Tuesday, December 19, 2006

Have yourself a merry little Snappymack Christmas . . .

You want gems? Go to Africa--just watch out for the conflict diamonds.

Better still, if you want some real holiday gems, some "'Jesus H. Christ!' is the reason for the season" banter and barter, go visit my friend Snappymack's world at Another Friggin' Blog.

La Snappy is the responsible party here--she got me bloggin' almost a year ago, and she does it quite well--at least when she's not pissin' off the Insane Hairstylist Posse with commentaries on their dippity-don'ts. She's accurately and funnily relating the holiday for us all, much better than I can this year.

Me, I'm having a rather Swedish holiday this year. No, I haven't set my head on fire while playing with my Saint Lucia's wreath or gotten wasted on some lingonberry-laced Absolut and sung ABBA's "Happy New Year" 'til I'm hoarse and more obnoxious than usual. Rather my holiday so far is like the country that gave us Ace of Base and Volvos--that is to say, boringly pleasant and good at surviving crash tests.

I've picked out the gifts and mailed all but one (forthcoming Fouchat). I have a few items to wrap and some cards to send, but even that's under control. However, as my friend Vegas Texan (i.e., The Artist Formerly Known as Jean Naté and Now Known as Jean Naté Again and please don't ask me to explain 'cause none of has that many years left on the planet) commented the other night on the phone, "[The Gladman] and I think the end of the world is nigh because you've mailed out your gifts and we've received them well before New Year's."

Too true. All too true.

[Sotto voce] *Bitch.*

Why, I've even mailed my gifts to my parents and sister in Kansas instead of having to carry them on the plane home *and* hand-delivered mine to my brother and his wife in Virginia a full week-and-a-half ahead of time. Oh, the stuff going to Canada and England probably won't make it in time for Boxing Day, but that's what them thar folks git fer celebratin' them hoity-toity, Commonwealth holidays.

Frankly, if you're like me and don't put too much faith in Christmas miracles, well, darlings, here's your sign. Repent now! Then duck and cover, 'cause it stands to reason that the proverbial glitter-bedazzled horse hocky is about to hit the seasonal, fairy-lighted fan. And the sound said horse hocky makes hitting the wall is to the tune of "Carol of the Bells."

I still have the social quagmire of work gifts to get through (who? when? how much? must I?), plus two rides through O'Hare, coming and going. Anything could happen. It could be another "Hard Candy Christmas" for me--with the hard candy referenced being that which is stuck to my face after falling asleep on an especially "earth-scented" and well-trod carpet at a major international airport on Christmas Eve.

But maybe my miracle this season is to have a lovely time without too much stress or aggro--and somehow still manage to escape the wrath of the gods (any gods, all gods--hey, I'm an equal opportunity accidental blasphemer most days, Merry Eid, Joyeux Diwali, and all that) despite the risk of coming off bored and self-satisfied.

Anyway, whatever, go read Snappymack's blog for a mo', while I finish wrapping these gifts--and, oh, say, start trying to make intricate origami ornaments out of sheet metal or create a new type of snickerdoodle, which I'll stay up all night baking and storing in containers I've hand-carved from trees I felled in my own private forest. Anything, chipmunks, to up the drama of the season. Can't be happy for too long. Wouldn't be very Christian of me.

The best of the season to you and yours, dear readers. Unless something weird happens, something crazy and out of the blue, like, I dunno, George Bush enters rehab and Miss USA decides to send more troops to Iraq, or vice versa--you know, something totally whack--you'll find me roasting my chestnuts by an open fire, Jack Daniels and Chinotto nipping at my nose, and sans wireless connection and laptop, until at least after Christmas.

* * *

Editor's note: The image is of the painting, Lucia, by Swedish artist Carl Larsson. Looking for a last-minute gift for ol' Rappylicious? I'm sure there must be a lovely catalogue raisonné for Mr. Larsson out there somewhere on Amazon.se.

Friday, December 15, 2006

'Tis the season

As must be obvious to everyone, I have had no time to write lately. Not sure why that’s the case, other than spending most of my free time shopping, wrapping, mailing, flailing, etc., like hundreds of millions of other capitalists in this country this time of year. Oh well, at least I'm not alone in jumping out the plane without a parachute, free-falling toward Splatsville and Target Bankruptcy. Or, as is more the case with me, Macy's Bankruptcy.

Only the best that the Midstate can sell, darlings, only the best.

Still, one or two of my readers—or perhaps I should say, my one or two readers—have started to comment and complain. Surely I can be relied upon for some holiday hijinx and seasonal sarcasm, no? I'm so good at it (or rather, consistent at it) every other time of year.

Mea culpa, possums.

So expect something more filling and sustaining than this appetizer, at least before New Year's. I have some bits and bobs that I’m trying to stuff into a gay goose of a posting on the joys of secular humanism for the holidays, as well as some baked-into-a-casserole leftover commentary on Canada vs. North Carolina.

(The latter isn't a hockey night round-up, I promise. Go 'Canes.)

But, honestly, after you’ve seen pictures of Britney Spears’ hoo-ha spread all over the internet, there really isn’t much left to say or do.

Other than swilling another cup of some Everclear-laced eggnog and maligning another Christmas carol--say, for example, "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus, Some Strange Men at a Party, Paris Hilton, Paris's Teacup Chihuahua, and the Living Wisemen and Sheep in a Nativity Scene at the Church Down the Road"--into something lewd and lascivious.

And, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I don't even have time for *that.*

Friday, November 24, 2006

Ripa-ing her a new one

Oh Rosie. Oh Kelly. If you can't get along, how will the Sunnis and the Shiites in Iraq ever learn?

When it was announced earlier in the year that the abrasive, obnoxious, full-of-herself Rosie O'Donnell would replace the slightly less abrasive but just as obnoxious and full-of-herself Star Jones, I had to wonder if Barbara Walters had finally o.d.'ed on the high level of carbon monoxide emissions given off by a fuming, unregulated John Stoessel. What, I screeched (in a moment of distraction from my own self-induced crises), was Babs crazy!?! Why replace one diva terrible with another, changing the diversity angle from African-American to Lesbian-American (not by way of Portugal, please), but otherwise adding nothing to this crazy souffle? Certainly not an unleavening agent.

Surely no one would want to tune in to see one more cranky cohost on this show, I thought. Surely they could write off most of the viewing audience in the South and the West with the choice of Rosie "A League of Her Own" O'Donnell (even if she was late in admitting she belonged in the bull [dyke] pen), pitching themselves to a decidedly Yankee audience, represented by the Northern, uh, charms of Babs, Joy Behar, and now Ms. Rosie. (I've yet to figure out which charms Elisabeth Hasselbeck represents. Aging New England coeds who made good through genetics and marriage? Republican working moms bent on world upper-tier cable channel domination? Smug D-list celebrities who persist in the belief that it is better to look good than actually to be good at anything?)

But this is a little show called The View after all. Its appeal somewhat escapes me--until I think about Blanche, Rose, Dorothy, and Sophia on The Golden Girls, and then all is somewhat revealed.

Plus, it's a TV chat show, not the freakin' Wannsee Conference or a Halliburton board meeting. It would be best to turn my attentions to other, more pressing issues and more deserving topics.

