Showing the '70s some love

And Party Every Day: The Inside Story of Casablanca Records by Larry Harris
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I enjoyed this book far more than I probably should have. While it's not perfectly written, it is very entertaining, especially for me, someone who remembers well the rise and fall of Casablanca Records, the Kiss era, Donna Summer, disco, Parliament/Funkadelic, and everything else that Neil Bogart, Larry Harris, et al., begat and bequeathed.

Not all of it was good, but when it was good, it was great, as much for the music as for the fantasy, glamour, and excess it created.

The focus in this book is perhaps more on Kiss than on the others. As more of a disco dolly, I would have preferred more about Donna Summer and Giorgio Moroder. Nonetheless, Harris does a good job of conveying some of what was going on with them and their music at the time. He also touches upon the rise of gay culture in the disco era, not shying away from it, although again, I was left wanting more.

That's not really a criticism. I'm just greedy.

While not a Kiss fan and knowing only a little about George Clinton and Parliament, I was nonetheless enthralled to read about their personalities, work, and vision, and how Casablanca hustled to unleash them on a receptive, if unsuspecting, public.

I was a teenager during this era, a time in my mind's eye, when America was still on the move, when the angst and anger of the late '60s had somewhat subsided and the conservatism and consumerism of the '80s had not taken over. So there's a special place in my heart for the people, places, and events described within. People often say the '70s were about nothing, but I think they were about a number of things: harmony, unity, diversity, fun, working out our past social kinks and moving on to a better, more liberated culture. An idealized take on the decade? Perhaps, but I'd match it any day to the accomplishments of the '80s.

Having said that, from some of the events described in these pages, I'm not sure I would have survived if I'd been on that '70s scene. In fact, many didn't. Drugs, decadence, and disease took their toll.

Thus it's great to have Harris's stories about Paul Jabara, Marc Paul Simon, Jacques Morali, Henri Belolo, Casablanca FilmWorks, Donna Summer, George Clinton, the four Kiss solo albums, radio promotion, marketing music, and all the rest. It's a terrific chronicle of a lost time and place and a loving but honest look at the genius and the folly that was Neil Bogart.

View all my reviews

Full of sound and vision, but not much else

Because I've got a head cold and I'm in a cranky mood, let me launch the first counter-offensive in the War on Feet of Clay.

With the sudden death of David Bowie, it's going to be a long day on social media, especially for those of us who never quite "got" him--or perhaps got him only too well. Twitter's the worst of it right now with people I follow making comments like, "I never cried this much when my father died." And then there's Facebook where one "friend" took only about five seconds to bring in the passing of his friend and my former boyfriend Cali two years ago into the mix of misplaced grief.

Not meaning to be cold, but everything comes back to Cali for this guy. 

(I should really get back to telling you more about Cali one of these days, shouldn't I? Despite the passing of a couple of years, it's still highly relevant. Even on good days, I often weigh in my mind whether he was cruel to be kind or just plain cruel, a mean-spirited spectre in my life that I still find hanging over me, ready to swoop down on my heart and my mind and pick them to pieces. Just imagine the bad days.)

Please do give me a fudge-ripple break. I will admit to having cried some when a favorite musician died, often because I felt they were under-appreciated or misunderstood during his or her lifetime, or because they were simply gone too soon, in my mind at least. Ditto for when a favorite show has ended or been axed. A world of emotion, comfort, and inspiration is lost. I mean, the tears I spent over Betty's fate at the end of Mad Men was quite ridiculous and embarrassing. In a bad Hitchcock ripoff kind of way, I think she was unjustly punished for not being the ideal that she represented, for figuring out her life and her inner self "too late." Meanwhile, ol' Dirty Dapper Don Draper has panic attacks, a major meltdown, and then gets an epiphany--about how to market Coca Cola.

Pop pop fizz fizz.

But even though I thought Betty got the rawest of deals, I didn't stop on the street and share my special feelings with everyone I met.

Intellectually, I can understand how someone might feel all verklempt about David Bowie and his oeuvre. And this certainly doesn't mean you, dear Reader, shouldn't like David Bowie or fail to recognize his impact on your life, and share that to some degree with those around you. But perspective, please: Let's not go overboard and pay him more due or attach more import to him than to the passing of your father or mother or anyone that you actually know.

I don't happen to feel this pain that the world is experiencing at the moment. I can assure you that I never cried as much over anything or anyone than when my father died, a pain that still can bring me to tears nearly nine years later. I can also think of one pet that died too young that can also make me sad from time to time.

But pardonnez-moi if'n I don't join in the mass rending of garments, the collective wailing of "Why?!" at the tomb of the alleged idol that is Steve Jobs David Bowie.

Whether rightly or wrongly, I lost interest in David Bowie during the "China Girl" era. I heard "Just you shut your mouth" one too many times and then Bowie went and said in Rolling Stone, "I was never really bisexual," or words to that effect. And that, at the beginning of the AIDS crisis, at the onset of the backlash against gay people that has only just subsided in the last few years in the U.S., was when many of us desperately needed to hear someone be encouraging and positive about our sexuality and our difference.

But no. Instead we probably got the truth, not the one that we wanted, but the one that had been out there all along: That DB was not gay nor bisexual. That a decade before Bowie had claimed he was bisexual because . . . he was an agent provocateur and needed to stand out in the Glam era? Wanted to make a cultural fashion statement? He wanted to sell some records in the more open-to-the-dandy climate of merry ol' England?

Let me take you back to 1983 when the M in MTV was in full flower and the bloom was fast coming off the raggedly, jaggedly rose of what seemed to be an honest, edgy, alternative awakening. That brief moment in our lives from, say, 1977 to 1982 or so (or possibly even just 1980 to 1982 if I'm feeling particularly pedantic) was quickly turned into a 30-second commercial, advertising Modern Love and deep pore cleansers, accompanied by a soundtrack of slap bass and a landscape of quiffy hair. And there was Bowie riding the Honda Scooter into Reagan- and Thatcher-era consumerism/conservatism along with everyone else, in that Rolling Stone article talking about the love for his child, what it was like being a father, blah-di-freakin'-blah.

