(Back to being) Bothered and (definitely) bewildered in Blogtucky

Blogtucky, we hardly knew ye

2011-08-10T10:47:00.000-04:00

Change is not always good, not always bad. Sometimes it's just change. My ever-so-slightly chameleon-like nature requires me to change something, anything, about my life at least every three years. Once again, it is impelling me to shake things up and dust things off.

New job? Check. Accomplished in the spring.

New home? Working on it and hope to have it accomplished in the next couple of months.

New city? Someday, someday. Not today, not tomorrow, but not right now.

New outlook on life? Well, funny you should ask . . .

Thus, today we are saying a fond farewell to Blogtucky, a writing forum that has served me well for a number of years but that has since fallen out of favor with me (and pretty much with everyone, lo is the unpopularity of blogging in this fast-morphing digiscape).

What happened exactly? Was it a bitter divorce or a gradual estrangement? Did Blogtucky cheat on me or did I cheat on it? And did anyone notice? Or care?

Tick the box next to "gradual estrangement." But a few people did care that I stopped writing, which was very flattering indeed. Just not enough to make me start up again.

I think life happened exactly. When I had less going on in my life (all work, very little play), Blogtucky was an enjoyable escape, a satisfying way to share my alleged thoughts and humor with friends far and wide. I had fun writing with regularity and getting feedback from people I knew and even some I didn't, adding a couple of new friends along the way who share my interests and tolerate my half-witticisms.

When I, ahem, changed jobs in mid-2007 (a very long time ago, it seems), moved to a larger city, and began traveling more for work, I found I had less time for writing and, so it seems now, less time for myself. And, by extension, everyone else around me.

My bad.

It wasn't all travel, although a hell of a lot of it was--and I have 185,000 Visa Points to prove it. There was a French course in Montreal, repeated trips to Montreal, love in Montreal, and, ultimately, heartbreak in Montreal. There was a near-total economic meltdown, political stagnation, and hate speech. There was Facebook, and there was Twitter.

I could see the humor in some things, but only 140 characters at a time. Other things, other times, I couldn't see the humor at all. And, thus, if I couldn't say anything nice, it was just better to stay at home and scream at the TV.

I didn't figure this all out until I changed jobs again this past spring. Suddenly, I was no longer getting ready to go on a trip/just coming back from a trip/recovering from a trip. Slowly, I became less tired, less braindead. Eventually, a few months later--now, in fact--I realized that, wow, I might just feel like having a life again.

And writing for me is a part of life. I can't say I do it well or that I even do it often enough. I can't say I've made much of myself as a writer, having only a small portfolio of professional articles, one book chapter, some reviews, a journal (on an obsolete software platform, no less), a handful of half-assed stories, and this blog to my credit. Maybe that will change. Maybe that won't. I'd like to be known and appreciated for my writing, as I think at times it's as good as anyone else's out there who makes a decent living at humor and opinion. But there is a lot of writing out there already. I'm not sure I can make myself heard over the din. And at times I'm not sure I want to. I like my privacy, I look out for my thin skin, and people who send me messages signed "From a Northern Idaho Patriot" worry me.

But that's for another place and time.

Perhaps on my new blog starting . . . now.

Educational but . . .

2010-07-23T22:39:00.004-04:00

"What, me worry?"

* * *

Educational, informative, authoritative (look! real citations! and no random editing to suit one's own agenda!), but . . . not once do they mention his successful career as a professional shithead.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Andrew_Breitbart

When "playing possum" goes too far

2010-03-28T09:09:00.003-04:00

Only in Western Pennsylvania . . . or only where alcohol is involved . . . or both.

http://www.post-gazette.com/pg/10085/1045894-100.stm

I love this story because--

A possum was involved. (I think possums are so ugly, they're cute. Still . . . there are most definitely limits in my take on "possum love.")
It happened near Pittsburgh. (We've got a full Pantone matching system of local color.)
The Post-Gazette felt the need to explain that "alcohol was involved." (Who would have ever imagined?)
The story even made the BBC news headlines. (Oh august body, where is thy sting?)
Naturally, all of the above.

Cantorankerous

2010-03-27T10:41:00.006-04:00

I'm just a guy who can't say no . . . to a photo op!

* * *

Oh no! Someone's done got mad and shat . . . erm, shot at Congressman Eric Cantor's office in Richmond, Virginy. Who would do such a thang? Why he's the nicest, friendliest, kindest, most pleasantest feller around . . .

*gggggggaggggggggg*

Oh, sorry, choking on my own vomit there for a sec.

But, come on, really, who didn't see this coming? These threats against elected officials in a highly polarized, emotional political and social climate. Frankly, I'm surprised that worse hasn't happened so far--that is, something worse than being spat on or being called a racial or sexual epithet, which we've had plenty of lately.

And, frankly, I'm surprised worse hasn't befallen a Republican by now. Eric Cantor has proven himself to be a Level 1 a-hole, snarkier-than-thou--almost as snarky as John Boehner and Mitch McConnell combined--and quick with the petulant, insincere cri-de-coeur at every photo op or press conference.

Of course, it doesn't just come down to Eric Cantor, Virginia-R(ighteous Putz). He's just one of the many players in a very public performance of Birth of a Venal Nation: Demagoguery in White Sheets, brought to you by the Republican Party--plus the letters F, U, and U, S, of A. All filmed in glorious Tunnelvision by Fox News. The latter has done an especially impressive job managing the crowd scenes, featuring hundreds and hundreds of extras from the Tea Party Dance Troupe, the John Birch Theatrical Society, the Ron Paulettes, and the Lyndon LaRouchebags.

It's been out of hand for months, years even. From Bill Clinton onwards and maybe before--although while a group of us never liked nor trusted Reagan, and there were definitely protests, I don't recall a bunch of self-anointed "patriots" showing up at rallies menacing people with weaponry or threatening to water the tree of liberty with the blood of Ed Meese.

From what I recall from those days, the most high-tech the weaponry got was a loose Birkenstock or Doc Martens, which the wearer no doubt tripped on while running from the protest line.

I had hoped all this angry insanity would die down after the 2008 election, when there was a clear winner and a clear loser. But the clear loser turned out to be an especially sore one. Maybe the party-that's-really-noisy-but-not-much-fun, gave the new president a couple of months before they started their next election campaign. Agreed, though, this is more time than some of the liber-azzi (rhymes with Liberace!) gave Obama before they started talking about a "failed" (in their eyes only) presidency.

But, over the last year, this domestic dissent has only escalated, in- and outside of the Capitol. Some of it, I suspect, is just generalized whining and whimpering during an especially rough economic period, one that settled in well before January 21, 2009, but one that hasn't vacated the premises as quickly as the former president did. Social strife is to be expected when people are hurting and remedies aren't as forthcoming as we would all like. It's probably worse here than elsewhere in the developed world due to our full-of-holes social safety net.

Please note, I'm not making light of people's suffering, or fun of it either. From my limited experience being unemployed, all I can do is imagine. But I think it would be fair to say that the hysterical protests against health insurance reform and deficit spending--two actions designed to help alleviate hardship both in the long- and short-term--seem, hmmm, well, let's say misguided and counter-intuitive. I'm just not convinced that you'd think your government was doing much good by you if it stood idly by while you lived out your fantasia on the theme of individual responsibility and bootstraps, either.

However, the anger and drama have gone beyond the I'm-hungry-tired-and-cranky stage. Well beyond that. To a positively scary place, full of mobs and hate speech; crude, racist iconography; antique talk of "states' rights," secessionism, and "redistribution of wealth" (code for "I'm selfish and hate anyone who's worse off or better off than me"); and now, incrementally, violence.

I half-expect John McCain to cane an opponent on the floor of the Senate any day now. I wouldn't blink an eye if Texas Governor Rick "Good Hair" Perry fired on Fort Sam Houston. And, sadly, I fully expect there will be an incident of serious domestic terrorism before it's all over with.

So I agree with Eric Cantor--this has to stop now, before someone gets seriously hurt.

Funny, Eric, that this should upset you now that it's happening to you and not your colleagues . . . but, oh, let's not be cynical.

Fomenting a polarized, hostile social and political climate should indeed stop. I for one would fully support Mr. Cantor's call for members of both parties to work together, showing respect and decorum toward one another--not to mention toward those whom you allegedly serve.

Perhaps then, you could get back to your raison d'être for being in Washington--addressing the myriad of social, economic, and security issues confronting our country.

Heck, here's a topical thought--and a freebie: You might even start with working toward better gun control . . .

You're welcome.

File under "Day Late, Dollar Short"

2010-03-25T10:42:00.004-04:00

Or, if you prefer, "Insane Clown Posse, Right-Wing Contingent." Totally your call.

Report: Fox News ‘Divided’ over Glenn
Beck

http://www.fancast.com/blogs/2010/tv-news/report-fox-news-divided-over-glenn-beck/

Favorite quote:

Kurtz also spoke with Fox News employees claiming Beck stages his high-strung antics, including the infamous teary breakdowns, although a Beck spokesperson quickly shot that down as “cowardly” complaints.

To quote Jon Stewart from The Daily Show in a recent imitation of Glenn Beck, "I promised myself I would cry."

Laugh or cry, what's peculiar is that Glenn Beck divides the "talent" at Fox--meaning that there are those who stand with him, as well as those who don't.

Feh, this crazy new math. Rather than doing division or subtraction, apparently you can now add a negative like Glenn Beck with a negative like Fox News and still come up with positive numbers for both.

Only in America. Only at Newscorp.

Hurray for the Red, White, Black, and Blue, Part 1: Hit Me Baby, One More Time

2010-03-23T22:17:00.004-04:00

Loving America is a lot like being in an abusive relationship, I would imagine.

At first, the relationship goes wonderfully. America showers you with attention and presents. America talks big and tells you how it's going to be for you two, when you're married, when you're settled in your new home, with your consumer goods and kids. It's exciting! Maybe a little too exciting! You can't catch your breath!

So you make the commitment. How could you not? He's the best thing you've ever known--albeit the only thing you've ever known. Everyone around you tells you how lucky you are, and who are you to argue otherwise?

And you believe it all. Until America starts neglecting to come home from work on time. Or doesn't come home at all. And doesn't even bother to call.

Other things seem amiss, and America is vague on details when you start to question him. Worried, feeling needy, you ask what's changed, what's gone wrong, what have I done?

But America isn't sorry. In fact, he's pissed off at you for asking, for "nagging" and "bitching."

"Bitch," he calls you. "Nigger." "Faggot." He spits at you.

"But wait!" you say--

And then it happens. He snaps. He slaps you hard across the face.

You scream and cry, and America cries, too, and promises never, ever, ever to hurt you again. There, there, baby, it'll be alright. I'll give you the moon and the stars, a trip to the Moon, and then to Mars. Or maybe Afghanistan and Iraq, too.

Nevertheless, they're all empty promises. America hits you again. And again. And again. And again. And again.

You cry, you wail, you grieve your guts out over your pain and the injustice of it all. Haven't you been there for America? Don't you feed it and care for it and give it money when it needs it?

You try to tell your family and friends, but they don't want to know, can't really fathom, don't see things the same way. You realize that either they don't care or that they're being abused by America, too, their own version of America at least. They just don't call it abuse though. 'Cause for them it seems normal by now.

They just tell you to tough it out, whatever it is, the problem you think you have. It's the best you're gonna get, so why make yourself miserable wanting something you can't have? Eat it. Suck it. Swallow it.

America cried with you at first, but then, he doesn't bother apologizing anymore and, worse, starts to blame you for his abuses. You cry louder at first, but this only makes him angrier, and the abuse intensifies and frightens you more.

So your tears dry up, and you start to suffer quietly on your own. That is, on the days when you feel anything at all.

Sometimes you don't know if America is going to kill you. Somedays you think it may have already done so. You feel dead inside, at least. Maybe you've killed yourself. Maybe you should.

After a time, too, you can't distinguish the abuse from a better reality--because the abuse is your reality. It feels normal, regular, expected. Maybe even anticipated. You start to want it a little maybe. 'Cause it's the only thing that makes you feel anymore.

You see others around you, suffering, screaming, fighting--for a while at least. At first you feel sympathy for them. You remember when . . .

But then, their complaints become tedious. Annoying. Enraging!

Why can't they just deal with it? Tough it out! Stop whining! It's the best you're gonna get! There's nothing else out there, certainly nothing any better, so don't go looking, don't go expecting!

And then you snap. And you slap. And in that very instance, you become just like America.

Reform-atory school

2010-03-22T13:37:00.007-04:00

Good news . . . but we're still not there yet. The short version reads, "Tom Corbett, you're a douchebag," but I thought this might carry more weight.

To Attorney General, Tom Corbett, Pennsylvania:

Dear Mr. Corbett,

I understand that the Attorney General's Office is considering filing suit to block healthcare insurance reform legislation, in the process of being signed into law at the federal level.

I certainly hope it does not come to this. I think the legislation is a landmark effort at instituting much-needed reform, putting restrictions on insurance companies from predatory practices--something that, in theory, I think you would support (the restrictions, that is). In addition, it adds greatly needed coverage for all Pennsylvanians and strives to cut skyrocketing healthcare costs.

I fail to understand this weak argument, apparently Republican or Tea Party in nature, that this legislation infringes on states' rights. I thought we settled that issue in 1865. I can't see how this idea betters our country. Trust me, having grown up in a region known for flogging that old (Civil) warhorse, I don't think any of us want to go down that path, legally or morally.

Regardless, if you choose to follow through with this suit, I hope you will do so with consistency and file suit against accepting Medicare, Medicaid, military recruitment, highway safety laws, civil rights legislation, and any number of national legislative efforts that impact Pennsylvania and its citizenry.

Surely you can agree that as an attorney, consistency is important, no matter how unpopular it might be during an election year.

Kind regards,

Tim Winni,
Pittsburgh, PA

What's that sound?

2010-03-20T09:47:00.003-04:00

Alex Chilton passed away this week. I knew the name better than I knew his work, although I certainly heard him sing "The Letter" as lead singer of The Box Tops, way back when.

Way back when he was just 16 years old, apparently.

What I heard more, though, especially in the 1980s, were all the bands and musicians that considered him an inspiration--the dB's, Let's Active, Marti Jones, Don Dixon, Paul Westerberg and The Replacements, among others.

