I remember Donna

How did I miss this back in the day that was 1998? Oh yes, I was in Texas.



Or this? Oh yes, I was living in Pennsylvania.



Well, I'm still here (for how much longer, who can say?), but I least found this. A few months late, but nevertheless . . . .

A London spring in Pittsburgh

It's a cool, misty spring in Pittsburgh, rarely above 60F/15C. Rain, light and heavy. Cloudy with sunny spells. Not humid, not hot. This could go on forever, and I think I would be mostly happy.

May 2005. I have London on my mind. July 2012. And Paris, too.

Shaken and stirred

Sean Connery in Marnie, 1964

Yesterday, as I was leaving The Porch, a restaurant in Schenley Plaza in Oakland, a waiter said goodbye to me. Not just any waiter, but The Waiter, this gorgeous, burly, virile man that I've admired from afar for some time now.

He has waited on me before. Always says hello, always fills my water glass. The perfect gentlemanly waiter/stud.

This time was different, though. He held the door for me as I was leaving. He looked at me and smiled and said, "Sean Connery! Goodbye, Sean Connery!"

Now I'm not under any illusions. I'm pretty sure he wasn't thinking of Dr. No or Goldfinger Sean Connery. I suspect he was thinking more of Red October or The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen Sean Connery.

Sean Connery, 1988; photo by Alan Light

On any other day, I might have been a bit depressed by the thought that I look like a graying, bald, 60+ Sean Connery--especially since I'm only 50+.

But you know what? In 1964 or in 1988, there is no bad Sean Connery.

Thank you, handsome waiter. I would have kissed you on the mouth and followed you home if I wasn't already spoken for.

Twin bed!

Time of the season

This season's MadMen musical inspiration, both real--"Elenore" by The Turtles) (and here I thought they were only good for "Happy Together")--and imagined--"Lavender," a recent release by Ray LaMontagne that sounds so much like the 1960s, it makes me want to don some paisley and bellbottoms and grow out my muttonchops. That is to say, groovy, baby.



Hard to believe this is the final season (even if it is spread over two years). As frustrating and opaque and imperfect as you can be at times, MadMen (really, *Megan* Calvet? Trés Montréal, oui, mais Megan est française--ou ses parents sont français, au moins--pas montréalaise, je crois), I will miss you like I miss the '60s.

Meaning vaguely, hazily, but still acutely.

Good mistake

I have no idea what this song and this video are about (though I sorta kinda half-understand the video). But I like them both nonetheless.

Thanks once again KCRW for giving me something to move to, no matter how depressing, foreboding, and sinister the groove.

Kale-ing me softly

Whether you prefer kale "smooties" or kale "smoothies," just please stop it already. No one cares about your sad little eating disorder.

According to this recent article in the Huffington Post (which, no doubt, was pilfered from a legitimate news source), the dreaded, overrated kale is number 8 on the list of hipster foods suffering from overexposure.

Huh, number 8. Only number 8? I would have clocked it in at number 1. Kale: The Kim Kardashian of produce. Never was appealing, never will be.

Or better still, the Miley Cyrus of vegetables: Once a simple, assuming, harmless green, now with carefully calculated media coverage and a starring role riding nekkid on a wrecking ball, kale is now omnipresent and oppressive in his domination, making fun of Sinead O'Connor's mental health issues and passed out cold from overindulgence on 420 day.

 

Or something like that.

For frisee's sake, even the French are getting into the trend. What a world, what a world.

I recall once being at the local food co-op and overhearing a mother and child in the produce section. "Oh look, Nebuchadnezzar, kale! You know how much you love kale!"

Ol' Neb must have been all of 2 years of age. No 2-year-old loves kale. (I'd argue, no one loves kale, but like Kim or Miley, we've been told it's interesting so often that we have almost come to believe it.) No, a 2-year-old's palate lacks the desperation and emptiness of a crunchy mother.

And any mother that would foist upon her 2-year-old a heaping helping of kale is just asking for a visit from Child and Family Services.

 

So try our kale smoothies, eh? How 'bout I give you my even-better-for-you Southern variation on that odorous concoction you're gagging down--the collard smoothie. Made with mustard green frozen yogurt. 

 

Yeah, shut up already about the kale.

The Great Pretender

Chrissie Hynde returns with a song that rhymes "dark sunglasses" with "ruling classes," produced by Björn of Peter, Björn, & John.

The album this is pulled from is called Stockholm, because La Hynde recorded it in my favorite Northern European capital. Now how can you not be intrigued and attracted.

Personality-wise, I have always found Chrissie kind of a drip. In interviews, she's always seemed like something of a prima donna to me, despite her upbringing in Ohio of all places.

But the life of the artist is never easy, I would imagine. You have to have a supreme belief in yourself to succeed. And while I think such a person would be horrible to know in real life, who am I to judge?

Or rather, I'm quite happy to judge, but I'll keep my distance all the same, except, for the most part, from the art said artist creates.

On the next episode of MadMen . . .

Don and Meaghan go to Paris and meet Serge Gainsbourg and Brigit Bardot.

No, not really, but I can dream.

Happy birthday, Ford Mustang. Leave it to the French and Serge to sum up your very American, very international appeal.

* * *

But my original idea isn't so ridiculous. Although I kinda suspect Brigit could manger Meaghan for le petit déjeuner.

The fresh prints of Pittsburgh air

The smell of fear? #WinterDriving

Undercover . . . sure . . . yeah . . .

