Reporting from the frontlines of the sexual revolution, this is Bob Guccione for CNN

From the I-couldn't-even-dream-up-this-shizzle file, this is an actual headline that appeared on CNN's website earlier today:

Police: Throbbing artery gave polygamist away (POSTED: 12:37 p.m. EDT, August 30, 2006)

Oh dear. Is that a banana in your beehive or are you just happy to see your 72 kohl-eyed wives?

That's a headline as crafted by the writer of a letter to the editor of the Penthouse Forum column. "Dear Penthouse Forum. I never thought I'd be writing to you about this sort of thing . . . ."

I might be compelled to tune into Anderson Cooper 360 tonight just to see if the Coopster provides details. Preferably while wearing tighty-whiteys and blushing profusely throughout the interview with the arresting officer.

* * *

While we're on the topic, let's talk about polygamy. I've been wanting to discuss it for some time, especially after having watched a number of episodes of the HBO series, Big Love. The series, the first season of which aired in the spring and early summer of 2006, relates the story of a fictional Utah family, the Henricksons--businessman Bill (Bill Paxton), his three wives Barb, Nicolette, and Margene (played by Jeanne Tripplehorn, Chloë Sevigny, and Ginnifer Goodwin, respectively), and their children, families, friends, coworkers, neighbors, compound connections, and enemies, both obvious and hidden.

It took me a few episodes to get interested in the show, but it soon became a quasi-guilty pleasure and provocative Sunday-night entertainment. Initially, the show seemed to consist of episodes in which we got to watch how many times Bill Paxton's character could have sex with his different wives during a given day. While this approach to television-making did occasionally provide a nice shot of Mr. Paxton's bare posterior (nothing to be sniffed at, I should add), the show seemed little more than a Salt Lake City-based segment of HBO's old Real Sex series, in which happy, horny couples had bottomless depths of energy and mere shallows of shame with which to backstroke and crawl through lustful interlewds in public places.

Surprisingly, Real Sex was a yawnfest, at least for this homosexual. I mean, why not just go for the taste, go for the flavor, and buy some real porn instead of these softcore put-ons? Admittedly, though, straight porn--often heterosexual male fantasy-centric and filled with women who resemble a cast of blow-up dolls, writhing and moaning as if someone had just let the air out of them--is pretty disgusting.

So perhaps Real Sex 69: Wild in the Wasatch was a step in the right erection.

Anyway . . .

After a while, Big Love started to evolve and keep my interest. On one level the show focused on the difficulty of being a family, whether polygamous or not--managing the jealousies and feelings, setting and adhering to the rules, juggling the competing demands of time, desire, and need, and dealing with outside influences, both good and bad, on the family "beehive." The Henricksons were sort of like your family and mine x 3.

On another level, though, the show became about leading a moral life in a world where you aren't viewed as being moral by "normal society"--the larger world of contemporary Latter Day Saint/Mormon society or even modern suburban America. Nor are you viewed as normal or moral by the "cult of the compound"--in a more general sense, your extended family, but in the Henricksons case, by family members and enemies, who live out their existence in a scruffy, fundamentalist compound, practicing plural marriage and a lifestyle far more tradition-bound than that of the Henricksons.

I'd like to say more, but I don't want to give away too many plot points. Nonetheless (spoiler alert!), one of the more moving episodes was the season-ender, which found Barb being nominated for a Mother of the Year award but then saw her lose her chance when the award committee (headed by the governor's wife) discovered that she was living in a plural marriage. Barb then was swiftly rejected and shamed, pulled off the dais and sent out through the kitchen, finally abandoned by the first lady's security detail in an empty parking lot. Meanwhile, Barb's family waited in the auditorium with the other guests, unaware of what exactly just happened.

The way the scene was acted and staged was quite brilliant. You felt horrified at how everyone treated Barb and the Henricksons like pariahs, while they saw themselves as a loving, moral family, who deserved to be acknowledged for their specialness and strength.

* * *

One of the odd things to me about polygamy is not that it's still practiced, not that there is a television show dealing with it, but that it was once the accepted practice in Utah until the 1890 Manifesto. Then, in order to secure a place in the United States (Utah wasn't admitted to the union until 1896, believe), the state's political and religious leadership willingly banned plural marriage and persecuted those who practiced it. Heretofore, it had been a tenet of the LDS faith, the practice of which, it was felt, led believers on the road to salvation.

Just my luck. On the road to salvation, I stopped off at Stuckey's and spent too much time looking over the pecan logs.

So far be it from me to know enough about polygamy to market it or explain it. Even though I'm speaking from a 21st-century perspective, polygamy seems to me like a practice designed primarily to benefit men (or control male sexual desire within the family unit?), not women, a tad focused on ancient Biblical absolutes. Man on top, woman on bottom, be fruitful and multiply to get right with God.

Nonetheless, I'm a big advocate for letting love live and leaving it well enough alone, of allowing consenting adults to make their own choices about their personal relationships and keeping laws, strictures, and scriptures out of their business and their bedrooms.

So, wisely or unwisely, I feel a little soft spot for the plural marriage crowd, at least the kind shown in Big Love and the young people who recently outed themselves in the media to let everyone know that growing up in polygamous families hadn't damaged them for life. In fact, it hadn't damaged them at all, other than having to hide their love and family dynamics away from everyone else.