So at that point the Thin White Duke became the Thin White Sell-Out for me. More interested in being on trend and clearing up any lingering confusion for the benefit of selling more records in the American market.

Maybe I'm not remembering the text exactly, although a quick perusal of Wikipedia highlighted for me what I recalled best from the article.

What I do remember clearly and freshly is being massively disappointed. I hadn't been out that long, only three years at that point, and despite my protestations otherwise, it would have helped to have someone so high profile not push away the "taint" of alternative sexuality and be supportive and proud of who he was--if indeed he was that person.

And if he wasn't that person, why claim to be otherwise in the first place? To be an agent provocateur? To stand out more than others in the Glam era? To seem edgy or cool? To sell more records in the dandy-friendly climate of merry ol' England?

Oh dear. I'm running the risk of being as it's-all-about-me as the rest of Facebookdom and the Twitterverse. David Bowie wasn't responsible for my happiness and self-worth. I know this, but still . . . the rejection . . . it burns.

Chameleons are interesting and pretty to look at, but you can't really rely on them to show their true colors. Instead, I prefer having something real to hang onto to, to believe in, to remember, to give thanks to, as I take the time to enjoy and experience the people, places, and things I encounter on Life's Great Road Trip.

* * *

Having said all this, I will go on record to proclaim that I like to adore "Fame," "Fashion," "Sound and Vision," "Heroes" (including Ewan MacGregor singing some verses of it in Moulin Rouge), "Golden Years," "TVC15," "Suffragette City," "Young Americans," and all the stuff before "Let's Dance." Those were some fantastic records. If he'd only made one or two of those, like "Golden Years" and "Changes," he'd be worthy of a very high level of pop cultural praise.

I'll even admit to liking "Let's Dance" and "China Girl" in the first 4,999 or so listens. But then you can rarely go wrong with Nile Rodgers at the control board. I think he deserves as much credit for his sound, minus vision, at that point in time. And Bowie deserves credit for his vision at that time, to pick someone who would become one of the hottest collaborators and producers of that era as well as today.



I also love this, "Little Drummer Boy/Peace on Earth," the bizarre collaboration between Bing Crosby and the Bowie from the late 1970s. Nevertheless, I have to wonder if this should have been our first clue about the chameleon-like (read: sell-out) nature of David Bowie.

I've had British friends howl with laughter and derision over our fake American Christmas specials, and then there's ol' Davy, right in the holly-and-ivy thick of it, with Mister Wonder Bread Christmas himself, pretending to be a clueless father from down the street who happens to stumble in wanting to use a friend's piano and ends up singing a (brilliant, wonderful, and timeless) duet with the Bingster.

Just add Andy Williams and some fake snow, and this mortal is ready to uncoil and viper attack the next person who starts emoting over the loss of a legend.

Obviously, I can cuddle and play footsie with a grudge for a very long time. Thank you for the music and the creative imagery, David Bowie. You did make some great music and were obviously more influential to some, to many, than I ever realized. Rest in peace and all that jazz.

But if you don't mind, I'm gonna sit out this global interpretive dance of tribute and tribulation in your honor. I don't doubt that for some your death has great meaning, but for me, you'll always be that pop star who followed the zeitgeist and never looked back.

No puede ser

Screen grab from the CBC World News webpage,
10 January 2016.

Damas y Caballeros, I present to you . . . Las Reinas del Sewer.

Thank you! I'm here all week!

Pink Cadillac

I always loved Natalie Cole's version of Bruce Springsteen's "Pink Cadillac." Having said that, this video is so 1980s it makes my scrunchy hurt.

Rest in peace, Miss Natalie.

This will be

Rest in peace, Miss Natalie Cole.

Snow Day

Wherever you may be, whatever the weather is like, however you celebrate (or do not), season's greetings from me to you.

And the winner is . . .

Steve Harvey at a ceremony to receive a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.
By Angela George, 13 May 2013. License: CC BY-SA 3.0 Unported.

How I wish Steve Harvey had announced the winner of the 2000 Bush v. Gore election for the President of the United States.

Just imagine! We would be living in a totally different world right now. I'd like to think we'd be war-free since whenever, that 9/11 never happened, that perhaps Taylor Swift and the Kardashians had never been visited upon us.

Taylor would be teaching pre-school somewhere in Pennsylvania. Kim K. would be an aging stripper down on her luck in Las Vegas.

But I'm a realist at heart.

Bad crap always happens whether you want it to or not. The key is to mitigate it as much as possible--and to not actively add to the crap fiasco you're enduring. Yes, I'm talking to you, the George "Dubya" Bush administration from 2000 to 2008.

Nevertheless, it's lovely to have a dream or two stored away, just in case you ever have the opportunity to vigorously rub a genie's bottle, are granted three wishes, and don't screw up said wishes. Then you can ask for the privilege of traveling back in time to help every Florida man and woman, not to mention the U.S. Supreme Court, make the right call and change history as we know it.

Early bearded hipster trendsetter, Rutherford B. Hayes
Public Domain.

But if that's too far-fetched for you, just ask the genie to let Steve Harvey announce the winner. First, he would say, "Ladies and Generals, I present to you the winner of the 2000 President of the United States pageant, Miss Texas, Georgina Bush!" Then in less time than it takes to look up "emigrating to Canada" on your smartphone, Harvey could say, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I meant Miss Tennessee, Albertina Gore!"

* * *

Another plus to giving Steve Harvey that kind of power--Pornstar mustaches would be cool again, not beards that make every guy look like a young, swagger-delic Rutherford B. Hayes.

Steve Harvey for Time-Traveling Emcee in 2016!

The songs of shortwave, volume 1

The Songs of Shortwave Radio, Volume 1: Out in the Wide World by Montagsonfire on Mixcloud

Author's note: I updated this mixtape on 1 January 2016 (Happy New Year!). This is volume 1; volume 2 is forthcoming--hopefully no later than later this month. Enjoy!