I didn't know it then, but I do know it now. And while my musical tastes sometimes (OK, OK, often) favor the silly, superfluous, and the non-guitar-based, I do have my moments where I listen to other styles and other sounds.

The 1980s were definitely one of those times, especially when I lived in Washington, D.C., and listened to the late, lamented WHFS from Annapolis. The early/mid-'80s 'HFS, the one that carried the tradition of college radio into adulthood, but which nonetheless got taken over by corporate hacks and made more "commercially viable," i.e., viable for playing commercials, not necessarily music.

(Thank goodness for public radio, especially here in Pennsylvania, with stations like WXPN in Philadelphia and WYEP here in Pittsburgh, where, at least if we support it, we get good, alternative music without all the talk, advertising, and pandering. If you don't believe government has a role in protecting the people from the market, then by all means, tune into your favorite Clear Channel Communications station--which got its start as a billboard advertising company--and sign off from this blog now.)

Before I end up in a grumpy-old-man dialog with myself, the kind that seems to be raging across our fair-to-middlin' land these days (passionate, yes, but devoid of self-editing or fact-checking, too), let me get back to celebrating a brief period in the '80s, the Golden Age of Jangly Pop, Post-Punk Edition, which was in heavy rotation on WHFS.

When I used to listen to the North Carolina's own dB's and Let's Active, and their Ohio friend Marti Jones and their Minnesota friend Paul Westerberg, and feel nostalgic for my home state and proud of its musical heritage . . .

Washington was truly one of the most hateful places I've ever had the experience of enduring (sorry, D.C. friends!), although I suspect it had as much to do with me and who I was then, as it did with Washington. But Mitch Easter, Don Dixon, Marti Jones, Chris Stamey, Peter Holsapple, and company kept me happy and humming during those years, as did Alex Chilton.

Even if I didn't know it then.

But I do now.

Enjoy.

http://www.youtube.com/view_play_list?p=03DFD30F460E22C4

Caveats, I've had a few: Sorry, but I couldn't find on YouTube The dB's' "Spy in the House of Love" or "Lonely Is (As Lonely Does)" (or the Marti Jones cover of the latter), so this is an incomplete, sorely lacking playlist. But it's a start. iTunes and a good, old-fashioned vinyl or CD store, can help you further along.

Crocus? Both of us?

2010-03-13T09:39:00.007-05:00

Alas, it's the punchline of an old, rude joke, which I won't bother to explain and which, besides, I only remember the punchline.

Nevertheless, I did spot my first crocus in Pittsburgh this past week, meaning that spring indeed is meandering toward Steel City.

So, to celebrate, let's do as we do in my home state, North Carolina, by greeting sweet springtime in song:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gMKXcC80Zpg

Sour notes and all!

P.S. Thanks once again to Wikipedia and the WikiCommons for the image.

Where's a good "death panel" when you need one?

2010-02-23T09:01:00.007-05:00

Ripped from the headlines--

"Cheney Resting Comfortably at Hospital after Chest Pains"

Golly, what shocking news--Dick Cheney's heart is giving him trouble. Who knew he had one in the first place? Badda-bing!

Thanks, ladies and germs, I'll be at Caroline's Comedy Club next week. On a double bill with Joy Behar.

I do hope Mister Cheney is receiving the most "enhanced" medical care his lifetime health coverage and pension plan can provide.

I know if I were at that hospital--whether as a doctor, a nurse, an administrator, or a cafeteria worker--I'd make sure ol' Lucifer's Grandad got the most appropriate treatment for his condition.

First of all, I'd crib a "do not resuscitate" order for the old bastard.

Second, I'd argue with the hospital board that waterboarding is, too, a suitable medicinal cure for whatever ails him. And I mean whatever--hangnail, ingrown toenail, boil on the ass of humanity. "Mister Cheney is taking to the waters just fine. He'll be back to his old, hateful self in no time."

Third, I'd yank the plug out of the wall myself.

And fourth, I imagine I would be totally frustrated that even a stake through his body somewhere in the general vicinity of where his heart might be wouldn't destroy Satan-with-a-Pacemaker. I suspect, like any determined specter in a slasher movie, he won't go down easily.

I don't usually speak ill of the dead, Dick, but, alas, you're not dead yet.

Try harder, though.

Herr today, gone tomorrow

2010-02-21T23:18:00.003-05:00

From my friend Snorty (sometimes Blondie, sometimes Reddie). This had me doing the classic ROTFLMAO maneuver.

Ruth Elkins, "German Men: Hunky, Handsome, Wimpy, and Weak," Spiegel International Online, May 31, 2006. Retrieved February 21, 2010. [http://www.spiegel.de/international/0,1518,419029,00.html]

Ski Pennsylvania!

2010-02-15T05:07:00.021-05:00

Dear Olympic Organizing Committee--in need of more snow for your next winter games? Might I suggest Pittsburgh as the host city for 2026 . . . ?

The really big snow reported on previously apparently wasn't so much a one-time cataclysm. A snowpocaplypse, a snowmageddon, as everyone locally has begun to call it. Rather, it was really the beginning of a trend--or, if you a prefer, a curse--of snowfall that, a week plus later, continues unabated. And unplowed, and unshoveled, and unsalted, for that matter.

There can indeed be an embarrassment of inches, at least in terms of snow. (Who knew?) I've lost count at this point, but I think it would be fair to say that there is still 20 inches (50+ centimeters) or so of snow on the ground at this writing with more on the way--on a daily basis, until the end of time, at least if the weather reports are to be believed.

And I'm not sure I do believe them--after all, the 6 to 10 inches predicted for the really big snow turned into 21 handily and officially, with estimates running higher in the neighborhoods and toward the Laurel Highlands. So I'm snow-banking on it being worse, much worse, from here on out. After all, it's only mid-February. Even an unfailingly reliable weather prognosticator as Punxsutawney Phil says we're due for 6 more weeks of winter. This is a region where, during the last winter, it snowed from prior to Halloween until mid-April. This winter, we had our first threat of snow in mid-October. By next year, we should be giving Winnipeg a run for its loonies for most-populated, coldest city in the world.

So what to do? Well, as for me, I'd just as soon hibernate with the local groundhog community until spring springs forth. I've spent the last week stuck--stuck at home, stuck in the garage, stuck in the driveway, stuck on sidewalks and crosswalks, unable to trudge through the snow to wherever I might feel the limited need to go (the post office, the Get-Go, and, oh yes, even work on occasion). Why not make it official and bury one's self underground until my low Nutella supply and lack of cable TV programming options get the better of me and I'm impelled to venture outdoors again?

An excellent plan, if I do say no, but one that was not to be. Because when the going gets tough, the not-so-tough make it even tougher on themselves and go cross-country skiing.

* * *

I have been cross-country skiing before--once, in Colorado, last year--and I, well, more or less enjoyed it. The weather was crisp and cold, but not terribly so, and the day was brilliantly sunny. The snow was luxuriously powdery, the trails freshly groomed and mostly undisturbed, so it was easy to glide along the grooves. I took a lesson that day, and I was impressed by the helpfulness and mellowness of the trainers at the Nordic center in Breckenridge (it's either altitude or attitude out Colorado way, or a Nordic combined of both). Not for a second did I feel ridiculous as a then-47-year-old virgin on the rails and trails--at least no more than I do drawing breath on a daily basis.

The beginners' trail was easy enough, so feeling more confident, I had to go chance it all and get on the intermediate trail. And while that went OK, it also went quite fast in places, as some of the trail was downhill.

Well, I didn't try cross-country skiing because I wanted to go fast. I'd do downhill racing if I wanted that speed, that rush, and the opportunity for the full "Sonny Bono experience."

Still, I only managed to fall two, maybe three, times--once while trying to learn how to fall properly on skis and twice while on the beginners' trail, trying to cross under a bridge on a sun-dappled and glazed-over trail. The downhill wipeouts were more funny than anything--what I learned later might be termed "yard sales," as I ended up with my stuff scattered all over the place.

Nonetheless, while the experience wasn't terrible, it wasn't enchanting either. I wasn't fully convinced that cross-country was my thing. I can't speak for downhill skiing, but there's a lot of balance involved in cross-country skiing, and goodness knows, you need strong ankles to work those skis. In some ways, it reminds me of ice-skating: You have to be "present," mentally and physically, keeping your preferred choice of equipment in contact with the surface and, at least as a beginner, your mind on the task at hand (or, in this case, foot). These are not onerous requirements, mind you, but they require more commitment than perhaps I am willing to give to exercise and sport in general. Just call me Bode Miller at Torino, circa 2006.

All in all, I think I'm more of a snow-shoe kind of guy. From snow-shoeing, I still get a good workout tramping around with those ridiculous things on my feet, but I am less restricted by grooved trails and, more apparently, by my "balancing act," or lack thereof. Really, snow-shoeing doesn't require a lot of talent or ability--that's why it's not an Olympic sport, I'm assuming--but as long as you have the shoes and the poles, can stand upright, and enjoy the outdoors, it's accessible to just about anyone.

Nevertheless, I had been wanting to give cross-country another try, in part, to confirm my suspicions (that it's harder than it looks and that I'm clumsier than even I realized) and in part, just to do it again and maybe add a little something-something to my winter repertoire. Something to look forward to during the long, cold months, and something to get me outside and give me some good cardio.

So . . .

* * *

Yesterday, Valentine's Day, I met up with my friend, the Maryland Philosopher, in the Laurel Highlands to do this very thing.

This really wasn't my idea of fun on Valentine's Day. Not that I had Big Romance plans on the International Holiday for the Greeting Card Industry, mind you, but after a hard week of shoveling, sliding, and sniveling, I would have been all too happy to have sat at home all day, eating chocolate truffles I bought for myself, and watching my Sims get their groove thang on in Prairieview and Sunset Valley. When the going gets tough, the not-so-tough resort to cosplay online.

Still, I knew this was something that the Philosopher really wanted to do, and I figured it wouldn't kill me to spend some time with another human being while getting a little exercise and some fresh air along the way.

Wouldn't kill me and didn't kill me, but the risk of death of all varieties--physical, spiritual, existential--might have been avoided entirely if I'd only remembered to strap a third ski to my butt during the outing.

The first fall was funny, as was the second. The third, less so. The fifth, not at all. The seventh, hell no. And the ninth, well, by the ninth fall--when you're halfway around the 6 km trail, trying to climb uphill, going against the tide of other cross-country skiers, and end up laying splayed in deep snow on the sidelines, having passersby witness you buried in a snowbank of your own shame--the ninth fall leads you to rediscover your fatalistic Protestant upbringing in a huge way: God hates you--and, worse, you realize, so do you.

But wait, there's even more self-loathing.

At the Philosopher's suggestion (who while, breezing past me, casually revealed that he had spent many an adolescent winter at "ski camp" out West), we decided to forgo the limited beginners' trail in favor of the intermediate trail. And, at the Philosopher's suggestion, we also decided to "do something different" and head around the trail clockwise, rather than counter-clockwise, like everyone else that day. Because it would be, according to the Philosopher, "fun."

Fun. Hmmm. "Cavalierly suicidal" might be a better description. Going against the XC tide meant no groomed grooves to follow, no easy bypasses of the bigger hills, and no forgiveness from the other skiers as we positioned directly in the flow of opposing traffic.

The Philosopher navigated this alternative ski-style with aplomb and skill. And, really, in my own little way, I managed the situation, too--by falling into snowbanks on the sidelines, getting my skis stuck in the deep drifts, and after struggling Edward Scissorhands and -feet-like, eventually disconnecting myself from the skis, slinging them over a shoulder or under arm, and trudging up or down the hill on foot.

I got a good workout--just not like I originally envisioned.

I also got a goodly number of bruises, too. (For the inexperienced, it is possible to fall knees-first on your skis and, by the way, even though they are made of some flimsy-sounding carbon-fiber alloy, it hurts like hell when you do so.) Additionally, I also received my fair share of guileless (or so I'm assuming) observations from my fellow skiers. "Is your equipment broken?" one said. "No, just my spirit," I replied.

Nevertheless, we were on an actual trail, not back-country ("Maybe we could do that sometime?" the Philosopher questioned, with hope in his eyes), so this, too, should pass eventually. The warming hut--and the end of the trail--finally came into view. Downhill from where I stood, naturally.

"Come on, you can make it!" the Philosopher encouraged. "Just a little more," and he glided downhill, toward the path to the warming hut.

My turn. As I slid downhill and past the Philosopher, he called out, "You know, I really don't think it's a good idea to ski all the way to the parking lot."

"I get that!" I shouted back, snottily. "But I can't stop myself!"

Quite literally.

It should be noted that by the tenth fall, you really just don't give a flip anymore.

By this time, I'm fully feeling my Calvinist upbringing. Come on, God, I mutter through my frozen jaw, give it Your best shot. I'm halfway between loving the Devil and hating You. At this point, as the True Believers proclaim, it's all in Your hands.

In the meantime, while You're plotting Your next move in my snow-blinded predestination, I'm going to exercise some free will and head toward the relative safety of my car on icy, mountain roads, the pot-holed Turnpike, and the Promised Land that is Regent Square, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, US of A.

Glory!

* * *

Once home, I decompressed. I took a long, hot bath, then changed into something more comfortable and cuddly--something sans poles or hoods or gloves or boots or skis. I made myself a warm cup of mango black tea and arranged a plate of simple, Kedem kosher, orange-flavored tea biscuits, which always comfort me in their blandness.

Hmmm, I thought. Maybe it's like they say: Without the extremes of winter, the lows of life, you might not properly appreciate the spring and summer, life's sweeter moments.

I nestled into my usual spot on the sofa and involuntarily picked up the remote. It's 5 o'clock, I thought. I wonder if . . .

I clicked on the TV and up popped the winter Olympic games in HD. On the screen, at that very moment, the French, the Americans, the Norwegians, and the Japanese were fighting it out for supremacy in the power cross-country skiing portion of the Men's Nordic Combined.

Touché, God. Your cosmic sense of humor is in good working order.

Unlike me and my knees.

A really big snow

2010-02-06T10:59:00.006-05:00

Snowmageddon. Somewhere in the East End of Pittsburgh, 10 a.m.-ish, 6 February 2010.