It's not easy being different in a world where difference is sometimes viewed as dangerous or even classified as illegal. It's a little lonely sometimes, living your life as a social and sexual "outlaw," despite your otherwise normalcy of job, home, car, TV, and family. So let's not judge lest someone drops a house on your sister.

But for every happy, well-adjusted homosexual, there's an Andrew Cunanan lurking in the bushes. For every laptop, lug wrench, or lipstick lesbian, there's an Aileen Wournos--have gun, will travel, and kill johns. For every Renee Richards or Christine Jorgensen, trying to break down barriers and encourage understanding of transsexuality, there's a pre-op paedophile named John Mark Karr, swilling champagne on a free flight home from Thailand and talking about his "love" for and (alleged) murder of JonBenet Ramsey.

It's to be expected, then, that taking up the guest spot in the point-counterpoint chair for polygamy is someone like Warren Jeffs, whose construct of fundamentalism and plural marriage seems more about controlling and menacing people, hooking up geezers with child brides, and eliminating the competition by exiling young males of the species who pose a risk to his authority and wife supply. Oh, and let's not forget, looking creepy while "throbbing his artery" at a hot cop in a uniform.

We social and sexual outlaws may have reasonably sound business plans, but *heavy sigh* we have horrible media representation. It's as if all our PR was being handled by a firm operated by Mary Kay LeTourneau and Vili Fualaau.

Canada's most wanted

So apparently yesterday's post was a success, in that at least my fellow blog-ista Snappymack took the bait of the "More at 11" teaser and wanted to know more.

And the answer is "no."

Now what was the question?

Oh yes, am I going to Canada or not?

Sadly, I'm not.

Not that I couldn't--will work for temporary visa and all that--but sometimes things just don't go as planned, even if you have thought, re-thought, re-re-thought, and re-re-re-thought every imaginable glitch, bowel-churning consternation, chillblain-inducing surprise, clammy-palmed realization, spoiled Happy Meal circumstance, lackluster denouement, bile-tasting interlude, and prematurely ejaculating conclusion you could have thunk up. See here for proof.

Sometimes the known is too much. Do I want a bigger job than the one I already have? Nope, not necessarily. Do I want to be 65 miles from Toronto but still not close enough to Toronto to fully enjoy except on weekends when I'm not too tired from work to fight weather and traffic to go into the city? No, I probably don't. Do I feel like packing all my belongings, for the third time in two years, and moving in a month's time? Good golly no!

Sometimes the unknown is too much, and when all is said and done, it becomes a case of better the devil you know than the devil you don't. (All hail, Kylie Minogue, who, for the record, is Australian and not Canadian, but hey, it's the Commonwealth, what's a funny regional accent and a royal-appointed head-of-state among friends?)

Lots of people to meet, personalities to interpret, nuances of character and gesture to comprehend. An entirely new system of bureaucracy to identify and maneuver. Maybe another language to acquire, new social and professional skills to learn, old ones to brush off. Radical thinking here, but perhaps my life should be easier the older I get, not more tiring, more complicated, and more frustrating. Dang, I don't even like it when my computer runs slow or someone tailgates me in traffic. How am I going to handle the society and politics of a completely different country?

Nonetheless, in this case, ultimately, my decision not to go is based not so much on the known or unknown but instead more on the realized and remembered.

Duty, responsibility, conscientiousness, obligation. Certainly not the hippest of values, the coolest of traits these days, but despite some horrible style choices in my time, I'm generally not one to follow a trend.

Details, details. Ah, well, let's just say that maybe for a moment before saying "yes," I realized that it's not so much what work you do and where you live. Maybe for a moment I remembered that it's more important who you love and how you show that love. Sometimes you show that love by deferring a dream (for now) and staying put.

No, I don't have a boyfriend. As if. Besides, if that were the issue, moody loner that I am, I would have definitely said yes to the job, just to get away from him for a while. Yep, I'm just that contrary.

However, I do have a family--I wasn't just hatched and kicked out of a nest, you know--and over the last few days, it became more apparent to me that I might need to think less about my needs (always such a challenge, dear readers) and stick around for them.

Thus, in my long list of thoughts to ponder for the Big Move, I managed to think about everything but this fact. Or, rather, I thought about it and then checked airfares, motor routes, passport regulations, and family member sponsorship under Canadian immigration law. I did the responsible and the practical. Yet somehow I missed the realistic.

How practical is it to live in another country that soon will necessitate a passport to visit? How responsible is it to be, despite a major move, still a two-day drive away, a connection-through-Chicago plane ride in the distance (and we know how I feel about that already), from family? How realistic is it for me to move to a country that rations healthcare and has extremely limited private medical facilities, so that while I, a working resident under the age of 50, might have all the access to healthcare necessary, older non-resident, non-working family members who might need to relocate near me would be perceived as an "undue burden" on social services? How is any of that showing love and responsibility?

Therefore, despite everything previously that had compelled me to say "yes"--and I was this close to doing so--I had to say "no."

Of course, after turning down a well-paying offer at the last minute with a vague explanation about "family" and "commitments," I'm sure I've become the most hated man in all of Ontario, if not all of Canada. My mugshot will be displayed at border crossings and Canada Post offices everywhere for years to come. Letters to the editor of the Globe and Mail will decry my un-Canadian-like behavio(u)r. Tim Horton's throughout the land--and trust me, around Kitchener-Waterloo, they are like the Starbucks of the Great White North--will refuse to serve me coffee and doughnuts, with (probably unionized labor) staff greeting me with an un-cheery, "Why don't you try Krispy Kreme down the road in 'America,' you loser."

