Channeling our inner Don Quijote

Magnolia a Verbania by Josep Renalias Lohen 11
(CC BY-SA 3.0; courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

This post will be fairly quick and short (within reason; it is me after all). I am in the process of moving to a new city--to a new country in fact--and have been working toward tomorrow (aka, moving day) since I last posted in May.

I'll try to have more to say for myself on the flipside of the month--at least once I've unpacked my computer and established an internet connection. It's a sign of modern times that packing and moving excepted, my current priorities in life are a bank account, a Hulu subscription, and good internet. Never mind the new job and the commute--I'm already busy with entertaining myself and spending money I haven't earned yet!

But one thing that has occupied my mind over the last week is the mass assassination of nine African-American worshippers at a Charleston, South Carolina, church on Wednesday, June 17, 2015. Not a lot has penetrated my consciousness of late, mostly due to the whiff of cardboard I seem to ingest every day, but this most definitely has. I think it brings up my somewhat tortured relationship with my country and my home region, plus a sense of guilt for leaving family and friends behind. I often worry who will be the next victim of "a bad guy with a gun" and whether it will be someone I know, family or friend.

It's not that I walk around worried about this all the time, mind you. It's not that I need to, actually. Despite the "cowboy" reputation of the U.S., I really don't see guns everywhere--although sometimes at night, I do hear them from the broken-down neighborhood on the other side of the railroad tracks, just a block away.

I don't generally feel unsafe in the U.S. But perhaps I should. I mean, there is occasional gunfire only a block or two away from my head and my bed. There is "active shooter" training at work. There is my sister's state wanting to allow for guns on the university campus where she works. There is me scoping out escape routes in restaurants should something bad happen. There are, what? 11,000+ gun deaths each year in the U.S., 55,000+ nonfatal gun injuries, and 138,000+ gun-aggravated assaults (at least according to statistics from FactCheck.org)? And yet two of these numbers represent a decrease over previous years?

Let that set in for a moment.

Now doesn't that still seem like an awfully large number? And what about the fact that gun ownership and gun manufacturing continue to increase?

You can keep arguing that "more guns make us safer," but with those kind of numbers, pardon me if I don't feel like cuddling up to and fellating my firearm at night.

(For the record, I don't own a gun, nor does anyone in my family. My Dad used to have a rifle for occasional hunting and to scare away unwanted residents from his backyard birdhouses, but that's about as firearms-friendly as it got at Chez Montag.)

* * *

Kudzu on trees in Atlanta, Georgia by Scott Ehardt
(public domain); courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Which leads me to the point of this post: We are once again tilting at the wrong windmill.

And the windmill we're currently tilting at is removing the Confederate flag from our sight. We've once again taken the wrong message from the racially motivated mass murder of 9 African-American worshippers in Charleston last week.

And that message should be this: A gun killed them all, not a flag.


Please don't misunderstand me: I've got no problem with removing the Confederate flag from public buildings; I've got little to no problem relegating that symbol to museums and reenactments. At one point in my life, I might have tried to participate in a nuanced discussion of that flag's multiple meanings, but, honestly, who needs to hear all that? Plus I think knowing what I know now--that the flag made its reappearance during the early 1960s Civil Rights standoffs, as a way for the South to say "FU" to the rest of the country--I would just be horribly, horribly wrong.

If you're looking for a symbol of Southern uniqueness and pride, I dunno, try the magnolia or the loblolly pine, the collard, or, heck, even kudzu. That stuff can withstand anything.


While protesting the Confederate flag and the racism it symbolizes is all well, good, and necessary, I fear we're just letting the real culprits off the hook once again. I'm willing to bet that nearly every right-leaning politician piling on the issue right now knows this and is using it as a way to not deal with legislating meaningful firearms restrictions. And, hey, if they happen to make the Republican Party look sensitive to racial issues, bonus points.

Maybe it's a victory that Wal-Mart and Amazon are willing to stop selling the flag (at least until things cool down) and that manufacturers are willing to stop making the flag (at least until things cool down). But it all seems very hollow. And speaking of hollow, no one's volunteering to stop making hollow-point bullets.

While all this is going on and we're rending our garments in public, gun manufacturers are doing their best Alfred E. Newman impersonation: "What, me worry?"

Yes, I think racism is still a huge problem in this country--the murder of nine African Americans during Bible study is the recent, most heinous example, but there are many others. Cops killing black motorists and citizens who resist arrest or are merely under suspicion for . . . something (poverty? blackness? effrontery to white privilege?); high black unemployment and endemic economic disadvantage; the incredibly negative reaction by some to Barack Obama--a strong, impressive, educated, self-made man--being elected as President of the United States (twice no less). These are just a few that come to mind that I right this. 

So, yes, it's well past time to take down the Confederate flag and relegate to the history bin (or the trash bin, take your pick). It's well past time to recommit to fighting against he racism it represents. 

