Hello Larry!

"What's this then? Another pig-ugly MP making a fool of himself with some scrawny old hooker, I see."

The character of Mum from Absolutely Fabulous, "Hospital" episode (1994), remarking on a photo in a London tabloid of aging party girl Patsy Stone being caught by the Fleet Street press in a compromising position with a member of Parliament

No, actually, it's just the case of a U.S. senator making an ugly hooker of himself with a pig.

Why I've chosen to wait until now to write about the mishaps . . . er . . . missteps . . . no, wait . . . ah, yes . . . mis-taps of U.S. Senator Larry Craig and the tempest in a tearoom at the Minneapolis Airport may be something of a mystery to us all, most of all yours truly. This is the sort of sordid thing I love to write about--dirty sex! public humiliation!--because, as they say, those who can't do (or seem to be lacking the opportunity of late), put pen to paper, fingers to keyboard, and comment away.

I started this post in late August and only now, a month later, am managing to finish and publish. We could chalk up my distraction to starting a new job and a new life and perhaps still dealing with the residuals from an old job and life. We could also claim that I was showing admirable restraint by refraining from writing about the misadventures of Latrine Larry out of some sort of respect for his tender feelings. But, really, we know me better than that, don't we? I'm determined to show him as much consideration as he showed the rest of America in voting for all those anti-everything measures in Congress over the the last two-and-half decades of public service.

What I think it comes down to, though, is that La Larry's story kept changing (and changing and changing and changing) so much so that I was having trouble keeping up. I'd write something, and then the facts would change ("I'm not gay!" "I'm resigning!"), and then I would stop to laugh for a few days. Then I'd go back to the blog and the "facts" would have changed again ("I'm not guilty!" "I'm not going anywhere!"), and I'd begin the laugh track again. So perhaps you can better understand what I've been up against. Really, it's all Larry's fault.

Honestly, though, despite (or because) of the fact that the Lady Craig doth protest too much, it's difficult for me not to think of Larry being a member of the Royal Order of Flaming Homos, precisely for this reason: The guy's got more twists and turns than a 20-year-old twink on the dancefloor. "Look at me!" "Wait! Don't look at me! I'm not ready! OK, now look at me! No, wait!" If that doesn't scream "I'm not gay--I'm fabulous!" I don't know what does.

Overall, though, I do have some mixed feelings about the two-for-tea imbroglio. I mean, on the one foot . . . uh, hand . . . I'm embarrassed for Larry Craig, and I'm ashamed for men everywhere. I've never understood the aphrodisiacal qualities of men's rooms or just about any quicker picker-up place deemed suitable for a snappy toss or a furtive ejaculation. I mean, there's a time and a place for everything, but if you must engage in public trading, at least choose a locker room, a sauna, a shower, or a steamroom--they are infinitely sexier and nominally cleaner. Warm water, steam, heat, guys in towels, and a vague whiff of birch and/or Pine-Sol in the air--what's to disagree with? Other than some old-fangled morality and a few sensitive natures that I can't be bothered with, I mean.

But a men's room? A men's room is often just stinky and disgusting--and that's the maven of all things aesthetically appealing in me talking, not the dour mistress of morality mouthing off. I've commented on this before--men's rooms are often smelly and dirty, and there is this propensity by some men to pee all over the seats and floors of most stalls and urinals, a behavior that completely baffles me (no, why don't you clean it up?) and makes me reach the conclusion that, with aim this poor, it's amazing the human race has survived at all.

With this in mind, I can better understand Mary Larry's "wide stance." I wouldn't allow my trousers to drop on a urine-soaked tile floor either. However, I also believe I wouldn't feel the need to share a little "shoe sympathy" with the guy in the next stall just to get through the horror.

On the other foot/hand, though, to each his/her/its own. I'm perplexed that it's still against the law to solicit sex in a men's room or anywhere for that matter, that it somehow offends someone's morals somewhere. Puh-leez. Corporate greed, stupid people on reality TV, and suburban lawncare offend my morals. I don't see them going away anytime soon.

Seriously, how does the situation differ from soliciting a one-night-stand in any public place? If you were to enforce the law across the board, singles' bars and Jimmy Buffett concerts would be forced into immediate shutdown mode.

