Hang in there, kitten!

OK, admittedly, my recent morning soundtrack might have been too much for some sensitive souls.

As my friend the Gladman put it, after listening to Portishead:

I don't understand most of your musical postings, but the part of your blog clip that I played sent me running for the Xanax. Tipper Gore was right about warning labels on music, she just didn't go far enough.

Hmmm, well, not everyone's musical tastes are the same or even in sync most of the time, and I shall remain mostly silent on the detriment to my well-being of hearing "lite jazz" played in heavy rotation at a holiday brunch the Gladman threw several years ago, an event I endured on a morning when I had had . . . well, let's just say, too much fun and too little sleep the night before, celebrating the Birth of Our Lord in a less than holy (but more than spiritual) way.

The excellent hosting duties and superlative cuisine made up for Aural Assault by a Deadly Kenny G, but, alas, I'm still scarred in many ways.

Nonetheless, when I posted on my Facebook profile that perhaps listening to Portishead on the walk to work on a gloomy Monday morning might have been a bad idea, one work friend responded to the post, "I'm surprised you made it at all!" And this from a soul who wouldn't be caught facing the Dark Side without wearing a fitted cap, Doc Martens, and rolled-up dungarees, with his wallet held in place by a very long chain. Plus he grew up in McKees Rocks and is a philosophy major. Not to be trifled with!

So as penance--and because the second morning of snow quickly dissipated and, instead, the sun shone most of today, thank you very much--I'm now on a mission to raise the human spirit through song, 3 minutes and 30 seconds at a time.

Please give these a try and let me know if you still need the Xanax.

Basia Balat, "In the Night" (and, no, it's not *that* Basia):



Ayo, "Help is Coming" (I used to hear this on RFI Musique all the time, and now it's been released stateside):



Amadou et Mariam, "Dimanche a Bamako" (yes, as heard on NPR, just another example of my liking stuff that other white people like):



And the aforementioned "Happy Up Here" by Röyksopp, which, really, if that doesn't get your spirit moving, then it's too late, you're already dead:



But wait, only four songs about happiness and twenty songs to kill yourself by? And one of the four is a retread? Isn't that a bit out of balance?

Yes, exactly.

Welcome to my Dark Side, kitten.

April in Pittsburgh

Happy up here, my ass . . .

This is what I woke up to this morning, an inch or so of snow on the ground, still more coming down from the sky, and a temp of 30 F--just two days after a glorious, sunny Sunday, when the high reached 70 F.

Further proof that hell has frozen over? That stinkin' Carolina won the NCAA.

Harrumph.

Happy up here!

On my walk to work this morning, I started out listening to the latest Portishead album, Third, on my iPod.

Here's a sample, their single, "Machine Gun."

Ugh.

"Single" sounds like such a frivolous term for a song so dour. While certainly a fine example of musical creativity, I generally would not recommended anything called "Machine Gun" (except by the Commodores, which is probably more my style than I care to admit) for easy listening on a dreary, damp Monday morning. I did feature Portishead in my list of twenty songs to kill yourself by ("All Mine"--icy despair, retro style--and you can dance to it!). So I should have known better, but Third even outmiseries the misery of an April Monday with snow in the forecast and a bitter chill in my disposition.

Gone are Sunday's sunny 70s; hello, 50s, 40s, and 30s, and the desire to throw myself under a passing Port Authority bus. Remind me now why I decided to limit my caffeine intake to one cup of coffee a day? And reduce my consumption of chocolate to practically nil? Health concerns? Well, the wheels of the bus go 'round and 'round and seem to have a road-gripping retort to that theory, now don't they?

So, Monday a.m. and Portishead shall never meet again. Instead, for quick relief and a desire not to tie up traffic on Penn Avenue, I turned to a little "Melody a.m.," or at least a Melody a.m. revival in the form of Röyksopp's new single, "Happy Up Here."



So enough of the depression and alienation! There's plenty of time for that in the future--tomorrow will probably be worse anyway! Let's dance and sing and play Space Invaders. I'm sure Torbjørn and Svein would want it that way.