 

Nonetheless, this just seems like the same ol', same ol'. Let's call for reparations for slavery when instead we should be clamoring for continuing community and individual investment in disenfranchised minority populations (and/or the poor in general). Maybe that's the point--aim for the symbolic, get the real. I question its effectiveness, but then again, no one ever thought gays would be allowed to serve in the military or get married.

 

I feel like we were trying to do this in the 1960s and 1970s--significant investment in the disenfranchised, leveling the playing field, providing opportunity. But by the 1980s, we stopped doing it. Maybe because it was too hard to do, or we just royally messed it up (tearing down neighborhoods to put everyone in projects? really?).

 

But maybe we just let ourselves get distracted. After all, there are so many other windmills out there at which we can tilt.

Thanks for your time. See you in July.

Do you know the way to Sacha Distel and Dionne Warwick?

Honestly, I was just looking for a video of Dionne Warwick singing "Do You Know the Way to San Jose?" Still in my Mad Men finale mourning phase, that particular tune has been in my head since last weekend's Mad Men marathon on AMC, during which my Mom, sis, and me watched not quite all but most of the 92 hours of Mad Men broadcast from 2007 to 2015.

Was that any way to spend a vacation with family? Well, yes, it was. It was quite relaxing and enjoyable, having a long overdue visit with my Mom and sister, savoring past memorable moments from the show, dissecting the characters and their motivations, and speculating about the finale and the characters' futures. Did we guess the outcome? Not really, other than to say that we thought Don Draper would survive and persevere, as would Peggy Olsen. Other than that, we didn't have a clue, which was as it should be. We ended up pleasantly surprised along with the rest of the long-time aficionados of the show.

What was also surprising was how sad we felt watching the end of series. Seeing the outcomes for each character was touching. In my mind, for the most part, each character got what they wanted, not what they felt they should have, a recurring theme in the series, the tension between desire and obligation. Peggy found love, Joan found success, Pete found his family again, Roger found fun and maturity, and Don found his true self.

What Betty Draper Francis and her daughter Sally Draper found exactly deserves a separate, fuller discussion. For another day.

At least that's my interpretation. There are a zillion others out there, so please read and determine for yourself. And that's another beauty of the ending: You are left with some ambiguity. How long will each character's happiness last? Are they doing what they want or doing what they feel they should do? And what does Don do next? Follow his bliss, his own path in life? Which may or may not include returning to New York and recommitting himself to his profession as an advertising executive and becoming more creative and successful than ever. Or it may also include being true to the values of the 1960s and 1970s and rejecting the old ways, striking out in new, countercultural ways--all while watching those same values quickly co-opted by business and pop culture all for the sake of selling Coke (the Real Thing). And possibly some coke as well.

To tell the truth, I was tired of Don's story at this point in the series. The way he tried to escape his existence through the fantasy of sexual pleasure--at first that seemed daring, dangerous, and provocative. But by the series' end, it just became predictable, boring, and even unseemly to me. I loathed the affair with Sylvia, played by Linda Cardellini, who became something of a guilty, weepy-eyed Ida Blankenship in my mind (Ida Blankenship, the "Queen of Perversions," as Roger Sterling described her). That icky relationship went on way too long and seemed to tread much of the same ground as his other affairs did. I quickly became tired of Megan Calvet, too, Don's second wife, who stayed on the scene from seasons 4 until 7, ferchrissakes, and took lots of attention away from other characters, especially Don's far more interesting first wife, Betty.

After a while, Don's sexploits seemed like something out of smutty James Bond movie--but with less diversity of partners (lots of white women, mostly brunettes, representing his mother or stepmother, no doubt). His conquests became more like compulsions--in today's parlance, Don would no doubt have a sex addiction. Rewatching the latter seasons of the series, I kept thinking of the movie Shame, being just as detached from and creeped out by Don's plight as much as I was from Michael Fassbender's character's story in the movie.

I think that's entirely the point, by the way. I just don't necessarily want to watch that on a weekly basis.

That may be down to my prudishness or my becoming bored quickly by ritual and routine in all areas of my life. However, I think I took issue with Don's issues because, perhaps, it took away from my own childhood, childlike fantasies of the '60s and '70s.

My sadness at the end of the series was as much about saying goodbye to the characters, including Don, as it was about saying goodbye, once again, to what has passed and slipped through my fingers.

How much rehashing does this require? I felt it more acutely earlier in the week, wanting to have a good cry whenever I thought about the finale or remembered songs from the era, "Do You Know the Way to San Jose?" being just one of many that returned to me for a fleeting moment a simple and safe American childhood, sitting in the front bench seat of a huge Mercury or Ford, wedged comfortably between my Mom and my Dad, listening to the hits of the era on AM radio.

It's a very nostalgia trip, yes, and one not necessarily in tune with the reality of the time, which was conflicted and convulsed by issues of equality--racism, sexism, political assassinations, the Vietnam War, countercultural protests, terrorism, and so much more. While occasionally my life was touched by those issues--the Vietnam War and the fight for racial equality in particular--my life was quite idyllic in many ways. We were working class with limited exposure and opportunity, but like the Dons, Peggys, and Joans of the world, we survived and persevered.