From here to paternity

2010-01-31T21:02:00.010-05:00

Is it possible to o.d. on schadenfreude? 'Cause I think maybe I just did. And, surprisingly, it doesn't feel good. Not at all.

For you see, I've been slightly obsessed of late over the latest episode of (yes, again, with the 1980s TV references) Flamingo Roadkill (or, if you're from the Raleigh-Durham-Chapel Hill area, you might prefer Falls of the Noose Road), in which yet another Southern celebrity-politician is found with his pants around his ankles while holding a bun reasonably fresh from the oven. That is, if you consider a 2-1/2-year-old bun of "pop'n fresh" caliber.

Am I referring to Mark Sanford and the Argentine Firecracker? Please, no. They are so last summer. Instead, this new episode stars former U.S. Senator from North Carolina and Vice Presidential Candidate-for-Life John Edwards as equal parts J.R. and Bobby. In the role of the long-suffering wife, mother, and steel magnolia, we have Elizabeth Edwards, doing double-duty as both Krystal and Alexis. As town good-time gal and inconvenient baby momma, the People's Choice Award goes to Rielle Hunter as Sammy Jo, Sue Ellen's baby sister Kristen, and Melissa Agretti all rolled into one chunky-jewelry-wearing, aura-sensing, over-peroxided package.

And then there's Andrew Aldridge Young as . . . well, there's never been anyone in an American nighttime soap quite like Andrew Young. Richard Channing from Falcon Crest was much more in control, much less passive-aggressive, and would have never agreed to such a ridiculous scheme as pretending to be the father of Rielle Hunter's baby to help his friend and boss John Edwards get out of a particularly embarrassing pickle. Cliff Barnes from Dallas might have done something as silly, but he was far too likable in a bumbling, Chinese-food-binging way to make it happen. Did Blake Carrington ever have a sycophantish, spurned male lover as a personal assistant? Then that might describe Andrew Young. Might.

You could be forgiven for not knowing all the ins-and-outs of this Southern Gothic-cum-Greek tragedy. It may be a North Carolina thing. Certainly it is so among members of my immediate family, who have followed the twists and turns of, let's call it, Edwardssaga, for the last couple of years. Ditto among my North Carolina friends on Facebook.

So as an ex-pat Tarheel (of the state, not the university) with an ongoing attract-repel relationship with all that is Southern, let me help you understand.

* * *

The news has been burning for quite some time, that John Edwards had an affair with a videographer-for-hire and '80s paperback writers' muse, Rielle Hunter. He apparently hired Hunterella to produce mini-documentaries for his website about his most recent run for POTUS. He did so in part while his wife, Elizabeth "The Velvet Hammer" Edwards, was stricken with cancer, a cancer that has turned out to be incurable. Then, thanks to the ruthlessly efficient sleuthing of The National Enquirer, it came to light that the former Senator might have fathered a child with Miss Hunter--a claim he denied repeatedly until this month. To complicate matters further and take them out of realm of the merely tawdry to the possibly criminal, the Senator may also have used campaign funds to cover up the affair and the baby.

For a while, his friend and personal gopher Andrew Young claimed to be the father of Rielle Hunter's baby, falling on the fetal grenade for the candidate, despite having a wife and children of his own. But sometime ago, the punch-drunk Edwards-Young relationship turned sour. Andrew Young started talking. And writing. And giving interviews. And appearing on TV shows.

In the last two weeks, the drama has rushed perilously close to a season cliffhanger--or so we can only hope. John Edwards finally admitted paternity of the child (possibly the year's biggest non-reveal, that). Elizabeth Edwards announced she and John were separating--something my North Carolina connections had known for some time, as the Raleigh rumor mill had them living in separate houses ages ago. Andrew Young started making the rounds to promote his tell-all book, The Politician: An Insider's Account of John Edwards' Pursuit of the Presidency and the Scandal that Brought Him Down. Not to be outdone or forgotten, Rielle Hunter has been determined to survive into the next season by having a restraining order filed against Andrew Young and his wife, requesting that he return to her a "personal video recording that depicted matters of a very private and personal nature."

Ah, so if this drama doesn't get renewed for another season, no worries, there's a sequel: A sex tape. Direct-to-video no less.

This may not be big news for your average citizen of the world, as inured to sex scandals and unsavory behavior as we've all become. But as a native North Carolinian, let me assure you, this is HUGE, somewhere between Andy Griffith being arrested for murder (which to my knowledge never happened) and North Carolina's favorite songbird Clay Aiken admitting he's gay and is the father of a baby with a female friend (which did indeed happen). Down home, this will keep tongues wagging and Bibles thumping for months, maybe years, to come. 'Cause if there's one thing North Carolinians hate is sin--but if there's one thing that they love more than hating sin it's relishing the details of the sins of others.

There's certainly been enough in the news about the Senator's Unoriginal Sin to satisfy that populist hunger. In their TV interviews, Mr. Young and his wife have spared us few details, except those that they have saved for their first book (now on sale at a bookstore near you).

Nonetheless, when is enough enough? How angry do you have to be, how abused do you have to feel, how eager for attention and fundage do you have to feel, to break one of the fundamental rules of Southern etiquette: Never air your dirty laundry in public? Worse, it's not just your dirty laundry--it's that of your boss and your former friends. And worst, must you do so in unseemly, at times lurid, detail?

For example, do we need to know that John Edwards talked with Rielle Hunter about how they would have the Dave Matthews Band (good god, could Southern romance be more dead?) perform for them when they were living in the White House, after he'd won the presidency and after Elizabeth Edwards had died? Do we need to know that John had sex with Rielle in the same bed he slept with Elizabeth? Do we need to know about the sex tape and that while Andrew Young recognized John Edwards' face in the video (yes, he watched it--heck, he apparently reassembled it after Rielle had tried to remove the tape from the casing), he "couldn't attest to the other body parts belonging to Senator Edwards" or to Miss Hunter?

It's all very strange. And it's also all a bit . . . queer. Certainly that last part.

Other statements and facts queer up the story, too. For example, the first sentence out of Andrew Young's mouth on Friday's 20/20 interview on ABC TV was that when he first heard John Edwards speak, he "fell in love with him." Not "became mesmerized by him" or "inspired by him" or "enthralled with his message." No. In love with him. And Mr. Young not only said it once, he has said it a number of times in subsequent interviews.

While we're exploring all things queer, let's discuss this: How real is this marriage between Andrew Young and his wife? What straight, married woman, in love with her husband, would tolerate the intrusion of Rielle Hunter into their lives, having a pregnant, by most accounts "challenging" mistress of another man, hide out in their home, with their children, all while having to live down the bare-faced lie that her husband (Mr. Young) was really the father of Miss Hunter's baby, not John Edwards?

Come to think of it, there were an awful lot of camera shots of the Youngs holding hands throughout the 20/20 interview. There's rarely a scene where they're not holding hands, in fact. What's the point of that? Is there perhaps something else they're trying to prove, one that doesn't involve displaying mutual affection or even presenting a united front against the world?

And, finally, I don't think I'm the only one having, uh, homosexual thoughts about John Edwards. In a recent articl e in New York magazine, adapted from John Heilemann and Mark Halperin's book, Game Change: Obama and the Clintons, McCain and Palin, and the Race of a Lifetime, the authors note that Edwards had "always seemed . . . well, sorta asexual, at least to his staff."

Asexual--or homosexual? Granted, Mr. Edwards never exuded the overpowering testosterone that apparently is required behavior for the American male. Thus, some might mistake this for "homosexual tendencies."

However, I think they're missing the "Chapel Hill Industries" aspect: The Southern gentleman--as produced by the best schools and high society--isn't a brute; he is refined and polished. Others do the heavy lifting for him while he smiles, makes conversation, and lets you bask in his radiance.

Which makes it all the more easier to pull the wool over your eyes--or lift your skirt over your head.

* * *

Perhaps I'm grasping at pink straws where none exist. It has been known to happen. Back in Pittsburgh for a moment, I only recently realized, after 2-1/2 years of seeing numerous cars and trucks emblazoned with black-and-blue vanity plates and stickers, that these were not emblems of Pittsburgh's S&M pride, but, rather, citizens proudly supporting law enforcement. Although, admittedly, at times it's hard to tell the difference between the two groups, I am, nonetheless, sometimes too blinded by my pink-colored glasses to see things clearly.

However, I perceived rather quickly that John Edwards was not exactly what he claimed or appeared to be. Some of my aversion to him was that he seemed all too perfect--and way too pretty. Friends, especially from out-of-state, would tell me how impressed they were by him--which more often translated into how good they thought he looked. Never mind his politics, whatever they might be: He's handsome! So he must be right! Shades of Sarah Palin. Colors of Scott Brown.

To me, though, John Edwards's type--the auburn-haired, always-smiling, ever well-manicured, professional man--is a dime a dozen around the Triangle. The produce 'em by the truckload at UNC, all identical, all with the same pedigree, worldview, haircut, and freckle pattern. Ho hum.

On a deeper level, I knew, too, that he and Elizabeth Edwards had both been very successful, high-powered lawyers back home, and John himself had been a well-to-do trial lawyer, taking some very high-profile--and high-paying--cases. Not to be too judgmental, but in my experience, few people get to that point in life by being Mr. or Mrs. Nice Guy, living for others, thinking about the little guy and gal. That's why everyone in the U.S. House and Senate is such a dick, after all.

Still, when everyone else kept telling me I was being too cynical (who, me?)--especially when I claimed that the reason he and Elizabeth had two more children later in life was to make them look "Kennedy-esque" to the electorate (admittedly, a low blow, although I've probably gone lower)--I started to rethink my criticism. After all, $400 haircuts be damned, he did seem sincere about helping little Mr. and Mrs. America, bridging the wide gap between the haves and the have-nots in this country, a very real problem that few were addressing at the time and no one has successfully dealt with since Lyndon B. Johnson. And people smarter than me seemed to be responding to him. So maybe, just maybe, I might be wr . . .

Phew. I barely missed that dodgeball of contrition.

So, yeah, I'm cynical, but that doesn't mean I'm wrong. I'm generally not too far off the mark with my mistrust and measured responses to people and events.

Nonetheless, I can say that even on my most mistrustful days, I never, ever wanted to see this much revealed about John and Elizabeth Edwards, Rielle Hunter, and the Youngs. And while I wouldn't be above taking a quick peak at the fruit of John Edwards' loom under the right circumstances (a Playgirl centerfold in the offing?), my need to know everything and my schadenfreude have their limits.

And those limits were reached around 10:54 pm, Friday, 29 January 2010, the moment when Andrew Young used the term "body parts."

Really, I don't need to know anymore. Does anyone?

Doubles troubles

2010-01-30T13:10:00.032-05:00

"Do you have a brother who works at the Mattress Warehouse in Monroeville?"

One of the problems of having a very generic look--as apparently I do--is that you get compared to every other person--famous, infamous, or obscure--who possesses the same, basic set of physical features. Bald head, glasses, goatee, and a whiter-shade-of-pale complexion? Tag, you're it. Fill in the blank.

Never mind that the person in question is a good 10 years older or a hefty 50 pounds heavier than you or adheres to a pyramid scheme passing itself off as a religion. You, bald and beautiful (oh so we're assuming . . .), are his spitting image. Congratulations!

It's a dangerous game, this comparing and contrasting of appearances. My sister periodically reminds me--and not in a jokey, wasn't-that-funny? way either--of the time I suggested she looked like Mackenzie Phillips during her One Day at a Time era. In the moment, I thought this was a compliment because of the following reasons:

She was a celebrity.
Being all of 14 at the time, I thought she was an attractive celebrity. (What can I say? It was the '70s. Standards were more generous then.)
Who would want to be compared to Valerie Bertinelli anyway? (Ick.)
She hadn't yet been busted for binging on illicit substances or gone on Oprah to purge herself of the news of an adult affair with her father, a man now too dead to claim otherwise. (Eww. Double ick.)

Some 35 years later, she continues to beg to differ.

But, no matter. Perhaps it's time to suck up the moment and savor the salty tears of indignation a little more stoically. So to inaugurate a new year, and perhaps even to herald the second coming of Blogtucky: The Next Generation, I present you with the first installment of All My Doppelgangers, a going-rogues gallery of Tim Winni's lookalikes and possible long-lost relations, as related to him by various and sundry, friends and strangers alike, over the last six months, while I've been literarily M.I.A. (Coinky-dink? Mayhaps . . . .)

Do enjoy--and if you talk to the guy at the Mattress Warehouse in Monroeville, tell him the rest of my sibs and I expect some serious Christmas presents to come our way next December. You've got a lot to make up for, bud.

* * *

Anthony Edwards

With goatee but without glasses.

Then with glasses but without goatee. The man will not cooperate.

Jason Statham

Really? I think this is wishful thinking on everyone's part. If this were even halfway close to the truth, I'd be too busy shtupping every orifice on two continents to blog or do much of anything else.

Andre Agassi

Before or after relationships with Brooke Shields and Barbra Streisand? Either way, I lose.

Mario Biondi

For the uninitiated, a rather dreamy Italian R&B singer, for whom my friend the Music Lover has offered to bear children. Again, I think this is wishful thinking on the part of the legally blind, but it's probably the look I would most aspire to. Now if I only get taller, pad my crotch, and go to Italy for some new duds. (Don't know what I'm talking about? Go here.)

One of the members of the group The Bad Plus

All I can say is that it had better not be the chubby one on the left.

John Travolta

Good lord. Now you're just being cruel.

Mister Garrison

Bitches. All of you.

More to come, I'm sadly sure . . .

It's taken me months to post, and this is the best that I can do?

2009-11-21T10:14:00.003-05:00

Yes, actually, it is.

State of shock

2009-07-06T22:09:00.006-04:00

Yes, indeed, I am so way overdue for some comments on the death of Michael Jackson. And if you know me and follow my status updates on Facebook or listen to me braying loudly after a few too many Long Island Iced Teas, you would know that I do have quite a number of comments to make.

I have a draft in the works of something longer and more barbed (now, now). I'll get to that . . . eventually.

But I had an encounter today with a friend that got me thinking about Michael Jackson in a completely different way than I have over the last (please, god, when will it end?) two weeks of national and international mourning.