But, dang it all, like athlete's foot and Pat Robertson, The View just would not go away. Every week or so, some website--the start page for my internet service provider or CNN, ferchrissakes--or an Entertainment Tonight-styled TV show (like Hollywood Now! as skewered in the movie For Your Consideration) would feature a "news" item about something Rosie O'Donnell had said, done, speculated about, mud-wrestled Joy Behar over, what have you. It kept drawing me back in, and before I knew it, on the sly I was sneaking a peak at the headlines (goodness gracious, not the show) to see what America's preeminent lesbian entertainer, heavyweight division, had done or said this time.

Then, finally, it dawned on me why Rosie had been asked to join The View, post-Meredith Viera: to draw attention to the aging concept (not to mention the cast . . .), to make headlines, and/or, more simply put, to talk shit. And gosh knows a lesbian who can, with a, ahem, straight face, still gush about how cute android-creator Tom Cruise is, even after a much publicized coming out (hers, not his) can talk some major crap.

Some years ago, there was a sketch on Saturday Night Live with Horatio Sanz playing Rosie O'Donnell. In this sketch, "Rosie" was interviewed during the "Weekend Update" fake news segment by Tina Fey (if I recall correctly; maybe it was Jimmy Fallon; maybe it was both of 'em). Rosie appeared in profile; when she turned in one direction, her hair was long, and she was all sweetness and light; when she turned in the other direction, her hair was short, and she was a fire-breathing dragon. This short sketch perfectly mimicked Rosie's changing personality at that time, from her time as America's "Queen of Nice" on The Rosie O'Donnell Show to her transformation into a stereotypically rabid, frothing, more politically correct-than-thou lesbian. (Editor's note: Save your keystrokes of protest. No, I don't think all lesbians are like this. Really.) Not only that but even the haircut was a perfect parody of O'Donnell's then-asymmetrical and (it must be said) dyke-chic bob. It was two minutes of brilliance, which, sadly, SNL only achieves every so often.

So I think The View represents some sort of major breakthrough for Rosie. She has finally grown her hair out again, so she doesn't look like she's ready to play a supporting role in Boys Don't Cry: The Musical, and thus is attempting to integrate both parts of her public personality, the Good Twin and the Evil Twin. Which makes her as entertaining as an overly ponderous Ingmar Bergman study of a nurse and her patient psyching each other out in black-and-white, minus the Volvos.

A case in point: The latest poopschrift from La Rosie's lips to our ears is her alleged "feud" with fellow New Jerseyite Kelly Ripa from Rigormortis and Kelly, uh, correction, Regis and Kelly, not to mention that lame sit-com with that gal from Murphy Brown, and All My Children.

Recently, when Southern-fried, leprechaunish chanteuse Clay Aiken cohosted with Kelly on her show, he saw fit to put his hand over Kelly's mouth to stop her from saying something. (What, like the big non-reveal that he's a hideaway homo?) A simple gesture, but one to which La Ripa took offense, pushing his hand away and saying " . . . I don't know where that hand's been, honey."

All and all, this seems like a pretty unnoteworthy, if somewhat tacky, exchange of words. I dare say millions of people, including sensitive little moi, would make nothing out of it.

But perhaps a few us still manage to cling to the naïve notion that we live in a world in which what Rosie O'Donnell thinks, breathes, eats, sweats, dreams, etc., does not matter. Clearly, though, we are deluding ourselves into thinking such a place exists in this space-time continuum.

Because the one beard that Tom Cruise hasn't married yet did indeed take offense. "If that was a straight man, if that was a cute man, if that was a guy that she didn't question his sexuality, she would have said a different thing," O'Donnell commented on The View sometime after the non-event.

Hunh?

Ripa explained that what she meant was that Clay had been shaking hands with audience members, and it was cold and flu season, so she was concerned about, I dunno, picking up germs from the great unwashed or something, which apparently was a far more palatable statement to Rosie.

According to CNN, O'Donnell replied, "I understand cold and flu season. I'm just saying from where I sit as a gay person in the world, I have to tell you, that's how it came off to me."

Rosie, baby, from where I sit, you're blocking the View.

Who knows what Kelly Ripa meant? Maybe it was exactly as she explained it. More importantly, though, who cares? In a world, where lots of people, gay and non-gay alike, are routinely slammed (both verbally and sometimes physically), some germ-phobic throw-away line by Kelly Ripa, of all stellar lights, seems like a pretty minor issue to get in a snit over. I'm as sensitive to criticism and prejudice as anyone--sometimes more so, as friends and family could no doubt attest--but Rosie's reaction to the non-incident just seems over-the-top and calculating, carried out for no purpose other than to garner ratings and attention. It also has the additional downside of tarring my little group with the "thin-skinned minority" label, which we don't need because the next time we have a legitimate gripe there will be fewer people interested in hearing it, having dismissed us from the last, less significant, whinefest. You want to get upset over how gay people, hell, all people, are treated unfairly, Rosie? Call me--I'll give you a list. Just ask you internet service provider to increase your mailbox size first before I send you my response.

When the evidence is examined, however, the O'Donnell diatribe doesn't make a lot of sense. For one thing, Clay Aiken has never officially come out of the ol' closet. Oh, it's not like everyone hasn't figured it out already, if from no other evidence that his consistently inconsistent, alternating denials and unresponsiveness. But wouldn't it be funny if he really wasn't gay, was in fact, straight? Granted, so highly unlikely that I think I just made my brain short-circuit at the thought, but there is the cultural assumption that all gay men act a certain way (nelly) and all straight men act another (butch), when, in fact, I don't think it's as clear-cut as that. (Yeah, yeah, same for lesbians.) While I'm not going to claim that the nelly queen stereotype isn't based on some reality, there's evidence otherwise to suggest that you can in life encounter swishy straight guys and hirsute and hunky homosexuals. It's been known to happen, more than once even.

For another thing, who says Clay Aiken isn't cute? He's not my cuppa, mind you, but I know plenty of women and men who think he's adorable and would love to take him home to meet mother or, at the very least, envision other suitably salacious ways to pass the time with one of North Carolina's tow-headed, passion monkeys (the other being, I guess, John Edwards). I tend to view him like a recent episode of The Soup on the E! Channel did--host holds chihuahua wearing a wig and smirks toward the camera, while in the background a photo of Clay appears with him wearing the same hairstyle as the chihuahua.

Nevertheless, I have odd tastes in who is handsome and who is not. Currently, I think it's the very married Steve Carrell from The Office and Little Miss Sunshine, a man who has a nose that could ward off Barbra Streisand at thirty paces. All I can say, Steve, is if you're reading this, I'd never leave you for the #1 Proust Scholar in America.

So my point here is not to further embarrass myself in public with odd choices in unattainable men. It's actually to say that there's no accounting for personal taste. There's nothing wrong with Clay's looks, at least in the eyes of many. Now his self-satisfied, country-mouse-made-good attitude, well, that's a discussion best left for another post.

And, finally, Rosie, let's get real. As we say in the gay parlance, if Claypot is indeed gay, he strikes me more as a "catcher" than a "pitcher," if you glean my meaning. Thus, I don't know that Kelly Ripa needs to worry so much about where Clay's hand has been. Maybe other body parts, but his hand? Not so much.

Sunday, November 19, 2006

Gin, Rummy!


"You don't sound very excited. *I* sound more excited than you do."

Out of the mouths of Libertarians, specifically one Libertarian, my friend, the Native (Upstate) New Yorker, yesterday evening in a follow-up discussion on the recent mid-term elections.

The Libertarian was commenting to me on the Democrats' ascendancy to power in both the U.S. House and Senate, as well as the Wisconsin legislature, his current state of residence. In Pennsylvania, the vote's not in--literally, as who controls the state House of Representatives, Democrat or Republican, hinges on absentee and provisional ballot counting in Chester County.