Nonetheless, could that sadness be due to something else, something more than just mere nostalgia for times past? That was a thought that skated across my mind over last weekend, my reaction to the finale reminding me of when All My Children ended. Or as Cairo put it to me gently during a recent phone conversation, "Do you think you feel sad because you feel like you're closing one chapter of your life?"

Yes, exactly.

As always with me, there's more to the story. But given that it's Memorial Weekend in the U.S., for now, let's just conclude with a hearty "God bless America" and track the scent of this tale another day.

Mad and sad

Mad Men is over, ending on a beautiful if ambiguous note. I was beyond sad for a couple of days afterwards, but I'm now attempting to stay in my Mad Men cocoon by revisiting series 1 and 2 (which I have never seen in full and thus was always at something of a loss in later seasons) and listening to music of the era.

Here's one of my favorites, which I remember from 1960s AM radio: Brian Hyland's "Sealed with a Kiss." A lovely melody, spare instrumentation, accompanied by Hyland's plaintive voice rising above it all--this is my idea of a pop classic, a song and performance that have stood the test of time. I honestly can't think of many if any recent (last 10 to 20 years) pop songs managing to achieve this level of enduring perfection. Too often it's technology over tune, publicity over performance, and vocal pyrotechnics over the pure and simple voice. What a world.

I wish I could sing like this, express myself musically, create a piece of art so beautiful and long-lasting, and touch the hearts and minds of many or even just a few.

But I'm not greedy. At this point in my life, I'd be satisfied to refocus my career energies on becoming one of the backup dancers in this video. Lithesome moves in tandem and always in sync with the beat. Suddenly I'm transported to 1962, pre-Internet, pre-AIDS, pre-Vietnam War, and am full of possibility and promise.

Hullabaloo. Shindig. Come on baby, take me where the action is. I am there.

The HamJuggalo

Captured from Mental Floss

So glad to see that McDonald's has reintroduced its long-forgotten mascot, the Hamburglar, and turned him into a . . . Juggalo.

I don't know about you, but I'm lovin' it.

The Sexiest Man Alive, 1982 Edition

Seriously, Adam Ant (he's the one on the left) was The Sexiest Man Alive (Montag Edition)  in 1982.

I think the Ant may have started to jump the shark by the time he recorded "Strip" in 1983. There's a little too much Adam on display in this one--I don't mean skin-wise as much as I mean mugging-for-the-camera-wise with a lot of flashy "dolly birds." Not my thing, obviously.



I'm also not sure that this song stands the test of time in the way that "Ant Music" or "Desperate But Not Serious" do. It may pass muster musically but lyrically it just seems like such a comedown from those tunes. Again, the transition from punk to new wave to mainstream is in evidence. Get on your Honda scooter and ride.

But "Strip" will always hold a special place in my heart ever since I discovered that the female voice-over in the middle was done by none other than Frida Lyngstad from ABBA.

All hail Frida! All hail The Ant!

Those were the days, my friend

. . . We thought they'd never end. We'd sing and dance forever and a day . . . .

Was there ever anything sexier than Adam Ant? No.

Except for Adam Ant and Grace Jones together in an ad for a Honda scooter that no one even remembers nowadays. Who was the market for this thing, les jeunes de Paris? Except in New York and Chicago, you wouldn't stand a chance on the street or in street cred on such a scooter in the U.S.

Honestly, nobody did devil-may-care, fancy man, naughty Bond villain, and sexy beast with Apache face paint and Burundi drums better than early '80s Adam Ant. Viva Le Ant!



Good lordy, could we use an Adam Ant today. The entire punk and new wave movement should be on standby throughout history to perform periodic cultural bust-ups: To unplug the jukebox; to force us all to try another flavor.

As much as I wax on about the '70s and early disco culture, by 1978 or 1979, things really did need to change, and change they did for a little while.

But then they went back to the beginning again. When did punk become as stylistically slick and predictable as disco? When everyone started calling it new wave? When Adam Ant and Grace Jones did a Honda scooter commercial? When some girls from one of my last classes at university starting telling me how much they loved Duran Duran and thought that made them edgy? Not in 1983 it didn't.

Then again, even early '80s Duran Duran had more substance than the stuff that was getting played and "rocked out" to in my college town's downtown bars back in the day.

The funny thing is, I don't think even the rawness of punk or the danger of new wave could break through the capitalist culture logjam we find ourselves in today.

It's in the tea leaves

Editor's note: I began this post last summer (2014) and have finally decided to resurrect it, revise it, and publish it. Better late than never.

* * *

With the demise of so many American "daytime dramas" over the last few years, I've been pleased to keep my soap opera jonesin' at bay by tuning into serial (melo)dramas from other countries and cultures.

Back in the day (the 1980s), I used to watch the UK soap EastEnders when they showed it on various PBS stations around the nation. I even remember watching some episodes of Coronation Street on the USA Network waaay back in the early days of cable TV, when I think the networks were trying to fill up their schedules with anything and everything.