But it was bound to happen eventually. I mean, c'mon, given my boca grande americana, it's inevitable that I would offend someone as soon as I crossed the border, uttering some smart-assed remark or making some egregious social faux-pas that, like the softwood lumber controversy or Mad Cow Disease, would bring about an international incident and prompt censorial admonitions throughout the provinces and territories.

For example, couldn't you just see me sitting quietly and serenely at the start of a Canadian Football League game between the Saskatchewan Roughriders and the Ottawa Renegades, then rising at the start of the national anthem, "Oh, Canada"--but then singing it to the tune of "Oh Tannenbaum"? I'd be like some Canadian-American Kramer symbolically torching the national flag through my actions in front of God, queen, and country on Puerto Rico Day.

In reality, of course, I would have alienated a nation before even getting a ticket to the game with some snarky remark about the "Canadianness" of teams full of American players or a smutty jibe at the word "roughriders."

Darlings, when my picture is on the cover of Maclean's, I'm the lead story on The National, or the celebrity profile in the Canadian edition of Hello!, it's going to be for all the right reasons. Like "Province-Wide Recognition for Hottest Immigrant" or "Parliament Grants Citizenship to Canada's Coolest Middle-Ager" or "Bloggerloo! Meet Canada's American Internet Royalty: Lord Rap Licious!"

In other words, it will be for something realistic and practical and ever-so-likely to happen.

Kinda like the rest of my life.

Should I stay or should I go?

Should I stay or should I go now?/
If I go there will be trouble/
And if I stay it will be double/
So you gotta let me know/
Should I stay or should I go?

The Clash, "Should I Stay or Should I Go?"

My so-called life feels anxiety-ridden at the best of times. Usually, I can blame it on too much coffee, too much running late from place to place, too little downtime between professional meetings or social face-offs, or some existential cocktail thereof. Mix three parts Red Bull with one part absinthe and one part grain alcohol. Shake nervously. Pour directly into your gullet followed by a sprig of mint. Repeat as necessary. Don't enjoy.

The last couple of weeks, however, have been particularly fraught with tension in my life--entirely self-induced, of course, the kind I do best. Because, let's face it, it's a poor quality stress headache unless it's one of my own creation.

It all started out in mid-July with one simple email, an email containing a cover letter and résumé for a job--in Canada. (When I go for tension, I go global, in a big, transborder, cross-cultural, multinational way.) Within a few days, I had a call back. Within another couple of days, I had an interview scheduled. Within a few more, I had references contacted and had to break the news to my boss that I'd applied for a job and was going to the Kitchener-Waterloo area for the interview. In two more weeks, I was on the interview, and within a week after that, I was offered the job.

And then the even fiercer, more sledgehammer-to-the-temple tension headache began--trying to make a decision about my future, about a giant leap across the Great Lakes to a different way of life, one that would not only affect me and my (in)ability to pack light, but also my family, my friends, my colleagues, my landlord, my garden, my bank account, my health insurance, my retirement funds . . . and so forth.

You name it, I thought about it. C'mon, take a gander at my mental slander . . .

Would I like the job? Do I like all aspects of the job or only some? Could I do the job, even the odd parts that I'm not quite sure what they're getting at? Do I like the job because it's not the one I already have? Am I just a hopeless change junkie?

What about my new colleagues? Would I get along with them? Would I like them as well as I do my current ones? They seemed nice enough--they're Canadians after all--but what if I was wrong? What if they specialized in bullying or passive-aggression or interpreting union rules to not just the letter of the law, but also the kerning, the font type, the serif or sans serif of said letter? I've certainly been wrong before, thinking that people were more decent than they deserved credit for. Hell, I've not only worked with those types, I've dated them. Thus, could I be completely misjudging the situation, ending up with a tacky one-night-stand rather than a decent proposal?

And then there's the boss to consider, who again seemed great. But could I just be fooling myself? Am I just seeing what I want to see? It's been known to happen.

What about the town? Would it offer me enough of what I want out of life? Friends, culture, good shopping, creativity, intellectual stimulation, aesthetic beauty, some decent hiking, some gay visibility attained in ways other than hanging out in bars on Saturday nights? I'm getting precious little of any of that now, I kept thinking, and it's been that way for some time, certainly since I left Texas. And probably even before I went to Texas.

Well, if K-W doesn't offer me what I need, there's always Toronto, I reasoned. But Toronto's an hour-and-a-half away by car. There's three-times-daily train service to the city, and the suburban Go! trains stretch out to nearby suburbs but not close enough. Still, would that be close enough? Especially in the winter?

And what about the weather? The metric system? Health care? Taxes? The salary? Friendships in the States? My family in the States? Registering my old, on-its-last-rims Subaru in Ontario? Moving? Packing? Would people like me in Canada? Would I be able to slide through life on charm for a little while longer? Or would they hate me because I'm American? Don't they even hate that phrase "I'm American" because they consider themselves American (as in the continent, not the country), too?

Am I abandoning my family? Or did I do that already when I moved to Pennsylvania? And if so, will moving 150 miles closer, necessitating people drive through (dear holy trinity) Buffalo or Detroit to reach me, and requiring everyone to get a passport to come visit me make the situation any better?