* * *

Happy early holidays--at least if receiving a new mixtape/podcast from me is a fun gift in your mind. I hope it is because it's all I've got for you this year. Perhaps, ahem.

My gift to you is all about me, of course! Ha, well, kinda. It's another in a series of my explorations into my childhood, into what made me tick then and continues to make me tick now, decades later.

I was a huge aficionado of international broadcasting on shortwave radio back in the day, and I still think about buying a new radio--the kind of set, a tabletop or a highly sensitive portable, that I couldn't afford when I was younger. After all, I live in a new part of the globe, and there are no power lines in our neighbo(u)rhood. (Everything's buried so as to prevent snapping during extreme cold and icestorms, and I suspect to soothe suburban aesthetic sensitivities as well.) Just imagine what I might hear again or for the first time from our near neighbors--Iceland! Greenland! Saint Pierre et Miquelon!

Or maybe I would hear from some place completely different--Indonesia, Thailand, Kenya, Cote D'Ivoire--all those places I wanted to tune in so long ago but could never quite pull in on my static-friendly portable in rural North Carolina.

This is not to say that I was a slouch as a DX-er (aka, long-distance listener). I remember staying up until the early hours to hear the opening of the broadcast day in Togo and Cameroon. I remember going to bed listening to Latin rhythms emanating from stations in Brazil, Colombia, and Venezuela--and have the QSL cards to prove it. I remember hearing Iceland, the Philippines, Bangladesh, Tahiti, Tashkent, Morocco, and hundreds of others, near and far.

My favorites? In no particular order--the Voice of Turkey (for the music), Radio Australia, Brussels Calling, Radio France International, Radio Sweden, Radio Exterior de España/Spanish Foreign Radio, Radio Austria International, Deutsche Welle, Radio Nederland, Radio RSA: The Voice of South Africa (I know, I know . . .), and, naturally enough, Radio Canada International.

A European bias perhaps, but these were often the best, most consistently received stations where I lived at the time.

Which came first--My interest in the world outside of where I lived or my enthusiasm for shortwave, which led to an interest in the world elsewhere? I would say the former. I mean, how many kids were in the second grade trying to borrow books on Sweden from their small-town public library? Not many, at least not in North Carolina in the 1960s and '70s. Some days I truly feel for my parents. What a bafflement I must have put them through with the constant arrival of letters and packets of information from the Soviet Union, Germany, Japan, South Africa, and Australia.

I still yearn for those days of uncomplicated childhood, when my only "responsibility" was to listen to shortwave, learn about different cultures and perspectives, write some letters to radio stations (or penpals), and receive mail from all over the world.

Those days are mostly gone, I fear. Who writes letters anymore? I can barely send out Christmas cards. I still listen and watch international broadcasting, but it's all internet-based, whether on my computer, my phone, my Kindle, or my Roku.

Now at least I can hear the content without squelch and static, the jamming and knob-twiddling, but the serendipity, the happenstance, the fun, are somewhat lacking. Where's the challenge if all you have to do is go to a URL, an app, or a channel? Tuning in--figuring out the frequency, realizing the time difference, setting the dial just right, and hoping against hope that some other undesired station didn't bleed into the broadcast you wanted to hear--was an adventure.

So this mix and the previous podcast I did are ways for me to hark back to that time but also to celebrate its positive influence on my life. I might never had ventured out of North Carolina and moved to Texas, let alone Canada, without my shortwave radio. I might never have been open to meeting and falling in love with a truly lovely man from Egypt. I might never have learned about music--and international communism!


* * *

Now about these tunes . . .

In most cases, I think they speak for themselves, that is to say, there is a clear connection between the signature tune and the song played. In other cases, not so much. So below you'll find an annotated playlist in which I try to explain myself and where my mind was when I made my choices.

1) "Oranges and Lemons - the Bells of St. Clement's" and 2) the BBC Caribbean relay station version of "Oranges and Lemons."

This is immediately followed by 3) the tonal "B-B-C" interval signal, enchanting and slightly haunting, mixed with 4) the BBC "V" interval signal, mixed with 5) the BBC World Service bells.

Radio RSA QSL card. Author's collection.

6) A version of "Lillibulero" was (and maybe still is) featured at the top of the hour of most BBC World Service broadcasts.

7) "London Calling" by the Clash: Again, another popular song that seems inspired by the world of international broadcasting. I first heard the Clash on the BBC World Service Top 20 or A Jolly Good Show, can't remember which now.

8) Radio RSA: The Voice of South Africa - interval signal and announcement: My favorite signature tune and possibly the most beautiful one ever created. For a moment put aside the racist Apartheid regime that created the tune to lure you in. It is still a gorgeous melody played simply and lushly. It's probably single-handedly responsible for my life-long fascination with Afrikaans and Afrikaner South Africa. (Other connections: Dutch colonial expansion led directly to the unique culture and grinding problems of contemporary South Africa.)

9) Toni & Jan: A modern interpretation of the folk tune, "Ver in die Wereld, Kittie," upon which the signature tune is based. It doesn't compare all that favorably to the original in my mind. Thus I'd love to hear remake played as slowly and sparingly as the original interval signal.

10) and 11): Two versions of "Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika" ("God Bless Africa"), the new, post-Apartheid national anthem of South Africa. 10) is by the Mahotella Queens and 11) by Beston Barnett.

12) Radio-Télévision Guinéenne interval signal and opening: If I'm going to celebrate Afrikaner culture, I'm going to have to balance things out by celebrating post-colonial African culture as well. Guinea--home at one point to Pan-Africanist revolutionary Stokely Carmichael and performer, activist, and South African ex-pat, Miriam Makeba.

13) "Alpha Yaya" by Bako Dagnon: I don't know the history of this song, other than it's considered a "heroic" song and may or may not be sort of a Guinean, post-colonial African anthem. It seems like a good balance to anything inspired by Radio RSA.

