Now where did I put that lightning rod?

Reported via MSNBC.com on Sunday, 29 July 2007:

"Man says lightning found him again"

A Pennsylvania man says he survived his second lightning strike Friday — 27 years to the day of his first — and emerged a bit shaken with only a burned zipper and a hole in the back of his jeans.

You can read the full article here.

Some things are better left unsaid, such as explicit references to high-fiber diets or easier, more Food and Drug Administration-approved methods of overcoming erectile dysfunction. Some things just stand up on their own (as it were) without any further encouragement or (no, really) comment.

But, honestly, do the gods atop Mount Olympus come up with this stuff just to drive me up a rock wall of crushing puns and jagged reflections? My pebble-sized brain aches from the smutty outcropping of possibilities. Oh, I so want to be good, but the world won't let me.

Funnily enough, the cartoon series Lil' Bush went out on a ledge with a similar gag in a recent episode. Lil' Barack Obama explains to Lil' George that there are ghosts in the White House attic, including one of Benjamin Franklin, who was killed while trying to discover an early form of Viagra involving lightning, a kite, and a key on a string.

Again, some things are better left to the imagination . . . or Comedy Central . . . or wire service reporters with a penchant for hey!-lookit!-another-stupid-human-trick! details.

Southern culture on the shelves, part 2

Green tomatoes from the East End Food Co-Op!

I fried 'em good, in a very un-Southern manner, using panko for the breading. But I couldn't not use peanut "earl," as my grandfather used to call it.

Nonetheless, most unseemly, this "kudzu-ization" of a Southern staple with Japanese bread crumbs. If I keep this up, the fine matrons of the Ladies' Auxiliary will get a might tetchy with me whenever I attempt to use "all y'all" as a collective pronoun in sentences.

I swannie.

Southern culture on the shelves, part 1

Still further proof that the South may have lost the war (or, if you prefer, the "late unpleasantness") but won the battle. Not the battle for America's hearts and minds, mind you. The real battle, where it counts--the fight for America's gut.

Spotted today, pimento cheese for sale at the Giant Eagle Get-Go in Wilkinsburg, Pa.!

For those of you who don't know pimento cheese--or know him yet choose not to love him (editor's note: against all reason, I think of pimento cheese as a he and not a she--I dunno, just a Michael Chertoff "gut feeling," if you will), it may not seem like a big deal. However, I'll have you know that my sister the Journo complains bitterly that pimento cheese is considered something of a luxury item in Kansas.

Yes, apparently as rare and refined as Swarovski crystals, Fiji water, and a U.S. senator running for president who can separate his own religious views from those of the secular state.

Honest to God.

Nevertheless, said splendid discovery did not necessarily culminate in wonderful pimento cheese. It was more a case of pimento cheese soup, surely to be the next fat-and-cholesterol-laden lunch special at your local Applebee's or [insert your favorite, health-indifferent, chain restaurant here]. But the important point is that I found it for sale at all, here, way up North, and that even runny pimento cheese will do in a pinch when I don't have time to shave a pound of "rat cheese" and the funds to import a school cafeteria-sized jar of Duke's Mayonnaise from a Piggly Wiggly somewhere below the Mason-Dixon Line.

My gut feeling says let's whip out a couple of slices of Dainty Maid and make ourselves a sammich.

* * *

(Editor's note: With a tip of the CAT hat to EcoGal for her continuing inspiration for "all things Southern, y'all.")

Who you callin' a Fage?

On to a happier, more likely-to-satisfy theme--food!

I'm not big into shilling, as you might have guessed from my previous post. (Shelling, yes; shilling, not so much.) However, if I find a product I like, I enjoy sharing it with others. Today, I bring you Fage--thankfully pronouned "fah-yeh"--a Greek-styled, strained yogurt that is available in some specialty grocery stores and chain supermarkets, at least in the Keystone State.

I discovered this delight in the "alternative" food aisle at the Giant in Dillsburg, Pennsylvania, earlier this year. (A tip for my friends in the Midstate; the Giant in Dillsburg is surprisingly good for organic foods, recycled paper products, less chemical-based cosmetics and ablutions, and low-sudsing detergents. I know! Dillsburg! Who knew?)