Am I abandoning my country? Am I abandoning the people of New Orleans? Do I stay and fight through the next two elections, only to become even more disgruntled and disillusioned when the next regime change produces no better social safety net, no better golden rule ethos in public policy? Just the same ol' raggedly fishnet hose of social security, just the same ol'-same ol' golden calf to worship? Do I care anymore? I pay my taxes (on time), I obey (most) traffic laws, I take off my shoes and belt at the airport (unasked), and, although, granted, I haven't bought a house yet nor do I change out cars every two years, I shop to keep the economy moving (even at my financial peril). In other words, I'm a model citizen. Except for the whole God, children, and homeownership thing.

Yet, my government remains unimpressed much of the time. For every effort at good citizenship, my report card gets a mark of a "could try harder," "needs improvement," or "hmmm, well, that's OK, but couldn't you wave a flag while you're doing that?" Then every couple of years I get nominated for a Scapegoat Superlative Award in the category of "Most Likely to Stir Up the Fervor of the Religious Right During a Time of Bigger Issues that We'd Prefer the Electorate to Ignore." Gays teaching kids, gays having sex, gays in the military, gays at the marriage altar. Yadda yadda yadda.

Thus, I can't help but wonder why should I keep on keeping on in this abusive relationship between average citizen and a government that can't seem to keep its hands off my body politic? Especially when our Big Government Neighbor to the North seems to have adopted a more laissez-faire approach to life and "lifestyle"?

Do I want to move to Canada to get married? Heck, I can't even get a second date. Marriage isn't even up for consideration. I'm not sure I'd even do it if it was available. But it's nice to be asked. It's good to know it's a possibility, just in case I need a new toaster, an ice cream maker, or some new china. I could register at The Bay and Zellers in a heartbeat, folks.

Am I leaving my old job too soon? Am I rushing into a new sensation too quickly? Would Kitchener-Waterloo be the Harrisburg of Southwestern Ontario? Or the Altoona? Or maybe the Johnstown?

Would I be, as they say on the TV show, Little Britain, the "only gay in the village"? C'mon, it's a university town--in fact, there are three universities all within 20 miles of one another. How can it not be at least a little gay? But would those fellow travelers be like all the other guys I meet, either duds or dirtbags? Either as loose-hipped as Cristina Aguilera in her "Dirrty" phase or as tight-lipped as some ol' closet case with a fear-of-God-and-mother complex?

Do I want to spend my life at a university? Might I like to do something else with my meager talents and rapidly dissipating existence? Maybe something non-academic? Maybe something more creative and fun, that doesn't involve theorizing existence to the most granular and boring level imaginable?

What about my garden and the houseplants and all the money I'd spent on them this year? Would my sunflowers bloom before I moved? Would I get a crop of fully ripened tomatoes before I had to throw everything out and start all over somewhere else? And what about that growing season in Canada? And the lack of light in the winter? And proper layering and wicking?

Endless, endless. And this is just the short version.

But this, dear readers, is how my mind words. While I can generally make up my mind whether I want chicken or beef on an airplane (assuming anything is offered at all), Coke or Pepsi at a counter with a long line, or paper or plastic at the supermarket, when it comes to Life's Big Decision, I can quickly become paralyzed by thought. Or rather, thoughts.

However, that just doesn't make for the quick decision-making, can-do-or-die-trying type of leader potential employers are looking for, especially when they are hinting that you should be ready to move to a new province (as they say down Canada way) and start a new job by October. And, jeez, look at the time, it's already 28 past August.

So what do I do now? Talking with friends and family can be useful, but when push comes to shove, when move comes to a full force run for the border, it all comes down to me.

And, me, well, I have plenty of thoughts on the matter. But nary a clue.

Still, after a week more of wailing, gnashing of teeth, seeking counsel, not sleeping, eating too much, and a generalized whiny misery that seems to afflict me everytime I contemplate a potentially life-changing moment, I made a decision. And that decision was . . . one which was satisfying to no one, including me.

Meanwhile, the Clash plays on . . .

This indecision's bugging me/
If you don't want me, set me free/
Exactly who'm I'm supposed to be/
Don't you know which clothes even fit me?/
Come on and let me know/
Should I cool it or should I blow?

It's not so much that John Tucker must die . . .

Last night I had the enjoyable privilege of meeting up with the Cartoonist, the Pianist, and the Mathematician for two movies at Haar's Drive-In, a mid-state institution located just off U.S. 15 North in Dillsburg, Pennsylvania.

I hadn't been to a drive-in since maybe the late '60s or early '70s, when I went with my father and two brothers to see a marathon of John Wayne movies (The Fighting Kentuckian and The Wake of the Red Witch, among others) at the Marine Drive-In (or maybe it was the Cinema Drive-In? the North 17? the South 17?) in Jacksonville, North Carolina. If my memory serves me--and let's face it, it's been a looooong time ago--we drove up to the drive-in in our early '60s "blue bomber," this great Dodge station wagon that served as a reliable and funky second car through a series of indifferent and nondescript first cars (this was during my parents' Mercury and American Motors phase, if I recall correctly). We had blankets and provisions, although being the youngest by five years, I am sure that I whined enough that we made multiple trips to the snack bar on my Dad's dime.

I don't remember much about the movies (didn't John Wayne get attacked by a giant squid at some point?), other than the thrill of being able to stay up way past my bedtime as part of this male-bonding moment.