14) Interval signal and announcement for the general overseas service of All India Radio. A broadcaster I was only able to listen to sporadically over the years, but one with a mystical, unmistakable interval signal.

15) Dissidenten - "All India Radio": Not a song from that era--I don't even remember how I first heard about Dissidenten--but part of my interest in exploring (the world, world music) I suspect. The title makes it seem as though I wasn't alone in being fascinated by foreign radio broadcasts.

Radio Japan QSL card. Author's collection.

16) Interval signal for Radio Japan, 17) "Kazoe Uta," and 18) "Sakura, Sakura": Apparently, Radio Japan used "Kazoe Uta," described as a Japanese children's counting song, as the interval signal for its international broadcasts, but it also used "Sakura, Sakura" ("Cherry Blossoms") for others. I have no idea which this is, and I have no clear sense of whether the "Kazoe Uta" and "Sakura, Sakura" selected are matches to the signature tune. Nevertheless, it's an attempt to pay homage to the beauty and significance of Japanese culture. I never listened much to the Radio Beijing or Radio China International, so I have nothing to offer from there in this mix. Maybe in volume 2 . . . .

19) Radio Australia interval signal and the laughing kookaburra, along with 20) "Waltzing Matilda" by the Seekers: Again, here's another case where I find the interval signal more enjoyable than the folk tune upon which it is based. Oh well.

21) The interval signal for l'Office de Radiodiffusion-Télévision Française (ORTF) in Tahiti, unforgettable with its South Pacific rapid-fire drumming, one I often heard in the evening in North America.

22) The bird-chirping interval signal and opening anthem of Radio New Zealand.

Moving on to the Nordic world, I offer in rapid succession the following: The haunting interval signal for 23) Radio Norway, followed by the one for 24) YLE Radio Finland. That is followed by the interval signal for 25) Rikisutvarpid, the national broadcaster of Iceland, with 26) Radio Denmark up next. And that is followed by 27) Radio Greenland, a station that I think I heard once or twice way back in the day but one that I was never able to clearly identify.

28) Radio Sweden interval signal and opening: The "classic" broadcast opening featuring notes from the song, "Storm och böljar tystna ren . . . ," and Hugo Alfvén's "Swedish Rhapsody."

Radio Sweden QSL card. Author's collection.

29) A longer, instrumental version of "Storm och böljar" performed by Tomas Blank and the Göteborgs Symfonietta, followed by 30) Ralph Lundsten's "Out in the Wide World," the song that eventually replaced the classic Radio Sweden interval signal and broadcast opening. I like it, quite a lot actually, but I still prefer the 1970s version.

Is Canada a Nordic station? Some would say yes, but then we might have to examine what is meant by the term "Nordic." For the purposes of this mixtape, I'm lumping 31) Radio Canada International's interval signal, the first four notes of "O, Canada," with the other Nordic national and international broadcasters.  This is where my intense like affair with Canada didn't so much begin but was greatly encouraged and strengthened. (My stamp collection and the GAF Viewmaster slides of Canada I received as a birthday gift are also to blame for my Canada crush.)

32) "Vive la Canadienne" and 33) "Les Montréalais": Two songs that were featured in Radio Canada International's broadcasts in the 1970s. This exact recording of "Vive la Canadienne" was used to open the broadcast, while this exact recording of "Les Montréalais" was used as part of the closing. Where my love affair with Montréal all began.

Next we transition to the Benelux countries (minus the 'Lux): 34), 35), 36), and 37) are various interval signals from various versions of Radiodiffusion-Télévision Belge (RTB) and Belgische Radio en Televisie (BRT), the French and Dutch broadcasters, respectively, of bilingual Belgium.

BRT often used versions of the Dutch folk song, 38) "Kwezelken" for it's interval signals. You can clearly hear this in 37) but also in 35) if you pay close attention. Meanwhile, RTB used versions of the song 39) "Où peut-on être mieux . . . ?" for its interval signal. Why can't we all just get along?

40) Radio Netherlands - interval signal and opening: One of the first international broadcasters I ever listened to. The interval signal and opening are far more stilted than the broadcasts that used to and still emanate from Hilversum.

41) Ben van Bergen and the Voices Inside My Head: A modern interpretation of "Merck Toch Hoe Sterck," the Radio Netherlands signature tune. 

42) Voice of Spain interval signal and opening: I always think of this as Radio Exterior de España or the awkwardly named Spanish Foreign Radio. "Radio Spain International" never seemed to be a workable option.

REE pennant. Author's collection.

43) The Spotnicks - "Spanish Gypsy Dance": A popular version of "España cañi" or "Gypsy Spain," a paso doble composed by Pascual Marquina Narro, a piece of music that always makes one think of Spain. (I might also suggest anything by Miles Davis's Sketches of Spain LP.)

44) Interval signal for RAE, Radiodifusión Argentina al Exterior: An incredibly long opening. Apparently the interval signal features the first few notes of "Mi Buenos Aires querido," although I struggle a bit to hear it.

Next up, two versions of "Mi Buenos Aires querido," 45) by Daniel Barenboim, Rodolfo Mederos, and Héctor Console and 46) a piece of chill wallpaper by La Fonda Tango Club. The original is by famed Argentine tango composer, Carlos Gardel. My Gardel CDs are still locked in a storage bin in Pittsburgh (no, really), so we'll have to "make do" with these contemporary versions.

And to round everything out (with a hint of what's to come in volume 2), I conclude the mixtape with 47) Radio Havana Cuba's interval signal and opening, plus 48) the Red Army Choir performing "La marcha del 26 de julio." Radio Havana's interval signal features the opening notes of this march. 

Comrades, let the Revolution begin! Forward left to volume 2, coming soon to a MixCloud near you.

¡Ølé!

It's just the holidays as usual in our casita in the Toronto suburbs.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas, all--and just try not to think about what an unrepentant quisling Sonja Henie apparently was. Why spoil all our good cheer with the blunt-force trauma of that reality?