Trader Woes

First, let me say, right off, that while this rant/posting is about Trader Joe's, the chi-chi supermarket chain, coming soon to a high-income neighborhood near you, I do not have a problem with Trader Joe's, in and of itself.

In fact, generally, I like it, at least in concept. You get high-end food at, admittedly, high-end prices. (Four cloth bags of groceries for $91.58--such a bargain!) The staff is often quite friendly and helpful, with no exceptions being all that exceptional--excepting maybe the one check-out clerk who insists on wishing me a "blessed day" through gritted teeth after every transaction. I keep feeling like she's doing field research for her church. "Befriend the goofy homosexual and report back to us on what he purchased, so we can boycott those companies. Praise the lord!"

And what is not to like about chocolate-covered sunflower seeds, Marcona almonds with rosemary, and the TJ-brand mac 'n' cheese? Good, waist-wasting eats.

Compared to the local mega-chain Giant Eagle (nostalgic for the dark days of bread lines, grim decor, and surly service of the Soviet Union? They live on at Giant Eagle), Trader Joe's and Whole Foods are making-glorious-people's-revolution for Pittsburgh foodies.

I still wish we had a Wegman's for comparison and contrast. I can see how that would be a tough sell in town, with both TJ's, Whole Foods, and the Gucci Eagle Central Market covering the Oakland-Shadyside-Squirrel Hill-East Liberty 'hood. But surely Mount Lebanon, Fox Chapel, Wexford, or Oakmont could support a Wegman's. Heck, Erie has a Wegman's--and several Tim Horton's, too. Yet Pittsburgh has got bupkus to show for New York-based megamarts and Canadian doughnuts.

Second, I'm not saying I want to move to Erie anytime soon. In addition to Tim Horton's and Wegman's, Erie also had 129 inches of snow in January alone this past winter. I'm sure it's lovely in a certain light during a certain time of year, but if I were living in Erie, I'd be thinking of something other than 20 songs to kill yourself by. I'd be thinking of 20 ways to do it.

I do have my quibbles with Trader Joe's. The Pittsburgh store seems a bit undersized compared to some other TJ's I've been to (as does the Whole Foods, and as did the late, lamented Filene's, may it rest in peace). And there are times when you just can't get what you want. You go one night and they are completely out of parsley, flat-leaf for curly. You go another, and there's been a run on toilet paper or pineapple. You go yet another, and that Applegate Farms free-range Amish sandwich meat and cheese I like is nowhere to be found. Nor is the bread. Or the fat-free milk.

So, from time to time, the Trader Joe's experiene can be a bit frustrating merchandise-wise. But, really, the crux of my bittertude toward TJ's is not TJ's itself. It is with those who frequent Trader Joe's.

Excepting yours truly of course.

Really, I'm talking about a certain type of denizen of Trader Joe's. The Trader Schmoes. The Trader Slows. The Trader Foes/Fauxs.

Oh, c'mon, don't play all goody-goody. You know exactly what I'm talking about. There are the Trader Schmoes--the posh, East End of Pittsburgh types, with one foot in Shadyside and one foot on the gas pedal of their Lexus SUVs as they plow you under in the parking lot. They swear Trader Joe's is the absolute only place they shop for groceries anymore. They can't deal with the hoi polloi at Giant Eagle in North St. Clairvale East Versaillesport West Millquense any longer! Trader Joe's is all that's standing between them and starvation--and they are of course already beyond fashionably thin, so they can ill miss the calories.

This type worries me. Deeply. I mean, god forbid we should have a Day After or a Day After Tomorrow scenario play out in this country. These poor slobs won't know how to forage for groceries at Shopper's Food Warehouse, let alone be able to gather enough nuts and berries to survive on in a nuclear wilderness.

Then there are the Trader Slows--and like the poor, red lipstick, and spiteful Republicans, the Trader Slows will always be with us. Moving at a snail's pace through the aisles of TJ's, slowly picking up each item of produce, examining it with microscopic movements, and slowly returning it to the bin . . . only to pick up yet another item of produce, indistinguishable from the last, ever so slowly . . . .