All in all, it seems like a rather victimless "crime," this lavatory lothario business. Thus, it's a challenge for me not to think of what happened to Poor Larry as entrapment--although, as it's been pointed out by greater legal minds than mine, entrapment happens because of intent to perform the act in the first place.

Still, just imagine going to happy hour hoping for a little horizontal hubba hubba. You meet someone nice and seemingly responsive--they're toe-to-toe with you in that grand game of footsie--and you ask them to come back to your place. Then, all of a sudden, they whip out a badge and indicate that you should follow them to nearest police station. It all seems a bit unfair and quite unsatisfying, unless you're one of those wishin', hopin', and prayin' for a little sex-in-prison action.

Plus it all seems a bit ridiculous that some drinks, a little conversation, and poor lighting in a nightclub should somehow legitimize a pick-up that could just as easily happen in broad daylight, in silence, while completely sober. After all, isn't this supposed to be a Web 2.0 world? Aren't you supposed to be able to get everything you want, when you want it, how you want it, and where you want it? No lines, no waiting, no face-to-face, 24/7, with whipped cream, bran muffins, and warm leatherette? Why, then, viewed in this light, Larry Craig is something of a sexual visionary, a veritable Twitter of the tawdry, a Flickr of f#?!king around. Go ahead. You know you want to. Reach out and touch MySpace.

Nevertheless, none of this commentary should be taken as my giving Senator Craig or anyone else a free pass to do in public whatever he or she so chooses. I'm all into live and let live, play and let play, horndog and let horndog, but I for one would just as soon not be distracted by dubious offers and questionable advertisements while I'm trying to do my business in a restroom. On the rare occasions when I happen to have an oxygen mask and an industrial-sized container of Janitor in a Drum in my back pocket and dare enter a men's room, I really want to focus on the task at hand--as Lawrence Welk would say, ah 1 an' ah 2--rather than someone putting a hand to my tackle.

No, ol' Not-Gay-Larry's gonna have to pay his 10 cents to use the bathroom like everyone else. And I won't be making change for him, should the exchange of money be misinterpreted by the police.

After all, that sort of behavior may be OK on the floor of the U.S. Senate, but it's obviously not OK in a public toilet.

* * *

While we're down in the toilets, I should also state that I don't get why they put a web address and a telephone number on those rubber splashguards they place in the wells of urinals. Really, do I want to find out more about a product I've just pissed on? Am I supposed to make a note of this? With what exactly? You see what trouble you can get into for dropping some paper on the floor in a men's room.

Mine's thirty-three

A slightly chilly, blustery, rather boring day in the Middle-Sized City. Not much going on, not much planned for the weekend either. Don't want to be at work today. Don't want to be anywhere really, except maybe in front of the TV in sweats with a jar of Nutella hazelnut spread and a spoon. I leave the rest to your imagination and better judgment.

Suddenly, my cellphone vibrates. I've missed a call. An invitation for an event this evening. From the boyfriend (aka, the Artist) of a friend (aka, Fouchat). The phone message listens like so:

"Hey, we're going to Ball tonight and have an extra ticket. We wanted to know if you'd like to join us. at 8, but maybe we could meet for dinner before.

"OK, take care. Oh! Wait! Why don't you give us a call and let us know if you want to join us. My number's 7!"

Seven. Or, rather, 7. That's the number. The entire number.

Goodness, there's nothing better on a mentally dreary day than getting a message from the Anti-Linear-Thinker League. It made me laugh. Out loud. Several times throughout the day. Almost as much as the time when I played Scrabble with the Artist and Fouchat, and the Artist developed new rules for the game--"You have to spell a word, then use it in a sentence about George Bush," plus you could spell the word upside down, backwards, forwards, diagonally, wherever you could find the space. And, thankfully, you could use expletives and primal screams. It rocked my little binary world to its very foundation.

We scored the game by voting on a scale of 1 to 10 how good the sentence was. Somehow we all ended up with practically the same score, which make say a lot about how bad artists are a math or how good they are at social cohesion.

So today, whenever I thought about something negative--my weight, the impending winter, my car, my travel schedule for October and November, the geopolitical situation, my over-reliance on The Gap to meet my sartorial needs, nothing in the cupboard for dinner tonight but feeling too lazy and cheap to order take-out--I remembered "my number's 7!" and it made me guffaw. In the office. In the restroom. In the line at Subway waiting for a sandwich. In the street on my way home. And while typing this post.