Just the other day, while shopping at the East End Co-op in Pittsburgh, located near where I work, I found a stash of this pucker-up-and-kiss-me-quick nirvana in the dairy case.

I like yogurt and eat a fair amount of it, but over the years, a lot of it has become too sugary (yes, even for me, Mister Two Sugars and a Little Splenda in His Morning Coffee), too sweet (aspartame--right up there with Verizon in terms of diabolical corporate consumer assaults), too fake-flavored (vapid vanilla, caustic cherry, blasphemous blueberry), or just too damn bland. Maybe it's because of the national food supply's skewing toward everything non-fat; simultaneously, it seems to have made everything non-taste as well. Tomatoes are often insipid, even the non-iceberg lettuces taste like iceberg, and the olive bread sold by some purveyors of olive bread is guaranteed "not to taste like olives at all."*

After a while, yogurt stopped tasting like yogurt, but instead more like a type of white, opaque, flavorless gelatin. Or, perhaps, like an overly wet stucco, although I'd bet that the stucco has more flavor and texture.

Leave it to the Greeks to come to our culinary salvation. (They've given us so much to savor already--democracy, philosophy, the Olympics, feta cheese, anal sex . . . .) Fage tastes like yogurt should--tart, puckery, dense, and yummy. The more fat content the better it tastes, but even the 0% tastes more or less like the real deal. Some of the product sold is plain (not in taste but in category); others feature a separate compartment filled with less sugary jam--or better still, honey!--which you can then spoon into the yogurt to your taste.

You can, of course, add some preserves from your own pantry (highly recommended: Bonne Maman or Domaine du Roncemay--expensive, but you'll only need a little) and make your own fruit-flavored yogurt. Or go wild and add cereal and actual fresh fruit. Radical, I know. World Communism can't be far behind.

I'm not going to claim that Fage tastes exactly like it's fresh off the farm, expressed directly from the teat of a cow or goat of your own milking. I've had some fresh yogurts so tart that they could curl or straighten your hair, as appropriate. But in terms of sufficiently mass-produced, fairly regularly available yogurts that don't resemble or taste like spackling, this is one good Fage.

I'm still on the lookout for some of the really tart stuff and plan to scour more specialty shops, ethnic food stores (hello, EcoGal!), and farmers' markets in Pittsburgh and environs until I find the really real deal. I know that will make you believers in the local food movement happy, reducing greenhouse gasses by not relying on yogurt imported in bulk from Greece and instead spending all weekend driving around Western Pennsylvania in my aging, 28-miles-to-the-gallon (on a good day) Subaru to find the perfect product.

Yeppers, I know I'm doing my part to stop stamping my carbon footprint in the face of the planet.

And then taking said foot and inserting it right up the world's gaping hole . . . in the ozone.

The ancient Greeks wouldn't have had it any other way.

* * *

* A proclamation from a clerk at an Au Bon Pain in Washington, D.C., in the 1990s.

Lost Verizon

As you read earlier, I made it safely to Pittsburgh and had a pretty successful move, all in all. In fact, in some respects it was one of the smoother moves I’ve ever made. The movers showed up, they did a great job, and my wonderful Mom, Vivien Leigh, did a terrific job helping me pack. (OK, OK, so she did most of the packing--insert sheepish grin where appropriate--while I, I dunno, contributed procedures and mayhem at my old job.)

It didn't hurt that the head mover was handsome and polite--so rare these days--and that he and his crew showed up on time, delivered on time, and didn't break or damage a thing.

Other plusses for this move included my terrific landlord in Mysteryburg, PA, coming up to say goodbye on moving day and paying me my deposit back early, trusting that I'd left things in good order (I had); hiring a cleaning service to take care of the tidying after I moved out (an excellent idea, Viv!); staying in a hotel the first two nights I was in town (another great plan, Viv!, in order to unpack as necessary but being able to leave it all behind at the end of the day; and prompt delivery of internet and cable TV services by the Comcast conglomerate.

To top things off, I splurged and added HDTV and a DVR to my suite of questionable luxury services and have been enjoying counting the pores on the faces of Hollywood actors and actresses ever since. Whee!