These are the ones who leave their carts higgledy-piggledy in the aisles and common areas. The ones who have to chat extensively about their food purchases with everyone in line, everyone walking through the door, and everyone in the parking lot. These are the ones who see shopping at Trader Joe's as An Experience that no one has ever felt quite like they have.

The Trader Slows are to be avoided at all costs. Especially when you are in a hurry and/or have low blood sugar, which is really not the way to experience Trader Joe's. So maybe the Slows are on to something and get the TJ experience much more than I do. That or they need their own special-needs-themed store, with their own very special check-out aisle.

One variant of the Trader Slows type is the aging hippie type--Trader Cornrows, perhaps?--with wiry gray, overly long hair, and wearing nothing but organically dyed hemp fibers picked up from their last grant-funded research/shopping trip to [insert Third World country name here]. Where do these people work? Other than in academe, I mean? Goodness, it is obvious they stopped watching TV and reading magazines sometime before 1978. Instead, all their spare income goes to Trader Joe's, Moveon.org, and to periodic tune-ups of their "classic" Subaru wagon, the one in the lot that is more bumpersticker than paint job at this point.

And then there is my favorite (at least to make fun of) type--the Trader Fauxs, who are indeed my foes and the source of all my woes. You know them. They live among us. And they breed like rabbits. Fine, pampered, angora rabbits, but rabbits all the same.

They come to TJ's with an entourage, generally consisting of children, either worn en papoose, like pendants or designer gear, or, if the child is beyond the larval stage, then the child is encouraged to freely express his creativity and independence, primarily by dodging among shopping carts and around the legs of other shoppers with their own entourages, mostly of the adult variety, who insist on doing all their shopping at Trader Joe's (see Trader Schmoes above).

There is so much to loathe about the Trader Fauxs, so very very much. Nonetheless, they make me giggle to myself for one very simple reason: Is it me or have the Trader Fauxs made the mistake of naming all their offspring after humble, pre-20th-century professions? There are Porters, Tanners, Carters, Taylors (Tailors), Hunters, and Coopers to name but a few. Can Farrier, Gatherer, or Lumberjack be far behind? Is it an attempt to sound chic? Or is it an effort to make their kids more downwardly mobile, jealous of any potential success they might have, despite the incessant efforts to give them all the advantages they never yadda yadda yadda?

I chuckle further when I start to wonder if the White Trash--er, the Anglo-Saxon working poor with TV sets and Us Weekly subscriptions--will eventually toss aside all those soap opera names (Krystal with a K, Alexis, Marissa, Schuyler, Nash, et al.) in favor of naming their children after upwardly mobile professions. Little Surgeon Marshburn. Sweet Attorney Tyndall. Darling Civil Engineer Stroud. Adorable Hedge Fund Manager Jarman.

Well, OK, maybe not Hedge Fund Manager Jarman. The working poor may be poor but they are smarter than that.

And probably way smarter to stay out of Trader Joe's when they are in a hurry and have a bad case of low-blood sugar.

Just call me Trader Doh!'s.

Southern discomforts: The final feh

The scene: Lunch at a bistro (no, really) in Morgantown, West Virginia, 3 April 2009. The topic: The NCAA Final Four.

"I can't stand Carolina!" the Virginian said. "I hope they lose!"

"I can't stand them either--and I'm *from* North Carolina!" I said.

"'If God isn't a Tarheel, then why is the sky Carolina Blue.' Goodness, I hope I never hear that again!" she said.

"Or those stupid blue heels painted on every surface, whenever they win. And, god, don't get me started on all the hugging that happens after a win, with everyone acting as if it were a validation of their fabulous lifestyle!"

"I can't believe that Pitt lost. I was hoping to see them beat Carolina," she noted. "Now I just hope Villanova brings 'em down," she added.

"Anybody but Carolina!" I said.