Oh please, oh please, oh please, let this boyfriend of a friend run for office. I don't know if a healthcare bill would pass any sooner, but at least I'd feel constantly entertained and not perpetually aggrieved.

Plus we'd all win at Scrabble.

Dannielynn has two Daddies

Another day, another celebrity news bulletin, AKA, the news that nobody really needs to know.

As reported today by the Associated Press (slightly edited for space, but not necessarily content):

* * *

Stern Says Book's Gay Sex Claim `Absurd'

By Associated Press

LOS ANGELES - Howard K. Stern says claims in a new book [editor's note: Rita Cosby's tell-all, Blonde Ambition: The Untold Story Behind Anna Nicole Smith's Death] that he and Anna Nicole Smith's [other] ex-boyfriend Larry Birkhead had a videotaped sexual encounter before her death are absurd and could psychologically damage Smith's infant daughter.

"It's ridiculous. I mean it's absolutely absurd," Stern told ETonline.com.

"Dannielynn is gonna read this garbage and it's almost like she's gonna have to get counseling from the age of 3," Stern said.

* * *

You can read the full story on the AP website, if you so desire.

But before you go, let me get this straight, America, if you'll pardon the expression--

Former celebrity blow-up doll Anna Nicole Smith and celebrity photographer/hair highlights model Larry Birkhead somehow have produced from their comingled seed and egg a veritable baby genius who will be able to access, digest, and react to an archive of tabloid journalism by the tender age of 3?

And further--

Somehow the rumor of her Daddy having a sexual and/or romantic encounter with her almost-Daddy will be more psychologically damaging than, oh say, having your mother pass away when you are only a babe, or, I dunno, having Anna Nicole Smith for a mother in the first place and, oh, gosh, call me crazy, not knowing who your Daddy actually was for the first few months of your life because there were so many freakin' candidates for the role?

First, Heather had two mommies. And now this.

Man, this homosex is powerful shizzle! It can bring the psyches of toddlers, the U.S. government, and the American institutions of marriage and family to their collective knees!

. . . If you'll pardon the expression, Senator Larry Craig.

Give it some Gas

OK, admittedly, I haven't posted in a while, as my friend No Rella just reminded me in a phone conversation this evening. *Heavy sigh.* The roar of the greasepaint, the smell of the crowd, Britney. Our public--and children's social services, apparently--is sooo demanding.

For tonight, I'll keep it simple--especially as, I suspect, some of you are still recovering from singed eyelashes and -brows due to the highly flammable content of my last post. So . . .

No discussion of the anniversary of 9/11 tomorrow (please, the Bush administration and that Congress full of Caspar Milquetoasts have already scraped that carcass clean--why need I?); no pointed comparisons between that infamous day and 8/29, for which our fearless leaders missed a platinum-coated opportunity to refocus the nation on a progressive social agenda (gentle reminder, dear readers: 8/29 is the new 9/11, the anniversary of Hurricane Katrina and the inundation of New Orleans); no unsubtle allusions to the MTV Video Music Awards and the decline and fall of Western Civilization. I'm not talking about Britney Spears, for goodness sake--some bad lip-synching and a slightly off dance routine don't make you venal. It's a different story, however, when it comes to Pamela Anderson, Kid Rock, Tommy Lee, Kanye West, Justin Timberlake . . . .

(And while we're at it, just what kind of a name is Kanye West, anyway? It sounds like the name of a gated community in suburban Phoenix. Homes starting in the low $500,000's. Such a bargain.)

But, really, I promise, nothing at all like that in this post.

Instead of dancing with tears in my eyes while Rome self-immolates, I come to crow about the cultural and social merits of Dog River, Saskatchewan.

Last night Superstation WGN Chicago premiered the Canadian TV show Corner Gas, which has been airing since 2004 on CTV, but has just now made it South of the Border on American airwaves. This week, WGN will offer a sneak peak at various times and hours. Get that TiVo ready, set, go! 'cause you'll never follow the schedule this week. Here goes . . .