The only snag in the move--and it's kind of a biggie, at least to me--is that I have been unable to establish local telephone service. Yes, yes, the boy can digitally record every episode of Footballers' Wive$ into infinity, but he can't call 911 should he catch his dinner on fire. It's a world of misplaced priorities, and I'm the one left holding the keys to the Maserati, but unable to afford gas, tires, or windshield wipers.

Oh, I'd like local phone service, of course. At 45 and counting, I'm by no means one of those street-cred, know-it-all-and-then-some Gen-X, Y, or Z-er types, who doesn't want to be oppressed by something as old-skool as a landline. You know the type--prefers xtreme! service offered via a cell phone and maybe a Blue Tooth, that pagan-looking, earlobe clip-on that allows you to talk to yourself in public without the authorities being called. Forty cents a minute for overages when most landlines cost you under 10 cents to call Europe! Maybe the call will go through--maybe it will drop! Any maybe your messages will be delivered a day or two after they were recorded--and yet, despite the extra prep time, still completely unintelligible, with only every fifth word being heard!

Wow, how cool and edge-cutting is that?

Well, it's definitely on the edge, alright--the edge of reason. But, hey, while we're at it, neck deep in shitty phone service and all, let's tank up on Red Bulls and get some dangling bits and pieces tattooed and pierced! Let's wear flip-flops in the snow and not buy any medical insurance because we're trying to save our money up for a video iPod and unlimited, copyright-infringed downloads! Let's pretend we're independent young adults who favor binge-drinking and living on our parents' dime! Or 40 cents!

Or something!

God, I'm sorry, but these days I pretty much begrudge anyone under 30 (with a few notable exceptions for people I actually know who are aged 30 or below) for being incredibly vapid and letting the global money-harvesting industry cater and market to them. They may indeed be Children of the Digital Revolution, but I'm an Analog Old Fart and not going away easily, despite the incessant Cuisinarting of my gray matter with pop-up ads and spam.

Be that as it may, though, the real culprit here, the real viva hate-monster, the ultimate object of my derision, is Verizon, the alleged phone service provider for Pennsy and many other states, but which is actually probably owned by AT&T (and aren't we all?), a subsidiary of Satan, Inc. Verizon, the Anti-Christ. Verizon, Lord of the Telephone Underworld. Verizon: No One in Their Space Can Hear You Scream (or hear a dial-tone, for that matter).

So what brings forth the ire of Archrapper Licious? Let me count the ways. Hell, let me count the days.

* * *

Sometime in early June, when I finally found an apartment to move into in Pittsburgh, I contacted Verizon about establishing phone service in Pittsburgh. No time like the present to get a jump start. I would have a local number in place before I arrived in the 'burgh and have service started on July 6th, the day I moved in. No? Not the first day? But it's a Friday, that should be OK, you should just have to flip a switch somewhere, right? No, my little fly, Verizon will need an adult to be on-site in case they need to get inside the building to check out your box. (Figuratively speaking, I'm sure.) You must understand how the web of Verizon works, said the giant corporate spider.

So, it has to be a weekday and an adult needs to be present. How about Monday the 9th? Perfect! We'll have someone out there between the hours of 8 am and 6 pm.

Uh, thanks for your raging specificity, Verizon. Still, it is hard to miss a target like that.

Monday the 9th comes and goes and yet there is still no dial tone on any of my phones. I call Verizon, and they assure me, Mister Barrett, that phone service has been turned on. "We took care of that from here, just turned it on. No technician needed to be sent out to the address."

Much as I expected.

"But I have no dial tone," I said.

"On any phone line?"

"On any phone line."

"We can send out a technician to take a look at the line tomorrow. Will an adult be on-site from 8 am to 6 pm to let the technician in the building should he need to look at your equipment?"

"Yes, and by the way, who is Mister Barrett? I think you have my name wrong in your database."

"Your name isn't Barrett?"

"No," and I give the rep my real last name, which is close to Barrett but no cigar, cigarette, or Tiparillo. I had service carried over from my account in Mysteryburg, so I'm not quite sure how my name changed from one account to the other over the course of the transaction.

"I'll make that change in your record, Mister Barr--I mean, Mister B------."

Thank you.

