Before the month gets away from me, I need to post, and yet I don't have the elasticity in my synapses to snap into place actual paragraphs, let alone stretch out my thoughts into anything that could be generously described as a theme or essay.
So, instead, I bring you random bits (odds and sods, as our friends the British would say) that occur to me before sleep, on the highway, in the shower, chatting with friends, or doing other things too delicate to mention in a "family blog" . . . .
* * *
First off, have I ever mentioned how much I hate the overuse of the word "family" in our current clime? What constitutes a family? Well, yes, we know the narrow phylum-genus-species that the American Family Values Junta uses to taxonimize a family for cultural armageddon purposes, and single me and my household of homosexual dustmites ain't it. But, golly, could you come up with a less inclusive-sounding term in this day and age, especially when the whole nuclear (or if you prefer, nuke-u-lar) unit has been up-ended and traditional families are, by all counts, the minority, not the majority? And even though I'm single and gay aren't I part of a family, too? I have a mother, a father, a sister, and two brothers, after all. Or was I derived via alchemy from two parts glitter, two parts Nutella hazelnut spread, and one part dry vermouth?
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Speaking of vermouth, shaken as well as stirred, what follows is the transcript, more or less, of an actual conversation (edited for clarity and to fit this screen but certainly not for content) at lunch today between my friend No Rella and me--
Rap Licious: "What's that line from that James Bond movie, where one of the Bond girls refers to James as a 'cunning linguist'?" [Editor's note: Does anyone--especially my place of employment's human resources office--really need to think too much about why or how a reference to cunnilingus came up during a lunchtime discussion?]
No Rella: [Sarcastically] "Oh so clever! Doesn't the Bond girl do something with her tongue while saying it? Raps it around a flagpole or something?"
Rap Licious: "Probably! I wish they'd get a bit more radical with James Bond, though. Make him sound like a lager lout extra from EastEnders, 'Corr, darlin', I don't know nuffink about being a cunning linguist, but I do know that with a few beers--'"
No Rella: "Martinis!"
Rap Licious: "'Mahr-teen-ies in me, I'm brilliant at Gaelic!'"
"Gay lick"--Get it? We should really go on the road, No Rella and me.
Or maybe I mean the lam.
But for now I promise to steer clear of any untoward references to Goldfinger at work.
* * *
Speaking of close shaves, why did Britney Spears steal my hairstyle? I have so few options, and there she goes ruining the bald look for everyone.
Granted, it's one way to deal with split ends, and the look does show off her eyes more (specifically, her dilated pupils). But if the real reason she shaved her head is because Kevin Federline threatened to test her hair to see what drugs she was taking, what's to stop him from gathering hair samples from other parts of her body?
Oh wait. I saw those pictures of her desperate and panty-less with Paris Hilton. Never mind.
Except to say, Brits, if you have to shave your head as a preventative measure for rehab or to resolve child custody issues, really, your problems are perhaps a bit bigger than your 'do--or your sudden, self-induced need for a doo-rag.
* * *
Speaking of airing skidmarked laundry in public, are you beyond aggravated yet with all the celebrity news passing itself off as real news?
I tuned in to CBS's Morning Show the other day (the dumbest morning news program on American TV, this side of ABC's Good Morning, America), and the opening line from the newscast was--I kid you not--"Our top story this morning, the latest developments in the Anna Nicole Smith case . . . ."
And the latest development was that she was still dead. Very, very dead. Like John Brown before her, Anna Nicole's body lies a-mouldering in, uh, a morgue somewhere in South Florida.
Um, let's see if I can help you out here: We as a nation are involved in wars on two or three fronts at the moment, none of which we've handled expertly; there's global warming so rampant that I half-expect the government of Canada to start exporting dates to us in thanks for all the palm trees that have sprouted up along Lake Ontario; GM's about to go under or must be if they thinking selling part of themselves off to DaimlerChrysler represents a sound business decision; people are being murdered in Darfur for not being the "right" color or "right" religion; the Anglican Church is about to split wide open all because a bunch of ol' evening-gown-wearing, jewel-bedecked Catholic-lites in the African Sahel have more of a problem with homosexuality than they do with polygamy (it's all about how you play the game, I guess, and apparently a straight beats a pair of queens anyday); and the unequal distribution of income in this country must rival that of Batista-era Cuba.