My mental trajectory so far has been along these lines: Overindulged pop star, psychological mess, alleged child molester, inadvertent social activist, superstar, drug-addled parent, and expert media and image finesser--which, frankly, is a lot more thoughtfulness than I've gleaned from 24/7 TV coverage on CNN, HLN, and MSNBC.

Today, however, I had what I think can best be called a paradigm shift. I was talking with a friend of mine, Rocky, about the whole MJ hullabaloo. Sort of a "where were you when the King of Pop's lights went out, and how did the people around you (over)react?" if you will.

We got onto the topic of what the story of Michael Jackson says about American life. "Not anything good," laughed Rocky. "Money can't buy happiness," I added, "nor necessarily good plastic surgery."

Rocky, who identifies as transgendered, seeing himself more as a woman in a man's body, chuckled over this statement, but then added, very subtly, "You know, I sympathize with Michael Jackson to some degree. I empathize with him in many ways, it's just that . . . ."

"He was so out there," I offered.

"Mm-hmm."

We moved onto other points, grabbed our coffees, and got back to work.

But later in the afternoon that term "empathy" kept needling my consciousness. Empathy. Why would someone like my friend Rocky feel empathy for Michael J--?

Oh. My. Goodness.

What if the way to understand Michael Jackson, at least in part, is to view him as a transgendered person, a woman ensnared in a man's body? What if all the surgeries, the hair, the light, feminine voice (something that he didn't have as a child), the makeup, the garb, the persona--what if all of this was an attempt by Michael Jackson to reconcile his true female self inside the shell of his maleness? And to attempt to do so in full public glare?

This has kind of blown my mind, to say the least, and caused me to feel a lot more sympathetic to MJ than I had previously. Despite Michael Jackson's increasingly female persona over the years, despite (now) it being so obvious, it just never occurred to me to think of Michael Jackson as anything other than weird or freakish. It never occurred to me to think of his behavior or appearance in terms of transgenderism or transsexuality. Yet, in many ways, at least on the surface, it makes some sense to do so now.

This isn't something Rocky told me--in fact, savvy, intelligent person that he is (and I continue to say he because he presents as a man in daily life), he led me up to it by being who is he is, dropping a couple of subtle hints, and letting me figure out the rest on my own. I'm grateful to him for that; I am happy to know him, at least in the little ways that I do.

I don't think transgenderism is an easy concept for a lot of gay men, myself included. Oh, Logo may have a TV program on transgenderism and transsexuality every other hour, but talk directly with a lot of gay men and most will claim not to get it and to in fact have some issues with it, even some hostility toward it.

I would have included myself in that group up to even a couple of years ago, prior to knowing Rocky. I wasn't comfortable with the concept (as if I needed it to be all about me!), in part because I think as a gay man, at least a gay man of a certain age, you grow up having to defend yourself from accusations that you really are a woman or want to be a woman or woman-like. You're not even feminine--you're effeminate--and worthy of scorn for not being a "real" man. (By the way, what this says about society's view of women I'll leave to your own judgment.)

It's hard not to internalize this and some of us react by becoming more stereotypically masculine, while others react by becoming more stereotypically feminine. To each his own.

But taking on the feminine doesn't get you a lot of respect in the gay community these days because it is viewed as very old school and self-loathing. For years we've told ourselves we don't have to be "sissies" anymore, we're real men, and we're worthy of equal rights under the law. But we've often done this by conforming to certain ideals or expectations, at the exclusion of other types of gayness or sexual/gender expression. On the one hand, wouldn't we all like to fuck everything that moves? On the other, wouldn't we all like to get married and have children just like our heterosexual brothers and sisters? (Assuming a lot--that they would like the same for themselves, too.) Of course, we would! To both!

Because of this legacy, as gay men perhaps we view transvestism, transgenderism, and transsexuality as something of a cop-out. Add to all this the question of life on the downlow--"I'm not really gay, I'm bisexual" or worse, "I'm not gay, I just occasionally like to fuck guys"--and it can be challenging as a modern, right-on type of gay man to accept much deviation from "the norm."

But who are we denying by doing so? And what understanding and ways of being and consciousness are we denying ourselves?

I've got no answers here. I still think fame, fans, and family warped Michael Jackson in ways we've yet to comprehend, in ways that are totally separate from any question of his possible transgendered identity. I do think there are serious questions about him and his behavior--the child sexual abuse allegations, the manipulation, the victimhood, the excessive amounts of plastic surgery, the physical manifestation of his intent not to spend "life just being a color"--that warrant thoughtful analysis, understanding, and sympathy.

I would not, however, consider the transgenderism part of that warping. Not at all.

There's been a lot said about Michael Jackson these last couple of weeks--some of it excessively critical and caustic (who me?), some it excessively laudatory. Despite the fact that for a while he was the world's biggest music star and pop cultural icon, despite the fact that Michael sold millions of records, I'm not thoroughly convinced that he was the civil rights leader and cultural innovator that now many are quick to label him. He has his place, but does he have more social impact or cultural import than Martin Luther King, Jr., Lena Horne, Bill Cosby and the Huxtables, Rosa Parks, Barack Obama, Wilma Rudolph, Shirley Chisolm, or Prince? I just don't know.

If, however, Michael Jackson was trying to figure out who he was and how he should live as a woman inside a man's form, and attempting to do so in the brightest of limelights, known by nearly every person on the planet, that could well be the most important, impactful thing about him.

Rest in peace, Michael.

Palmetto Road

2009-07-03T11:14:00.005-04:00

Now what was that I was saying about almost feeling sorry for Governor Mark Sanford of South Carolina? Hmmm, lemme think. It all seems so long ago.

His recent announcement that he had found his "soul mate" but was "trying to fall back in love with his wife" (thus, Mrs. Sanford, is his cell mate?), however, brings my cynicism back into clear focus.

Wow. I mean, WOW. First of all, who among us in the sentient being class, doesn't already try to avoid describing our loved ones and life partners in language other than that used by the desperate twenty-something bimbos who inhabit the landscape of The Bachelor? Second of all, you might think something like that--I love my girlfriend but will take my wife, puh-leez--but no sensible, life-valuing person would ever say that in earshot of anyone he ever claimed to love, the children they hold in common, or a reporter from the Associated Press.

But, then, I'm no expert at assignations, political or otherwise. I know that there must be some advantage to issuing dueling press releases in which one tries to outdo and over-the-top the other with Bible verses and religious imagery. I can't imagine them both being so vacuous that they would keep doing so, with their children and at least two nations in tow, merely to salve their own egos. Surely not.

All in all, though, the whole affair reminds me less of a Bible-thumping melodrama and more of the early '80s nighttime sudser, Flamingo Road. Lots of philandering real estate developers with political aspirations, tired of their wives and taking up with señoritas from the wrong side of the hemisphere. Add some outré plantation imagery and voilá! Grande éxito!

We are still in serious need of a ruthless, small-town sheriff/bubba (c'mon, South Carolina, I know you've got it in ya) and a Morgan Fairchild-like character to sauce up the spot, but, all in all, it's got great potential.

* * *

As I mentioned in my previous post, for one brief, tiny moment, during the first rambling, Harlequin Romance-meets-Nicholas Sparks novel of a press conference, I kinda felt sorry for this schmoe Sanford. Life is way too short to be unhappy and not to be with the one you love. Yes, you need to attend to your responsibilities and adhere to your commitments, but no matter how much you believe in a wrathful, vengeful God, I just can't believe He or She or It would want Us to be so miserable. So why not come clean with your wife earlier in the game, serve out your term, stay close to your children as best as possible, and beat a regular trail down Argentine way as time and income allow? Surely, there is real estate that needs developing in Mar del Plata or Bariloche. Surely, there are possible TV gigs for your girlfriend stateside. Just tell her to dye her hair blond and head over to Univisión.

Just make sure this flavor of en-tango-ment is the one you want, chavo. We know that "hiking the Appalachian Trail" is a euphemism for having an affair with Our Lady of the Pampas. But what exactly is "going down Argentine way" a euphemism for? All I can see from here is that however enjoyable the love, the sex, the whatever may be, you end up crying for five days in a hotel room in Buenos Aires. This can't be good.

In my mind, once I got past the sheer schadenfreude of the moment (the loudest naysayer to Obama's stimulus package has a bit of a problem with an overstimulated package, as it were), I started to wax eloquent about the awfulness we visit upon ourselves in this country by being so binary and rigid, wrapping ourselves in the Shroud of Turin only to end up soiling ourselves in it. We whip ourselves into a frenzy over flag, country, Mom, children, baseball, apple pie, and Chevrolet, only to realize that Dad fed the children some poisoned apple pie, whacked Mom over the head with a baseball bat, loaded them into the family Impala, then drove 'em all straight into the Grand Canyon while singing "God Bless America," while wearing his favorite Kate Smith gown.

But then, when asked some innocuous question about the affair, Sanford actually *whimpered* before responding. Whimpered. Like a 49-year-old lovesick Republican teenager with a penchant for the cheesiest romantic imagery in emails ever. At that moment, all bets were suddenly, irrevocably off. Jeez, Marky Markdown, whimpering's for . . . well, no, not cats or some other pseudonym for the feline persuasion. Whimpering's for dogs.

Specifically, a dog named Bucky.

This whimpering, unfortunately, reminded me of a childhood pet, our ugly terrier mix, Bucky (short for Buckshot, which described the color and style of his fur), the homeliest, horniest little mongrel you could imagine. Way back in the '70s before we gave too much thought to Bob Barker's admonition to spay and neuter all creatures great and small (except ourselves, right Bob?), Bucky ran rampant through our neighborhood, pretty much impregnating anything momentarily stationary--animal, mineral, vegetable.

Nonetheless, Bucky was a sweet dog, so fugly that he was cute as my grandmother used to say (except she didn't say fugly), a good companion, and noteworthy for his obedience. For example, if a female dog passed by and you commanded Bucky to stay put, he would do so.

However, he would also whimper, quiver, and, um, "react" the whole time, until the female dog was out of sight and smell.

It was, to say the least, pathetic. I mean, my goodness, you felt sorry for him, just wanted to set him free and let him fertilize the world--at least until the next-door neighbors came to complain that Bucky had just knocked up their AKC-registered poodle.

Again.

* * *

So Mark Sanford, no sympathy for you, I'm afraid. Once you've got an image of a scruffy, horny mutt in your head, whimpering and crying because he can't be with the one he loves but will try to love the one he's with, well, it's hard to let it go.

When I made this comparison to my sister, recently, she protested: "You're doing a disservice to the memory of Bucky."

Alas, I suspect she's right. Bucky at least knew when to sit down and shut up, a trick that an old dog like Mark Sanford has yet to master.

What's new, Buenos Aires?

2009-06-25T04:46:00.010-04:00

Editor's note: Why, yes it is almost 5 am on a workday when I am writing this. How kind of you to notice! No, I don't know why I can't sleep. A stomach ache from that turkey sandwich I had at 10 last night? Breaking my new rule and having a healthy serving of caffeine yesterday afternoon? The fact that my air-conditioner has been running constantly since early Wednesday evening and yet can't seem to cool off the place? All of the above? And maybe this, too . . . ?

* * *

Woo, what a day Wednesday was! At least if your name was Mark Sanford, the Governor of South Carolina, and you were met at the airport by a cub reporter from The State newspaper in Columbia, asking about your recent disappearing act to hike the Appalachian Trail--while you're exiting the plane just arriving from Buenos Aires, Argentina.

Yeah, perhaps you should've taken that left turn at Albuquerque.

It was quite a day for me, too, especially as I had to ignore the rest of my life and pay rapt attention to this story from Monday on (admittedly, a shallow distraction from the mesmerizing events in Iran of late) and then watched the climax unfold live on CNN in the form of a rambling, disoriented soliloquy from Governor Sanford, succinctly summed up (eight minutes into it, mind you) with the phrase: "I have been unfaithful to my wife."

At least this one time, god bless cub reporters and 24-hour news channels.

In some ways, the revelation that the Gov in Love had had an affair with some Argentine Firecracker named Maria was a bit of a letdown. The tearful big reveal on the steps of the South Carolina State House? Feh. I've seen episodes of The Bachelor with more shocking conclusions. (Actually, I haven't--I can't bear to watch that trash. If I wanted to see vapid, desperate women throw themselves at narcissistic jerks, I'd . . . well, I'd just watch these press conferences. And goodness knows, there's been a slew of 'em of late.)

I mean, who couldn't figure this out? Who couldn't see this coming? Connect the dots, please. No one knew where he was, even his staff, even the state's Lieutenant Governor, even his wife (or so she claimed), who mades it very clear she hadn't spoken with him for several days, had "been at home with his sons on Father's Day" (to paraphrase) while he was off the gods know where.

Never mind that officials had received a ping from his cellphone in Atlanta, then nothing more. That statement alone was to me the most damning. Because, you see, what the wife said was Southern code for "he's boffing some bimbo in Buenos Aires!" It's as if she was screaming it into a microphone during the halftime show at a Gamecocks game. How could you not hear it? Any good (relatively speaking) Southerner knows you can say all you need to say subtly, pointedly, snidely, and anyone who is paying attention will get it instantly, and those who don't, well, they're Yankees and are pretty much hopeless anyway. You see, Southerners understand the difference: It's not so much the wearing of white after Labor Day--it's that you're wearing white with gold medallions and bad dye jobs. That's the dead giveaway that you clearly don't get it.

I almost feel sorry for the Gov. (Almost.) Once Mrs. Sanford uttered those lines to the press, the undertakers started measuring him for his pinebox at Boot Hill. He was doomed.

All the claims that the Governor needed his quiet time, was off somewhere writing, was keeping fit by hiking--despite the fact that it was "Naked Hiking Day" in the U.S. (honestly, who thinks up these things? The chaffing alone . . .) and admitting that you were hiking the Appalachian Trail on Naked Hiking Day was tantamount to saying "Hello, my fellow conservative Palmetto Staters! I love showing my naked, skinny ass to the world! And look forward to seeing yours out there as well!"--liked to "drive his tractor" (or euphemism? You decide!) on the "family plantation" (jeez, only in South Carolina in the 21st century . . .), enjoyed driving along the coast of Buenos Aires--despite the fact that BA doesn't have much of a coastline and who would want to drive along it in the Argentine winter, anyway?--all of it came to less than nothing once Mrs. Sanford said, "I don't know where he is; I'm here at home with the children on Father's Day weekend."