Tuesday, July 10th, arrives and a technician does indeed show up. There are now two adults present, myself, my Mom, but there is still no phone service. The tech walks around the building several times, notes that the signal from the nearby phone pole is on and working but that the signal is not getting to the building. I show him the Verizon FIOS box in the basement, and he states, "Yep, there's your problem. You've got fiber optics installed. You don't have any copper wire service anymore. That's a different department."

So someone else will need to come out to take a look at this?

"Maybe. I'd call the repair number first. Funny, there's no record of fiber optic service in this apartment. This is apartment ----," and he reads off a confusing list of numbers and letters that makes my place sound like an illegal sublet of an illegal sublet in an extremely dodgy part of Queens.

"Well, it's the first floor apartment," I say. "There are only two apartments in the building, and I have the one on the first floor."

"Hmm, well, according to our records, there are two apartments on this floor."

"You can see that's not the case, though, right?"

"Yes, but our records state otherwise."

I call Verizon again. "Well, Mister Barrett--"

"It's B------. I asked that the record be corrected yesterday."

"Oh, OK, I'll take care of that right now. Mister Barr--I mean, B------, we can fix your problem, but we'll need to send someone out to install copper wiring and phone jacks. That will cost $91 (or something) for the first hour, plus an additional charge for each jack."

At those costs, you have to wonder if the "jacks" Verizon is offering solely relate to phone service. Is Verizon secretly a front for a Heidi Fleiss-owned and operated business venture?

"Wait a minute," I say. "I have jacks already. There's fiber optic in the building. Can't I get phone service with the existing set-up?"

"Oh, yes, of course. I just thought you wanted copper wire service."

"I just want phone service. I don't care if it's delivered through copper or fiber optics."

"Or a string and two tin cans," my Mom chimes in the background. Green Acres is indeed the place to be at this moment.

"We can do that. I'll need to cancel the old order, though, and place a new order for fiber optic phone service."

"How long will this take?" I ask.

"That order won't show up into the system until maybe Wednesday. Possibly Thursday."

"Will an adult need to be on-site from 8 am to 6 pm to let a technician into the building should he or she need to inspect my box?" I ask.

"Yes. You should call back, however, to find out when the tech will be on-site."

Wednesday the 11th I was busy. After all, I have a new job I should spend sometime at and Vivien Leigh had to get back to the airport and Kansas somehow.

So, like the Gen Z wannabe we all know I secretly am, I live life on the edge myself and wait to call Verizon on Thursday morning.

"We should have this taken care of later today. We can just flip a switch and turn it on from here," the rep says. "I assure you, Mister Barrett--"

"That's B------!" I explain again, exasperatedly. "I keep asking that my records be updated. There's an error in your system. Could you fix it please?"

"Yes, I'll be happy to. This [meaning one assumes phone service, but who can say?] should be fixed by 3 pm today."

"Great!" I say. I like assurances!

I'm home by 4 pm. Still no dial-tone. I call Verizon again.

I should stop for a moment here to explain that each time I call Verizon, it's not just a simple, "Oh, I'll call Verizon and get this straightened out" kind of deal. It's involved. I mean, really involved, to a byzantine level of departmental and phone-tree bureaucracy (good god, the phone trees! somebody make wood pulp out of 'em, please!) that would make the IRS weep bitter tears of jealousy. You rarely get to talk with anyone right away, but communicate to a a female voice that represents Verizon's "helpful automated system" or some such crap, who is constantly asking you which number you're calling about, asking you questions about your problem and giving you options to choose (unfortunately, "I just want a goddam dial-tone, bitch!" not being among the selections), looking up your records, and then finally saying, "Let me put you in touch with an agent to resolve your problem."

The agent then proceeds to ask you which number you are calling about, your name and address, the nature of your problem, and then needs to take the time to look up your records. So, obviously, it's efficiency gone mad at Verizon.

After going through this process a number of times, you learn (depending on which Verizon number you call--Customer Service, Repair, Fiber Optic Service, Resolution Center, etc.) that you can say the word "agent" and be transferred to a person to discuss your problem, bypassing the phone tree and, at least theoretically, speeding up the resolution of your problem. Regrettably, screaming the word "AGENT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" into your cell phone does not speed up the contact--probably because the scream is dropped out by inconsistent cell coverage.