¡Olé!

I'm sure he meant to say this

So I fixed it for him.

Thanks to today's New York Times for recording all the news that's fit to print--but even the NYT has to make the occasional correction.

Mo' money, mo' proverbs

"Ben Carson by Gage Skidmore 7" by Gage Skidmore.
Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Commons.

"I don't know what they want from me/
It's like the mo' money we come across/
The mo' problems we see/"

* * *

Or "poverbs" as the case may be.

I'm trying to be a good human and not infringe someone else's copyright, so please understand when I insist that you follow this link.

And where does this link take one? To The Guardian's recent photo essay, "Ben Carson's House: A Homage to Himself in Pictures."

Goodness knows, there is so much I could say about Dr. Carson, the least damning being that apparently it is indeed brain surgery, that is to say, everything including brain surgery must be pretty darned simple if the presumably Xanax-addled Dr. Carson can do it.

I write this--and the rather cheeky post title--at my peril. I do not want to ever be seen as criticizing Ben Carson in a way that could be perceived as racist--and the post title is admittedly pushing the very vanilla envelope. (Editor's note: Yes, I know it's manila.) But good lordy, Ben Carson's stupidity transcends race, gender, faith, sexuality, culture, income, and a squillion other potential ways to be bigoted.

I could go on for days about his, Donald Trump's, or any other Republican candidate for president's suitability for office. But let's just simply say that they are not suitable, are in fact embarrassingly ignorant, and yet are "intelligent" enough to be able to push their fellow ignorati and illiterati's Velcro snaps to a frighteningly intolerant and reactionary level.

And yet . . . I just can't muster the energy to rail and rage on about any of them. These whores are simply not worth the attention they're demanding and receiving. While they need to be watched carefully, they do not need to be taken as seriously as they take themselves, that they have anything serious or worthy to contribute to humanity.

Admittedly, I live in Canada now, and I give slightly less of a fig about life in the U.S. than I used to. Oh, I feel the stings of the slings and arrows of stupidity launched by certain culture warriors and their goosesteppin' citizen soldiers. And I worry, worry, worry about my family and friends back home, who deserve so much better, as do most Americans. (Truly.) In a perfect world, I'd be living in the U.S. (but not in Pittsburgh, please, God, never again . . .), enjoying life and work as best as one can until retirement.

But here in Canada I have a lovely boyfriend, I get paid more, I have been able to progress in my career, and I don't worry so much about getting assassinated by loose-cannon, gun-crazy white guys anytime I enter a movie theater, restaurant, or office building.

From here I can appreciate the positives about living in the U.S., of which there are many--a rich culture, a gregarious approach to life, and far better shopping being the ones that come to mind at the moment.

Safety and income equality are not two of its better qualities, unfortunately.

So for now I'm staying put, wishing others well, keeping my citizenship so that I can vote in the next election, and praying (yes, literally) that the Ben Carsons and the Donald Trumps become infected by a raging case of humility and never fully recover.

* * *



All rise for the National Anthem.

A bit about my thinking behind the title of this post: Yes, of course, it refers to "Mo' Money, Mo' Problems" by the late Notorious B.I.G., one of the better songs to come out of the 1990s, in my humble opining, of which there were few, in my humble opinion Part Duh.

The post title also alludes to a situation when you have too much money and not enough class, talent, humility, or self-knowledge to know how to behave.

The case in point: Dr. Ben Carson and his house of horrid decor, perhaps best exemplified by Example A) a quote from "Poverbs" chiseled into a marble wall and Example B) a "selfie" of Ben with freakin' Jesus.

What, God was too busy that day to allow Leonardo Da Vinci to paint him with Ben? A missed opportunity for another lesson in ironic humility, that.

In the morning

Canada's own The Good Lovelies with "In the Morning."

Happy Monday, universe.

Literally golden hominy

Don't let my mild-to-moderate sarcasm deceive you: I enjoy living in Canada. However, it's perhaps taken me until recently to begin to acclimate to this midlife adventure I'm now 4+ months into.

That's not to say anything against Canada or Canadians. I expected more animosity toward my Americanness and wondered if I'd be perceived as taking a good job away from a hard-working Canadian. Something that you might hear someone (usually an idiot politician and his or her know-nothing followers) say back home. But so far, so very good. People are generally friendly here, even in a big city like Toronto, although I wouldn't say uniformly polite, as the stereotype goes. All bets are off on the daily commute, which can be fierce. I don't know that I've made any friends outside of home, but I feel like I could if I wanted to. I just have to find the time and get myself more organized to do so.

And there has been a lot to organize and take care of since I arrived here on Canada Day, July 1, 2015. The commute. The job. Home life with my boyfriend/partner/significant other/whatever the term may be when you read this in five years' time. Paperwork and lots of it: The work permit (golden ticket número un), my SIN (social insurance number), pension forms, a Presto card, chequing (yes, chequing) and savings accounts, credit cards, a cellphone plan, a Magic Jack plan just in case anyone from the States ever wants to call me; an Ontario driver's license, car insurance, car inspections and registration (something I'm still not done with), passport renewal, and golden ticket número deux, the coveted Ontario Health Insurance Plan (OHIP) identification card, aka free health care.

All while spending 11 to 12 hours a day going to, at, or coming from work, in a country that despite the big spaces and great distances, still operates small: Most business happens 9 to 5, Monday through Friday. Things like insurance agencies are closed in the evenings and on weekends, although banks to their credit do a great job of being open almost all day on Saturdays. And, goodness, they take holidays seriously and give most everyone, even salespeople the day off. Many stores and some malls were closed on Labour (yes, Labour) Day, for instance.

I've managed most of it, except for car inspection and registration, which I hope to accomplish this month. Then I get to do a sort of system reboot in the new year, when I apply for permanent residency, which will ultimately mean different paperwork to complete. But first things first: I have to pass an English-language competency test in order to apply for permanent residency. And it will only cost me the bargain price of $265 CAD to do so.