Oh but how could I have almost forgotten the "incident"?

During intermission, they showed previews of coming attractions. Being that this was the pre-enforced-family-friendly era and Jacksonville, the home of Camp LeJeune, was a veritable cuckoo's nest of carnally crazed Marine recruits, apparently there wasn't much thought given to the ratings of the previews being shown. (This was probably still in the era when films were rated "M" for "mature" rather than "R" for "restricted" or "XXX" for "X-ceptionally blue.") So they ran a preview of some Hell's Angels hoochie-mama extravaganza, something like Hell's Fallen Angels, Hell's Dirty Angels, Hell's Arched-back Angels, whatever, which featured dancing, breasts, and rock music, the Unholy Trinity of Evil among Southern Baptists of the time (and today, for that matter).

Nowadays, I'm sure some of the families in attendance would draw and quarter the projectionist for inflicting such celluloid lewdness upon the impressionable minds of their little innocents--even though said little innocents in just a few years' time would be playing slap-and-tickle with their dates at the very same drive-in. But I must confess I really don't remember much about this incident, other than details filtered to me through family members. The only memory I have of the incident is a very vague recollection of some motorcycle mama gyrating her hips so vigorously that her jeans slid down to reveal a rather ruffly pair of undies. I probably thought that was funny, wonderful even, kind of like something you could make a toy do. I'm sure I went home with this in mind, and over the next few days, practiced making my sister's dolls perform this very trick to entertain an appreciative audience of G.I. Joe and pals at Barbie's "Live! Exotic Dancing!" Nightclub.

Perhaps this young innocent was impressed by his surroundings more than anyone ever realized. All I seem to remember about my trips to Jacksonville as a child was the Ronco Hobby Show at New River Center and the wealth of "Oriental massage parlors" and palaces of "exotic dancing" along LeJeune and Marine boulevards.

Ah, me loathe you long time.

* * *

Anyhow, no one lost their trousers in a fit of exotic dancing at the drive-in last night. Not even me, dammit. And more's the pity, because it was strictly family fare (Barnyard) and teen comedy-trauma (John Tucker Must Die).

For the record, being that all parties involved are childless and over 30--and in some cases over 40--I think it's safe to assume that the evening's bill was not the thing any of us would have normally chosen to see. But it was late in the summer drive-in season and rumors abound that Haar's won't last another year, despite the crowds there last night. Thus, we figured we better take our chances, bring out the deck chairs, and settle in to enjoy the kitschy glamour-of-yesteryear experience, if not the movies themselves.

And a good thing, too, that we approached the evening's entertainment with this sort of ethos, as Barnyard was pretty horrendous, if I do say so.

We arrived late, greeted in the dark by a looming, giant cow (or, rather, a bull), which freaked us all out until we realized it was a movie, only a movie, and that a parking lot in Dillsburg hadn't been taken over by 50-foot-tall cattle-aliens from outer space. Nevertheless, maybe the combination of bovine fear and loathing coupled with tardiness distracted us from fully appreciating the pastoral Barnyard experience. Still, it all seemed pretty hackneyed and fecund-smelling, like something dreamed up by businessmen with a bottom line in mind rather than animators with a creative vision in their mind's eye. In other words, the same ol' celluloid cud.

Before we even made it to the theater, before even the evening was a gleam in anyone's eye, the Cartoonist was already ticked off as all the bulls--the male cows, as it were--were drawn with udders. Now, granted, human males have nipples as do some other males of various species, but it seemed pretty clear to all of us, even with severely limited calf-roping and cattle-ranching experience among us, that bulls do not have udders.

Perhaps this is a bit of Hollywood sleight-of-hand, an example of how Pixar and Friends are "out of touch" with mainstream America, with Barnyard representing a blatant attempt to promote a transgendered agenda to God's Chosen People (i.e., Americans, second in line after the Jews). However, we suspected a more basic (or, if you prefer, base) agenda was at work here, a corporate one concerned solely with making money, with the the udders illustrating the producers' point that Americans are too stupid to recognize animated cattle as such without benefit of teats. Even if said teats resembled the plugs on European appliances more than the real thing.

It's sad for all of us, really.

I questioned the animated reality of various other plot points as well. However, the Cartoonist wisely surmised that already we weren't dealing with a full 52-card deck of truth. "I'm pretty sure barnyard animals can't talk, even when no one else is around," he comforted.

It's hard to determine which was the most egregiously awful turn of events in the story--the barn burnin' parties that the animals threw when the farmer was asleep (replete with riverdancing horses--"a joke that's at least ten years old," noted the Cartoonist--and twangy techno music, a la "Cotton-Eyed Joe" by Rednex, again another decade-old gag), the fact that the farmer is a Vegan (um, so he's just raising the animals for entertainment value--and vaguely defined "animal husbandry" purposes?), or the inevitable romance between manchild (i.e., bullcalf) Otis and single-heifer-to-be Daisy. (The Cartoonist: "Wait, did I miss something? Did Otis knock her up?" Me: "No, I think her cow husband died in a storm. That or we'll have to wait for the DVD to see the deleted scenes of Otis and Daisy's trip to the abortion clinic and Daisy's tearful realization that she does, indeed, want this calf.")

