Touch me again

Oh to know what I know now way back in 1991. I felt so old then, even though I was not yet 30. But already I was out of the dance club and into . . . what exactly? Certainly not the streets. Hibernation maybe. Escape. Transitions.

A year or so after meeting my friend S., a friend I've now had for nearly 30 years. Several months before leaving Washington and only once creeping back to live in its shadow again. Two years before graduate school. Two years before meeting G. Four years before moving to Texas, which feels like home to me and perhaps always will. Thirteen years before leaving Texas and moving back east. Twenty-two years before meeting Cairo. Twenty-four years before moving to Canada. Twenty-six years before now.

Oddly, I've written about this some before. This little fluffy pop tune that somehow captures my hope and longing, my regret and sorrow.

Some moments during the previous 26 years have been, frankly, terrible, including this last week or so. And then other moments have been spectacular, such as living with Cairo and talking to him this week, during one of my sadder, more frustrated, more anxious times.

My father's passing. But my mother still lives and is as vibrant as ever.

I still loathe my job and am wary of my colleagues. And yet I had probably the most successful week I've had since arriving in Canada two-and-a-half years ago, have a great staff and supportive bosses.

One of the biggest reveals this week was that once my anxiety and stress subsided, I realized that I had actually had a good week, at least professionally speaking. The anxiety has been too much of late, but I'm actually doing OK.

Would I go back in time? Would I do anything differently? Maybe or maybe not.

Except maybe . . . I'd dance more, even past the age of 30. To hear that piano again, those drums, that whistle, that call to "hold me baby/drive me crazy/touch me/all night long." To put aside the fears imagined and real, to trust in myself, to take a moment, to enjoy, to cavort, to laugh, to be carefree, sans souçi, to grab life and run with it. That I would do, at least for one night, return to the scene and dance, dance, dance away the heartache, dance away the tears.

But then I'd hurry right back to the present to savor what I have now, the good and the bad, and look forward to a better tomorrow, week, month, and year ahead.

Money love

I will say this for Steve Mnuchin and Louise Linton: They have absolutely no shame.

Oh no she di'int

Quite bizarrely, I find myself liking Taylor Swift's "Look What You Made Me Do," several weeks after everyone else has moved on. I still don't hear the "I'm Too Sexy" melody, but I don't necessarily need to--it's a clever, catchy, dramatic bit of pop, and more distinctive than most of the stuff out there at the moment. (Not that I have a good sense of what's au courant. All they play in Toronto is wall-to-wall Drake, Canada's Rapper.)

Having said that, I think it's high time we issued an amber alert for Taylor Swift's soul. It's been missing for years, if it ever existed at all. I suspect she sold it to Mephistopheles sometime around the age of 10 and that her real name will eventually be revealed as Taylor Faustus. In another scenario, I imagine in her spare time she's busy spinning straw into gold trying to figure out the name of that little guy that put her in this predicament. Talk to some of those German-Americans around Reading, Pennsylvania, Taylor's hometown. They know.

The weird thing for me--and this is no great reveal as I've wondered about this for some time--is how real is any of this? Was Taylor ever a good girl? Is she now a bad girl? Does she have a beef with Katy Perry? Is she just serving as a beard for any number of fey pop stars and movie actors? And most importantly of all, why do any us have to give a shit?

It's not the details of a thousand cuts that keep me puzzled and pondering, however. It's the whole "star-maker machine," the pop culture industrial complex. Britney and Justin did it back in the day. Madonna has always done it. Bowie is Bowie because of it. Our "dizazsthuh" of a president currently revels in it.

"It" being this fabricated narrative that keeps us watching, turned in, and tuned out to the stuff that really matters--family, friends, human rights, economic equality, and real music.

But what do I know? I'm seriously considering paying for and legally downloading this ditty.

So keep on groovin', TS Industries, Inc. You're manufacturing some memorable, interesting-sounding pop.

Lady be good

Doggone it, I could watch this clip all day long.

I know 1941 was a harsh year in human history, but, oh, to be this joyous, to be this carefree, to be this liberated from the worries of the world once again.

Woof!

From Asia with Love

So glad to see Blofeld and Rosa Klebb out and about and enjoying their tour of Asia.

The real Bowling Green massacre

"Rand Paul speaking at the 2013 Conservative Political Action
Conference (CPAC)" by Gage Skidmore.
Created 14 March 2013. CC BY-SA 3.0.

CNN's Chris Cillizza opined this week that

"The story of Rand Paul allegedly being attacked by a neighbor -- and breaking six ribs in the process -- is strange on its face. 

"The initial explanation offered by some neighbors of both men and the attacker's lawyer -- that the episode occurred due to a dispute over leaves or grass trimmings -- was even stranger. 