Obviously the credentials from two American universities, the same that I had to present in order to get my work permit, mean next to nothing in terms of my functionaly literacy in my mother tongue.

The Catch 22 of Canadian bureaucracy aside, there are minor struggles. Spelling and language usage continue to confuse me, so maybe an English test is in order after all. Canadian English is like listening to an old familiar tune that suddenly strikes a . . . let's say "different" rather than "wrong" or "sour" note. It's bi-ling-ew-ul" and "proh-cess" and "proh-ject" and "ah-gainst" and "ree-zource," sometimes all in the same sentence. I'm gradually losing the sense of not so much what constitutes an American spelling but what is a Canadian versus a British versus an American spelling. At the moment I consider myself very much an American living in Canada, not a wannabe Canadian, as I might have desired 10 years ago. But I try to get along, so I'm gradually inserting some extra u's and -re's into every other word, whether they require it or not.

I'm having trouble with my tongue in more ways than one: Continuing to represent challenges are shopping and eating, two of my favorite pastimes.

In a previous post, I discussed the disconnect of shopping in Canada: How Wal-Mart is more like Target and thus not such a shameful experience as it is in the U.S. A couple of months later, and I find myself still confused. Holt Renfrew and Ogilvy are still too high-end for me, and in Toronto, Nordstrom and Saks are about to enter the market, making me outclassed in two countries and cultures. Simon is still planning to move into the TO market from Montreal, which would have been welcome six years ago when I could fit into their men's wear.

Speaking of shamefulness, I kinda miss Marshall's/Ross/T.J. Maxx, and I definitely miss DSW Shoe Warehouse, which I could use right about now, as fall sets in, and I long for a pair of half-boots to protect my tootsies from the rain. I've yet to bring myself to enter a Winners. That's just so wrong.

It's not just the stores and the schedules, though; the products are different, too. Let's start with the most important meal of the day, coffee: Peet's Coffee, my go-to brand in the States is so far, nonexistent. Ditto for Chobani Yogurt. The cereal aisle at the local supermarket is decidedly smaller, although I've managed to find overpriced Bran Buds and reasonably priced Quaker Oat Squares, along with a lot of the Kashi cereals. But then there are cereals like Vector by Kellogg's that sounds like something that would cause bodily harm if poured into the bowl the wrong way.

Despite the prevalence of a highly diverse population, even (or especially) in the suburbs, I have tried three supermarkets and come up anchovy-less--although if you need multi-flavored sardines, conger eel, or octopus in a can, I'm your man. Perhaps I'm misremembering this, but anchovies seemed pretty much a supermarket staple in the States. I'm not saying everybody or anybody much eats them, but you can find them at least. The Caesar salad situation in this nation is at crisis level, as you might imagine.

Southern food, Texas foods, and Mexican foods are also in very short supply, and even when you find them, you often end up with a brand you've never heard of or not exactly the product you're used to.

Grits, white corn? Check, finally found some at the local Loblaws, one variety by a firm named Ferma, a purveyor of Portuguese fine foods based in Montreal, tucked away in an odd amalgam of Asian, Indian, and Latin American foods. Hominy, golden? No, sorry, how about white corn hominy instead? Yes, that will do for pozole, which I'm making for dinner tonight (although experimenting by using chicken instead of pork, given the boyfriend's background). I could only find Goya brand, which I'm familiar with from my days in Texas, but none by any of the more Southern food purveyors that form my cultural strong suit.

Chipotle peppers in adobo sauce? Yes, but barely, intermingled with the red and green chile sauces, courtesy of La Costeña brand, another one I'm less certain of. Hatch green chiles from New Mexico? Well, yes, but only because I stocked up on them via Amazon before I left home. They've come in handy more than once, including for some impromptu Canada Votes election night nachos this past October 19.

None of this is bad, mind you, nor a deal-breaker nor any real hardship, of course. I'm starting to appreciate the prevalence of Lavazza coffee, both ground and whole bean, in the supermarket, and I'm starting to think the whole Chobani thing is one big, $1.50 per container scam. We have a brand of Greek yogurt in Canada, Skotidakis, that actually tastes and mouth-feels (if I must) like Greek yogurt--tart, thick, substantive--to which you can add honey or jam à la Fage. And if you don't like Greek active, then how about French passive in the form of Quebec's own Liberté brand? It's quite and quietly excellent.

Truth be told, I was troubled by the lack of access to grits, however, as well as hominy. Not that I ate either every day back home, but I knew I could get them when I wanted them, even in Pittsburgh. And then suddenly I could not.

And no matter how grim and horrid the Mexican food offerings were in Pittsburgh (and they were scandalously caca-esque), I knew I could find the good stuff somewhere, by visiting a Mexican store, asking for CARE packages from friends in Texas, or shopping on Amazon. While we have our very own Amazon.ca, import levies can jack up the prices for even the most mundane of purchases. Some cases in point: a 7-ounce can of chipotle peppers in Adobo from Goya is currently selling for $40 CAD (although I'm really hoping I've read that wrong, and there's a 12-pack or a case in the offing); Allen's golden hominy does come in pack of 12 but will cost you about $5 CAD per can; a 24-ounce container of Quaker 5-minute grits is currently listed on Amazon à la canadienne for $24.15 CAD, taxes and shipping not included; a 5-pound bag of Quaker Quick Grits sells for a staggering $146.52!

Forget gold, oil, and diamonds--clearly grit manufacturing should be the driver of Canada's economic engine. Golden hominy and hominy-related products are indeed just that--pure gold.

Ghost town

Let me say first and foremost that I love the song "Ghost Town" by Madonna. I recently heard it on the stereo system while waiting impatiently for a flat white to be served up at a Second Cup near Bloor and Spadina, Toronto, Ontario, Canada, the World. I knew it was Madonna immediately, but, amazingly, had not heard it or anything else from her latest album, Rebel Heart. Then again, I have spent most of the year on the move: Looking for a job, interviewing for a job, waiting to get a job, starting a job, learning a job, etc., etc., etc. So no small wonder that I missed this musical gem.