I half-remember Dierdre being depressed and about to throw herself off a freeway overpass. So even drab-looking British drama from 1981 had a place on the dial.

On trips to the UK, Australia, Mexico, and elsewhere, I've also watched soaps--for the campy fun, yes, but also for cultural understanding. (Honest. I think soaps are a great way to get a glimpse at a culture's dreams and fixations.) I liked mid-2000s Corrie when Cilla Brown was front and center and Sally Webster was having an affair with her boss (formerly Alistair from As Time Goes By, later Stefan Hauser from Footballers Wives) at the car dealership. I've enjoyed Dulce desafío, Emmerdale, Simplemente María, Tú y yo, and, of course, Egoli: Place of Gold. I've even tried to find an online source for 7de Laan, as well as Virginie.

I periodically watch reruns of Dark Shadows on HuluPlus, a show I remember with fondness and fear from childhood. As detailed recently in these digital pages, I think about crazy fun Santa Barbara (a soap like no other, past, present, or future), mid- to late-'70s Another World, Texas, early '80s Guiding Light, the vaguely remembered opening credits for The Secret Storm, and other shows I used to watch along with my Mom, Vivien Leigh, when I wasn't even old enough to go to school, pre-1967.

I've always drawn the line at The Young and the Restless and General Hospital, the former too boring, the later too silly, for my refined soapie tastes.

And upon first, then second, then third glance, I also drew the line in a big, showy, Baz Luhrman way at Neighbours, a world-famous Aussie soap, one I've seen in the past (both in Australia in 1987 and on a trip to England in 1993) and now in the present via HuluPlus.

Vivean Gray as Mrs. Mangel

I must admit that I drew only a soft line in the sand upon first seeing Neighbours in 1987. I was secretly trying to get a glimpse of soap supercouple Scott Robinson (Jason Donovan) and Charlene Mitchell (Kylie Minogue), but I ended up being oddly fascinated with the character of Mrs. Mangel, a Dot Cotton-prototype busybody who would read tea leaves and screech out dire warnings. "It's in the tea leaves!" she would proclaim.

Funny that that one line should stay with me almost 30 years later. I even mentioned it on a date of all things some eight years ago, and, well, I was still very much single for another two years after sharing that remembrance. A word to the woebegone: If they can't tolerate your personal tastes, naff or otherwise, they're not worth getting to know.

When I tuned in in 2005, I don't remember much at all. I can't even tell you whether I was watching Neighbours or Home and Away, another Aussie suburban melodrama. That should tell you how unimpressed I was with either/both.

Now that Neighbours is currently airing on HuluPlus, I've had another opportunity to check in with the 30-year phenomenon that is life on Ramsay Street, Erinsborough, Victoria. When I first drafted this post, Neighbours was running bout a month behind broadcast in Oz. At that time, I had seen approximately three weeks' worth of shows. And these three weeks' worth of episodes had managed to make me both bored and annoyed--but mostly just annoyed.

Here are some of my observations from the early days of my reacquaintance with Neighbours:

There are a squillion other characters, most of them under 30, yammering on about skateboarding, the pool, the beach, coffee bars, and their love lives. Most of them blond (natural, etc.). All of them whiter than white, making semi-dramatic pronouncements in the most obnoxious versions of Australian accents. Think Kath & Kim, not Nicole 'n' Hugh.

First of all, I've met plenty of Aussies that don't sound like they were playing extras in a barbie scene from Crocodile Dundee. It's completely possible to be Australian and not sound like you're about to issue forth with a "call me Cobber" or "fair dinkum" in your speech--although one character (the perpetually tear-stained Sonya) went full Sheila recently when she thanked another for "shouting" her a free massage. Wagga Wagga. Tassie. Flinders Station. Indeed.

Second of all, not everyone in Australia is of the pale persuasion, although heritage and sunscreen do make many so. I do remember during the three weeks I spent there in 1987 that I was ultimately glad to get home to Washington, D.C. I do think certain places--like Australia, like Canada--tout their multiculturalism more than it might warrant. Yes, it's new to you, but some of us have been multicultural (whether by choice or by force) for the better part of three centuries. And I'm not just talking about the U.S.--Mexico, South Africa, Colombia, Cuba, Brazil, even New Zealand can stand up, proudly or otherwise, and be counted.

That's about as far as I got, obviously quickly getting lost in an outback of opinion about various and sundry. I just remember being annoyed by Sonya's constant crying, annoyed by Naomi's yesteryear attempts to seduce Toadie (seriously, a character named Toadie!), annoyed by Kyle's bogan accent and style, annoyed by Brad's winged hair and Marlboro Man walk, annoyed by Imogen and Amber's whinging, annoyed by Bailey's nascent alcohol abuse (and rather fabulous hair--credit where credit is due)--just annoyed by pretty much everything and everyone on the show.

The only bright spot then was the character of Paige Novak, later Paige Smith, played by Olympia Valance (sister of Holly Valance, a former Neighbours star herself). Absolutely fabulous and totally watchable, not because she is very beautiful (which she is) but because of her character's verve, gutsiness, trouble-making, and overall joie de vivre. Everyone else paled in comparison.