The state Senate remained with the Republicans. But to our credit, our certifiable, right-wing U.S. Senator, Rick Santorum, was sent packing from his McMansion in Northern Virginia back to his modest bungalow in Penn Hills, and we reelected our generally-seems-to-have-a-clue Democratic Governor, Ed Rendell, for a second term. So yay us.

(Editor's note: Senator "Sanctimonium" has been criticized by many for having his primary residence in Leesburg, Virginia, or some other taste-forsaken 'burb, a token home in Western PA, and costing Pennsylvania taxpayers beaucoup bucks for the unique internet charter school the Santorums use to educate their children in Virginia, not PA. As if they couldn't have solved everything by buying a McMansion in the suburban Baltimore-Washington metropolitan area that York and Adams counties, Southern PA, are rapidly becoming a part of. But then that would have made them too close for comfort to me, and the Senator really does seem more like the sort to live in Loudon County. And, no, that's not a compliment.)

The Libertarian, who has been known to favor conservative stances and policies on occasion, and I, the amateur Green, who has traditionally voted Democrat, was chastising me gently over the return of the Democrats, something an ol' liberal like me should be jumping for joy over.


You would think, wouldn't you?

"Well, I'm feeling cautious. Let's wait and see what happens next."

Cautiously optimistic?

No, just cautious.

After all, as I explained to the Libertarian, I've been half-expecting the recently let-go Donald Rumsfeld to lead a coup d'état. I imagine tuning in to Good Morning America and instead of updates on the TomKat nuptials (which would immediately make me gag and run for the bathroom) and Desperate Housewives' trivia, Diane Sawyer interrupts the morning's ka-ray-zee hijinx with a breaking bulletin out of Washington. Flash on the screen, an image of Donald Rumsfeld's head popping out of a Panzer tank, his thick skull adorned with an Muammar al-Gaddafi-of-yore military chapeau, leading troops across the Arlington Memorial Bridge and toward the National Mall, where he will announce the Glorious Revolution has begun, comrades. Please turn yourselves into the authorities and spare your loved ones the trouble of doing it for you.

Ah, I love the smell of Donald Rumsfeld's napalm and my own paranoia in the morning.

* * *

But despite the scent of a sticky incendiary gasoline gel I fear breathing in, the air does seem a little cleaner and fresher now that the odiferous elections are over with, at least for another two years--or, rather, at least for another month or so until the speculation over who will run in the next election begins in earnest. Oops, too late.

Maybe everything seems shiny and new because I'm not as much a Green as I would like to think myself, despite my voter registration card to the contrary. Perhaps it's that my secret, shameful Democratic Party fantasies have finally come true--they won an election! And, as the Daily Show's Jon Stewart put it to Democratic Party Chair Howard Dean in a post-election appearance, did so "without uttering one coherent strategy about anything." Or words to that effect.

Dean, to his credit, took it with very good humor. But the winner can afford a chuckle at his expense, I guess. Or he chuckled simply because he knew it was true. I hate to even hint at agreeing with Sugar Land's own, Tom DeLay, about anything, even a given like the fact that water is wet, but I can't help but wonder if he had a small point when he said on MSNBC that the midterm election results were indicative more of the Republicans' losing rather than the Democrats' winning.

But he told a lot of other whoppers in that interview, too, like one about his not being guilty of corruption because he was "being indicted based on laws that don't exist." Whatever, Mary. Go stand in line with the other perpetrators-as-victims, please, and say hello to O.J. for me.


Still, no matter how you spin it, Congressman Frito DeLay, the Republicans did lose. Maybe not by much, but in your black-and-white (but still mostly white, I suspect) worldview, hey, that's all it takes! No more lobbyist funding for your daughter's baby shower from now on, possum. Please do fade into obscurity promptly, you arrogant mo' fo'. And take your don't-know-the-meaning-of-the-word-"hubris" colleagues with you.

But for now I can't get too hopeful. More relaxed and less likely to bolt to Canada maybe, but not yet hopeful. There's still that little problem about the Democrats not having a clue what to do next (at least not one that they've clued me in on, and we used to be like *this,* I tell ya). Eventually they're going to have to propose something forward-thinking, positive, relevant, and effective, instead of their usual orchestra-without-a-conductor (or even musical instruments) approach to issues. I can't say that I feel real confident, especially when Dean says something like, "Well, we're not going to try to impeach the President."

Good, glad to hear it, but, dude, this was under serious consideration? Like don't go all Don Quijote on me, OK?

Granted, given the little that I understand about federal politics, there are probably any number of good reasons for impeachment--oh, say, like 150,000 of 'em, which is the approximate number of persons who have died in a certain Middle Eastern country as a result of an ill-conceived war on its soil. Call me crazy, but that seems like a slightly more compelling argument for impeachment rather than, I dunno, lying to Congress (a bit like coals to Newcastle, that is) about getting a hummer in the Oval Office from a too-eager-to-please-and-talk White House intern.

Nonetheless, however justified, the idea of screwing around two more years on a series of pointless, ineffective investigations, hearings, and votes would just be a colossal waste of time and money. True, you're Congress, that's your job, but still . . . .

What do I know? I'm just a voter. I'm sure you, oh Democratic politicos, are far wiser and can see how the nation's citizens would rejoice and praise you for such a strategy.

As just a voter, though, even one who has been allying his bad self with independents of late, a word of advice: Really, you might want to propose a plan or something here, more than one that clings to some long-lost Great Society dream that's never gonna get funded or one that's simply anti whatever the other side of the aisle is for. True, everything that the other side of the aisle represents does seem thoroughly horrendous and of no benefit except to their nearest and dearest (that is to say, their bank accounts and their bank accounts' best friends). But as boring and obvious as it may seem to you to talk to us hoi polloi types, there does seem to be a need to explain clearly and yet somehow pithily (I'm talking to you Al Gore and John Kerry) why this other crud is either bad for most of us (e.g., ending the estate tax, attacking "activist judges," selling out the nation to the highest bidder, et al.) or a ruse to distract us (same-sex marriage, Terry Schiavo, et al.) from the real issues of the day (Iraq, healthcare, the social safety net, the growing inequality among citizens of our no-fair land, et al.).

C'mon, it's not that hard. Driving around the country outside the Greater Washington area (or, heck, even within Washington--have you been to Southeast D.C. recently?); visiting a campus other than your alma mater, an Ivy League one no doubt; dining out in our Fast Food Nation near the end of a pay period every now and again; or trying to figure out your private insurance during open enrollment (assuming you have insurance, that is)--you might just pick up a few pointers about what's really going on out here in Podunk, the Flyover Zone, Great Unwashedboro, or whatever it is you marbled-hall, block-headed types like to call the rest of the nation west of I-95.

And a Dale Carnegie course or two wouldn't hurt either.

Wednesday, November 15, 2006

Chilly scenes of yinzers


Greetings from Pittsburgh, the Switzerland of Pennsylvania--who knew?

Somehow, despite the promise of pleasure in doing so, I'm nonetheless managing to avoid discussing the elections and the departure of dear ol' Donald Rumsfeld and instead focusing my neurons on my current travels to Pittsburgh, Steel City, the gateway to, um, Ohio, where I am currently visiting as part of my ongoing World Tour 2006, Gainfulemploymentpalooza. It's two, two, two conferences in one this go 'round, so I'm here for a solid week of business, followed by a couple of days of pleasure, visiting my good friend Fouchat, who relocated here from Texas two years ago.