Cue chilling Law and Order style sound effect.

While we're at it, cue the music from the shower scene in Psycho, though, once you get a glimpse of the statement from Jenny Sanford regarding her husband's affair.

Goodness, how many Biblical figures can she compare herself to? What, no references to the fishes and loaves, the burning bush, the Ten Commandments, or the Lil Engine that Could? (That was in the Bible, wasn't it?) Jenny, you clearly took God's word to heart 'cause you're practically hanging off the cross.

Turns out Mrs. Sanford is from Illinois originally, by the way, so she gets her Southern She-Wolfness through conversion, not (in)breeding. Still, obviously, she's taken to Southern spleen like a rather taciturn duck to pond-scum-covered water. No one expects the South Carolina Inquisition, but, man, oh man, Mark Sanford, you're gonna get yours, especially now that you've "earned the right" to "resurrect" their marriage.

Well, praise Jesus! Praise Jenny!

How do you solve a problem like Maria? Gov, that's the least of your worries now that your wife's on to you. The shame and wrongness of leaving your wife and sons and career behind in Columbia and running off with another woman down Argentine way will be nothing in comparison to what you're about to face next at home from your "loving" wife and family.

Just ask John Edwards--after you read Elizabeth Edwards' recent New York Times bestseller, Resilience.

In your case, though, I suspect Mrs. Sanford's book will be titled, Excoriation.

Haiku you

2009-05-22T22:49:00.006-04:00

Editor's note: Oh, I know, no one's fooled. It's actually June, and I'm just getting around to a May blog posting--and a lame one at that. Please do suck it up.

* * *

When the going gets tough, the tough start writing . . . haiku.

Yes, I have been abnormally quiet of late. Chalk it up to my usual strained relationship with endless Pittsburgh cloud cover (a very rainy spring so far) and my affair-gone-all-lemon-sour with the pothole obstacle course that is the Pennsylvania Turnpike this time of year. It pretty much all comes down to these things.

Plus one more--let's not forget the fact that I detest most politicians and news commentators and feel that, four months after the inauguration, we're back at a very hostile, churlish, square one in America, with non-stop sniping and inertia-a-no-go.

No, the bloom isn't off my Obama American Beauty rose. I love him (sometimes), I love him not (sometimes). But mostly I'm quite happy with him and his administration. It's just that everything else in the rosebush (or should I say, "roseBush"?) of American politics smells like horseshit.

So to salute those who have in the past and continue in the present to oppress us and to vent a little venom lest I poison myself from the backwash, a couple of weeks ago I started to write haiku, the 5-syllable/7-syllable/5-syllable form of Japanese verse, usually dedicated to nature, but in the case of the following public figures, it all comes down to our baser, animal instincts. And the aforementioned horseshit.

I've done this periodically, put my snarkiness to meter, usually writing my formulaic Asian doggerel about ridiculous professional issues, stuff to keep my colleagues chuckling. There is, in fact, a long tradition (long as in a decade's worth) of haiku-penning in my chosen profession; just go to Google and type in "library" and "haiku," and you will be amazed at how much there is and overwhelmed at how dorky most of it reads. Only librarians could get their groove back over haiku about cats and cataloging.

My friend Kangaroo was the most recent inspiration for my haiku-itribe: She challenged several of her former colleagues to write haiku about people we had worked with and still, years later, disliked. A fun idea, an especially good way to while away work hours on Facebook, but I could get only so far with this. Not that there aren't simply squillions of former colleagues I could trash through minimalist poetry, of course. There's just not much of an audience for it, outside of our immediate circle, and vainglorious pimp that I am, I want an audience for my audacity.

So, instead, I concentrated on coming up with horror movie titles to describe former colleagues. I Know Who You Screwed Over Last Summer, for instance, all the while secretly thinking up Scream or Saw scenarios.

But politics, especially American politics, seems like the perfect venue for haiku-ranting. Short, not so sweet, but definitely to the point.

You tell me if I've been successful.

Sarah Palin--

Sarah, Plain and Tall--
Romantic! Sarah Palin?--
Small and bombastic

Todd Palin (inspired by a friend of mine who considers Todd a *gag* "husbear")--

Todd Palin sexy?
Hmmm--but wasn't Eva Braun
considered cute, too?

Rick Perry (aka "Governor Goodhair," the Governor of Texas, who a colleague of a colleague recently decried as a "liberal" because he had spent too much state funds on, I dunno, mousse or mass transit or something. It's that same argument I've heard before--"George Bush is a secret Democrat" because a) he burned through money like he was clearing brush and b) the right wing has to discredit him in the worst way possible, "so let's call him a liberal!")--

A hypocrite? Yup!
But liberal? Rick Perry?
Only in Texas!

Antonin Scalia (inspired by his recent interview on 60 Minutes, where he excelled at being an obtuse, self-serving douchebag of the first order)--

"Activist judges"--
No more! Time to say goodbye,
"Justice" Scalia

Rush Limbaugh--

Like Wanda Sykes said,
"I wish his kidneys would fail"
Rush Limbaugh--piss off!

George "Dubya" Bush--

Dubya celebrates
Memorial Day like so--
Memorizing stuff

Glenn Beck (based on my belief that Glenn Beck was the Eric Cartman of his time. I'm sure he was picked on endlessly at school. And I'm equally sure he deserved every minute of it)--

Teachers worried so
Glenn Beck, friendless 6th grader
Ev'ryone loathed him

Dick Cheney (last and definitely least, the man who will not shut up)--

Council has spoken:
"Face-shooting is illegal--
Dick Cheney must die!"

Oh, if only.

Hang in there, kitten!

2009-04-08T19:34:00.011-04:00

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

2009-04-07T08:49:00.005-04:00

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!

2009-04-06T20:26:00.002-04:00

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

2009-04-05T19:42:00.008-04:00

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

2009-04-04T08:46:00.008-04:00

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.

Allergic to latex

2009-03-18T11:46:00.006-04:00

Dateline, Yaounde, Cameroon, 17 March 2009:

Pope tells Africa 'condoms wrong'

Well, who would have ever imagined that Pope "Fertilized Eggs" Benedict XVI would come out in support of bare-backing?

Still, I just don't know about taking advice on sexual health and family planning from a man who probably has never kissed a girl (or perhaps not even a guy)--or from one who attended a summer camp organized by one of the world's best-known "pro-eugenics" organizations.

Perhaps we should abstain from listening, too.

The lusty lady luck of the Irish

2009-03-17T08:56:00.001-04:00

Happy Saint Patrick's Day everyone! Please celebrate appropriately!

(Photo taken outside the Lusty Lady "Liveshow" Theater, Seattle, Washington, March 2009. No, I did *not* go in. I went shopping at Nordstrom's instead.)

Twenty songs to kill yourself by

2009-03-01T10:06:00.006-05:00

It's still winter outside in Pennsylvania--but in my heart it's . . . still winter.

And it has been winter in fact since November, maybe even October, when we had our first snow of the season before Halloween this year.

November was rough, December was no peach, but January was brutal, with snow everywhere, bitter temps, and potholed roads and snarly moods to navigate. Because I love irony and melancholy, to celebrate, I went to Breckenridge, Colorado, in February just to get away from all the snow and cold for even more snow and cold (and skiing and snowshoeing)--just at 11,000 feet above sea level with moose and the Rockies as a backdrop.

Upon my return to Pittsburgh, February proved itself to be slightly menopausal, up and down and all over the weather map, with warm days, rainy days, sunny days, snowy days, cold days, daze, daze, daze, 28 days of daze.

Who can say what March will bring?

To help us not get through it (because, sometimes, this time of year, I just have to ask why, why, why I do this to myself, live in the bottom of dark well with a soppy, gray blanket covered over me), I present my latest, YouTube-facilitated, video montage of winter melodies, "Twenty Songs to Kill Yourself By."

Not that I'm depressed or anything . . .

Enjoy (?).

By midnight, maybe they'll have given out the Oscar for Best Mug Shot

2009-02-22T23:13:00.006-05:00

It's 11:13 pm on Sunday, February 22, 2009, and at present, while I clean house and figure out what I'm going to wear to work tomorrow and regret not having called my brother and feel a little peckish but am trying to avoid eating late, I have the Academy Awards on as a soundtrack to my evening full of dust mites, ennui, and regret. They are just getting to the montage of who croaked it this past year.

God, why do we torment ourselves with this every year? The mind-numbing pacing, the ponderous staging, the obscure references in acceptance speeches, and, kill me now please, the Jonas Brothers ('cause lord knows they're all about the H-town glamour), three boys who seem intent on dressing like wait staff at Farrell's Old-Tyme Ice Cream Parlour, circa 1896-meets-1976.

Vests. Freaking checked vests.

Then, even after the Jonas Brothers, when you think it couldn't possibly get even more why-don't-I-force-knitting-needles-into-my-temples-just-for-laffs?, they trot out the f**king "comedy stylings" of Ben Stiller and Natalie Portman, ferchrissakes. I mean, Ben Stiller wasn't even a funny zygote. Delivery didn't even improve his delivery--ba-da-bing! Ben, the best you got is a lame imitation of Joaquin Phoenix on the David Letterman Show? Dude, I've seen better comedy come out in the form of milk through a junior high kid's nose.

The only good moment I saw tonight was when James Franco's character from Pineapple Express put his arm around Seth Rogan while watching his character in Milk kiss Sean Penn. I do love me some James Franco. Say what you will, but I don't think we'll be seeing *him* swapping spit with Reese Witherspoon anytime soon, in some ill-advised effort to affirm his heterosexuality. Nor do I think he'll go the traditional route, a la Kevin Spacey, and bring his mother or a heretofore unknown girlfriend to the ceremony next year.

Essentially, this is an industry event, not the great public spectacle of tradition and glamour everyone seems to think it is. Oh, you may put on display the mannequin that is Nicole Kidman or let Hugh Jackman and Beyonce strut their stuff (what, Rihanna and Chris Brown weren't available? Sorry, I haven't been paying attention to the headlines lately . . .), or pay endless tribute to Heath Ledger, Star and Accidental Overdoser (what is it? Australia Night? The movie tanked faster than British ships in Darwin harbor during a raid by kamikaze pilots), but for its actual import to the rest of the world, the Academy Awards might as well be a celebration of the Best Independent Insurance Salesperson in America, or the HealthSouth Top Earner in Pharmaceutical Kickbacks, or the Wells Fargo Spirit Winner for Banker Most Likely to Choke on His/Her Caviar While Enjoying the Fruits of a TARP Bailout.

There was a couple of weeks post-9/11 when there were all these wonderful predictions that celebrity would fade, that people would want something more meaningful and serious in their lives after what was one of the most horrible, sea-changing moments in modern history. And then Julia Roberts, George Clooney, and Friends did a g-dd--ned telethon for 9/11 victims and survivors, and, well, we just never took our eyes off the Silver Screen, large or small edition, after that.

I just do not get the appeal of this culture and especially this awards show. At this moment, I'm only sorry that more Hollywood types didn't bite the golddust this last year--but, then, that would only make the montage to Hollywood's fallen heroes even longer.

Stay safe throughout the year, James Franco. But Ben Stiller, feel free to submit your photo early for next year's Montage of Death.

Totally furked up

2009-02-10T21:58:00.006-05:00

My experiences--sometimes indifferent, occasionally negative--with "alternative grocery stores" are one of several recurring themes here in Blogtucky, a theme that we'll turn to again as I present you, dear reader, with another close encounter of the texturized vegetable protein kind.

It went down like so:

I stopped in to the local alterna-mart to buy some of that Greek-styled yogurt I like to help soothe a savage stomach, all aflame and aflutter due to some antibiotics I'm currently taking . . . which involves a completely different set of events, which we may or may not get to at some point. Just not right now. While in the store, I also realized I needed some cash for a road trip occurring the next day.

Already it was 7:30 pm; I'd been at work since very early (for me, meaning before 10 am) and was quite tired from all the prep I'd done for the next day's travels and meetings. I just couldn't imagine making one more trip to the bank before heading home. So, instead, I thought, hey, I'll just use the alterna-mart's check-out for a quick cash transaction while paying for my groceries.

Or as I put it to the clerk at the counter, I would like to "kill two birds with one stone"--buying groceries and getting cash at the same time, model of efficiency that I am, with a devil-may-care attitude toward ATM withdrawal fees to boot.

"Killing two birds with one stone. Hmmm, that's an odd expression," said the clerk, one in a long-line of attractive, earnest alterna-boys and -girls who call the co-op their day job.

"An odd expression? Really, it's pretty common . . . ."

Oh, but wait. Where are you standing in the universe at this very moment, I thought. But of course. I'm at the alternative grocery store! In such an environment, I'm sure this act, the random (if figurative) stoning of birds for cash, is liable to offend, consternate, and/or provoke pensive musings--or, ferchrissakes, poetry--about the violence of language among the quinoa-and-kefir set. Using such language, in fact, probably ranks up there with the time I cluelessly wore my leather jacket into the store, receiving a reception so chilly among the organi-gentsia that it would have been pleasanter to stroll from my home to the store in a thong and tank top in the middle of a snowstorm.

Never mind the fact that the store does sell a limited amount of dead meat. Eat all you want--just don't wear any.

So, I thought, what should I have said? "I'm sorry, did I say 'killing two birds with one stone'? I meant adultresses! Ululululululululululululu . . . ," ending the conversation with a little shout-out to my peeps in Mesopotamia.

No? Offensive to the entire Middle East you say? May your favorite date palm develop a fungus at the height of ka'ak baking season.

Maybe instead I should have said, "I'm sorry, did I say 'killing two birds with one stone'? I meant tofurkeys!"

Hmmm, tofurkey. A meat so not-meat killing it certainly couldn't offend anyone. Except maybe a fructarian. And even they've got their consciences to live with. Slaughtering innocent apples and oranges, indeed.