I can't remember what happened next, but I think I gave up on Neighbours for a few weeks. I don't really remember what drew me back in, but I think it was the conclusion of the storyline about Paige being the secret daughter of Lauren and Brad and the subsequent fallout from that big reveal. Somehow that hooked me. And once that did, I kept watching and began reevaluating my initial impression of other characters, other stories, and the show overall:

• Sonya stopped crying and became interesting once I saw her feistier and more fun-loving side, then her battle with her addiction demons from the past.

• Naomi became just a helluva lotta fun and much more sympathetic once she moved to the end of her stalker-like behavior toward Toadie and began her Mrs. Robinson-styled affair with the young and spunky Josh. You learned more about the regret she felt for having made such a huge mess of things in her life and the very real, very unrequited feelings she had for Toadie. I especially like the episode when she visited Toadie in the hospital. For me, she has become one of the best reasons to watch the show.

• Kyle and Georgia got married and while Kyle's still a bogan, he's a bogan with sensitivity and depth of feeling toward Georgia and over his missing-in-action father. Kyle and Georgia's wedding and the swell of emotions surrounding that was a thing of daytime beauty.

Nate Kinski  played by Meyne Wyatt

• I still find Daniel and Amber super annoying, but recently I even came around to appreciating Amber just a bit, during her reactions to believing that she had been abandoned at the altar by Daniel and in the aftermath of her father's accident.

• And I love Nate! Not only is he sexy, he's an engaging actor--his post-traumatic stress disorder storyline had me quaking, sniffling, and recalling my father's struggles with the same condition. It is hard for me to imagine any American show, daytime or otherwise, dealing with this topic, especially with sensitivity and real compassion. To my knowledge, he's the first regular aboriginal Neighbour to join the cast, so finally, one big little step into the diversity pool.

There have been missteps: The whole Erinsborough tornado seemed gimmicky and resulted in very little drama. I can't really get into Naomi's relationship with Mark Brennan, mostly because I find Mark judgmental and self-righteous (although admittedly impeccably ab'ed). I loathe even more that that relationship may end with Naomi moving on to Paul Robinson, possibly having her literally become Mrs. Robinson. Call me Dolce & Gabbana, but I couldn't care less about Chris's quest to become a father by serving as a sperm donor to "I must be a mother at all costs" Lucy Robinson. I thought Matt's downward spiral was too rushed and not necessarily true to the character.

Overall, I've been less keen on the Neighbours 30th anniversary storylines, much of it feeling (understandably) contrived and probably more meaningful to the lifelong fans than to me. Nonetheless, I enjoyed the Harold and Madge reunion and wanted more. That sort of tender, emotional interaction between characters is what Neighbours does best, in my opinion.

At the end of the day, I now look forward to catching a new episode of Neighbours. It's become my preferred soap, even over Coronation Street. I think others, too, must be enjoying the show because recently via Hulu we've gone from being four weeks behind Australia to just two weeks behind, on par with the UK schedule.

* * *

Things are changing in my life--for the better in many ways. (Details to be revealed soon.) I've been a little bothered to think this may mean that I won't be able to watch Neighbours anymore via Hulu. It's not going to change my life plans, but the fact that it even rises to the surface of my mind when contemplating major life events is a testament to how much I enjoy this show.

As odd as it sounds to say out loud, I think I need a soap in my life--an minor daily escape, a dream of an alternate universe that offers me the chance to feel a range of emotions--from sadness to wistfulness to satisfaction to titillation to laughter. I don't need a soap so that I'll cry or wallow in emotions, although I don't think those are necessarily bad feelings to have. Rather I need a soap to help me take out some time at the end of a busy day, to relax, to relate, and to fantasize a bit about living in a community with others who care about me. Given their domestic nature, soaps acquaint you with their characters' daily lives, making you feel, fleetingly, that you're watching a story acted out by friends.

Admittedly, they are friends with more happening lives, better hair, and a superior muscle-to-body fat ratio. Fantasy can only go so far.

I'm glad that I gave Neighbours another chance. I'm happy to have the show in my life right now to meet my needs. In my future life, regardless of where I live or what I watch on TV, I hope to have good neighbors for many years to come.

Astronaut problems

Views of the extravehicular activity during STS 41-B
by NASA, 7 February 1984; public domain

Some of my contributions to the recent hashtag game #astronaut problems on the Tweety.

• None of the Starbucks in orbit around Mars has a drive-thru.
• Man's first walk on the moon? More of a skip, actually.
• Installing software upgrades to H-A-L 9000 causes more problems than it solves.
• Only you know how much of a complete dillweed Neil Armstrong can be
• What's for dinner? Borscht in a tube every damn night aboard the international space station.
• No matter who's the last to use it, the toilet seat always stays in the up position.
• Even in space, you can't escape spoilers for MadMen, The Walking Dead, and Game of Thrones.
• Every morning at breakfast, John Glenn arriving at the table in red bikini briefs emblazoned with the words "The Right Stuff" in a most inappropriate location.
• Absolutely nothing ships to the moon via Amazon Prime.
• Really sick of bands breaking into their rendition of "Major Tom" whenever you walk into a nightclub.
• Having to constantly say on first dates: "No, I cannot introduce to Commander Chris Hadfield."
• Constantly being asked if you used to do porn in the '70s due to style and size of your mustache (Commander Chris Hadfield only).
• Still bothered about Laika. 
• You actually can't freebase Tang in space (no fire due to lack of oxygen) (very old, very inappropriate joke). 