"I'd just as soon see the Red Chinese beat Carolina!" she exclaimed.

"Heck, I'd just as soon see the Taliban beat Carolina!" I snapped.

Truth be told, what's even worse, I'd even take a team made up of Osama bin Laden, Ted Bundy, Pol Pot, Simon LeGree, *and* P. W. Botha to beat Carolina. Maybe throw in Mussolini, Lisa Rinna, and Jessica Simpson as substitutions.

However, I would probably draw the line at a team made up of Rush Limbaugh, Eric Cantor, Dick Cheney, Adolf Hitler, and Lindsay Lohan, with Karl Rove, Dane Cook, and whoever is responsible for the Pittsburgh-area highway system as subs. Even they would deserve to lose to the unsavory likes of UNC.

* * *

My hatred for Carolina is intense. It is visceral. It is innate. I cannot fully explain or fathom its depths--at least not without foaming at the mouth and wanting to kick puppies.

Yet, for the love of Mayberry, those Carolina mo'fo's are in the freakin' NCAA Final Four again--led by a guy named Tyler Hansbrough. No, shit. Tyler Hansbrough. That sounds like the name of a guy who has an unnaturally close relationship with his mother. (I am reminded of a guy from high school whose mother still referred to him as "Chrissy," while barely acknowledging that she had two other children, just as capable and competent as The Anointed One with the sissy petname.) Tyler Hansbrough sounds like the name of Barbie's new rebound boyfriend, whom she no doubt took up with after finding Ken in bed with Big Jim. (That Barbie. She'll never learn to avoid the closet cases.) That sounds like the name of a guy . . . who would play basketball at Carolina (even if he is from Missouri--which is almost as bad).

Admittedly, maybe I would feel differently if I had actually gone to school at Carolina, for either undergrad or graduate, instead of to two of the lesser, indifferently funded, lights of the University of North Carolina System. I didn't really consider going to Carolina as an undergrad--a weird combination of NOCD ("not our class, dear," meaning I wasn't of their class, y'all) and the Gobi Desert of guidance counseling that was the working-class kid's experience in North Carolina public education, circa 1979. If you were one of the first families in town--even if your Dad was postmaster general or a furniture salesman, such was the how-low-can-you-go limbo bar of achievement in our little community--you were encouraged. If your grades were on par with the rest and your Dad was enlisted military (i.e., not a townie), well, to the back of the line with you, peasant.

Not that I'm still bitter, 30 years later, or anything . . . but it is still the case that, in the latter part of my 40s, I get judged by others (all North Carolinians, naturally) on whether I went to "Chapel College" and what it says about me that I didn't.

I did apply and was accepted for grad school at Chapel Hill, but chose not to go when I got a better scholarship offer at another North Carolina school, received no real response regarding funding (or even campus jobs) from Carolina, and realized I had very little desire to incur major debt in my early 30s. Maybe it would have helped me in my career path to have gone to a "name" school--or maybe not. I felt more nurtured where I ended up going and haven't done too badly for myself, all things considered. Perhaps it took me longer to get where I was trying to go--but that's assuming that I ever really know where I'm trying to go, more than a couple of years out from the destination.

But my loathing for all that is Carolina runs deeper and is more long-standing than any slight/sleight Southern discomfort over what might have been. I think it's that Carolina and the whole "Chapel Hill attitude" just grates against my sense of what life--and especially North Carolina life--is supposed to be about.

How I remember North Carolina as a child is as a community of small farmers and millworkers, good-hearted folk with simple aspirations, trying to live their lives well and let others do the same. Going along to get along, perhaps, a little boringly pleasant, maybe, but essentially salt o' the earth types.

Just hold the salt. And the pepper.

This is more like the Mayberry Snappy Lunch blue-plate special view of the world. Everything is in black-and-white (well, mostly white). Barney Fife is on the menu, and there are extra helpings of Thelma Lou, if you ask nicely. Andy and the Darlings provide the floorshow. But they are plum out of Helen Crump. And good god, please no sides or entrees of Emmit, Howard, or Goober.