No matter, though, chances are you'll still have to endure several bars of Zamfir's pan-flute rendition of Celine Dion's lachrymose monstrosity, "My Heart Will Go On," the theme from Titanic, before being connected to an allegedly living, breathing, sentient being. At least with the music you know you're near the Devil's lair, though.

It should also be noted that just about whomever you talk to will try to shill you additional services--FIOS internet, FIOS TV ("I guarantee you, Mister Barrett, it will be available in Pittsburgh by the end of the month/summer/fall/year, so why not sign up now?")--in addition to your already non-functioning telephone service. Thus, I would guess that Verizon has a crack sales team, yet a butt-crack-worthy problem resolution program.

"How may I help you, Mister Barrett?"

"That's B------! There's a mistake in my record. Could you fix my name NOW?"

"I'll be happy to make that correction, Mister Buh-buh-Barrette."

Oh, great. So now I'm a freakin' hair clip. This is as bad as when my old medical insurance company had me listed as female in my records, so that pretty much anytime between 2004 and 2006 whenever I went to the doctor's for a health care matter, I had to assure the medical professionals that I indeed was not a transsexual. Now neither the name nor gender on my birth certificate is trustworthy.

I explained again that I still had no dial tone.

"We can send a tech out on Friday, but you should try this first." While I put on shoes and gathered up a rubber-handled Phillips-head screwdriver, the rep explained to me that I should go outside and tempt fate on a cloudy day upon damp ground, unscrew the cover of something called the "Network Interface Thingamabob," attach a phone ("not a cordless but a corded") to each one of the jacks in the box (no pun intended!) and see if I get a dial tone.

Let alone a listing in "News of the Weird" in the City Paper when I'm electrocuted mid-test. I kinda felt like the child audience in that parody of Dora the Explorer that appeared on Saturday Night Live this past season. The Dora clone gives out an increasingly bizarre and complicated list of instructions to the children in the audience, and when there is the slightest hint of hesitation on the part of her young charges to carry out her plan, she screams, "Don't question it! Just do it!"

Of course I do as instructed, but, alas, no dial tone.

"Well, Mister Barrette, we'll send out a tech tomorrow to get this resolved. Will an adult be present from the hours of 8 am to 6 pm should the tech need to get inside your building to examine your equipment?"

* * *

I was there, but the tech was not. Or, rather, when I called at 6 pm to find out where the tech had been all day (admittedly a passive-aggressive move on my part--so sue me), I was told he had been there at 2 pm, but couldn't locate the problem outside the building, never bothering to knock on my door or ring my bell in an attempt to make actual human contact.

"You still don't have a dial tone, Mister Barrett? On any jack?"

"No," I said, too world-weary to even correct my name at this point. I'm just figuring if I play my cards right, some schmoe down the street named Barrett will end up paying all my phone bills from here until the world is felled by global warming and a killing bureaucracy. Which, come to think of it, isn't such a good deal, because both seem like a distinct, just-around-the-corner possibility.

That is, assuming I ever get phone service through Verizon, which is looking highly unlikely at this point.

The reason being that, rather than being in Verizon Hell, I am now stuck in some sort of Telephone Service Purgatory, where according to Repair this is a Customer Service problem and according to Customer Service this is a Repair problem, and then according to Repair, it is a Fiber Optic Service problem, and then according to Fiber Optic, it is a Customer Service problem. Or maybe a Repair problem.

Regardless, I can only seem to deal with it Monday through Friday from 8 am to 6 pm with an adult present at home, although Repair and Fiber Optic are on duty 24/7, and I "should feel free to call back anytime."

What, to chat? To wish a pox on your children and their descendants? To add my name to the no-fly list for making terroristic threats to a phone company employee?

I will call back, alright--to cancel my service. Or non-service. And I will start to explore the wonderful world of Comcast Digital Voice or Vonage. Hell, at this point, I'm even considering joining the Xtreme! Crowd and tossing out my landline in favor of having a cell phone permanently attached to my head, Blue Tooth, Saber Tooth, Snaggle Tooth, and all. From here on out, it's just me and every 14-year-old girl (or every gay man over the age of 14 . . . ) talking inanities into a device that looks like it was used as a prop in Josie and the Pussycats in Outer Space.