Separated at birth: Ted Cruz and Mummenschanz

Ted Cruz speaking at CPAC 2015 in Washington, DC
by Gage Skidmore; CC BY-SA 3.0

Luckily for Mummenschanz, they can change their face at any time.

For this post, I created a label for "Ted Cruz." I suspect I'm going to be using that a lot this coming election season.

Why the snark toward Cuba Badding, Jr.? Read this. 

Now I could be generous and say that Ted is not referring specifically to gay people as the wagers of jihad against a narrowly defined, exclusive, and self-anointed Christian America--instead perhaps he is referring to all those who stood up against the recent "religious freedom" laws passed in Indiana and Arkansas, straight, gay, and otherwise, alike. (Although I'm sure Ted's bi--as in binary--and can't necessarily fathom the B and the T, let alone the Q, the other Q, the I, or the A, the LGBT spectrum--and truth be told, my head kind of explodes a little once we get past the T.)

Alas, I just grabbed this off the web
like a vulgarian

Nonetheless, it is awfully charged language very early on in what promises to be a 2000- or 2004-styled presidential campaign: No clear leader in the race coupled with simmering resentment that things have gone "too far" with gay rights, discussions and protests over economic and social inequality, heightened awareness of lingering racial discrimination, and "socialism" (aka, anything that's not Ayn Rand-influenced capitalism). Add that to a feeling of disenfranchisement among some (perhaps justified in some cases--poor to lower middle class whites--but not in others--upper middle class to wealthy whites) et voilà! You got yourself one humdinger of a powder keg waiting to blow.

And along comes Teddy with a lit match in the form of jihad-loving gay folk.

Once again, as a gay man, I am alternately the most powerful, dangerous force in the universe, and somehow simultaneously the weakest. How does that keep happening?

But enough of this whining: Let's turn the tables a bit.

Dearest Ted Cruz, your presidential campaign so far is like an ISIS beheading of a humanitarian aid worker. Your pandering to the lowest common denominator among the right-wing electorate is like a Boko Haram kidnapping of the under-14 female population of a Nigerian village. Your antagonistic belief system is like an Al Shabab car bombing in a crowded marketplace.

Oh, and your face? Genocide, pure and simple.

I don't know that I solved anything with that diatribe, and I do feel a tad guilty for making fun of someone's looks, something they can do little about.

But, Ted, you started this mess by throwing down the rhetorical gauntlet and throwing up whatever hate speech was in your gut. So pardon me, all, if I choose not to play nice.

* * *



Good analysis of the issue by the Young Turks.

Fairly across the Mersey

What's your favorite drink? The Mersey! 

Well, I didn't have the lyrics quite right, but I did remember the sketch more or less--French and Saunders parody of '80s-'90s British pop star Sonia.

The actual lyrics are--

I'm gonna close my eyes and count to ten/before I fall in love again

Straight out of the Stock-Aitken-Waterman catalog. The sound of a bright young Britain.

Sophisticated, singer, Liverpool, great, Scouse, indeed.

* * *



And while we're at it, a little more F & S, a little more S-A-W, a little more bright young Britain . . . and Australia.

Got to be certain

This Kylie Minogue song has been stuck in my head all week. Now it's your turn.

I think the tune is undeniably catchy. I don't think Kylie quite sounds like herself, the way she does even just a few hits later on songs, such as on "Never Too Late" or "Better the Devil You Know." In fact, I even wonder if this is her singing--I wouldn't put it past ol' Stock-Aitken-Waterman to bring in a scab vocalist to better "package" the song.

Nevertheless, it's still a fun song, perfectly designed to launch a mid-'80s Aussie soap star's pop music career. Although when hearing the tunes during this first calculated blush of La Kylie's career, I can't help but think of that S-A-W parody that comedy team French and Saunders did ages ago:

I turn around and count to ten/And then I fall in love again

That could have been massive, my friend.

Now for the video. Oi.

The best part for me are the shots of Melbourne, especially the one of her walking along the Yarra River near the Royal Botanic Gardens (again, another mid- to late '80s adventure of mine) and the one where she's walking near the harbor. I'd like to think this is St. Kilda, which I've visited as well, but probably not. I also like the part where Kylie rides the carousel, mainly because of the way the the horse "bucks" or vibrates and how it matches the song's synthesizer riff. Made for each other.

Now as for the rest . . . good lordy. Historical fact: Sometime in late 1987, the term "hot mess" was coined to describe the rest of this meshugas.