I'm not quite sure why I ever fuss about my job (and, trust me, I do--early and often) because I feel like most times I'm rarely there, instead attending some conference or meeting in another farflung, exotic locale--New Orleans, San Antonio, Frankfurt, Germany, and, well, Grantville, Pennsylvania, apparently the center of the known universe for all meetings by Pennsylvania government and non-profit agencies. Those of you who form part of the Grantville-noscenti will independently verify this fact, I'm sure.

So far, I'm enjoying Pittsburgh, at least the little I've been able to see. In part, this "lack of vision" is due to the fact that I've been in meetings from morning until evening for the last three days, with two more days to go. In part, however, the abundance of clouds and fog in this very hilly city are generally blocking the view of all there is to see and do--not only physically (it's intensely foggy at 8:30 am, do you know where your Duquesne Incline is?), but also psychologically.

Oddly, for me, a man with a blog, I find myself feeling a little timid at this conference, hesitant to venture too far afield, as if I step toward the banks of the Monongahela, the Allegheny, or the Ohio rivers, I'll fall down a hole into a strange Wonderland--or an abandoned smelter. I'm neither feeling depressed nor too introspective (hasn't this blog proven that point by now?), just a little shy, a little quieter than usual.
And I can't help but think the shyness and timidity are due in part to the Lost Horizons feeling I get by being high in the Alleghenies during a very chilly, misty, and did I mention? rather dreary week.

Back east toward Harrisburg, this week it is apparently warmer and rainier with heavy thunderstorms, more like early fall and the transition from a warm and moist clime to a dry and cold one. But sometime on Sunday, soon after I passed through the Kittatinny Tunnel on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, I crossed into a world where cold weather commands, an almost-winter replete with ghostly, naked trees on mountainsides, their dessicated skin cells--that is to say, their leaves--blowing across the roadway, and a disorienting, yet somehow protective, miasma of fog, clouds, mist, and drizzle enveloping my Subaru as it hurtles over the macadam toward Pittsburgh, like a teal-colored bullet against the backdrop of a sad, gray dueling ground. In other words, the full late November doldrums that we know and experience melancholia over in the Northeast has arrived, and at that moment, I found myself racing forward to greet it.

* * *

This Wizard of Oz in Reverse Effect (traveling from a world of color to one of black-and-white) continues upon arrival in Pittsburgh, as I travel up the Monongahela Incline one evening to Mount Washington, one of Pittsburgh's premier neighborhoods. In this era of gumstuck bus seats and graffitti-fitted subway cars, the Incline is quite a cool method of transportation. It consists of a three-compartment carriage, each compartment higher than the next, that through a system of cables, electricity, and gears travels at a 35-degree angle up Mount Washington. It sort of looks like a coal bin traveling in reverse, going up the face of a mountainside to its peak instead of down into the bowels of the earth. Which is somewhat telling as Mount Washington was once known as Coal Hill and served as a working-class neighborhood for German and other European immigrants who flocked to the city during its 19th-century industrial expansion.

But instead of thinking about smelting and schnitzel, I'm reminded more of something from a James Bond movie--On Her Majesty's Secret Service, if I recall correctly--where James (played by short-timer George Lazenby) travels to Blofeld's secret lair on the top of a jagged peak in the Swiss Alps in a funicular-styled railway car. (At least, that's how I recall it.)

The effect at the top of Mount Washington is similar, I would like to imagine. I gaze at a foggy, misty, even mystical Pittsburgh skyline from an observation deck that juts out over the cliff's edge. I even experience mild vertigo as I near the deck railing, the vantage point being so steep and severe.

As I walk around Mount W. in the growing dark and fog, I admire the architecture of the homes and apartment buildings, some of which remind me of Swiss chalets and European ski lodges, neither of which I've experienced firsthand, but which I've seen enough of on TV travelogs and, oh yeah, James Bond movies. Some of the apartment buildings and homes are perched cliffside, offering staggering, panoramic views of downtown. Other houses have steep rooflines and pale, cottagey facades with windowboxes underlining and overbrowing their eyes to the world. Wry looks, wrinkled faces. The buildings struggle to climb streets like paved over ski slopes, only at the peak to promptly descend with luge-like swiftness, rickety and out of control, to the bottom of the hill. When the roads are coated with snow, I can't imagine trying to stop quickly for a light or a car crossing the intersection, not at least without 4-wheel drive, snow tires, and (nevertheless) a bumper crunch somewhere along the way.

The whole "Gstaad in Pittsburgh" motif is overwrought perhaps, much like my writing in this post. To be honest, today I couldn't tell you whether those cottages with windowboxes actually exist on Mount Washington or if those are memories from my stay last October in Gelnhausen, Germany. Nevertheless, I ended the evening with some après-ski cheese fondue and a glass of Riesling at the Melting Pot at Station Square. All that was lacking from this cozy version of the Geneva Convention was a gentle snowfall, a toasty fire, and Tobias Grünenfelder by my side, feeding me s'mores.

* * *

And then the next night, TBS shows The Wizard of Oz on TV. Coinkydink? I think not. It just furthers my Swiss Miss(ter) Instant Cocoa fantasia on Pittsburgh, methinks.

* * *

Contributing to the stranger in a strange land experience, my friend Fouchat and I go for breakfast at a downhome diner in his neighborhood, an area that, despite the presence of Fouchat and his significant other, the Artist Formerly Known as, well, the Artist, and their lovely hand-crafted bungalow, remains decidedly, perhaps even defiantly, working class. This is factory worker country. If I were to send back my eggs to the kitchen, I'd half-expect a labor uprising and a few choruses of "The Internationale" sung by the wait staff. It's just that I can't figure out where these factories are anymore in the newly glassy and glam Pittsburgh.

The diner itself, though, is fine, not strange in the least; it's just the walk to the diner that is a little uncomfortable. On our way, we pass two people. The first, a woman, is bringing home groceries in a cart. Fouchat, being the friendliest New Yorker you could ever meet, greets her with a pleasant "good morning," a greeting that she ignores. I repeat the greeting, but still nothing, not a flinch, not a tick, not a glance in our direction or a clutching of the purse. Bupkus--I figure this lady is either Botoxed or flatlining. "Maybe she forgot to turn on her hearing aid?" Fouchat offers when she is out of earshot.

The second, a man seemingly without a purpose or any contemporary fashion sense, reacts similarly to Fouchat's friendliness. There's a brief flicker of eye movement, but his face remains passive, his lips as pursed as the clutch on the woman's handbag.

This is odd to me. Heretofore, I've found Pittsburgh fairly friendly. Fouchat and I were in the Strip District the other day (it's not what you think; it's full of food glorious food--delis, bakeries, coffee and tea traders, etc.--rather than that other delectable consumible, cheap sex) and were greeted warmly and chumily by biscotti sellers, espresso makers, fudge retailers, pasta providers, and more. Granted, we were buying, but the merchants obviously enjoyed their work and were happy to offer samples, answer questions, and joke around with us. Everyone had a good sense of play, which, to me, is practically all that separates us from the savages. That and San Pellegrino Chinotto sodas.

So what gives with the blue collar blues back in Fouchat's township? Are we invisible? Are we trees falling in the woods and not making a sound? It is another foggy and misty morning in the 'Burgh, so perhaps we've landed in Nicole Kidman country in The Others, i.e., we see dead people walking around, who are unable to tell us that perhaps . . . oh, go rent the movie.