Yes, it is possible to have seen too many episodes of the Andy Griffith Show. My bucolic, harmonious, tender-hearted memory, all sleepy small-town and "lord, it's just like livin' in a poem," doesn't jibe with the cold-water reality of racial discrimination and social inequality, the big sticks of god-fearing religion and law-and-order until death do us part, or the festering divide between malingering, manipulating aristocracy and crazy cracker populism.

If truth be told, North Carolina life is less Frank Capra-meets-Norman Rockwell, and more Franz Kafka-meets-Norman Rockwell. I'm a little bit country, I'm a little bit turning into a cockroach before your very eyes.

Or perhaps it's not Kafka after all; perhaps it's strictly David Lynch-ian in nature--Blue Velvet intertwined with Twin Peaks strangled by Wild at Heart. In this alternate-universe Mayberry, Helen's a hooker. Thelma Lou is an axe-murderess. Andy cross-dresses. Instead of cooking up kerosene pickles in the kitchen, Aunt Bea runs the town meth lab, and Opie's her number one customer. Barney's a deaf mute midget who only speaks in Otis's dreams. And being that Otis is now sober and sane, nobody believes a word he says.

Well, OK, it's not quite like that either--'cause that would make it at least interesting. Besides, that would make it Louisiana.

Instead, North Carolina feels worse in a particularly stingy, mewling, bitter pill way: It is classist, it is mean-spirited, it is jealous, it is condescending, it is judgmental, it is passive-aggressive, it is clannish, it is suspicious, and it is holier-than-thou. It is essentially English in culture, except with better home-cooking and nicer weather.

I feel torn, to say the least--a queasy mix of pride over my culture (the food, the music, the landscape, the literature), yet full of anger over what many of us have had to live through to hold on to it, to make it our own. Despite the guns-and-religion, we're-all-in-lockstep-toward-the-promised-land reputation, Southern culture has its share of queers (sexual or otherwise), working-class types, non-joiners, rebels, independents, loners, crackpots, revolutionaries, and individuals.

And only some of them resorted to firearms. I would imagine quite a few just picked up a pen and shot off their opinions in letters to the editor or in articles and books, both published and unpublished. Still others packed it in, picked up a suitcase, and moved on and moved out. Yet try to get a little respect for that.

* * *

During Friday's visit to Morgantown, a mountain town in an Appalachian state, for a moment I felt a resurgence of pride--of the culture, the accomplishments, the bounty of life created on a shoestring budget. But this was pride for my Dad's Kentucky Appalachian heritage, not for my native North Carolina one.

The story of the creation of West Virginia is that it seceded from Virginia during the Civil War, not feeling well served by mainline Virginia interests and not content to be separated from the rest of the United States due to the handiwork of a few chivalrous, racist hot-heads too much into dressing up to play at being soldiers. Perhaps, too, West Virginians hated that peculiar institution of slavery and the feel of upper-class Virginia elitism chafing against its rough-and-tumble, working-class hide.

Kentucky was and often still is considered a Southern state, but it, too, refused to secede from the Union, despite having a decidedly mixed approach to the planter class and slavery. I wonder if that split personality, that feeling of being part of a culture, yet feeling removed, even alienated from it, is ultimately what I'm about. 'Cause that's what I feel these days, simultaneously very Southern in Pennsylvania and very un-Southern in the South and among my fellow Southerners.

Still, Andy Griffith went to UNC and Mitch McConnell is from Kentucky--and even snippy, whingeing England has good music and quirky-quaint towns. There is just good and bad in everything, I guess, and I would imagine it's best to make peace with it as well as you can.

But hey! In the meantime, tonight I'd still like to see Carolina go down in flames! Big, huge, conflagratory flames! The Great Chapel Hill Fire of 2009! Bring a spit--we're gonna have a barbecue, y'all!

So, Villanova, if you're listening, please barbecue some Carolina (pork) butt for me this evening. And if you can't, then (egad, how far I've fallen!), please let Connecticut or Michigan State do the roasting.