Our Miss Kylie has always been a crowd-pleaser, but she was at her most saccharine sweet, her most teeth-rotting, cheesecakiest best/worst at this time. That mugging for the camera conveying a fantasy of I'm-just-a-girl-next-door-who-gets-to-model-hip(?)-clothes-and-make-videos--it is all too much for the bullshit detector to handle.

And the clothes. Well, I'm almost speechless about the clothes. They seem to be trying way too hard, but to do what exactly? It's like they are purposefully funky in a pre-tween girl way but aren't nearly interesting enough to convey any sense of fashion or style. I mean, really that green-and-magenta shiny Jolly Rancher pukefest of an outfit worn along the Yarra River scene. Fashion. Crime. Against. Humanity.

And the hair? Gurrrl. I know Australia's a long way off, but surely they were able to import hair conditioner every now and again or at least make their own using leftover convict labor.

A lot of these excesses should be forgiven though. It was the '80s after all, a decade revered for its "modern" style but, when it comes down to it, by 1987 or so had completely run out of ideas--but, alas. not shoulder pads, bric-a-brac, and that damnable triangle form to every outfit.

All should be forgiven. But is not forgiven.

Anyway . . . another '80s Oz highlight? Return to Eden. You get just the opening credits for now and eventually a fuller exploration of one of my favorite trash TV shows ever in a future blog post.

'Struth.

Need a hearing aid tonight

"Смоленская церковь" [Smolensk Church]
by Антон Денисенко [Anton Denisenko].
Own work. Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0
via Wikimedia Commons

This is what I learned yesterday:

In the INXS song "Need You Tonight," the opening line is as follows--

"All you got is this moment."

It is not, in fact--

"In the gardens of Smolensk."

As I have thought it was for the last 25+ years.

Blame it on a mid-'80s trip to Leningrad and a then-obsession with Russian culture. I could swear there was a Smolensk cathedral in St. Petersburg. Things were opening up in the Gorbachev era, so I just figured that Michael Hutchence, international jet-setting rock star, had been there and had been inspired.

This is what I thought about yesterday. And, yes, this is what I learned yesterday.

It was the only thing I learned yesterday.

* * *

My memory is not as faulty or confused as first feared: There is indeed a Smolensk church and cemetery in St. Petersburg. And look at the blue! The colors of Leningrad buildings are one of my favorite memories from my life of sporadic travel and adventure.

* * *

And why not give credit is where credit is due?



The late great Michael was certainly "sex on a stick" (as I think Kylie Minogue once described him). This doesn't mean that I wanted to sample his charms; I actually always thought he was rather a Sybarite--which is, as best as I can determine, ancient Mesopotamian for scuzzbucket.

He always struck me as the kind of guy who, well, *would* try auto-erotic asphyxiation--though I would have wagered he was expert enough at it that he wouldn't have accidentally killed himself in the process. So maybe it was suicide after all. Having to deal with The Prick Formerly Known as Bob Geldof would be enough to make anyone take his own life, I would imagine.

Regardless, Hutchence was a major pop talent who I'd love to see alive today, still singing, still performing, still creating, still dating the world's top models.

Miss you tonight, Michael.

Some people like it hot

"But I'm a lady!"

Some people don't like to ask for directions.

Some people try to drive after having had too much cocaine for breakfast.

Some people get mad when drag brunch has limited seating, and they're arrived too late.

Some people (like Edward Snowden?) will do anything to attend the NSA retirement benefits seminar.

Some people ram the gate at one of the entrances to Fort Meade, one of scarier, allegedly more secure outposts on the high-concept War on Terror, this side of Gitmo.

Some people don't want to call this an act of domestic terrorism.

Some people apparently like it hot.

Some people.

Fashion statement

Capture from the NPR website

"To my loved ones: A bohemian artist has kidnapped me and forced me to play dress up with him, putting me in the most foppish clothing imaginable.

"Unless you pay $10 billion (in untraceable bills to a Nigerian prince) by midnight tonight, he will release the photos he has taken of me to the worldwide press, humiliating me for eternity and causing the stockholders for my widget-manufacturing enterprise to question my sanity and send company finances into a tailspin.

"lease help. Sincerely yours, Uncle Belmonde Jetset Hoi-Poloi III."

A failed blackmail attempt mayhaps, but the photos *are* fun.

If for no other reason than Ike Ude has an interesting, fascination vision.

Plus the fact that I'm sure the wealthy art benefactors seem to have no clue at how absolutely ridiculous the artist has made them look.

Thus this isn't so much a fashion statement. More of a question, really.

Working for a living

Still awaiting my opportunity to become a diamond-studded whore of the oligarchs.

Got to give up $7.3 million

Robin Thicke performing in 2013 by Melissa Rose;
Wikimedia Commons, CC BY-SA 2.0

I have been a fan of Marvin Gaye's "Got to Give It Up" since it was first released in the late 1970s. I have repeatedly heard Robin Thicke and Pharrell Williams' "Blurred Lines." (Who hasn't? Like a drunk guy at a party, it was pretty much inescapable for a while.) I have no idea where the line is between inspiration and plagiarism.