Photo courtesy CBS News/AP

File under "Who's zooming who?"

There are so many things wrong with this story. Where to begin?

First of all, I refuse to believe that Amish women are this ugly. I've seen plenty around Pennsylvania and despite eschewing moisturizer and makeup, they look lovely to me. Not like . . . this.

As my friend Vicious said, "Harrison Ford he ain't."

Hell, he's not even Tennessee Ernie Ford . . . Edsel Ford . . . or even Rob Ford.

Second of all, as my mother Vivien Leigh kept repeating, "But why a woman?"

Whose bright idea was it to dress up as a woman to lure a potential child predator? Was it the cop's? Really? I mean, dressing up as an Amish man just wasn't feasible? It seemed somehow savvier and stealthier and more appropriate to dress up as an Amish woman to lure the creep out into the open? Huh. Who'd have thunk.

I guess we should be grateful said policeman didn't decide to dress up as an Amish child.

Third of all, as my friend the Gladman put it, "Wait a minute, which one's the pervert?"

Exactly. Except that, for the record, I'm not bothered by this experiment in gender-bending. I'm just more, like, why pretend, dude? Hello, Pot, this is Kettle calling . . .

But I leave the best response until last. Courtesy of my friend Svetlana Amerikana:

"Ladies and gentlemen, meet the winner of Ru Paul's Buggy Race."

Oh, how I wish I had said that . . .

The reunion we've all been waiting for

Left to right: Benny, Frida, and Björn (Agnetha's off-camera apparently)

Glad to see these guys back together again and touring this summer.

But I have to wonder . . .

Where's Agnetha?

A $15 skam*

"I'm so embarrassed to be seen wearing a $15 skirt from Sweden's answer to The Gap."

Apparently "H&M" stands for "humiliation and mortification."

* * *

*And "skam" is Swedish for "shame."

A Parisian in America

The beauty of a lot of French pop--at least in my mind, at least in my ear--is that you never know if you're listening to something real or just some grand absurdist joke.

With Claudettes no less.

This is not a criticism, mind you. It's what makes--in my mind, in my ear--French pop so exceptional. Not to mention merveilleuse et extraordinaire et formidable.

Vraiment, you don't get this kind of crazy fabulousité in American pop, at least not in the mainstream (which, come to think of it, is what pop is). Maybe some in British pop--or at least from time to time. Maybe some others, too, like Norwegian pop star/DJ Annie back when she was doing "pop with jagged edges" like "Chewing Gum" and "I Know Ur Girlfriend Hates Me." Not so much nowadays. Can't see Katy Perry tackling this. Lady Gaga thinks she's Katerine, but she's not even close.

Anyway, chapeaux off to Saturday Night Live and their sketch "Les Jeunes de Paris" for introducing me to the psycho disco vision that is Katerine and Ses Claudettes Enceintes. 

Could it be that Americans are slowly but surely pulling our collective, national head out of our collective, national butt and paying attention to life beyond our borders? Or at least the kind of life that interests little ol' moi? Incroyable!

Leave me alone

From the BBC World News website, 5 April 2014

So, naturally, you would shoot your way to an honoring of your leave request, no?

I know I should feel more sympathy for a guy who clearly is disturbed--no sane person would kill three people and keep on shooting, aiming to end a few more lives (or so I'm assuming). Depression, anxiety, possible post-traumatic stress disorder, and the recent passing of his mother.

And what kind of pencil-pushing, penny-pinching bureaucrat would deny his leave request in the first place?

Nevertheless, the correct response is not, "Hey, I know, I'll just get a gun and kill lots of people."

Except unless you live in the US of A. At least if history-repeating-itself over and over again is any indication.

Thanks, NRA and Congress. You're doing a heckuva job blaming video games and attempting to repeal healthcare reform. Respectively or otherwise.

2014 divided by 1974 = This

Somebody's been listening to their Dad's record collection.

My simple art

My Simple Art Mix (version II--new and improved) by Montagsonfire on Mixcloud

This is what I do with myself when, after weeks of work and travel, I finally have a free weekend.

Enjoy--or be very worried over the amount of time I spend on not doing housework and exercise.

My bad

. . . joke of the day, that is.

It's a fact: "Sharon" isn't the last name of the lead character in the cartoon version of The Little Mermaid.

You're welcome.

My latest groove

Sunny Levine (and if that isn't a California name I don't know what is) featuring Orelia, "Wouldn't It Be Wild?" Courtesy of KCRW, of course.

It's just sand in my shorts that's making me cr(ank)y

The movie's entitled Beaches because they didn't have the guts to call it "Bitches."

I remember seeing this not long after my brother died and thinking, this is the worst exploration of loss and grief and resolution you could possibly imagine. Done by someone who has never experienced any of the above.

While at the time it felt as though I were alone in that conclusion, I was heartened to see years later in an episode of Absolutely Fabulous ("Death," 1994), one of the guest characters lay waste to the movie's "depth."

Sondra, a particularly unctuous pop psychologist from California ("I brought you a copy of my new book, Hey! It's Great to Grieve!"), noted that she, too, had felt great sadness in her life.

"You are talking to someone who has sat through Beaches twelve times."

Yep, that would count as profound suffering in my book. I'd be crying endlessly for sure, mostly at having been tortured by all the schlock and histrionics.  

Beaches gives a whole new meaning to the term "water-bored-ing."