• Tonight, the show aired two episodes at 8 pm
• Tuesday night, September 11th, the show broadcasts two episodes at 9 pm Eastern, one of which is a repeat from last night
• Wednesday night, one episode at 7:30 pm Eastern and two more at 11:30 pm Eastern
• Finally, Saturday, two episodes from 4 to 5 pm Eastern

Got that? And you thought trying to schedule a peace conference in the Middle East was complicated. Pish posh.

Starting on Monday, September 17th, the show will air regularly (one can but dream) at 12 am Eastern (but does that mean Sunday night or Monday night? only my DVR knows for sure) with repeats at various times during the week. Really, just go to the WGN Superstation website and pray for the best. If you succeed in following the guidance for tuning in, you're eligible to complete your own tax forms this coming season.

So why am I shilling this show to you? Because it's a really funny, very silly, and just a plum ol' enjoyable diversion in an overly torrid (not to mention arid, not to mention vapid) U.S. broadcast landscape. Think I'm kidding? I swear to you last night some bimbo commentator (all the cluelessness, double the cleavage) on the Dan Abrams show on MSNBC used the term "man sausage" in a reference to the physical merits of Hep C poster boy Tommy Lee in a discussion on his smack-down with Kid Rock at the MTV VMAs. Man sausage? Goodness. Whatever happened to the simple but eloquent "salami soldier" or the slightly more euphemistic but still to the, ahem, point "dude flounder"? (Once you land it, the only way to control it is to club it senseless in the bottom of a boat, I guess.)

Oh, while we're at it, why not just go ahead and show in primetime that infamous homemade porn flick between Pammy and Tommy?

Seriously, though, has it come to this? Now even TV commentators sound like letter-writers to Playgirl magazine.

* * *

I was lucky enough to catch a couple of episodes of Corner Gas when I visited Canada last August, and it made me laugh out loud a number of times and just made me feel good overall. In fact, funnily enough, I had recently been window-shopping at the online stores for Amazon.ca and Indigo, thinking, hmmm, I might just have to buy one of the seasons on DVD to see more. But whenever my full-bodied fantasy life makes a northward turn toward Moose Jaw, our beloved, all-American Pittsbugh comes to the rescue once again: The Post-Gazette ran an article on Sunday about the show's impending American debut.

So what's it all about, you ask? Here ya go--

Corner Gas is the story of the residents of the fictional town of Dog River, Saskatchewan, "40 miles/40 kilometres from nowhere and way beyond normal." Not much happens--Brent manages the corner gas station, at least as best he can under the cranky, hawkish eye of his perpetually p.o.'ed father, Oscar. He hangs out with his slightly paranoid/fairly dumb buddy Hank. He interacts with wise Wanda the store clerk; his hell-on-wheels mother, Emma; and the two town cops, Davis and Karen aka "Serpico." (Ah, you have to watch . . .) And they all more or less welcome Lacey, a recent transplant from Toronto, who has moved to Dog River to take over and transform her late Aunt Ruby's coffeeshop. ("The walls are pink . . . and now she's put these cloth things on the tables!" says Hank. "Tablecloths?" says Brent. "Yeah! She's turned Ruby's into a gay bar!" says Hank.)

The taxman (excuse me, I mean, a taxman--again, you gotta watch to get the joke) comes to visit; Lacey starts a pilates class and some Dog River residents get the wrong idea and think she's paying tribute to the "guy who killed Jesus"; Brent gets a tiny cellphone and Davis becomes a sort of inverse size queen, trying to top him, as it were, with an even smaller model; in an effort to attract tourists, the town decides to build a giant "gardening implement" rising out of topsoil--in other words, "the world's biggest dirty ho(e)." And that's about it.

Nonetheless, the writers and actors do mine the minutiae of small-town (or everyday?) life for some rich, quirky gems. Think Northern Exposure, but think Northern Exposure before it became too aware of its own preciousness, and then drop it down in middle of the town of Mayberry, North Carolina, with Brent as a kind of sarcastic Andy Griffith and Hank as a Canadian grease-monkey equivalent of Deputy Barney Fife. Which I guess would make him like Gomer or Goober, but slightly smarter and way cuter.