But maybe it's the killing that's getting everyone into a Class-A bummer, prompting the flow of free verse to throb in the brain. Maybe there's a better way to put it, one that doesn't refer to the act of destruction. To rephrase things, though, I would need to know how one actually brings about the death . . . uh, demise . . . uh, denouement of a tofurkey.

Do you brine it, baste it, then burn it? Simmer it, soak it, and try to savor it? Goose it, gas it, and finally (and more likely) gross out over it?

Saying "I'm hoping to coordinate the preparation of two tofurkeys through the use of one energy-efficient heating source" (an Amish space heater, maybe?) hardly has the same metaphorical impact as the original. Then again, the "new and improved" tofurkeycide-is-painless approach offers a no more and no less clear testament to expediency and efficiency as does an old colloquial chestnut involving the simultaneous maiming of two examples of bird life.

Oh dude, I feel a poem coming on.

B.T., phone home

2009-01-13T11:00:00.008-05:00

"Hello?"

"Good day, Mr. Winni, this here's the secretary for Elizabeth Windsor, better know to you lot 'cross the pond as HRH Queen Elizabef Numba 2 of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Sometimes Northern Ireland. Please 'old the line for ol' Bess, Guvnor."

"Hello? Mister Winni? Is this the correct party?"

"Uh, yeah, yes, I think so."

"Oh marvelous! We are so pleased to make your acquaintanceship, Mister Winni. We are enchanted to have this opportunity to chat with you."

"Um, is this for real?"

"Oh dear. I would have thought the secretary would have explained everything already. Oh, well, one just can't get good work out of the working classes these days since Mrs. Thatcher and Mr. Blair turned the class system all topsy-turvy. I can assure you, Mr. Winni, that this call is indeed 'for real,' as you Americans so quaintly put it."

"Listen, your royal highness, or whoever you are, how did you get this number?"

"Well, you see, Mr. Winni, that is precisely why we called you today. Are you familiar with a Mr. D_____ of L____, East Sussex, England?"

"Yeah, uh, yes, he's a friend of mine. I've known him for something like 15 years."

"That's right, we have that right here in our file on you, your companions, and your travels, so generously provided to us by your . . . erm, let me see . . . ah yes, here it is! Your Department of Homeland Security. Quite a helpful lot that is. Very eager to provide all sorts of information on our former loyal subjects!"

"Homeland Security?"

"Yes, it's all right here in black-and-white, or rather bits and bobs, oh pardon me, we mean bits and bytes, we can never quite keep up with you Americans and your very clever aberrations toward our language. Well, we are glad to see all the information is correct, that you are indeed familiar with Mr. D_____. That might shed a little more light on the minor international telecommunications crisis that you plunged Great Britain and America in over night."

"I did what?"

"Oh, it's nothing really, nothing at all, except that it did bring down our nation's entire electrical and telecommunications grid for a short time, at least until we were able to pay a huge ransom to Russia to turn everything back on again. You see, it appears that sometime between the hours of 1800 Monday and 0700 Tuesday, Eastern Standard Time (that would be 2300 and 1200 GMT, we believe), you sent a series of text messages to Mr. Dougan, in quite rapid succession."

"I did? I don't think I sent those. I think you got the wrong guy, lady."

"Yes, we are afraid you did, Mr. Winni. The odd thing is that all of the messages were completely void of content. In other words, they were, if you're pardon the rather colloquial expression, blank."

"Hmmm, well, I think I'd remember sending that many text messages, if I indeed in fact did send them."

"Oh, well, Mr. Winni, documentation and video footage do not lie."

"Video? You have video of me . . . doing what exactly?"

"Why shopping at IKEA, naturally! It seems to be what you do best these days."

"Well, yeah, I was shopping at IKEA, but I wasn't shopping the whole night. And, besides, if I was shopping, how could I be texting at the same time."

"Too true, Mr. Winni, too true. Nonetheless, the footage clearly shows you rather cavalierly tossing your Blackberry into your--I believe you across the pond call it a manbag--then rather ungraciously slinging said manbag over your shoulder and sashaying rather gaily (no offense intended, of course--our grandchildren may use epithets, but we do not) into the IKEA entrance."

"Yeah, I did all that, but I still don't see--"

"Did you perchance have your mobile telephonic device in the on and active position, Mr. Winni?"

"Sure, yes, I often leave it--"

"Well, at the risk of sounding like the detective in a bad adaptation of an Agatha Christie novel (and, dear me, aren't they all bad?), we shall say, 'Aha!'"

"Aha? Aha what?"

"'Aha' as in 'Eureka, I have found it,' Mr. Winni. I believe that explains how you were able to text while shopping while having no knowledge of such texting."

"How does that explain anything?"

"Well, Mr. Winni, you seemed rather excited to promenade around IKEA, bending and stooping to investigate that rather amusingly named, moderately priced furniture you prefer. Really, after all what is a 'Poang' exactly? And please do explain to us what this creature named 'Billy' is and why should anyone want to 'shelve' him? We must remember to ask Sir Elton, Sir George Michael, and Sir Ian McKellan when they are next over. According to Prince Phillip, if anyone knows anything about shelving billies, it would be the three of them--"

"Well, I did move around a lot. I was pressed for time."

"We have no doubt, Mr. Winni, but we don't know if we would quite describe your manner as being indicative of someone who is pressed for time. Perhaps puzzled by the difference between birch and beech veneers, perhaps consternated over the excessive use of Allen wrenches, perhaps using shopping at IKEA as a subterfuge for admiring the male members of happy couples--"

"You just leave my admiring of male members out of this, queenie."

"We shan't give it another thought, Mr. Winni. But we would like to suggest, if we may, that one should remember to take care not to exercise one's manbag too agitatedly in the process of admiring attractively priced Scandinavian furniture. As with the owners of such conveyances, these manbags are excitable animals, prone to fits, humors, and conniptions. And, as a result of such ill-advised physical culture, one is likely to discover the following morning that one has sent twenty (20) blank text messages to one's friend in England, quite by accident."

"Duly noted," I said.

"While one is sure that Verizon Wireless and British Telecom (B.T.) will appreciate one's extra commerce, one will be left holding the (man)bag, as it were, when one's phone bill arrives at the end of this month."

"You're really pleased with yourself over that joke, aren't you?"

"We are amused, Mr. Winni, we are amused, indeed."

"Well, good, 'cause you sure went a long way to get to it."

"Be that as it may, we do hope one is willing and able to use this genial advice. If one requires further education, please do text us, remembering that international rates may well apply. Good-bye, Mr. Winni!"

"Ciao, Bess."

Out in the open

2009-01-09T22:59:00.013-05:00

Well, thanks once again to the crack reporting team at The Onion, the feline-like animal is finally out of the Bloomingdale's Big Brown Bag--

America's First Gay President Concludes Historic Second Term

Shocking I know!

When I first read this article, I have to admit I winced a bit. (Editor's note--winced, not minced.) My gay pride gets in the way of the joke every now and again, especially when someone who isn't gay is labeled gay as a way to discredit him or her or when "gay" is used as a substitute for "stupid" or "dumb." Not the case here, but . . . hey, wait a minute . . . .

Anyway, I got over it, much in the way I did when one of my female employees in Texas kept using the phrase, "That is so gay!" in front of me to drive home the point that she thought something was especially ridiculous, like her job, her school work, her husband, her mother, etc. I just thought to myself, "You are such a stupid skank!" and felt all the better for it.

Instead of getting my rather fabulous feathers in a ruffle, I focused on the things in the article that made me and several others I shared it with on Facebook laugh out loud--such as the reference to Dubya's overcompensating for his feelings of inadequacies "by carefully cultivat[ing] his image as a masculine, simple-minded, heterosexual male." Tee hee.

At least we're being honest about it now. Still, my favorite part has to be the characterization of former White House Press Secretary Ari Fleischer as a flaming gaddabout, sort of the Gelman of Official Washington.

"Believe me, sister, he overcompensated with a capital 'compensated,'" Fleischer said. "But when the cameras stopped rolling and the podium was put away, he was just fabulous. We had a fabulous, fabulous time."

I've always had my suspicions about Our Miss Fleischer (oddly cute but oh-so-evil), and I'm glad to finally have them confirmed in an official news source like The Onion.

But, please, to my hetero friends out there, Karl Rove is all yours. Haven't we gay people suffered enough with George W. as our poster boy for what happens when middle-aged Texas men lose their way late at night somewhere near the intersection of Montrose and Westheimer?

I can see it now: One night, the future president's Cadillac breaks down outside a club called Encounterz or maybe Dimensionz. A little drunk and disorderly, he is annoyed by the sound of the disco beat from within and heads toward the door to put a stop to it. But it is a siren's call. The crowd, recognizing a closet case when they see one, eggs him on, pushing him toward the dancefloor. In a haze of cigarettes and amyl nitrite, he feels compelled to move. He breaks into a fevered sweat, caught up in a dissociative whirl of mirror ball and tribal chanting. Suddenly he finds himself shirtless, with a tambourine in his hand, banging it wildly, and dancing dervishly. And in a few years time, the whole world suffers from the shame of his transgression.

Oh dear. I think I've just plagiarized Sandra Bernhard from Without You, I'm Nothing.

* * *

We want you as a new recruit: President Bush entertains the crowd, appearing with his old band, The Village People, during Houston Gay Pride 2004.

The gayest sentence in the English language

2008-12-06T20:43:00.004-05:00

While enjoying a crisp winter's day today, strolling through the seasonal scenery of Old Economy Village with my friend, the Pittsburgh Music Lover, I by chance made a significant discovery. That discovery is that the gayest, most homosexually inclined sentence in the English language--at least in my little corner of the mother tongue--begins like so:

"I wish Agnetha and Frida would . . . ."

This was how the Music Lover began a train of thought somewhere between the Blacksmith's Shop and the Mechanics' Building--a veritable nineteenth-century encantation of the Village People, if you will--on our tour of this historical landmark, a religious commune, full of industry and piety and a commitment to abstinence--except when, according to the tour guide, sect members "chose to marry and start a family,"

Ahem. In that order, more or less, I'm sure.

Once I stopped snickering over the sentence, I decided that for me, the second gayest sentence in English begins with the phrase,

"I think Kylie and Dannii should . . . ."

I realize to a layperson's ear these probably sound like innocuous enough, albeit obscure, statements. What could they possibly mean? Why would they be considered particularly gay, let alone the gayest, sentences in the English language? And who cares anyway?

But look at it this way--at least by your lack of comprehension and interest, you're guaranteed one truth in this world: You're probably not gay, nor do you hang around with anyone who is a known Friend of Dorothy or Homeboy for Oscar (Wilde). Take comfort where and when you can, my peeps. Why, it's like an evangelical's (or Bishop Robert Duncan, the anti-gay head--chortle--of the Episcopal Diocese of Pittsburgh (Southern Cone)) Christmas wish come true! No. More. Homosexuals. Ever!

Now if only you could explain away your husband's obsession with holiday garland, your wife's ability to cut a rug just like Ellen DeGeneres, your teen-aged daughter's need to put Katy Perry's "I Kissed a Girl" in heavy rotation on her iPod, and little junior's repeated requests for a full run of Bratz dolls from Santa, you might just be able to dispense with donning all that gay apparel for another year. (Check your designer labels first, though.)

Well, I doubt it--but Happy holidays anyway!

An epistle to dipshit

2008-11-07T08:44:00.004-05:00

[Editor's note: This is what you get by celebrating a sea change in society with one too many lemon martinis.]

I am bored. Bored, bored, bored. Now with the elections over, I don't know what to do with myself. Other than my job. And where's the fun in that?

One thing that is keeping me busy and motivated is responding to genuinely stupid statements in the media about the meaning of an Obama presidency. If I could just get paid for that, well, I'd finally join the 2 measly percent in the nation that qualify for "redistribution of wealth" (i.e, taxation, or, rather, a return to the level of taxation of the pre-Bush II years) under an Obama administration. Wow! Just imagine! I, who will probably never earn that level of income in my lifetime--I'm not an aspirational plumber after all--could join the monied class and have the full attention and support of the next Republican administration!

Anyway, there have been so many examples of raging stupidity in the media, from pundit and populace alike, I am at risk of getting a repetitive motion injury, snapping my neck quickly toward the TV to see Joe Scarborough make another asinine statement. From Wednesday's MSNBC broadcast, in response to a weathercaster talking about the fine weather we're enjoying this November in certain parts of the nation: "Under an Obama presidency, you'll never be able to use a phrase like 'Indian summer' again, because things will be so PC."

Just how much does this buttwipe get paid to be so ignorant on national TV? I mean, I know he was in Congress and all that, so he's used to saying the dumbest things imaginable in as loud a voice as possible, but still, Joe, maybe it's time to rethink your career path.

Or the choking fit that is induced when I hear statements from the media that the election of Barack Obama to the presidency means "the end of racism in the United States."

Dude, give me a freakin' break. Tell me, did you go to college for a degree in journalism? Other than where Sarah Palin got her degree in journalism, I mean? Or did you just whip up the diploma in Word and print it out in color at your local FedEx Kinko's? 'Cause that is one seriously stoo-pid statement.

And if the neck-twist and choking don't get me, the carpal tunnel will from pouncing on my keyboard to respond to the latest invective from some crazy (I'm assuming), middle-aged (I'm assuming), white guy (I'm assuming), with a DSL or cable modem (I'm assuming), has posted to some blog or comment forum. (Just not this crazy, middle-aged white guy, OK?)

For example . . . this little missive was posted today on CNN's Politics website:

To all the Dems:

[H]ere is what separates Republican's [sic] (at least me) from you guys. Yes, I wanted McCain to win, but he didn't, and so, my President is Obama and I will support and pray for him. This is exactly what Elizabeth on [The] View is doing. We lost - we get over it and we move on for what is good for the country.

Instead, you left wingers are berating her for changing her opinion. She didn't change her opinion - she's moving on. Something you can never do. You'll never get over the 2000 loss and you'll always be angry hateful people.

Republicans blew it by allowing Bush to become like a Democrat and spend us into heck, but that is going be corrected in 2012. I wish Obama the best and pray he'll get good advisors [sic] and for this country. I will not wallow in anger or frustration or blame anyone - it is over. It is time to move on. It is time to get our country rolling again and at this point it doesn't matter who is at the helm. So stop with your anger and join the club. Country First.