Walking down the street, Fouchat and I are hard to miss, representing a veritable Queer Mod Squad--one black, one white, one bald, with me offering the twofer deal. How can they not see us?

And therein may lie the rub.

* * *

The Mysteries of Pittsburgh are enhanced by the "yinzer" dialect, practically a language (Romansh, anyone?) unto itself. I could elaborate but as you can see from various Wikipedia entries, others have done it before me and to a more exacting and informative degree.

For most of the week, though, I feel like I'm surrounded by a flock of rather loud, somewhat excited ducks quacking, such is the sound of the Pittsburgh accent to my ears. (Editor's note:
Snappymack, you native of the 'Burgh 'burbs, for the record, you never sound like this to me.) But these are ducks that are anthropomorphic, taking on human form. They go to work, ride the "T," cheer on the "Stillers" (Ben and Jerry? No, the football team, silly!), and aim for a coronary with the delicious sausage, provolone, french fry, and coleslaw sandwiches offered up at Primanti Brothers, with three locations to serve you, hopefully all of them near hospitals. (Sorry for the weird pic; I did the best I could with what was offered copyright-free on the Wiki.)

Human, duck, whatever, all that quacking kind of blows the Swiss theme I've got going on in my head. Even the sound of cowbells, yodeling, and that horn from the Ricola commercials on the soundtrack to a scene of mountain lasses in dirndl skirts and lads in lederhosen couldn't rescue my delusions of Heidi from Revenge of the Duck People.

Still (and I mean "still," not "steel," which is how they pronounce "steel" in Pittsburghese), the fantasy of living under Swiss Confederation in Western PA may be gone, but the hope of a sassier, more satisfying life in Pittsburgh lives on.

Go Stillers! Go West! Go me . . . back to Pittsburgh, first chance I get!

Saturday, November 11, 2006

Touch me in the morning

You gotta love journalists. Oh, I know the Right Wing and the President and His Cronies like to tar them with broad, hot streaks of the stuff, just for doing their jobs. (Much the way that they treat the judiciary, come to think of it.) And I could certainly do without most of the TV personalities who pass themselves off as journalists, even, it must be said, my semi-beloved Anderson Cooper, who is not above broadcasting his fair share of sensationalistic drivel, tears over Hurricane Katrina notwithstanding.

But every now and again, one stands out above all the others, not because of some late-breaking, hard news spectacular, but, rather, because of the simplest of pointed phrasings, the subtlest of arched angles, the most delicate of duly noted observations.

This week's award for Outstanding Snarkiness in a Wire Service Article goes to Associated Press writer Dan Elliott for his November 9, 2006, article (published in the Harrisburg, Pa., Patriot-News) on plans by the Reverend Ted Haggard to remedy his recent hooker-and-crystal meth conundrum. In an article entitled, "Haggard agrees to lengthy, grueling rehabilitation," Mr. Elliott writes

There will be prayer, and perhaps the laying on of hands. There will be counseling and a confession. And there will be advice, confrontation and rebuke from "godly men" appointed to oversee the spiritual "restoration" of the Rev. Ted Haggard.
Laying on of hands? Isn't this how this whole mess got started in the first place?

If at the end of this rehabilitation, there's any suggestion that the Reverend Haggard was cured by his team of amateur saviors through aversion therapy--consisting in this case of repeated "happy finishes" under the influence of crystal meth, accompanied by chants by fellow ministers of "Spare the rod, spoil the child! Hallelujah!" while doling out spankings--then we can safely assume we've all been had.

Saturday, November 04, 2006

Putting the mental in fundamental

You know your public relations campaign for your own particular brand of sexual deviancy is in bad shape when a disgraced leader of a national evangelical religious organization would rather cop to buying an illegal drug rather than own up to some quite legal hide-the-sausage (et al.) antics with a hunky male prostitute.

If you haven't been following this little flurry of pre-election sordidness (probably because you knew I'd follow it for you), let me recap: The allegedly Reverend Ted Haggard (appropriately named because crystal meth'll do that to you, I hear), jefe of the National Association of Evangelicals, a 45,000-church and 30-million-member strong umbrella organ (if you'll pardon) for fundamentalist Christians, was accused late this week of having sex with and buying drugs from a male prostitute, the generically named but not unappealing Mike Jones. Read all about it here.

At first, the Rev Gauche denied the sex-and-drugs-but-no-rock-and-roll-we're-evangelicals-thank-you scenario, until the Rent Man provided more evidence of phone calls from one to the other. (Nonetheless, all the Rent Man's accusations have yet to be proven. Some credibility issues there. From a prostitute, imagine that . . . .) Then the Rev decided to fess up to buying crystal meth from the Prostitute, which he claims to have thrown away. (What? You just wanted to understand its chemical make-up for your kid's biology class report? Try Wikipedia next time). Oh, and he had requested a massage as well. No word yet on whether the Rev threw in (or away) the towel on that one. Again, just to better understand the biology of it all, I'm sure.

I can only hope that as the Rev made this confession, some of his teeth fell out, clattered across the pulpit, and clunked into the baptismal font (another side effect of meth use, apparently). Perhaps, too, the scent of massage oil began wafting through the church and a Yanni CD went into heavy rotation on the sound system. Relax. Take a deep breath. That'll be $100, bud.

But wow. The Far Right must be really, really, really, really, really uptight about sex--entirely legal sex, mind you--if ticking the box marked "own up to crystal meth use" seems like the better fall-from-grace-on-your-face, soul-saving option. I mean, in a perfect, gender-neutral world, a fundamentalist admitting to playing with his or someone else's dong would seem like the safer choice. After all, it's just sex--it's not illegal like acquiring and possessing a homemade recreational pharmaceutical with addictive qualities.

Granted, however, soliciting a prostitute (or "escort," if you prefer, as if you needed help finding your way to your genitalia) is illegal, but I would suspect that would be a misdemeanor in the eyes of the law, not a felony like possession of illicit chemicals made in some ol' hippy's dirty kitchen from two parts Red Bull and ten parts Sudafed.

But whose law is it, anyway? In the eyes of evangelicals, we're talking fundamentalist Christian law here, the Shariya of America as it were, or at least a pinched and persnickety interpretation of it. So the slap-and-tickle with another male member would be the felony, I would imagine. I'm surprised emergency rooms all over the country haven't reported a rise in finger blisters on the hands of fundamentalists as they speed-thumb through their Biblical concordances. "See, I told you! Not one mention in the New or Old Testament of crystal methamphetamine abuse! But, lordy, look at the listings condemning happy finishes with massage therapists!"

So why say yes to drugs and no to carnal pleasures? Well, I don't quite get it myself, except that with drugs, well, it's an addiction, isn't it? The countdown to the Reverend Haggard professing that he's an addict of some sort begins NOW. Not to make light of a serious issue, but it has been done to death of late. Fundamentalists would be more sympathetic to that, I would imagine. He could go away, get treatment, and be invited back into the fold in time for Easter service.

But sex with another man? Hmmm. Is that a choice? If it is, then I would guess fundamentalists would consider it a poor, unsavory one, generally removed from their experience, except while away at Christian summer camp or during that long weekend hunting trip in North Georgia that no one likes to talk about. And despite some hope-against-hope homosexual "cure" programs like Exodus, if you're an evangelical, there's not much you can do to remedy--or forgive--a lifestyle choice you abhor, especially one involving coconut oil rubdowns and the exchange of bodily fluids in a downtown hotel.