I won't say this is what Madonna is known for doing best, the lush, heartbreaking ballad. Nonetheless, I personally think it is the sort of song she is excels at doing, this sort of moody, melodious ballad that touches and unsettles you. Like "Bad Girl" or "What It Feels Like for a Girl." It's the sort of thing she doesn't get enough credit for, the type of song in which she turns pop into art, for a brief, wondrous moment.

Oh, she gets more respect for her fierce "Bitch, I'm Madonna" attitude-filled videos and songs, but I've followed Madge for over 30 years now, enjoyed her music even before "Borderline" and "Lucky Star" opened all those doors and windows years ago, used to dream about being her friend, tolerated the undeserved hype around her appearance in Desperately Seeking Susan, still hear "Like a Virgin" in my head on a regular basis while strolling around in neoclassical settings on sun-dappled days (which happens more often than you might realize), and have even been known to compare her singing to that of Agnetha Fältskog (the plaintive-voiced goddess to whom I devote all my prayers) in, for example, "You'll See" or "Ghost Town," no small praise that . . . and I think she deserves major props for this aspect of her art.

And yet . . . this video do sucketh, in my humble opinion. Nuclear holocaust is so 1983, for pity's sake. And a cameo by Terence Howard? Puh-leez. He's the actor I like least in Empire, so much so that I was really hoping he (or rather his character) would die at the end of season 1.

I don't mean to unduly criticize Madonna. My opinion is that most music videos bite the proverbial big one nowadays. There may have been a very brief golden age (or at least a bronze or iron age) of music video in the early '80s and since then, with rare exception, it's been women gyrating exotically or rubbing themselves erotically, guys looking earnest and sensitive when they are neither, and overwrought versions of cannibalized pop cultural touchstones that I don't give a rat's patoot about anyway. Mad Max meets a bunch of Lord of the Rings and Star Wars references, not to forget Game of Thrones and whatever else TV show I don't pay any attention to. Just add video hoes and super fly gangstas.

I blame myself in part for not caring anymore. I mean, if it doesn't happen on an Australian or South African soap opera these days, or maybe Empire or Nashville, I can't be arsed to know.

But more than anything, I blame Madonna.

Sister Christian, you got us into this iconographical mess sometime around the time of "Like a Prayer" and "Express Yourself." It's about damned time that you got us out of it. Get Guy Ritchie on the phone stat. He needs some inspiration himself after The Man from U.N.C.L.E. Just don't mention Swept Away, and y'all will be fine.

Gendered slanguage

"Andy Bell & Vince Clarke of Erasure at
Wolfgang's (nightclub) - San Francisco, California, USA" -
by Nancy. J. Price, AndWhatsNext - CC BY-SA 3.0

Every time I read the phrase "Bi Erasure" in some "conscious" bit of gender studies literature, I always want to respond, "You know, I'm pretty sure Andy Bell is gay and Vince Clarke is straight."

Baddabing. I'm hear here all weak week.

Bye American

Future Shop in Edmonton, Alberta; created by
Caldorwards4; CC BY-SA 3.0

Living in Canada means I no longer know how to shop "American."

Target doesn't exist in Canada. It failed grandly in an ill-conceived entry into the Canadian market over the last couple of years, fraught with corporate stupidity it would seem. Too many stores, too quickly, without the merchandise and prices that Canadians expected, which they travel to the U.S. to buy at Target. (Editor's note: I've seen estimates that 75 to 90% of Canadians live within 100 miles/160 kilometers of the U.S.-Canada border.)

Weirdly, WalMart SuperCentre (and I do mean centre) is a lot like Target. The stores are tidy, clean, well-organized, and well-stocked. The staff is generally helpful, too. Now, suddenly, because it's the Canadian Target, I think it's OK to shop there.

WalMart has its own clothing line called George, which I don't remember from the U.S. WalMart. However, I used to avoid WalMart at all costs. "People of WalMart" and all that.

Even big upscale malls like Square One in Mississauga have WalMarts. They might have Targets, too, if Target hadn't flamed out.

Macy's doesn't exist, but Sears (yes, Sears) seems like a Macy's at a second-tier mall. Sears has a Clinique counter, which I don't think is the case in the U.S. At home, Sears and J.C. Penney's seem to vie for a no-shopper's land between Macy's on the one side and Target and WalMart on the other. Albeit unsuccessfully: I just feel like Sears and Penney's don't know who they are anymore. There's a niche market between the two, but they can't define it. Personally, I'd figure out a way to outdo Macy's in some markets--Pennsylvania for one, which doesn't have Dillard's, only Boscov's in some areas. (I adore Boscov's, by the way, and missed it terribly when I moved away from Central PA.) An upscale version of Target is probably the best option at this point. Otherwise, you're facing a Montgomery Ward's future.

Hudson Bay Company (aka The Bay/La Baie) seems like a higher-end Macy's (aka Macy's when it was special/before it took over the world). Holt Renfrew and Ogilvy are more like Saks and Nordstrom as far as I can tell. In other words, although the clothes are beautiful, I'm not worthy. Saks is planning to open stores soon in Toronto; I would imagine Nordstrom will follow, but, personally, I'd be happier with a Dillard's or a Boscov's.

I'm waiting for Simons to open at Square One. It's one of my favorite Montreal-based stores, one with beautiful housewares and often lovely, affordable clothes, none of which I can fit into anymore. But still, it's nice to dream.

Future Shop was Best Buy, but we do have Best Buy in Canada. So Future Shop is now Circuit City. Only the signs and square footage remain.

In Canada, you can buy decent clothes at Canadian Tire and at Loblaws (grocery store chain) superstore. I have a hard time wrapping my head around this, the same way I do at the thought of buying clothes at Costco, Kohl's, or Target. This makes me realize how class-influenced shopping is in the U.S. Or at least how class-influenced I am.