Oh, goodness, where to begin when confronted with so much seething, oozing dumbassedness? How could I not respond to this? The poster is just crying out to be sent to a Socialist Reeducation Camp, which I'm sure will be the first order of business under a new Obama administration, being that he'll have nothing else to occupy his time, other than political correctness and uniform thought. By the way, that's a joke, right wingers. The Socialist Reeducation Camps don't open until the *second* Obama term.

And, so, here's how I responded:

Dear [Poster],

You're not angry? Or wallowing in frustration? You're moving on? Really? Jeez, you're already focusing on 2012, and President-Elect Obama hasn't even been sworn in yet. You're blaming Democrats for the Bush administration's problems and mistakes (he wasn't a real Republican, but a "secret Democrat"). That doesn't sound like calm acceptance to me.

I'm admittedly a liberal, although I wouldn't classify myself necessarily as a "left winger" or even a Democrat. I make decent money but certainly not the $250k per year that only 2 percent of the U.S. population makes, or even the $100k+ per year that maybe 20 percent makes. Still, I don't begrudge those who do--I just want my voice to be heard, my views to be as respected, and my needs to be considered as theirs have been over the last few decades.

I am very happy that Obama was elected but not because I think it redresses being "wronged" in the 2000 election. Frankly, I could care less about that at this point. I was no supporter of George Bush (l lived in Texas through both his governorships and didn't really think much of him as a leader or a visionary; a failed property tax initiative does not a leader make). While I may never have liked having him as president, I thought he handled the immediate aftermath of 9/11 quite well. I probably could have tolerated him as president throughout his terms, the will of the people and all that, except for a series of unfortunate events that occurred on his watch--namely, the war in Iraq, the 2004 election, and Hurricane Katrina.

Why those events in particular? Because his administration used soldiers and citizens as pawns in some egotistical, arrogant geopolitical maneuvering (my father was a Marine for 30 years; I'm sensitive to this); his campaign eliminated serious public discourse on the issues and problems that plague us with name-calling and fear-mongering among the electorate; his administration--and many, many people, along with the Louisiana state government (a Democratic administration at the time, not a Republican one)--allowed millions to be spent on "homeland security," yet couldn't manage to come up with an effective evacuation plan for a known death trap like New Orleans in a hurricane (or even Houston, for that matter).

So, as a liberal, I'm not bitter about the 2000 election; I'm angry about 8 years of failed public policy, of thinking that government is not for, by, and of the people, but instead for, by, and of monied interests and narrowly focused cultural groups. Heck, I'll take it a step further back--I'm anguished over years of this from both the Democratic and Republican sides. It's a sadness and a frustration that transcends time and party.

Despite my liberal leaning ways, I suspect that I'm not that far off the mark from a lot of Americans. I'm sick to death of the binary approach to life and politics in this country, the tit-for-tatting of Republican this and Democrat that. What I want to see--and why I voted for Obama--is our nation move beyond blaming each side for past grievances. Instead, I want to see someone address those grievances and get us all to get along well enough to work together to return our nation to doing our best work and being our better selves, both at home and abroad.

I do not care whether a Republican or a Democrat does this. I do not care whether it is a he or a she, a liberal or a conservative, a "tax and spend"-er or fiscally conservative, right wing or left, straight or gay, black or white or both or neither. I just want someone who will help us turn our attention back to what matters--looking out for each other and for our world.

There is no other reason to have government than to do these things for everyone we can. It doesn't mean doing the exact opposite of the last few years and creating some sort of dependency culture. (May I suggest you read The Audacity of Hope? Even Barack Obama doesn't support this.) It does mean moving things back to the center so that we encourage initiative, help us all find the tools we need to succeed, open up opportunity, and make things better for as many as possible, not just half or a quarter or 2 percent of the electorate.

Now *that* is what I call moving on . . . that’s what I call putting country first. I hope you'll join me in doing so, whether you like having Obama as president or a Democratic Congress or not.

OK, so maybe I'm not as genuine as I pretend to be. I have absolutely despised the last 28 years of mostly Republican leadership in the executive and legislative branches of American government. I think it's been nothing more than the promotion of ignorance, mean-spiritedness, selfishness, and stinginess, over any authentic attempt to address national and global problems. I do think taking some tax revenues and putting them toward social services and public initiatives is the way to go--whether the initiatives involve education, the economy, housing, transportation, poverty, the environment, healthcare, what have you.

You can call that socialism if you like, although I'm not sure I even know what that means anymore. However, I like to think of it as good, responsive government.

I do mean sincerely that I do not care who offers good, responsive government, Republican or Democrat, Green or Libertarian. If John McCain had offered that kind of campaign rhetoric, rather than the kind that focused on Obama's "difference" or "mystery" or "secret agenda" or "un-Americanness," who knows? Maybe I would have considered voting for him. I don't think the Democrats have a monopoly on good government; in fact, I have plenty of evidence to suggest otherwise. I do think, however, that their presidential candidate was the only one who seriously talked about issues, plans, and a vision for the people of this country and the world at large. I also think that traditionally, between the two major parties in the U.S., the Democrats are the ones who tend to address issues of bettering society and people's lots--albeit often ineffectively. I don't consider trickle-down economics an honest attempt at social welfare and progress. Shocking, I know.

Oh, and Elizabeth Hasselbeck? I think she's just trying to save her job at this point. But I didn't go there because I didn't think it was particularly germane to my argument.

How I wish someone would pay me to tell stupid people to shut the hell up. I'd promise to start with Joe Scarborough, first, move on to Elizabeth Hasselbeck, and save Bill O'Reilly and Glenn Beck until I was really warmed up.

How, too, I wish I were as patient, kind, and generous of spirit as I pretend to be.

Yeah, the two wishes do kind of cancel each other out. So what's your point? You want a piece of me?! I'll take you and your little blog posting to the floor, punk!

Good morning, America

2008-11-06T21:44:00.003-05:00

I just don't have the words. But I think I do have the song.

And that song is "The News" by Carbon Silicon (featuring Mick Jones of the Clash and Big Audio Dynamite), sums up my feelings better than anything right now, certainly better than my own writing does.

However, the more I hear from the actual news, the pundits, the media outlets, the usual suspects, how much I gather that no one has the words right now. Or at least no one has the comprehension.

For you see, the United States did more than elect a new president; it did more than select a Democrat over a Republican. It even did more than select an African-American president, although that in and of itself is HUGE and a thing whose import I do not want to diminish. I mean, my home state of North Carolina, a former member of the Confederacy and the site of so many civil rights abuses and battles over the years, once home to both the KKK and the Black Panthers, voted 50 percent for Obama and 49 percent for McCain. That in and of itself represents a radical change.

No, what happened at about 11 pm on Tuesday, November 4th, 2008, was seismic, cataclysmic. It transcends the everyday struggles of politics and race, generations and genders. It feels revolutionary, cosmic, as if we just witnessed the world change in the blink of an eye and nothing will ever be the same again.

People started calling those in power to account
And people started saying, "I want my voice to count"

An overstatement? I don't think so. It just hasn't sunk in yet, what just transpired, but the same ol' same ol' can't happen again. And if it does, if anyone tries it, I think it will be recognized for what it is--inauthentic, false, a lie.

Again, I just don't have the words. But, oh, I have the feelings.

The dream season

2008-11-05T08:01:00.006-05:00

When I'm at a loss for words, I let TV do the talking for me:

All I can say is that I was so happy to wake up this morning and not find Bobby Ewing in my shower.

At the same time, it is rather nice to pull myself out of a bad dream and discover the political equivalent of a naked Patrick Duffy in my bedroom, giving me a wet hug.

Ah, a boy can dream . . .

Fearless

2008-11-04T23:38:00.011-05:00

I guess now there's no need for me to finish my piece, "Why I'm voting for Barack Obama; why I'm not voting for John McCain," a post that I've been working on, at least in my head, since mid-summer.

Wow. I am almost speechless. I certainly better understand the phrase "shock and awe" now. Barack Obama is projected to be the next president of the United States. Did any of us ever think we would live to see this night?

I don't say that for just the obvious reason, the one cited in heavy rotation on MSNBC at the moment, that Barack Obama, an African-American man, a biracial man, a child of at least one immigrant parent, a child of, in effect, a single mother, a man with the middle name Hussein, a man whose last name isn't English, Irish, Scottish, or ol' New York Knickerbocker (Roosevelt, Van Buren . . .), "that one," if you will, has, despite all odds and all prejudices, become president of the United States.

That in and of itself is a huge story. It's as if finally after 8 years, or maybe even 50 years, or maybe even 150 years, America has stepped into the present as well as into its own future. Welcome to the 21st century and beyond, folks. After so many delays, after so many mistakes and missteps, we are finally here, and it feels so very good.

But there's at least one more story out there that's worth telling before I head off to bed. And that is that today, the U.S. electorate, at least a good portion of it, chose intellect and reason over fear and demagoguery, something it hasn't done for a long time. No amount of bandying about terms like "terrorist," "socialist," "secret Muslim," "elitist," "real American," "Marxist," or "dictator" seemed to knock us off course from turning out the old and backward-looking and embracing the new and forward-thinking.

There's a line from the Pedro Almodóvar movie, Carne Trémula (Live Flesh), that is rather apt for this moment in time. "And that was the day the people of Spain decided they wouldn't be afraid anymore." Or something like that.

The story around Live Flesh takes place in different time periods, but one of the themes is the changes wrought in Spanish society from the repressive Franco era, to the immediate post-Franco era (kind of like our '60s excesses but with even more chemical substances, apparently), to a more moderate, contemporary time, when people make decisions based on what's best for them and those around them, rather than what they feel forced to do or are too scared not to do. I think you could show the scenes from Grant Park in Chicago tonight, or just about anywhere in America for that matter, read that line over the scene, and it would fit.

Is this that day, the day we no longer choose to be afraid? Good god, I hope so. I can't tell you how many years I've had that line in my head. I can't tell you how many times I repeated it to myself, my silent mantra, this election season.

The other thing on my mind tonight--and there are, admittedly, a zillion things running through my brain at the moment, making me wonder whether I'll be able to sleep at all tonight--the one that rises to the surface and stays afloat, is a statement made just a little while ago by political reporter David Gregory on MSNBC. (By the way, is there an island where mad scientists make boyish-looking, prematurely graying news reporters for the American networks? And do they take special orders?) He said something to the effect that he's 38 years old, that fellow commentator Rachel Maddow is even younger, and that the both of them didn't quite get the fuss over the U.S. electing its first African-American president. Or, rather, they could see it was a big deal, but they didn't feel it in the same way that perhaps their over-45-year-old colleagues did. As David Gregory put it, "We just see Obama as a qualified candidate, a man running for president."

I think that's wonderful, and I'm glad to see that has come about, even if I fall into the old guard, over-45 camp, and I will spend a few hours resenting the young whipper-snappers just a few years younger than me who are living a very different life than mine. Nonetheless, while that statement makes me feel my age, I can live with that feeling, as long as it it means those younger than me get a chance at a better world. Wow again. I must be feeling pretty hopeful and upbeat tonight if I'm well-wishing the under-40 crowd.

However, Mr. Gregory's observation makes me want to underscore one additional point, and that is this: That this under-40 worldview, that Barack Obama is just another man, a very qualified and successful one, but nonetheless, one of flesh and blood and bone like the rest of us, is a direct result of government intervention in our lives, of government working in tandem with people to make things better for all.

Government didn't always step aside and let "the market" deal with racism and inequality, at least before 1980 or so. Government didn't always shrug its shoulders and turn its attention to working out a better deal on home mortgages or let the insurance industry have a free reign in screwing people over. Government didn't always say, "Hey, it's OK to be selfish! I've got mine, and you'll have to get yours somehow by pulling yourself up by your own bootstraps, and if you don't have your own bootstraps, well whose fault is that? We're all created equal, after all." Government didn't always say, "I can't deal with the economic and social problems of this country because a very squeaky, intractable, and vituperative political wheel doesn't want me to because they feel it goes against their belief system."

Well, OK, government did say those things some of the time; it did do some of those things a lot of the time. In recent history, over the years, and long ago. But it hasn't always been like this. Sometimes government actually stepped in and attempted to address the issues and redress the wrongs. It fought a war, it emancipated the slaves, it gave 40 acres and a mule, it passed civil rights legislation, it challenged segregation, it forced busing, it sent in troops, it funded public welfare programs, it supported affirmative action, and it stepped up and defended those who could not defend themselves.

It did some things good and some things bad, and we have a legacy, both good and bad, to show for it. But the point is it eventually (if not consistently or even always effectively) took action for the people. It saw the bigger picture, it understood its role, and it effected some pretty powerful changes that only now, 30, 40, 50 years later, are fully playing themselves out.

So for all of you who fear the return of "big government," a couple of pointers for survival in this new era. First, read Barack Obama's book, The Audacity of Hope, in which he talks about this very thing, making government work for the people (it's very purpose in the first place!) but not giving a totally free reign to the market or, in the reverse, creating a dependency class, hooked on entitlement programs and handouts. There's a third way in most things, a "both/and," as opposed to a rigid "either/or." We've had years of either/or, and you see how brilliantly that's turned out. Now's the time to try something new. Given some time, I think you might find that you enjoy life in the both/and zone.

Second, Barack Obama is not a secret Muslim. He's not a dictator. He's not going to suddenly drop the mask to reveal some hideous visage under his human form. The Kool-Aid isn't suddenly going to wear off, and we'll all be left dealing with a horrible hangover. Many of those who supported him didn't drink any in the first place! Instead, we saw an intelligent, motivated leader who could help us--all of us!--find our way back to being our better selves.

So stop being stupid--this isn't some bad plot twist in V, for god's sake. This is America. If you truly love it the way you say you do, you'll give us all a little credit for knowing our own minds, and you'll give this new administration, this new era, a fighting chance.

And third, stop being afraid. Of government. Of people who are different. Of life. Government can do wonders for us when properly carried out. Different people bring different perspectives to the table, often very good ones. And dammit, just get out and live life the way it should be lived--fully, unselfishly, joyously, and fearlessly.