I still may not get through to 911, I still may pay 40 cents a minute when I go over my plan, but let's not think in negatives. Most importantly, I will have succumbed to (or perhaps I mean, become a sucker to) the Digital Revolution.

Power to the inculcated people!

Yours truly,

Che "Mister Barrett" Guevara.

Motion sickness

For those of you following the continuing saga of my little life--you'll laugh! you'll cry! you'll demand refills on popcorn and a full refund of your ticket price!--I am pleased to report that I made it to Pittsburgh without any trouble at all, really, and have started my new job. So far, so good. This may even stick longer, like, say, three years and a month or so, unlike my last job, which I finished in just under three years (two years, eleven months, and three days to be exact), and my last address, where I did time for a little more than two years.

"Did time" is really an unfair analysis of my life on Main Street, Anyburg, PA, USA. I had the world's greatest apartment, middle-class division. The Taj Mahal/Versailles/Sydney Opera House/Chateau Frontenac/Machu Picchu of apartments, at least among those that cost under $800 a month and don't overlook Central Park, Lake Michigan, or San Francisco Bay. I had even just about decorated it the way I wanted it (settling on a color scheme for the dining room/kitchen was my last Linda Barker-esque conundrum), my summer garden was approaching full bloom and full flavor, I had finally begun to explore the shops and restaurants that Anyburg had to offer (other than Jo Jo's Pizza and Rakestraw's Ice Cream Shop, the first and last places I dined in the Midstate) . . . .

And then I up and move again.

So what's with all the motion and commotion? The simple analysis is that I bore rather easily. I need a lot of intelligent and aesthetic stimuli--or at least some groovy/weird middle-to-low-brow pop culture and a few French hotels to make me feel like a sentient being--and have been craving said stimuli for years. Long before I moved to Pennsylvania. Maybe even ever since I left grad school. Or even before that, since I left Washington in the early 1990s.

The more detailed analysis (and I promise to keep it reasonably brief, if by brief I mean in a Genesis creation story kind of way) is that I had very little life outside of work. To make matters worse, I had a great deal of work to do. And to segue quickly from worse to worst, I didn't particularly enjoy the work I was doing. One might even say somewhere after a year of doing it, I began to loathe it, to cringe at the thought of going into work every morning, to shudder at what was coming next, whatever it may be. Whether it was the nature of the work itself or the reality of the work environment, I cannot quite say, although betting that it was a bit of both is a safe wager.

I figured out about a year or more ago that I needed to move on, that no amount of tweaking great or small, was going to fix the problem of work or life. But I needed to move on in a reasonable way, on to something better, and not just professionally but personally--god, please, personally!--as well. I'm magnificent at thinking of what will make me happy professionally first and personally second. In fact, I major in it and am thinking of a post-graduate degree in it, I'm just that good.

With this relocation, I now think that I've done so, made a move that has the potential to be successful and satisfying both personally and professionally. Fingers crossed.

Still, it does follow soon on the heels of my Dad's passing. Yes, yes, it has to be asked and it has been asked, believe me: Is it too soon? Am I just running away from my problems? Will this make things better? And my answer is that I didn't just come up with the idea to move and change jobs on March 15, the day after my Dad died, that, actually, I have proof--a cover letter to a certain unnamed university in Canada--that shows I have had this move on my mind since at least June 2006. I can also tell you that, according to my Mom, my Dad was one to change jobs every three years or so, and if he had been single, he, too, would have been one to move every three years. So this commotion and constant motion--it comes honestly to me.

It comes honest, yes, but it comes at a price. I feel lucky to have known a lot of wonderful people at my work, and I'd like to think that I have made some friends along the way. In many ways, my life--at least my life outside of work--was calmer and quieter than ever before, and I needed that, especially after my last couple of years in Texas and especially with everything that went on with my Dad and my family over the last few years. So it is daunting and ever so slightly frightening to give up that peace of mind. I'm hoping, though, in the process, that I don't give up the friendships I made, that they indeed are more durable and elastic than peace of mind.

* * *

Is Pittsburgh the answer, though?