Or think of it as a prairie-based Seinfeld with Brent as Jerry, Hank as a mix of George and Kramer (pre-racist rants), and Oscar as a crossbreed between and George, George's father, and every overstimulated New Yorker you've ever met.

The show appeals to me in part because the setting reminds me of Kansas, where much of my family lives now. The first episode even featured an extended riff on the flatness of Saskatchewan by way of the slow, sarky torture of a gas station customer who makes the standard "it's flat here" comment to Brent and Hank while passing through Dog River. (You can view the segment on the WGN website, selecting "Corner Gas: Comedy Clip 1" from the video menu.) "How do you mean, topographically?" Yeah, duh, it's flat. Thanks, Sherlock, for that expert detection. It's a scene that I'm sure many Kansans could relate to and would enjoy recreating in their own encounters with auslanders.

Not that the liberal bubble of Lawrence is a stand-in for Dog River, mind you, but there are some Plains States qualities--the humor, the quirkiness, the small town-iness, and the national perception that it inhabits a "flyover zone" not worth paying attention to--that parallel life in the Prairie Provinces. Did I ever tell you about the conversation my Mom had with the store clerk in Lyndon about where to have lunch in town ("here in Lyndon, we're famous for our Buzzard's Pizza")? Or comment on the sign I saw for the Ritzy Rascals boarding kennel near Overbrook ("don't overlook Overbrook!")?

No?

Ah, something for later, taters . . .

* * *

In another way, the show appeals to me because of this still ongoing jones for Canada I have been experiencing for the last few years. I don't fully get it either, although I suspect that Northern Exposure-Mayberry RFD (hopefully minus the annoying Howard and the even more annoying Emmett) comparison speaks more truth than I care to admit. Maybe it all just comes down to the neverending quest for a simpler, pleasanter, less contentious, less consternatious way of life.

(Editor's note: One of the good things about being an American: you can make up words like "consternatious" like nobody's free-market business.)

A case in point--on the morning of August 11th, I woke up from a deep dream with a sudden and strong sense-memory of being in Elora, Ontario, a town I had visited exactly one year ago (to the day, as they say). I could taste the maple ice cream; I could see the Canadian flags flapping and snapping in the cool breeze along the High Street; I could hear the rushing of the nearby waterfall as it cascaded over the rock ledge; I could feel the dappled sunshine on my skin as I strolled around the town. Pure Canadian exotica--which is a somewhat oxymoronic concept, given the preponderance of GM cars and American-styled and -owned big-box stores in Ontario.

Nonetheless, I felt at peace in a way that I haven't felt since 9/11.

But not for the reasons you might imagine. My desire for something else, something more, for emigration, has never been about the fear of international terrorism; it's always been more about living out new challenges (no matter how content I am wherever I am, eventually I have to know what's around the corner), especially in an environment where people still think the purpose of government is to make life better for everyone, not just a podium for lowest common denominator blowhardiness, empire-building, and an elaborate, formal, and rather aesthetically disappointing (Official Washington: Hollywood for Ugly People) method for lining the pockets of a select few.

But whatever. The point is that, more than anything, Corner Gas is a hoot. It's a Calgon-take-me-away kind of thing--for thirty minutes, minus corporate sponsorship, I get to laugh, often almost constantly throughout the program. And, holy hockey pucks, I need something different to holler about from time to time, something that doesn't involve war, poverty, global jihad, or Pamela Anderson's soul.

Pammy's Canadian, you know. Which, come to think of it, depending on your persuasion and your allergic reaction to silicone, peroxide, and lord knows what infectious diseases she's carrying around, isn't really the best advertisement for the Canadian way of life. Although she does speak volumes about highway safety and the dangers of tire overinflation.

* * *

If you choose to watch Corner Gas (and I hope you will), be sure to stick around through the closing credits. Nope, no funny surprises; instead, just check out the overdramatic and somewhat frightening network logo for CTV, the Canadian television network that originally aired Corner Gas. Three ginormous flags--red, blue, and green--billowing menacingly over a wheat field. Or a corn field. Or Saskatchewan. Spooky.

The attached picture only hints at the terror engendered from this frilled lizard of corporate iconography, this demonic angel of media branding. It's like the symbolic representation of some North-of-the-Border supervillain--or at least his flaring, tri-colored cape.

Run for your lives! It's Canadian Shield Man!