But what if it's not a choice? What if the Rev's having sex with another man is indicative of something innate, natural even, at least for some male members of the species? Wouldn't that just blow away any plans you had for, say, banning gay marriage in Colorado or elsewhere?

Thus, I suspect the Reverend Haggard's I'd-rather-snort-than-switch-hit approach to his predicament is in part political. It's hard to rally God's self-annointed army to fight against gay marriage when you've been known to enjoy the fruits of lust's labor's lost in the Adam and Steve honeymoon suite at the Denver Hilton with a guy who has a bigger chest than your wife's.

That sort of realization is bound to wreak some havoc on your political clout, not to mention dry up any invitations to the White House for hot dogs and sausages on the 4th of July. Too embarrassing to put that on the invitation now. Might be misunderstood.

* * *

Back to that Gay Agenda public relations campaign for a moment. Note to Doogie Howser--it's nice of you to offer your support. Really. We're very proud of you for making the leap from perpetual blind item on Defamer and Gawker, to real, live, dancin', prancin' homosexual. And nary a public latrine, teen chatroom, or Congressional page was harmed in the making of this coming out story. Good show!

Still, it took you long enough, and no one's really surprised to see you at the planning meeting for the PR push (a penchant for starring in Sondheim musicals on Broadway? c'mon, way too easy). But . . .

Sorry, we had someone else in mind for the lead spokesmodel role. Say, for example, someone who doesn't come off like Felix Unger channeling a gay leprechaun and who has never worked as a male prostitute or recreational pharmaceutical supplier.

Nevertheless, you're well-groomed and personable and haven't brought down any evangelists lately through a heady mix of shiatsu and Oxycontin. (At least as far as we know.) I'm sure we can find a place on the dais for you, Lance Bass, and T. R. Knight.

Monday, October 30, 2006

That joke isn't funny anymore

Borat, Borax, Boring: I saw the ads in heavy rotation, I drank a bleach cocktail to kill the bad taste, and yet it was all incredibly tiresome.

Make it stop. Please. I know we have a jerk for a president, a bunch of thugs that make up his cabinet, use up most of the world's natural resources, and spit up the spent waste into the sky, the ocean, and the earth. But are we really so bad that we deserve the impending unnatural disaster that is Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan?

Goodness, the commercials are everywhere--Rick Santorum should have so many ads on the telly at the moment. It might boost his poll numbers above 40 percent for next week's mid-term elections. Not that we should encourage that, of course, but total airwave saturation with commercials that make him look both idiotic and smug and the country he professes to love look moronic and easily duped might represent a more effective media strategy than his current one . . . which, come to think of it, is exactly that.

Oh well. Keep up the good work, Rick!

Anyway, I'm sure there are some kernels of humor on the ol' corncob of comedy that Sacha Baron Cohen's insists on wiping his ass with--in public no less. I mean, the man can be convincing in character, whether its surly Brit hip-hopper Ali G or fatuous and fey Austrian fashionista Brüno. (Editor's note: Baron Cohen does have some good lines. Watching the November 2, 2006, edition of The Daily Show, in which he was interviewed as Borat, the comedian did make me chuckle with this observation about Madonna: "It is interesting that your most famous female pop star is a transvestite, no? In my country, someone like that person would be in the circus.") Thus, there's obviously comedic talent in there somewhere.

In addition, Sacha B. C. just got paid something like $40 million U.S. to next bring Brüno to the tarnished screen. And money does equal talent and worth, doesn't it? After all, that's why we see Donald Trump and Paris Hilton ubiquitous in the media, rather than Nelson Mandela or that nice professional man who won the Nobel Peace Prize for his development of microcredit in Bangladesh.

But, oh dear, characterizations of swishy Salzburg TV hosts and wild-and-crazy foreign reporters with language skills in dire need of a Rosetta Stone tutorial, well, thees comedy ees so hilarious, no? Not to the mentionableness of originalitude. Ha, I laugh, and your American national dreenk, Coca-Coly, come out, how you say, my schnozz!

Well, no, actually, it's not that original, it's only funny maybe once if you're lucky, and, come to think of it, it stopped being funny sometime in junior high.

In the pro-Borat argument I heard recently on Deutsche Welle's "Inside Europe" radio program, apparently, the "deeper meaning" behind the farce that is Borat is that the character says these rude things to show how people don't protest against prejudice, how in fact they'll often agree with it. In that same radio interview, one of the pro-Borat camp remarked how anyone who doesn't get the joke just isn't very bright.

So, silly me, it's not so much that there's anything wrong with Borat & Company's fool-me-for-eternity-on-celluloid brand of humor, that it might be considered juvenile, tacky, or offensive by some. No, what's really up is that anyone who doesn't like it is just plain stoo-pid. Not much room for negotiation on that one, I guess. Still, that's an interesting way to justify someone's public smart-assedness. He's not a jerk! He's a liberator! Nonetheless, I'm still not convinced that our dear Mr. Baron Cohen isn't doing anything more than getting noticed. Oh, and rich. Forty million dollars' worth of rich.

Yet, despite the ill-explained, post-modern, guerrilla approach to frat boy comedy, some representatives from Europe's Roma community (known most commonly in this country as the Gypsies, although some consider this a pejorative term) are apparently offended by S.B.C.'s--or rather, Borat's--negative comments about their people. It goes without saying that the Roma haven't had an easy time of it in the world, and still don't in much of Eastern and Central Europe. But what, Sacha E. Newman worry?

As it's been reported in the press, Mr. B. C. is Jewish, yet through his Borat character he makes cartoonishly prejudicial statements against Jews and Judaism. All for a laugh and no offense intended, of course. After all, no one would think that someone who is Jewish would be anti-Semitic (Hitler aside, of course). Thus we don't take it too seriously and all is forgiven, in fact, because we allow room for Mr. Baron Cohen to make fun of prejudices against his own group.

So, by that same argument then, I guess we can assume that Mr. Baron Cohen is also vaguely Muslim (Ali G), Austrian (Brüno), gay (Brüno), Kazakh (Borat), American (Borat), and fond of running around in a neon-colored sling-shot thong (Borat), too? It's only logical.


Some might dismiss my carping as evidence that I don't have a sense of humor, to which I would beg to differ. It may be alternately bad and tacky, but I got me one, nonetheless. I like a good laugh as much as anyone, even one at my own expense, and can also appreciate one even at my own tribe's expense. I watch South Park, after all, even though I think it at times is overly generous with the "faggot" perjorative.

Nonetheless, what I'm less enthralled with is making fun of others, especially historically easy targets. (Politicians and celebrities not included--I have nothing against easy and deserving targets). So me and my limited intellect keep coming back to the same point, and that is, what's the point of Sacha B. C.'s humor other than to make people look stupid? Or to show how stupid people really are with very little prompting? Or to show stupid people in their natural, stupid environments? Please, I just need to get on the freeway, negotiate a turf war on the job, or watch episodes of just about any "reality"-based TV show to know that we're all plenty stupid.

Mr. Baron Cohen's brand of comedy just all seems rather mean-spirited, not just toward suburban London hip-hoppers or Julie Andrews-loving TV personalities or Kazakh national jokes, but also toward those that Ali/Borat/Bruno are duping. Fake TV personality fake interviews real persons and makes them look really dumb. Hardy har har. Stop, plees, I no can take thees comedy styleengs.

No, really, I mean it stop. I'm bored by your act.

Canadian TV personality Rick Mercer has done it before in his CBC show, Talking to Americans, in which he travels the U.S., sticking a microphone and a camera in some clue-free citizen's face and asking him or her to agree with him on some ridiculous statement about Canada. "Senator, won't you join me in congratulating Canada on getting its first flush toilet!"