Given all that to choose from and you go with Anna Nicole Smith as your top story?
Wow. This country is more decadent than I could have ever imagined or hoped for.
Life is a cabaret, ol' chum. And the setting for this version of Cabaret has been relocated from Weimar Germany to contemporary America. The role of Sally Bowles is now being played by David Gest instead of Liza with a Z. Starring in the role of Brian Roberts, formerly played by Michael York, fresh (?) from a long run on YouTube, we have Paris Hilton's g spot.
For an unlimited, unappetizing engagement.
* * *
Well, even bitter me can't resist following a trend.
What I keep wondering about in the Anna Nicole Smith case is the important stuff. Like how did an ol' piece of Shell No-Pest Strip like her attract two handsome-looking, reasonably intelligent-seeming guys like the cute and well-employed Howard K. Stern (a lawyer and a mensch, willing to accept her baby as his own when the chances that his sperm alone fertilized her egg are about as likely as my winning the PowerBall by playing a string of six 69s) and the dashing but much-too-highlighted-for-a-straight-man's-own-good Larry Birkhead, not to mention a Cecil B. Demented cast of thousands claiming to be her baby-daddy? All while I, reasonably charming and employed at something other than slurring my words and jiggling my knockers, remain dateless and undiscovered? There is no justice.
Is it just the $800 million inheritance that keeps the flies hanging 'round the kitchen door? Is it maybe the inheritance and the knockers, which seem to be repeatedly (and animatedly) featured in every video clip shown of the late Anna Nicole?
That's $400 million per knocker, by the way. Call me cynical, but if the term "fun bags" is bandied about by Howie or Larry, I'm thinking they're referring to the huge sacks carrying all that cash and not the physical effect brought about by overripe silicone implants.
* * *
Speaking of money, guns, and lawyers, this past Saturday I visited a new coffeehouse in the Harrisburg area. Instead of going to my usual, slightly funky Cornerstone Coffee in Camp Hill (great live music, if you're interested), I was trolling other parts of the West Shore in search of an Eastern European deli I'd heard rumors of, and in the process of trying to find some cheaper-than-normal weisswurst, I discovered this new place in a somewhat tony part of town (relatively speaking). The neighborhood brimmed with stately homes, three Volvos in every garage, and a rack of lamb in every pot. The clientele in the cafe was chiefly waif-like teen, mapping out a trip to Talbot's with Mom or comparing notes on potential colleges and their social scenes with their like-goaled friends.
The coffee and scones were tasty, especially on a blustery February afternoon. But what gives with the multiple issues of Guns magazine in the for-your-reading-pleasure racks?
Alongside of back issues of Time, Vanity Fair, and Susquehanna Life, Guns was an odd little somethin'-somethin' to page through while enjoying one's Mocha Chocha Latte Ya-Ya. Given the youthfulness of the clientele, I would have thought that the magazine selections might have leaned more toward Cutting Monthly or Sassy, Text Message Edition.
Regardless, leading a fairly caffeinated lifestyle myself and therefore understanding on a deep level coffee's potential for both good and evil, I'm not a big booster of the idea of people tanking up on high-test espresso beverages while thumbing through articles on the latest in designer holsters for concealed weaponry or advice on how to fell assailants in your home with body armor-piercing ammo.
But then I live on the West Shore where during the last election I was one of maybe 50 persons in my boro who voted Green (except for the races that counted, in which I voted Democratic).
Thus, I suspect rites of passage for some folks in these parts do indeed involve bulimia, a non-stop circuit of frat keggers and sorority rushes, and a nad-tazer with a hair trigger.
Ah, which brings us back to the discussion of American family values. So I guess maybe I had a theme after all.
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