So I'm familiar with both songs, although admittedly one more so than the other. Having said that, I never noticed a strong similarity between the two. I never had a "how dare they!" moment where I smelled ripoff and wanted to condemn the song solely for its sound.

For its lyrical content, that's another matter.

I think there's a Marvin Gaye "woooh!" lifted and embedded in "Blurred Lines." There's a similar percolating beat. Perhaps more lies underneath, when you take a note-for-note accounting of the two, but I just don't hear it. A vague similarity? Maybe. But couldn't that be ascribed to inspiration more than plagiarism? I'll leave that for the experts, but goodness knows, content is locked down enough already by overzealous copyright owners. (Hello, Disney!) I shudder to think that this might usher in a new era of lawsuits trying to parse the line between plagiarism and inspiration, all the while filling the coffers of certain companies, lawyers, and individuals that have the clout and power to sue.

Regardless, there is one bright ray in the midst of this dark cloud.

If for just a moment it wipes that smug smile off of Robin Thicke's cocky mug, if it spares us a few rotations of that incredibly sexist video on TV or YouTube, it will have all been worth it. Every penny of the $7.3 million.

Sorry, Pharrell. I respect you--just not your choice in songwriting partners.

Once more with feeling

Another little ditty for the post-Valentine's/winter blues . . .

* * *

Roses are red
But re: the hue of violets, let us not dicker
If you'd stop texting for a moment
This bad sex we're having might go quicker

My (allegedly) funny valentines

"Heart Rotating" by BodyParts3D/Anatomography
CC BY-SA 2.1 jp via Wikimedia Commons

Some doggerel to digest on the most sickeningly sweet of all days. (I say this, and I'm quite happily attached at the moment. Thanks for asking.)

* * *

Roses are red
Violets, aromatic
You take my breath away
But, then again, I'm asthmatic

* * *

Roses are red
And may fire passion in romantics
You're so smoking hot babe
But I quit the habit thanks to Chantix

* * *


Roses are red
The fading embers of dying love, so ashen
That burning sensation in your loins?
Alas, it's not residue passion
(See a doctor, stat)

* * *

Roses petals are read
Tea leaves can be, too
I predict a long, happy future
In a parallel universe without you

* * *

Roses are red
Billy Ocean records, two a penny
You could get into the backseat of my car baby
But I drive a Mini

* * *

Roses are red
And may spawn violent emotion
Our love's a Michael Bay movie
We go from explosion to explosion to explosion!!!

* * *

Roses are red
Life preservers are clingy
You're out of your depth
If you think I'm going down on your dinghy
(Oh my!)

* * *

Happy Valentine's Day all! And if Valentine's Day ain't your thang, then remember, it's also International Book-Giving Day--a far more worthy, satisfying, and loving exercise than eating leftover chunks of Toblerone for breakfast.

(Not that I'm naming names.)

Moves like swagger

Not a duet I knew about before--Janis Joplin meets Tom Jones. Not even a duet I could have imagined. You just don't see this kind of power and energy in a performance very often.

I've never been a fan of Janis Joplin's voice (other than in Big Brother and the Holding Company's "Piece of My Heart," which I think is quite brilliant). Nonetheless, it's impossible to deny what an incredible singer and performer she was. If Wikipedia is to be believed (and who knows what truth is most days?), some of the comments made about her by classmates at her Port Arthur, Texas, high school and when she was at university only seem to focus on her looks--or her perceived lack thereof. And I just want to say, screw you, frat boys and mean girls. You were in the presence of a greatness you will never achieve, and you were too stupid and cruel to recognize.

Ahh, but I must admit that my stumbling upon this video was for less than noble reasons--I was really looking for videos of Mr. Sex Bomb himself, Tom Jones, and his amazing thrusting hips voice.

Hips don't lie: Tom is incredibly talented as a performer and a singer, and I was fortunate to see a more mature him in concert in Las Vegas a few years ago. I think he suffers from a certain Gino Vannelli Syndrome--his talent and art sometimes lost in the sweat and steam of his looks and sexuality. I mean, in both cases, if I stumbled upon a sex tape of them (each of them, mind you, not necessarily together; although . . .), I wouldn't be disappointed.

Shallow? Yes. Tawdry? You bet! But at least I appreciate greatness when I see it--even if it's sometimes for the wrong reasons.

Right here, right now

"Right Here, Right Now"--the new collaboration between Giorgio Moroder and Kylie Minogue. No video yet, but the clips I've seen look gorgeous, stylish, and fun--much like the song itself (which, it should be noted, is not the Kylie tune from 1991's Let's Get to It album!).

What a wonderful collaboration! Very much in the "Kylie classic" pop-dance genre. This, in fact, could be the killer single that 2014's Kiss Me Once LP seemed to lack (even though I still think that's one of Kylie's better, more mature-sounding albums).

Here's hoping for some future musical output from the two--47 (Kylie's current age, I believe) might also be the new 74--and the new 24.