In addition, The Daily Show does this all the time, too, in the interview segments conducted by their comedy team, getting rather slow-synapsed bigots to out themselves with crazy talk on their pet hates. My personal favorite was the interview with the representative from, I believe, the Family Research Council, who kept claiming that gay men participated exclusively in water sports as a recreational activity--and I ain't talking the kind with skis and a speedboat, folks. (For the record, we don't. Ewwwww.)

Granted, these national embarrassments are hardly victims (some of them are too busy victimizing others, actually), but, nevertheless, I don't really enjoy watching The Daily Show's fake news reporters act all smug and snarky as they unwrap the rube's mental rubbish for the world to see, then proceed to prod and poke it with a stick to reveal the especially nasty bits. Firstly, it's not like we weren't aware of their idiocy already. Secondly, it's not like treating them like the buffoons they are really serves any purpose other than a cheap laugh, not to mention making the interviewer look like a self-satisfied ass.

So, in conclusion, I'm all for protecting the rights of stupid people to be really stupid . . . .

But pardon me if I don't feel like spending $2.25 a gallon on gas, $8 on a movie ticket, and $15 on soda and a "fun-sized" box of Raisinets to be subjected to more dumb Americans on the big screen in an overly long, leftover Candid Camera sketch. If I want to see that, I'll just tune into an entire season of Big Brother on my 32-inch TV.

Wednesday, October 25, 2006

No school bus left behind . . . ahead . . . or to the side

Over the last few months, to remedy the malaise of middle age, I've set as a goal to do or learn something new each week I continue to inhabit the earth. In some instances, this new thing involves going to a restaurant I've repeatedly passed by but have never stopped in. In other cases, it has involved sitting still long enough to enjoy a movie from start to finish on HBO, the Independent Film Channel, or the Sundance Channel. (Of late, this has included viewings of Walk the Line, Europa Europa, and Belle du Jour. For the record, I have decided to stalk both Marco Hoffschneider and Joaquin Phoenix.) It may involve reading about a topic that heretofore I knew little, taking a different road to work, or trying a different brand of cereal. Whatever. Just something to say, in little ways, that I'm 45, but I'm not totally dead yet.

As much to the contrary as I may actually feel about it.

Today, however, was a curious one, wherein I learned something new, but something of a nature that could perhaps result in a $250 fine, 5 points on my license, and even a license suspension.

I was driving on Chestnut Street in downtown Harrisburg this afternoon, heading home after the end of a three-day conference and ready to think about something other than the three days of "visioneering" offered up as wisdom about my chosen profession. I crossed 3rd Street on a green light, heading toward 2nd, and then would move onward to the Market Street Bridge.

It's a weird intersection, where 3rd Street is one way both in both directions--meaning it switches the direction in which it is one way, and there are no turns from Chestnut onto 3rd. Honest. You know that Pierre L'Enfant, the planner of Washington, D.C., must be dreaming in heaven of such a complete and utter traffic flow foul-up. "Sacre bleu! If only I had tried that approach, the British could have easily retaken Washington in the War of 1812! European hegemony rules, bee-yotch!"

But hark! Was that not a horn I heard blowing at me as I went through the intersection with 3rd? Why yes it was.

I had noticed a school bus at the intersection--not facing me, not ahead of me, but to right, on 3rd Street, stopped at the intersection, perpendicular to my car on Chestnut. I didn't see any amber or flashing red lights, but as I entered the intersection I did notice the yellow safety bar was extended from the front of the bus to prevent children from walking too closely in front of the vehicle. I noticed some older kids on the edge of the crosswalk, who had not entered yet, but were contemplating it. Still, it was a four-lane street; I had a green light; the bus was stopped on another street; why wouldn't I move forward?

Hmmm, well, in Pennsylvania apparently I shouldn't. There is a law in our fair (but mostly middlin') Commonwealth that states that when a school bus is stopped at an intersection--no matter which part of the intersection--all traffic comes to a complete halt, no matter what the lights indicate otherwise.

Now I've been driving since I was 16, so I have nearly 30 years of driving experience in various cities, states, and two foreign countries, including a recent stint of trying to tell the difference between the speed limits from the highway numbers in Ontario. I have driven in Houston, Los Angeles, Washington, D.C., Philadelphia, and god help me, Atlanta, among other places, and I have done so with nary a mark on my driving record. In total, in 29 years, I've had two parking tickets and one minor accident and have been stopped by cops twice. In both cases, I was excused, when it was determined that I was in fact as clueless as I appeared to be but not a threat to society at large.

In no case, have I ever been ticketed for any moving violation.

Oh, I've certainly driven above the speed limit, although I do try to keep it to no more than 5 mph above the posted limit on highways. And if extending the middle finger to a driver who cut me off were a punishable offense, I would indeed be awaiting execution on death row. Dead man driving, dead man driving.

But never in my time on this planet have I heard of such a bizarre traffic rule.

Nor did I actually hear details of this particular violation at the scene, at least none that I could understand.

After the horn blowing, the school bus pulled out into the street and followed me to the next light, where I was stopped waiting to turn on 2nd Street. The driver crossed over two solid yellow lines to sidle up alongside of me and began furiously writing down details of my vehicle. She opened the bus door, and I rolled down my window, and then she began going off in full Barney Fife mode.

"You know you just committed a moving violation, don't you!" This was definitely an exclamation, not a question, despite the grammar and syntax.

"How was that a violation?" I asked, keeping my cool, but nonetheless puzzled and somewhat consternated by the incident.

"You plowed right through that intersection! That is a moving violation!" she yelled.

"HOW is it?" I asked. "I had a green light."

"You know what you did! You know what you did!" Then she drove off.

Well, no, you overcaffeinated mall cop, I don't know what I did, and I certainly didn't receive any constructive education from you in the matter. In fact, I didn't learn anything at all about why this is a violation from the Pennsylvania State Police or various other public safety websites either.

However, Wikipedia had a very interesting article on school bus traffic stop laws, that was most edifying:


In Pennsylvania, a vehicle driver approaching an intersection at which a school bus is stopped shall stop his vehicle at that intersection until the flashing red signal lights are no longer actuated [3]. Supporters of this law may argue that children may dart out into an intersection, so traffic from the left and right must stop. Opponents may blame this law for being too vague (with regard to what exactly at an intersection means), non-standard and visitor-unfriendly (as compared with laws in most other places) and question how vehicular drivers can know and see if a school bus on a side road is loading or unloading, especially if buildings obstruct their vision.

I guess I would have to stand in the opponents bleachers on this one, being that apparently I just violated this heretofore unknown law. How would I know about it? It is "non-standard," as the Wiki states, plus I've only lived in the Keystone State for little more than a year. I didn't take a laws test when I applied for my Pennsylvania driver's license, just an eye test--although there certainly was a rat's-in-a-maze skills component to the experience at the state licensing headquarters downtown, wherein a customer attempts to determine the correct path to approach one of four service desks, placed back-to-back, two-by-two, in a small alcove, and separated by a complex system of stanchions and velvet ropes that would have done Studio 54 in its heyday proud in its despair-inducing byzantineness (if that's a word) and foreboding.

Try to follow this: You can only reach stations 1 and 3 from the side and stations 2 and 4 by going up the middle and around to the side; you can't reach 1 and 3 from the middle, nor can you reach 2 and 4 by going up the side. Got it? Choose wrong and you'll be bellowed at by one of the customer service (heavy irony) representatives with a malevolent "WRONG WAY!" Bad mouse, no kibble.