* * *

Nevertheless, as bad as Barnyard was, it wasn't quite as diarrhea-inducingly terrible as John Tucker Must Die. Maybe the movie was made worse by comparison--after all, the animated characters in Barnyard lack free will to say no, I don't want to be in this piece of film flim flam, while the actors in John Tucker are, as far as we know, not under threat of mob hits, variable rate mortgages, or community service obligations, inducing them to participate against their will and better judgment.

Here's the story in short: John Tucker (played by Jesse Metcalfe, the hunky-horny teen gardener from Desperate Housewives) is a high school football player and a high school playa. He's broken the hearts of various senior-year female stereotypes--the sassy, trick-hipped cheerleader, the foxy technogeek, and the hemp-bra-wearing, vegetarian slut. C'mon, every high school has one of each, right?

Along comes the heretofore plain-'n'-simple good girl, Kate (played by Brittany Snow, formerly of American Dreams, or as the Cartoonist kept asking, "So which one is she, Mary Kate or Ashley?"), who is encouraged to play hard to get to bring down superstud John Tucker for girlkind everywhere. Meanwhile, Kate sacrifices her soul to the Satan of Popularity and (almost) loses the boy of her dreams, John's brooding, indie brother (whose name I can't remember nor can be bothered to look up--it was probably Heathcliff or Mister Darcy, something like that, as every teen movie since Clueless can't get made without at least one reference to the Brontës or Jane Austen--call it The Norton Critical Anthology of English Literature School of Filmmaking). While Kate tries to work her difficult-by-design charms on John, the no-good-nik, never-went-to-the-barber Brother Tucker bonds with Kate over chem lab and Cheap Trick song lyrics.

Funny, no one in these movies ever bonds over lyrics by the Leather Nun or Throbbing Gristle.

Suffice it say, the movie is like a bad parody of Not Another Teen Movie that doesn't get that it's a bad parody of Not Another Teen Movie, which is already a parody in the first place. Besides, I think I saw the same plot on an episode of Square Pegs, like, twenty years ago with much of the same music--originals and remakes of Cheap Trick, Elvis Costello, and The Cure, et al. Who knew that '80s acts had such street cred among the youth of today--or at least among the movie producers of today?

It's hard to believe any teen would take this turkey seriously, but no one ever went belly up underestimating the intelligence of people who insist on wearing flip-flops in the winter.

In conclusion, perhaps it's not so much that John Tucker must die, rather that he, the entire cast and crew, and the producers, should just suffer horrendously, publicly, and eternally. I envision a South Park-ian Hades full of fire, brimstone, earnestly cheery Mormons, and Saddam Hussein's cabinet of "marital aids" for the lot of 'em.

Thanks to the magic of cinema, the talent and technology behind this cinematic drudgery will indeed suffer for all time, as film--not to mention, the Internet Movie Database--will preserve its awfulness for eternity.

But in a tragic, ironic twist of fate, the same medium that humiliates them will cause us, the viewing public, to suffer as well--at least if we travel coast-to-coast on a U.S. air carrier anytime in the next six months and pay the $5 for the headphones for the in-flight movie.

When you put it that way, snakes on a plane don't sound so bad.

Collect 'em all!

Editor's note: I interrupt this rerun of All Things Clearly Canadian to bring you this irreverent and irrelevant message from today's work picnic.

* * *

Who brought it up or how, I don't recall--I think it was hearing the Bee Gees' version of "Islands in the Stream" playing on the PA system, that got the mirror ball turning--but at my place of employment's annual summer picnic on Wednesday, the conversation turned to childhood heroes and heroines.

The Lady Carlisle quickly went into full nostalgia mode, remembering her favorite American pop idols from yesteryear--more specifically, the 1970s. "I loved David Cassidy! Just David Cassidy! Not Shaun, not Bobby Sherman, not . . . who was that other one? Oh, not Donny Osmond--"

"What about Leif Garrett?" said the Intern.

"Eww, no, not Leif Garrett! Have you seen him lately? He's gotten all fat, ugly, and disgusting."

"Rehab'll do that to do," I said. "At least, if you keep flunking out of it."

Giada De Los Altos interjected, "I loved Andy Gibb," and immediately "Shadow Dancing" started playing in my head. "When he was still alive, I mean," she giggled.

Whatever happened to Andy Kim, I wondered. Rock me gently, rock me slowly.

"Ooh, I had a Partridge Family lunchbox!" exclaimed the Lady.

"A Barbara Stanwyck lunchbox?" I said, perplexed, as I'd only been half-listening, instead lost in thought pondering Andy Kim's hair, circa 1974. "Did they really make such a thing?"

"THE PAR-TRIDGE FAM-I-LY," the Lady replied and laughed. "But you know, there probably was one from, I dunno, her days on Gunsmoke."

"Big Valley," I said. I loved that show. Audra, hitch up the buckboard. We're going into Stockton!

"I used to always watch the Donny and Marie Show," commented Giada. I'm a little bit country, I'm a little bit rock 'n' roll, I thought.

But, other than briefly trying to come up with alternate versions of their theme song ("I'm a little bit Coptic, I'm a little bit rock 'n' roll"), I wasn't thinking about D & M. I was off on another tangent--inspired by the grande dame herself, Barbara Stanwyck--visioneering my marketing plan for The Old Battle-Axes of Hollywood lunchbox series.