 

"Rene Boucher pleaded not guilty Thursday morning in a Bowling Green  [Kentucky] courtroom to misdemeanor fourth degree assault charges stemming from the Nov. 3 incident in the gated community where the two men live."

 

Strange? Strange that someone would attempt to beat the crap out of America's no. 1 Jheri Curl right-wing politician over something as innocuous as lawn clippings? Ha. Have you met Rand Paul?

 

In a matter of seconds, I came come up with a number of reasons why Mr. Boucher might want to (literally) crush on Paul:

• He calls himself Rand. Actually, his name is Randal (one 'l' because I guess he secretly harbors being a character in a Game of Thrones novel?), and apparently he was not named after Ayn Rand, even though he studied her writings.
• He studied Ayn Rand's writings and calls himself Rand, nonetheless.
• He's a self-described libertarian. Give my regards to the NRA, Randy.
• That often smug look on his face.
• That I'm-barely-tolerating-your-stupidity-infidel! tone to his voice during interviews.
• The fact that he was born in Pittsburgh, grew up in Texas, and still turned out to be a dick.
• That poncy hairstyle. Maybe it's real, maybe it's not a perm, but the tips and curls often seem gelled. The whole 'do seems like a desperate cry of regret from the Hair Club for Men.
• The fact that he touts his credentials as a LASIK surgeon to qualify himself as an expert on health care in the U.S. LASIK: Plastic surgery for your eyes.
• The fact that he lives in a gated community. (Just to be clear, a chain-link fence with a gate is not the same as a gated community....)

 And then there's this--

Skaggs said he "very much likes" both men, though he noted that Paul "is a very different character than most people." "He's a deep believer in his own thoughts," Skaggs said. "And he believes his own thoughts are right -- and they are right 100% of the time."

So while the specific triggering event might remain a bit of a mystery (my money's on a heady mix of yard waste and coveting/insulting thy neighbor's wife), there is no actual mystery in why someone would get crackin' on Pauly Bore. Heck, with that sense of surprise attack and the ability to break some ribs, I think the Tennessee Titans may have found a new teammate.

Shoot the messenger

"Clock in the main station, Zürich, Switzerland" by
JuergenG; modified by Rainer Z. CC BY-SA 3.0 Unported.

Mark your calendars: CNN is reporting that the time to talk about gun control has been set for Sunday, December 31, 2017, between 11:59:50 and 11:59:59 pm.*

*This appointment may be suspended if a horrific shooting occurs prior to the designated time or is believed likely to happen after the designated time.

(Hey, don’t shoot the messenger! The National Rifle Association sets the rules, not me.)

(Oh, who am I kidding? You’re totally allowed to shoot the messenger. Wouldn’t want to be accused of interfering with your 2nd Amendment rights. Unfettered access to firearms über alles and all that.)

Taking out the trash

To good mental health, Mr. President

And because it's not a guns situation, can we assume that Our Fearless Leader won't be bothered when a brown terrorist or a white lone wolf starts "mental healthing" at him?

After all, the murderer isn't trying to shoot you. He's just trying to make a rush appointment for some mental health counseling.

Which he probably doesn't have access to because he has no health insurance... but let's not sweat the policy details of you and your colleagues in Congress.

Check it out

A timely repost from Facebook . . .

Time to break out the handy "Mass shooting in US checklist":

• Send thoughts & prayers but not actually do anything useful
• Argue over semantics of the term "assault rifle"
• Argue over semantics of the term "terrorist" - if Muslim use it, if Christian/white use term "lone wolf" "mentally ill" "troubled past"
• Congress does nothing but NRA increases donations just in case
• Wait for next one, rinse, repeat

I'd like to add a couple of items to this checklist, things I've noticed that have become part of the "national conversation" that leads to total inaction:

• Report statistics that state more people die from handguns, car crashes, cancer, etc., to downplay the horror of mass shootings‬ and indicate that mass shootings aren't really a problem after all.
• Argue that you can’t change or repeal the 2nd Amendment of the Constitution. (Hint: Yes, we can. The 2nd Amendment is already a change to the original Constitution.) 
• Argue that the 2nd Amendment is your right--and a superior right at that. Ignore all other rights. Ignore the promise of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness in the U.S. Declaration of Independence. Continue to believe that your right to bear arms supersedes all other rights.

I'm sure you can add your own to this list. 

 

The Boy from New York Meets the Man from Milwaukee

This has all the makings of the saddest, most nauseating, most boner-killing porn movie ever: First Son and Professional A-Hole Donald Trump, Jr., in the role of the twink starring alongside of (or, rather, in the service of) former Milwaukee County Sheriff and Professional Dickhead David Clarke as the daddy/master, XXX film's "exotic" African-American power top to Donald Junior's weaselly, beady-eyed, power bottom.