To be totally footloose and fancy-frost-free about it, all I can say at this point is, who knows? Which does not comfort those who might question my ability to make decisions for myself. But, really, who does know? About anything, I mean. You can think things through, plan for every contingency, be aware of every potential calamity and adjust for it, and still, after all the planning and worry, fall flat on your face on a birthday cake in a rain puddle. And then get run over by a semi immediately afterwards. And then get your wallet stolen by a bum and have a dog wee on you. So it's good to think things through, but in my worldview, it can only get you so far.

I guess then what I'm hoping is that Pittsburgh is the answer right now, at least for a while. Or if not the answer, then a good, albeit possibly temporary, cure. It solves--or at least, salves--a number of life and work problems for me in the shorter term, and I'm hopeful that it will do so in the longer term as well.

I like Pittsburgh. A great deal, actually. I make jokes about it--that it's the Baltimore of Appalachia (Editor's note: I've been known to describe everywhere and anywhere as the Baltimore of this or that; e.g., San Antonio, the Baltimore of the Southwest, although that could apply to El Paso just as easily), that it's West Virginia with skyscrapers. There is a funky John Waters-but-really-Andy Warhol charm and grit about the place, part Appalachia, part Central, Southern, and Eastern Europe, and ultimately quintessentially Pennsylvania. Coal miners and steelworkers--in spirit if no longer in deed--coupled with robber baron cultural institutions, a revitalized high tech and biomedical economy, a native dialect, a somewhat puzzling but engaging geography, a funky "downtown" vibe in some of the neighborhoods, and a significant sprinkling of the sparkly confetti of gay life.

It's an appealing mix. A little bit country, a little bit rock-and-roll. Just like yours truly, minus the Colgate smile and singing family of perfectly coiffed brothers in leisure suits. So if the question is, "Will Pittsburgh help make you a little happier and keep you in place for a while?" then the answer is a resounding, "You betcha!"

* * *

All told, if I could have complete control over my choice of anywhere in North America to live, at least among the places I've been to, I'd select Toronto or Chicago first. Also-rans might include Montreal (although I would need to acquire some language skills très rapidement and really have to think about those long, cold winters, unless a young Gino Vannelli, or a reasonable facsimile, were on tap), as well as Denver, Minneapolis, and, yes, believe it or not, Baltimore, hon.

Philly's not bad, a little sprawling and a lot decaying, but it has its charms; I like Boston as well, although I've spent very little time there; New York is great but overwhelming and who can afford it anyway?; and San Francisco, while seductive, gorgeous, and a lot of fun--a veritable urban one-night-stand--ultimately leaves me feeling empty and sullen, vowing only to look for love and career opportunities in all the right places. (Editor's note: I've never been to Seattle, Portland, or Vancouver, so I just do not know, OK?)

And if Mexico is considered part of North America--and I would find it challenging to argue otherwise--there's also Mexico City, Guadalajara, and Monterrey to consider, each with their charms (the Zócalo in Mexico City; "the city of roses" that is Guadalajara; that weird and massive sculpture of Neptune in the center of Monterrey, a land-locked, water-starved city) and menaces (the crush of humanity and relentless begging in Mexico City; the curious light rail system in Guadalajara, which seems to connect to no place you want to visit; the freeway-system-as-bullfighting-ring in Monterrey).

But except for Denver, Baltimore, and Minneapolis, the others are great honkin' huge cities. And what was that I said about peace of mind? Well, I just don't think I could face that again, the noise, the traffic, the aggro, the fear. Been there, done that, for seven years in D.C. as a matter of fact. And while Washington was fun, thrilling, educational, and enriching, so was my first semester of college, my first rock concert, and my first sexual experience. Please, don't make me go back.

So Pittsburgh fits quite easily into my personal top ten of North American cities in which to reside. I'd even log it at number 6, maybe even number 5, with a (figuratively speaking, let's pray) bullet.

That may well be the best I can expect at this point in my life. A little choice. A little control or say in that choice. Nothing's ever perfect, or at least is ever going to be, as long as me and my one thousand and one worries are involved. But this is good, very good. And things can only get better. At least I'm hoping so. In fact, I'm maybe even starting to believe so.