Let's see, if I could find some old metal or hard plastic lunchboxes, maybe at a garage sale, then learn how to decoupage . . . I could use old photos of Hollywood's most famous and crankiest broads and cover the lunchboxes with them. I could come up with some catchy name for the business, maybe, well, um, FoxyBoxy. Or something. With a silkscreen logo of Pam Grier from Foxy Brown as my brand, all bootylicious and Day-Glo with her bad self. Then I could sell the lunchboxes in trendy shops around . . . Toronto, I thought, already developing ways to fund my emigration to Canada. Each one hand-crafted. Each one unique.

Barbara Stanwyck would be the lead product in the line, of course. I could use the photo of her I have hanging in my bedroom, a gift from my friend the Log Cabin Libertarian, with Babs in her Blackglama, full fur, "What becomes a legend most?" drag.

And Joan Crawford, of course, or better still, Faye Dunaway as Joan Crawford in Mommie Dearest, all arched eyebrow and Lily Munster make-up.

Bette Davis circa Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte . . . and Susan Hayward with the entire cast of Valley of the Dolls. With prominence on the box given to Patty Duke as Neely. Anne? Jennifer? Neely!

"Wasn't there a Scarlett O'Hara lunchbox?" the Lady Carlisle asked our lunchtime coterie, disturbing my daydreams, which were about to morph into a casting call for a Broadway musical version of the Valley of the Dolls. Assuming one hadn't already been done or wasn't already in the works.

I suddenly thought, hmmm, a Gone with the Wind lunchbox collection. Scarlett and Rhett and Bonnie Blue and Mammy and maybe Ashley Wilkes and ol' mush-mouthed Melanie on the outside, with Tara or Twelve Oaks in the background. And a Thermos made to look like a hoop skirt on the inside.

That'll sell, I thought. At least in some parts of the country. This country. Not Canada.

But what about the copyright and licensing issues? Am I allowed to take pre-existing celebrity photos and lunchbox products and modify them for my own amusement and profit? Does this count as parody, homage, or a straight-to-school-cafeteria rip off?

More importantly, by way of understanding this stream of (sub)consciousness, was it safe to assume that the pasta salad for the picnic had sat out in the sun too long? And would I have to fill out workers' compensation forms on myself for experiencing extreme, goofy delusions on the job?

Or would this qualify as professional development?

Kilt-y as charged

Editor's note: Another Canadian experience that bears--or do I mean "bares"?--sharing.

* * *

Sometimes even I try to be on my best behavior. And, naturally, at these moments I'm tested sorely by the wicked sprites of quirkiness and the bitter gnomes of absurdity.

I was at a lunch with some Canadian colleagues recently, neighbors to the North who I didn't know very well, so as I said, best behavior and all that. Thus, no "eh?" comments, no references to Kids in the Hall ("I'm crushing your head!"), no questions about Patsy Gallant's post-"From New York to L.A." career, no making fun of British-Canadian English spellings ("tonnes"?) or pronunciations ("sheduling" as opposed to the American "skeduling"). In short, I was sweeter than maple candy, more flattering than Anne Murray's highlighted, permed hair, and cuter and cuddlier than Bonhomme, that preternaturally cheery snowman who serves as the mascot for Carnaval de Québec.

Gotta start somewhere. Gotta start sometime.

Ow! Was that a devious wood nymph of bizarreness clubbing my ankles with a golf club?

For, suddenly, the university cafeteria was filled with men in kilts. Kilts! All sorts of plaids, all sorts of clan colors. Big burly working men and weedy academic types, otherwise looking like their usual selves (I'm assuming), but now wearing kilts, entirely unself-consciously, in the bright light of heating lamps. While I, a bitchy goblin of irony, stood there in a jacket and tie feeling totally self-conscious, trying to make up my mind between the chicken panini or the vegetarian pasta, and to keep my sense of humor far away from the skirted gentleman ladling mulligatawny next to me.

Ah, for me, a day without feeling out of time, out of place, is like a day without sunshine . . . or indecision.

Nonetheless, I didn't say a thing, pursing my lips tighter than Jerry Falwell's . . . oh, let's not go there. I ignored the husky thighs and hairy calves and knobby knees and the burning, yearning question of the day--"What does a Canadian Scotsman use to get soup stains out of his tartan?" But through all the temptations--physical, visceral, tangential, and whismical--I kept my mouth shut.

Finally, though, one of my lunch companions mentioned the 500-pound (or, if you prefer, 226.8-kilogram), brogue-speaking gorilla in the room.

"Why is everyone wearing kilts?" she said.

The other companion responded, "I don't know, maybe it's because of the Scottish Festival this weekend in Fergus," a neighboring Ontario town.

"Oh good," I said. "I was beginning to worry that there was some sort of 'Casual Kilt Friday' policy in place here."

Out of place, yes, indecisive, perhaps, but not too much of either that I can't still be obnoxious in a foreign land.

Tell Elora I love her

I'm just back from a long weekend in Oh Canada, with a few stories to tell--and hopefully a few posts to write, as of late I've been asleep at my keyboard and have failed to keep up my end of the blog bargain, i.e., I write; you read and hopefully enjoy and comment. So I'll try to make amends starting here and now.

One of the best parts of the trip was a visit to Elora, Ontario, a place I heard described by several while there as being one of the loveliest towns in the province. And after having spent an afternoon there, I'm inclined to agree.

