexuality, I will never understand you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I gladly claim copyright for that idea.

Love jihad

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

Who knew He was so needy?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forward, left!

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

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

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

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

For the record

Photo snagged from the CBC News website, 25 September 2013

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hurt me! Hurt me!

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

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

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

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

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

Toe tappin', foot stompin', gag reflex inducin'

Screen capture from CBC News

Well, look at it this way, Dawson City. With all the feet that keep washing ashore in British Columbia, you'll have a steady supply of free toes for years to come.

A new day . . . of Twitter reckoning

Clearly Canadian . . . and guaranteed to rot your gut faster than poutine encased in a pastry made from Tim Horton's doughnuts, deep-fat fried, coated in Oka cheese, then soaked in maple syrup and the residue of a thousand melted Coffee Crisps.

Tuff love

Screen capture from CNN

It's true! A good woman without a gun is the only thing that stop a bad guy with a gun.

From now on, whenever anyone uses the word "hero" in my presence, I'll just smile to myself and think of Antoinette Tuff.

Here's a woman who actually did it, saved people, put her life on the line, and didn't make it all about her. She made it about the kids, her colleagues, and yes, even the guy who would do all of them harm.
I'm no real fan of organized religion, but Ms. Tuff gains my praise and appreciation for putting her beliefs in action, making a difference, and contributing something good to humankind.

May we all be able to say that at the end of the day, at the end of our days.

Let the civil disobedience begin

Long may it wave: Rainbow flag flapping in the wind
with blue skies and sun by Ludovic Bertron
(CC BY 2.0 [Original available here])

I'm glad at least the Canadians agree with me (one of them, at least).

Whether subtle or loud, I still support showing up and settling in for a long winter's fight in Sochi.

The pause that regresses

If this article doesn't give you pause about how out there things have gotten (or been for a while, perhaps since the end of World War II), I don't know what will.

I still have mixed feelings about Edward Snowden. I don't consider him a hero. Nor do I consider him a villain. Mainly I think he's more of a narcissist with dodgy judgment. IT professional/aspiring male model? Sorry, anybody that pulled in that much money doing what he did for so long and apparently gave some of it to the Ron Paul presidential campaign shouldn't be considered that credible.

But this article . . . with its revelations about turned off cell phones being used as listening devices, the "extraterritorial" detentions at international border crossings, the need to encrypt private communications and the increasing inability to do so, the geolocation, the concern over physical safety and the psychological pressure to cease and desist . . . . This is extraordinary.

Please read for yourself and be more aware than I have been these last few years. I won't say that I agree with everything stated, every conclusion reached. I have at least one friend who thinks that the destruction of the World Trade Center was a "false flag" event. I still think that and every conspiracy about the JFK assassination are just that, conspiracies. So no, not going there. Nevertheless, this article does open my consciousness and make me think more is possible than impossible in this world we've created in the name of national security.

* * *

I remember visiting the Soviet Union in the mid-1980s and was perplexed and amused by the fact that the government reportedly kept people busy by listening into hotel rooms, telephones, conversations, and more. I remember not being able to talk on the street in English in a private conversation with others around for fear of tipping off the secret police that a local was associating with a foreigner. I remember things being "forbidden" but "still possible."

But I didn't have to live in that. I could go home. First to Finland, then to Sweden, then to the U.S., feeling a great sense of relief when the plane took off from Moscow and landed in Helsinki. Feeling sad and lost for what I was leaving behind--the wonderful people, the personal connections--in the Soviet Union as I took the ferry from Helsinki to Stockholm. Feeling unwelcome, uninteresting, and alone in Stockholm. And, finally, feeling grateful to be home in Washington after nearly a month away.

Nearly thirty years later, I wonder if I ended up coming home to some form of the same weirdness, paranoia, and cruelty. With better consumer goods, true, but also somehow with a depressing lack of authenticity.

I expect more from us.

I'm not saying that I would have been happier staying in Leningrad in 1985. I think not. I don't think Sweden offers all the answers either, despite Twitter pressure to believe otherwise. However, once again, I find myself questioning whether we, the "West," have the answers and the happiness we tout and we seek.

What is this beautiful house? Where does that highway lead to? Am I right? Am I wrong? My god, what have we done?