There are a zillion supermarkets, at least in and around Toronto: No Frills, Sobey's, WalMart, Food Basics, Whole Foods, Metro, Loblaws, FreshCo, and more, not to mention hundreds of smaller markets, many of them catering to Toronto's various ethnic groups. (But not Americans and Southerners as far as I can discern.) So far, I like No Frills, Sobey's, and WalMart. The No Frills in my area is referred to as the "ghetto one" by *some* people I know (not me but Cairo), but it's actually my favorite. There's a crazy variety of fruits and vegetables, many of them more common to Caribbean and Indian cuisine, reflecting the cultural reality of my part of the GTA. And, thus, for a brief moment, I can transport myself back to shopping at HEB in San Antonio, where Mexican fruits and vegetables were quite common, more so than the standard "Anglo" ones. While the Giant Eagle in Pittsburgh rarely sold cilantro, the HEB in San Antonio often sold out. Which speaks volumes about the "quality" of Pittsburgh cuisine. That is to say, if you love that Eastern European root vegetable diet that your babushka used to make, you're in so much effin' luck in da Burgh.

May I never, ever return, except for the occasional visit to see friends and old colleagues.
 
As far as I know, there's no CVS, no Eckerd, no Rexall, no Walgreens in Canada. Shopper's Drug Mart is the big pharmacy chain, at least in English-speaking Canada. (I think Quebec has a very just-like-in-France-branded Pharmaprix or Uniprix chain. Paris on the St. Lawrence. I'd be there if I could.) The Shopper's Drug Marts have a branch of Canada Post in many locations so that you can buy stamps and mail stuff even on Sunday's. However, daily mail delivery open happens Monday through Friday; there is no Saturday delivery in Canada.

* * *

I share all this because I spent part of a recent Saturday trying to buy a phone case and laptop bag and had absolutely no idea where to go to do so.

I couldn't find the Best Buy, discovered that Future Shop was indeed closed despite the huge sign out front, perused some overpriced shirts at the Bay ($118 CAD for a Ralph Lauren--which means I'm going to wait for a "Bay Days" sale before investing heavily in new clothes), mailed a package at Shopper's Drug Mart, bought a Canada "XpressPost" regional mailing envelope for my passport renewal application (one of my many must-dos as part of the resettlement process)--and finally ended up at WalMart and bought most of the stuff on my list.

Which is fitting because I would have normally gone to Target for this stuff anyway.

If . . . !

I can't think of a better song or a better collaboration for end-of-summer dreaming--Little Boots meets Jean-Michel Jarre.

Would you run away with me?

Culture shock

They are everywhere. Beards. Man buns. "Sometime Samurai" hairstyles. Believing scooters and skateboards are viable means of transportation. Making ironic wardrobe choices that are still somehow au courant and stylish.

Welcome to Toronto. Hipster paradise.

If I were more invasive and more of a jerk, I'd take photos of these hipsters in their (un)natural element. And I may do so yet.

But suffice it to say, they are legion, they walk among us, and they're not going anywhere until they uncover the next trend, they turn 35 and really need to get serious about gainful employment, or they're all mowed down on the street (by accident) for riding their skateboards and scooters in traffic.

(Trust me. I've seen it happen.)

My most recent favorite hipster sighting was on the number 1 TTC subway (sorry, I don't know the names of the lines just yet) between Museum and Union Station, seen maybe this past Thursday or Friday. He was a very handsome guy--underneath all the hair and the consciously grungy clothing, that is. A dark lumberjack beard, close-cropped hair on the side with a shock of a dark 'do that he was meticulous about keeping in place, swept up and over to the right side.

I saw him breathe in, his strong chest swell underneath his t-shirt, revealing a hint of fur. Be still my heart (and everything else), I thought.

But then I thought, too, can you imagine kissing that? Making love to that? All that beard and all that hair. That's what the entire encounter would be about: Passion and pompadours. He'd no doubt be too narcissistic to make sex enjoyable for anyone but himself.

Maybe 20 years ago but more likely 30 years ago, I would have gone head over heels, especially if I thought there was the slightest glimmer of interest from him--although I am sure it would have gone nowhere, the thrill of the chase being his turn-on and my turn-off, leaving me lonelier and sick in my gut.

Thank goodness I've moved on and matured in many, many ways. Toronto makes me realize that in a good way. I like it here--in spite/because of the hipsters and because/in spite of who I am now.

* * *

Editor's note: You can also view a version of this with sound via YouTube:

Yonge at heart

Route of Heroes? More like Rout of Consumers.

Yonge and Bloor, Toronto's highfalutin' economic epicenter (or so it seems to me). And who am I to say no? Although plenty said no to me: I struck out at J. Crew, Zara, Roots, Banana Republic, and especially Holt Renfrew's men's store, which featured some gorgeous designer clothing, accompanied by some stuff better left on the Paris runway--or perhaps I mean the Paris runaway. HR for Men: Where Canada's Aspirational Eurotrash Come to Shop.

But I mined haberdasher gold at The Bay. Which probably says more about my sense of style (and waistline) these days than I care to admit.  Nevertheless, they were beautiful shirts (and, OK, a tie, too), sort of a plum hue, which seems to be my colour de l'année.

And speaking of aspirational Eurotrash, have you met me lately?


Still very new to Canada, I'm in between paychecks, having finished one job and now starting another within the last month. Nevertheless, I didn't go the Route of Credit because I don't yet have a Canadian credit card and am trying to give my American ones a bit of a breather after the move.

So I did the, ahem, practical thing: I used my new Canadian debit card.

Now come on, I needed to know it worked. Really, I owed it to the bank and the hiccuping Canadian economy.

And if I don't watch out, I really will owe it to the bank. Really, money doesn't grow on trees, not even in Canada.

Bienvenue au Canada

I still feel like I should live in Montréal--somehow it speaks a lot to my spirit, my inner life, even if my French is paltry and pitiful at the moment--but I'm enjoying being happy up here in Toronto.

I highly recommend it. Immigration FTW!