Imagine the visual excitement and aesthetic pleasure of driving into a small town with streets lined with limestone shops and tidy homes, as large Canadian mapleleaf flags waved serenely in the temperate breeze. (And imagine you will have to because for some reason I failed to get a picture of this lovely scene!)

The temps were in the 70s F (or, if you prefer, the mid-20s C); the humidity, low; the streets, bustling with weekenders. I found a shady spot to park and made my way along Metcalfe Street. Not having a lot of time--daytripping, I was trying to cover Kitchener-Waterloo, St. Jacobs, Elora, Fergus, and Guelph in an afternoon--I breezed through Elora, taking a walk down by the Grand River and the old mill, enjoying some maple walnut ice cream at Beaver Tails (I don't make these things up, folks), and then strolling back toward the river again. There I was able to study the waterfall and gorge that Elora is famed for (other than its charm, of course), a photo of which accompanies this post.

Maple ice cream and mapleleaf flags--does it get any more stereotypically Canadian than that? All I needed was to be to be serenaded by Nelson Eddy (in full Mountie drag) against a backdrop of Lake Louise, or keeping, with the mounted police them, to be rescued by Dudley Do-Right, as Snidely Whiplash (shapeshifting into the form of a rabid beaver or a cranky moose) attempted to tie me to tracks of a Toronto-bound Go Transit train.

Sigh. A boy can dream, but reality's a nightmare. Rose Marie or Nell Fenwick I ain't.

It was a lovely respite in a harried, insane world, taking place the same weekend that it became dangerous and verboten to have a bottle of Aquafina and an old beeper in close proximity in a carry-on bag aboard any flight, domestic or international.

Before Armageddon, I'd like a few more moments like that, please. A little more Canada, a lot less catastrophe, thank you.

Don't b ridiculous

Editor's note: Once again, from the file labeled "This Crap Just Writes Itself."

Today's New York Times features an article about the resurgence of the drug trade in New Orleans--now new and improved, as the marketeers say, for a post-Katrina world.

It seems that both white collar and blue collar drug workers enjoyed their professional retreat to Houston and other cities during and after Hurricane Katrina. Not only did they enjoy, however--they were inspired. Like any good go-getter tasked with attending a sales executive conference, the recreational pharmaceutical class has apparently returned home, blessed with an abundance of new product lines and brimming over with great ideas for expanding distribution networks and marketing endeavors.

Nothing funny in this, you say? Well, in and of itself, that's true enough.

However, after reading the article (linked above), I couldn't help but think about the higher education vacuum that exists in the drug lord community. I mean, there's so much potential here for professionalization. Just imagine the possibilities:

• Executive MBAs with classes conveniently scheduled in the pre-dawn hours . . . or, if you insist, no classes at all. In fact, we'll be happy to award you a diploma based on experiential education alone. Now please put away that gun, Mister Cartel Operator.
• Professional workshops that allow you to earn continuing education credits ("Getting beyond 'gangthink': The challenges of the total quality management model for your dealer network").
• Conferences with motivational speakers like . . . Rush Limbaugh. "You people are the real American patriots--fighting the good fight, liberating painkillers from the tyranny of Democratic naysaying and the tax-and-spend liberalism of the FDA!"
• A new lease on life for Donald Trump's Apprentice series. Forget Martha Stewart--think Pablo Escobar! And when Pablo says "You're fired!" he really means it. The Medellin Cartel uses flamethrowers on the losers.
• ITT = International Trafficking and Trade Technical Institute.

Endless, just endless.

It's amazing, nay, shocking, that some enterprising Young Turk of Wall Street (or even an Old Vulgarian like Donald Trump) hasn't maneuvered her- or himself into this line of education and professionalization.

Then again, you've got to have a strong pool of candidates to work with. Not everyone can be Bill Rancic or a Michelle Dewberry. You've gotta slog and slug through a lot of Verna Feltons and Chris Vallettas to get to "You're hired."

Take, for instance, Mr. Joseph Aguirre, mentioned in the New York Times article. Even with his exemplary efforts at cataloging and organizing--he has, as best as can be determined from the accompanying photo, tattoed his manboobs, apparently giving them the names of Farley and Margot--he, nonetheless, remains a guest of the Houston Police Department due to poor efforts at retail distribution of his product line. Who knew the Houston criminal justice system could be so unforgiving of failed capitalism?

Another case in point--Mr. Ivory Harris, discussed in the New York Times article as belonging to the well-known New Orleans recreational pharmaceutical professional association, the Seventh Ward Hardheads. Mr. Harris has a noteworthy, albeit entry-level, professional record. The Times extols his success in the provision of bonded courier services and praises his perfect score in marksmanship during the "real world" deal-gone-bad simulation at drug lord training camp. Nonetheless, he is apparently known on the street by the professional name of B Stupid.

While I can understand why Mr. Harris changed his name from Ivory--the constant references to Michael Jackson and Paul McCartney's duet, "Ebony and Ivory," would just become too wearying for even the most Dalai Lama of souls--I do fear that choosing a name like B Stupid sends the wrong kind of message. Strategically speaking, is that the positive, feel-good branding that places one farther along toward the path of a successful career in crack sales or meth distribution? Can you really see somebody with that name diversifying into pimp-and-ho management?

To try to mentor such a rank-and-file drug worker with so little understanding of marketing and professionalism into a world-class drug executive, well, it would seem that the results wouldn't warrant the effort.

But what do I know about business? I could just B Shortsighted here.