It's Diesel Washington (a personal favorite, a top with a sense of humor) versus Armond Rizzo (who I detest, in part because he looks like Donald Trump, Jr., and in part because he whimpers like a Japanese anime schoolgirl in most of his scenes). It's a horrible episode of Oz in which even Sister Peter Marie hopes all the characters rot in jail. It's a gold-encrusted Lawnguyland remake of The Boys from New Jersey, a C-list mid-'80s porno that an acquaintance of mine in Washington, D.C., back in the day had a prominent role in. A cute guy who I almost fell into bed with--but his performance in that pitiful porno tells me my more cautious than carefree nature helped me make the right decision once again.

Next scene please.

* * *

Earlier in the week, I tweeted this response to the picture you see at the top of this post--Don Junior and David Clarke together, bro-bracing one another, Don Junior's chest puffed out and Dave Clarke wearing a cowboy hat with a paisley shirt (da fuh?) because, I dunno, he likes irony.

And, like, wow! A few days later I (re)discover this movie, Answered Prayers, starring Diesel Washington and Chris Harder, amazing life-like porn simulations of Don and Dave. So I miscast the execrable Armond Rizzo for the humpdillyicious Chris Harder. My sin.

Chris Harder is a much better choice for the role. Somehow he manages to look fetching, dewy-eyed, non-simian, and just like Donald Junior. How is that even possible?

I actually think I've seen this movie, at least in 20-minute, uh, spurts on the internet. If I recall correctly, Chris Harder plays a messianic gay homophobic politician (no, really) and Diesel Washington plays his gay guru sidepiece. Or something.

What I saw in the movie was hot and obviously memorable in its way but, nonetheless, striving a little too hard to be provocative, powerful, and socially relevant.

Much like the pairing of Fils Trump and Père Clarke. And yet I have zero interest in enduring even the opening credits of that movie. Whatever the opposite of man-on-man erotica is, that's the clusterfuge offered by liddle' Don Junior and fake Davey Clarke.

Curse me and my over-imagination. Now I'll never be able to look at Chris and Diesel the same way again.

The First Ladies of the United States

I had some free time this morning ... and some free time this evening, so I remade my original meme ....

Presidents on the edge of a nervous breakdown

Recently seen on Facebook.

I'd toss him a roll of paper towels. That always helps in a crisis.

Heaven and hello, Miriam Makeba!

It's probably blasphemous to say this, but I love this version of Miriam Makeba's "Pata Pata," a remix by the duo Milk & Sugar (heretofore unknown to me).

Now I'm not saying I love it more than the original, so I've not completely lost my mind or my soul. But it is darn catchy and groovy, and the animated video is attention-grabbing and so much fun to watch.

It's a good remix that reveres the original rather than destroying it, with Makeba's voice front and center and her image singing from the heavens above down upon the more colorful and profane world below.

So, really, it's all very religious, perfect for a lazy Sunday before Canadian Thanksgiving. I know I'm thankful I found this song. And I'm grateful that through the miracle of the internet, I can share it with you.

Sigue bailando, mi gente

I made this. Let's consider it a work in progress.

Somewhere in Puerto Rico in the aftermath of a hurricane, a certain someone has decided to play games with the people. Instead of giving them much needed supplies and food, he's tossed them paper towels--the quicker picker-upper under normal circumstances but not very effective in cleaning up destruction, flooding, power outages, and hunger.

I guess we should be grateful that his handlers made him leave his t-shirt cannon on Air Force One.

No matter. We can only pray that this soon results in a mutiny against the Bounty by the time all is said and done.

Where the lights are shining

Rest in peace, Mr. Campbell.

Cryin' time again

Rest in peace, Mr. Charles and Mr. Campbell.

I hear you singing through the wire

Rest in peace, Mr. Campbell. Thank you, Jimmy Webb.

Mentl as anything

Alas, I don't own the copyright for this splendid photo,
and I'm quite sure it's not in the public domain. The photographer
is George Etheredge of the New York Times; the photo was
published in a profile about DJTJr in the March 18, 2017,
"Style" section of the Times. If you don't already subscribe to
the Times, you should: It produces excellent journalism.
I am a subscriber, and I'd encourage you to be one as well.
It's one of the chief ways that we can contribute to
fostering democracy and transparency in government.

"Papa?"

"Papa!"

"Papa, can you hear me?!"

The Great White Way's latest hit is Mentl, starring Donald Trump, Jr., Donald Trump, Ivanka Trump, Jared Kushner, Paul Manafort, Jeff Sessions, Michael Flynn, and an ever-growing stack of Russian nesting dolls, each one with a smaller and smaller sense of morality.

It's a sad, strange musical put on by the worst cast imaginable. It had tryouts in New York and bankrupted a number of theaters and backers. So why its backers imagined that this show would play well in Washington is anyone's guess.

With a little luck and a lot of determination by the critiques, hopefully the show will close before too many more performances ruin the stage in America forever.

Hamburger Helper