Thus, while in the eyes of the law I'm considered a resident and not a visitor, I would still consider the law unfriendly, not to mention completely hostile.

However, as asinine a law as I think it is, I would have been happy to have adhered to it should I have known it existed. I'm just like that. Granted, I will tend to ignore laws that make no sense to me as long as no one else is harmed by my evading them. (Thus, I can live with myself and all those "crimes against nature" violations I've committed with my fellow man over the years. Whose nature is it, anyway?) But if this is the law in this Commonwealth, no matter how ridiculous and non-standard it may seem, I will obey it.

So now what do I do? Whether wisely or not, I made a preemptive strike and called the Harrisburg Police Department with my concerns, that I had perhaps committed a moving violation, but was unsure what exactly I had done. The officer was very nice, explained to me why it was a violation, and what I should do next. "Nothing. Don't worry about it for now. If I hear more about it, I'll call you, and we'll talk further."

Which was very generous of him, but still the situation worries me. The penalties for conviction are plenty stiff--a $250 fine, 5 points, AND a 60-day license suspension. Not crazy about the fine, especially before the holiday season and with my facing some possible car repairs due to a slightly clunky transmission, which I would love to blame on the poor quality of PA's roads, but, alas, can't. But *AND* a 60-day suspension? Um, how am I supposed to get to work without being able to drive? How would anyone do so in generally mass-transit free America?

Not that I wouldn't mind a 60-day forced vacation from work, especially over the holidays and especially post professional "visioneering" event. I could take the bus to the mall and downtown; I could walk to the library, the drycleaners, and the supermarket; and I could do most of my work from home, perhaps turning myself to writing nearly full-time, minus the pesky interruptions and soul-deadening supervisory responsibilities I'm faced with daily. But it's just not exactly practical, no matter how appealing it may be.

It's one of those incidents that just leaves me feeling mournful. As the seasons change and all the leaves are brown and the sky is gray, I find myself California dreaming on such an autumn's day. Except that in the dream California is Texas, where nobody gives an armadillo's patoot about traffic laws, road rules, or school children that don't have enough sense to get the hell out of an intersection in a timely manner.

Say what you will about Texas and Texans, but a state where Kinky Friedman could run for governor and potentially be elected to office is unlikely to pass confusing school bus über alles laws.

God bless 'em.

Saturday, October 21, 2006

Apple cider: America's undetected terrorist threat

Editor's note: Just a kitchen mishap--or something more sinister?

* * *

Dateline: Harrisburg, Pennsylvania (AP)
Date: October 21, 2006
Headline: Exploding apple cider bomb injures 1, panics 300 million

An exploding bottle of apple cider--believed to be a terrorist bomb--injured 1 here today, prompting local officials to issue a warning that Al-Qaeda has likely infiltrated the region's apple orchards. The U.S. Department of Homeland Security immediately raised the terrorist threat level to orange or high, indicating that there was a strong likelihood of terrorist attack. Sales of duct tape and bottled water have skyrocketed with this news and shortages of apple juice, cider, and sauce have been reported in some states.

The chain of events that led to the explosion are still sketchy, but neighbors reported hearing a loud fizzing sound, then a whoosh, and finally a significant pop. This noise was followed by another, which neighbors now believe was the victim, Mr. Rap Licious, 45, of the Harrisburg, PA, area, falling to the kitchen floor from the force of the explosion. A neighbor heard the victim cry out for help, then silence, and immediately called 911.

"It was like a bomb went off in there," said an unidentified neighbor.

Police and emergency medical technicians arrived on the scene within minutes and discovered Mr. Licious unconscious on the floor and soaked from head to toe in apple cider. A misshapened plastic jug of cider lay next to the victim. The cap of the bottle was found imbedded in his forehead. Juice was splattered over at least half of the kitchen in a 6-to-8-foot radius from the kitchen sink.

Because of the proximity of the Three Mile Island nuclear facility, Hazmat teams responded quickly to the emergency. While the contaminated cider has been removed from the scene, a layer of stickiness covers all kitchen surfaces, prompting federal officials to dub this potential new terrorist weapon a "sticky bomb."

The Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) has joined local police in studying the cider splatter and debris to determine the exact nature of the explosion. A chemical analysis of the remaining contents of the jug will be conducted by the Biological Defense Research Institute at Fort Detrick, MD.
Because of concerns over flammability from the sticky bomb, a 5-block area has been cordoned off and neighbors have been encouraged to evacuate.

Despite local officials' claims that the incident was caused by Al-Qaeda operatives in the Harrisburg area, both the FBI and Homeland Security were hesitant to speculate about the terrorist entity's possible role. However, Homeland Security director Michael Chertoff noted that both the FBI and the DHS have been tracking an Al-Qaeda sleeper cell in the South Central Pennsylvania region for some time. Known as the "Apple Dumpling Gang," the cell was heretofore felt to be too sweet-natured and bungling to be effective. "We might have been misinformed," Chertoff stated. "The server for Homeland Security's computer network is housed in New Orleans. It's been acting funny for a year or so now. We're not sure why."

Chertoff is weighing options for counter-action to the incident and is expected to take decisive steps toward something within the next 6 to 12 months, or at least within the next couple of years. He issued a statement "assur[ing] the American people that the country's apple cider and apple-related products supply has been, is, and will continue to be safe for consumption during the fall festival season."

Nonetheless, he recommended that a national program of apple cider, juice, and sauce radiation be instituted among the country's apple growers and encouraged the Transportation Safety Agency to immediately adopt new rules preventing large gallon-sized jugs of apple cider from being placed in carry-on baggage on domestic and international flights. Pint- and quart-sized bottles would still be allowed for now.

"We can never be too safe," Chertoff added.

The National Apple Cider Organization (NACO) noted that a federal plan has been in place since shortly after the terrorist attacks on September 11th, 2001, to begin mass radiation of apple harvests but that growers are still awaiting the arrival of equipment from Washington.

Environmental lobbyists in the nation's capital are believed to have stalled shipment of needed equipment because of concerns over the environmental and health impact of radiation on apple harvests. An environmental impact statement released in 2003, and then immediately suppressed in the interest of national security, estimated that the effects of radiation on humans, livestock, and natural resources "wouldn't be great, but it wouldn't be all that much worse than what the area already receives from Three Mile Island either."

As he headed off to Crawford, Texas, for a weekend of barbecue and brush-clearing, President George W. Bush was asked about delays in getting needed equipment to areas at risk of terrorist attack. "Environmentalists apparently hate freedom, too," he said.

Democratic leadership in the U.S. Congress did not immediately respond to this challenge. Part of the leadership was attending the National Tree-Hugging Convention in Eugene, OR, while others were enjoying a Georgia Pacific-sponsored international conference on forestry marketing at a new golf resort carved out of the Amazon rainforest.

In related news, President Bush announced that he would lobby Congress for a national relief effort to apple growers in the form of tax cuts worth $10 billion U.S. The tax cuts would be available to those growers who can guarantee that the apples used to make cider, juice, sauce "and especially pies" were picked by "all-American workers."

Mr. Evo Fidelito Hugo Castro Chávez Morales, 29, a field representative for NACO, said workers would do their best to act American, "whatever that means, Presidente Pendejo," while picking and processing apples.

Meanwhile, Mr. Licious remains in stable condition at an undisclosed location. He is expected to make a full recovery. His kitchen, however, was pronounced dead on arrival.