As the ol' saying goes, the only thing we really have to fear is fear itself. And marvel at this: A populist, effective, activist political leader, who led the nation through a time of economic turmoil and social upheaval, who saw government as an agent of positive, inclusive change--of all people--was the one to say it. (Yes, yes, I know he was a Democrat, but that's not really the point.)

Maybe just maybe history is on the verge of repeating itself. In a good way. For a change.

Let it all go

2008-10-31T21:53:00.009-04:00

I made no plans for Halloween this year. Not that I normally do, being costume-impaired at the best of times. When I dare to venture down that path, it's usually something too high concept/awkward (an oversized picture frame around my neck--"I'm homoerotic art") or offensive ("Bermuda shorts, brogans, dark socks, Banlon shirt, stupid haircut and mustache--imagine Hitler on the beach in Brazil circa 1946") or worse, much, much worse, as certain friends could attest.

Nonetheless, it was a more active than passive decision to skip Halloween this year. Again, too much and too many requiring my attention. I needed an escape, an outlet, not mindless escapism.

So I walked home. That's it. In and of itself, nothing out of the ordinary, which is no doubt why the doing was so enjoyable. I took the long way around from Homewood down Braddock Avenue, past Forbes, and into Regent Square, more than my usual mile or so to work. On the last evening before the end of daylight savings time, the sun was still out when I left work but sinking, sinking. The air was crisp, the sky clear, and the leaves, still on the trees--despite the snow and wind from earlier in the week--and just slightly past peak color. I needed a sweater, but I didn't have to wear a jacket, hat, scarf, or gloves. I felt unencumbered, by clothes and by life.

The sky became duskier as I made my way home. Kids in costume, accompanied by protective parents, appeared on the streets, trick-or-treating. They wandered where directed, too young to do otherwise, or maybe too addled from all the sugar.

Who knew they still did this, trick-or-treating, especially in cities, where, if one believes the old urban legends, there must be a ratio of 1 razor blade per every 10 apples. But still they do, whole orderly gangs moving from house to house, block to block, for harmless fright and safe, sweet sugar.

I greeted everyone I met, and I think everyone responded in kind, happily, friendly, not gruffly, as too often happens here. I spent last winter, I recalled, not really knowing anyone here, new in town, new to my job, and kind of hungry for someone to talk to. A year later, and I'm full up for the moment on in-depth conversation and ready, despite my general geniality, for some time to myself.

I plugged in my iPod--oops, I almost wrote Walkman--and put on rotation two albums I've been enjoying of late: My Morning Jacket's Evil Urges and Sufjan Stevens's Illinois. Both are fairly quiet albums, especially the latter, at least compared to the stuff I normally listen to on my iPod at the gym. Perfect for a silent, not-quite-twilight night.

* * *

Neither record is what I thought I would be listening to at this point in my life. Me, a guy who thought metrosexual-in-training Martin Fry, the lead singer of '80s New Romantic band ABC, was the epitome of modern manhood at one time, now listening to a grizzled, alt-country gang of long hairs from Kentucky, my Dad's home state. My Morning Jacket is still keeping the alt-country thang going somewhat, but the lead singer also has a fondness for Prince, an appreciation I rarely share, but for which, nonetheless, I've made an exception for this album. Jim James's reaching-for-the-lower-stratosphere falsetto in songs like "Evil Urges" and "Highly Suspicious"--apt titles for Halloween!--makes for a very fun, even kind of sexy record. However, My Morning Jacket can just as easily turn all moody and trippy, such as on tunes like "Touch Me I'm Going to Scream." Below is the video for the abbreviated version of "Touch Me," which underscores the trippy but gives something of a short shrift to the moody, in my opinion.

But, still, those fireflies . . . .

Sufjan Stevens' Illinois keeps the melancholy flowing. It is the second in his "state" series (the first focusing on his home state of Michigan) and takes a mix of musical cues from Steven Reich- and Phillip Glass-styled minimalism, along with alt-pop and traditional, on-the-banks-of-the-Mississippi-and-the-O-hi-o instrumentation. Think banjoes. Think songs with references to Andrew Jackson. Along with songs about John Wayne Gacy, Jr., and a friend who died of bone cancer.

Frightening stuff perhaps, not your standard pop fluff (and guaranteed to make me regret spending so much time, money, and effort on my Kylie Minogue collection over the years), but the album isn't morose or gruesome. At least no more so than everyday American life is--chants of "Kill him, kill him!" and "He's a socialist!" in the background. Perhaps that's part of Stevens's plan, conveying all 50 states through music and song, pride and pain, comedy and tragedy. If anything, the record feels equally joyful (how can you not chuckle over a song title like "Come on Feel the Illinoise"?) and melancholic, the exact musical need for an early autumn evening.

There's a line in his song, "Chicago," that sticks with, maybe even haunts me a little:

I drove to New York/
in the van, with my friend /
we slept in parking lots/
I don't mind, I don't mind/
I was in love with the place/
in my mind, in my mind/
I made a lot of mistakes/
in my mind, in my mind.

It's the last two lines in particular, and the way they are delivered, that shakes me everytime. Such a simple lyric in a song that's about what, exactly? Runaways? It's hard to say. But the simplicity of the realization, "I made a lot of mistakes," and the painfulness of it, it's hard not to relate. Tonight or any night.

As I walk, another song comes to mind, this one not on my iPod yet and more in keeping, at least on the surface, with my dodgy tastes. It's a seemingly innocuous pop ditty called "Romeo" by Basement Jaxx:

Ignore the Bollywood shenanigans for a mo' and, instead, pay attention to the lyrics:

Cos you left me laying there/
With a broken heart/
Staring through a deep cold void/
Alone in the dark/
And I miss the warmth in the morning/
And the laughter when I can't stop yawning/
But the tears on the pillow've dried, my dear/
Gonna let it all go cos I have no fear/

Let it all go/
Let it all go/
Let it all go/

A minor classic, that one. On the surface, one of the most buoyant pop tunes of the last decade or so, I would argue. On top, it's all catchiness and cheekiness, danceable and frothy. But that lyric . . . "staring through a deep, cold void" . . . "I miss the warmth in the morning" . . . we're saved only from utter despair by the singer's admonition to "let it all go." Cry it out, maybe, or just walk away and wash your hands of it all.

All those mistakes. In my mind, in my mind.

A year of change, and, hopefully, of growth. I learned some, and I yearned for more, as well. And some I got, and some I didn't.

But for tonight, I'll heed the latter lyrics, give into the music, and do just as instructed: Let it all go.

Unholy crap

2008-10-25T16:37:00.010-04:00

The election is almost upon us, so let's not waste time dawdling through my verbosity, getting mired down in my overwritten prose. Let's cut to the point. Let's get to the chase.

And my point is . . .

Since when does America take instruction on political and economic theory from a man who's not even qualified to snake out your toilet in Ohio?

Socialism, bah. Joe the Plumber, et al., you wouldn't know socialism if it jumped out of the toilet water and bit you on the ass while you were straining through your morning poo.

Still, I guess if Joe is qualified to pronounce (or, as the case may be, denounce) centrist politicians as "socialists," then I'm completely justified to label him and his ignorant, spoiled, and highly opinionated ilk as "steaming piles of unholy crap."

Elizabeth Hasselbeck--Daddy's little steaming pile of unholy crap! Rush Limbaugh--a pill-popping steaming pile of unholy crap! Kelsey Grammer--an underage-sex-engaging, coke-snorting, steaming pile of unholy crap!

My list could go on and on and on, but there's only so many days until the election.

But, ahhh, I feel better already. Name-calling and fear-mongering are indeed cathartic. No wonder the American right wing doesn't bother anymore with cogent arguments or altruistic policy-making. It's much more fun to divide and conquer instead of uniting and leading.

Bottoms up, citizens!

A new Argentina

2008-10-22T18:23:00.011-04:00

From this week's headlines:

"GOP spends $150,000 for Palin's wardrobe"

And hair and makeup as well.

A hundred and fifty thou. Really. Golly, just how ugly is this woman anyway?

Truth be told, I don't know if I have strong feelings--or much energy--to get too worked up about this news item. I mean, yes, $150,000 on clothes, makeup, and the like is obscene and ridiculous.

As my Canadian friend Smidgen, a native of British Columbia ("I can see Alaska from my house in Vancouver"), put it, "Does this woman really need to wear this kind of clothing tramping around Alaska, of all places?" Well, Manolo Blahnik mukluks are pricey, apparently. Still, surely, Cindy McCain could lend her a few things until Sarah's allowance kicks in and she can buy some nice schmata (on discount, of course) on her own.

I can't claim, however, that I was particularly surprised by this turn of events. You want Suzanne Sugarbaker as Veep? All big-ass Holiness hair, moose-shooting, and mouth-misfiring? Then you're gonna have to expect some requests for something other than what's on sale in the Land's End catalog.

I don't like to brag too much, but I picked up on this early on--really, it all started with that image of La Diva Palin, arm extended, waving to the masses (thank you, once again, Wikipedia) at the Republican National Convention. Since then, I've had this text from the original cast recording of Evita stuck in my head:

I am only a simple woman who lives to serve Perón in his noble crusade to rescue his people! I was once as you are now! And I promise you this: We will take the riches from the oligarchs only for you--for all of you! And one day you will inherit these treasures! Descamisados! When they fire those cannons, when the crowds sing of glory, it is not just for Perón, but for all of us! All of us!

I am gay; I know my showtunes, folks.

Oh, my dear, dear shirtless ones. What hath Evita Palin wrought--other than a big line of credit at Nordstrom's?

A new Argentina--alas, the old one has gone sadly wrong.

Well, maybe at least she's pretty on the inside. All I can say is that at least my $100 donation to the Obama campaign isn't going for a beauty bailout of Joe Biden.

The railroad less traveled

2008-10-19T09:57:00.005-04:00

A couple of weeks ago, I was staring down the double barrels of the 4-lane Pennsylvania Turnpike, facing cross-state journeys for meetings on a rough-and-tumble freeway I've traveled so much--too much--over the last year-and-a-half.

This in and of itself is nothing unusual, particularly in the fall, when the academic calendar kicks in, and, as part of my job, I have conferences to attend, meetings to conduct, people to visit, and places to be, mainly along the old Main Line and its offshoots between Philadelphia and Pittsburgh. I generally like this part of my job, actually--meeting people, talking up cooperative projects, seeing where colleagues work, and how people live in different parts of the region. But it does mean hours on the road and in airports, days in meeting rooms, and nights in hotels. Very little downtime. Very little me time. And all during autumn, my favorite of the four seasons.

This week was looking especially challenging and grim. As originally planned, my only activity was a conference in Cincinnati at the end of the week, returning to Pittsburgh today and back to work on Monday. But then a "vital" meeting came up in Philadelphia on Wednesday, an early-morning-and-all-day meeting, which meant, if I and everyone who had to spend time with me that day knew what was good for them, I'd have to travel over on the Tuesday before, so as not to be wrung-out and extremely crabby.

It is possible to fly from Pittsburgh to Philly for a morning meeting and back in the same day. However, given the distance of the Pittsburgh airport from home and work (a cool 25 miles through two tunnels and one downtown), the vagaries of contemporary air travel, and the luck-of-the-draw scheduling of SEPTA trains once in Philly, it can make for a very long, very fraught day. I've done it before, and I'll do it again, but if I have my druthers, I'll always fly over early for a good night's rest before the day of meet-and-greet begins.

So add Philly to the Cincy mix. And then add Harrisburg. The vital meeting in Philly was joined by an equally important meeting in the state capital--100 miles or so to the west of Philly--on Thursday. Thus, at one point this week, it was looking as though I would need to fly to Philly on Tuesday, somehow get to Harrisburg (car, plane, train?) by Thursday morning, return to Pittsburgh no latter than Thursday evening, only to head out to Cincinnati by Friday morning, returning to Pittsburgh on Sunday, and then starting it up all over again the following week. Talk about wrung-out and crabby.

I'm game, and I like to be a good little trooper in the workplace, but this just sounded insane and destined to make me (more) insane along the way.

So I canceled Cincy--even though it was the trip I was most looking forward to, as I've never been to Cincinnati before, and I have a peculiar sense of what constitutes an exotic getaway. Instead, I focused on getting from Pittsburgh to Philly to Harrisburg, then back to Philly for my plane trip back to Pittsburgh. Yes, you can fly between Philly and Harrisburg and Harrisburg and Pittsburgh--just not cheaply at the last minute ($500 or a pop, one-way). My employer is generous with travel expenses, but this seemed, morally, an airplane ticket too far. Thus my convoluted west-to-east-to-central-to-east-to-west approach was the only viable option, at least if I wanted to keep costs down and avoid driving.

Or so it seemed at the moment. But then Amtrak, of all things, came to the rescue.

It's easy to make the trek from Philly to Harrisburg and back by train--there are something like 10 train trips per day, back and forth, and while the line isn't exactly the TGV, it has been greatly improved over the last couple of years, making for a faster, more reliable journey.

Getting from Harrisburg to Pittsburgh (or Pittsburgh to anywhere) by train is trickier, though, and can require more effort than one should have to put forth. Ask my friend, the Gladman, who traveled by train in August from the Baltimore-Washington area to our own Iron City, via Philadelphia ferchrissakes, at the breezy clip of 8 hours, a trip that, by car is a mere 4 to 5 hours and doesn't require a sidetrip through the City of Brotherly Love. (Not that the Gladman would have objected, if you get my drift.) Despite Harrisburg being the state capital and Pittsburgh the Commonwealth's second largest city, reliable passenger travel in the post-Pennsylvania Railroad age is difficult, with only one train per day in each direction.

Traveling cross-Commonwealth has always been a challenge, though. Turn back the clock to the early 1800s, and you'd have to go by some combination of stagecoach, foot, canal and river barge, and "portage railroad" system--basically, dragging the barges over the Allegheny Mountains, across the Eastern Continental Divide, to westward flowing rivers into Pittsburgh through a series of inclined planes.

Things didn't improve greatly, even with the introduction of rail, as the Alleghenies, at least until the 1850s, proved too great an engineering and geographical conundrum to surmount. Train cars and engines still had to be dragged across the mountains to make connections westward.

In 1854, however, the Pennsylvania Railroad devised the engineering marvel that is Horseshoe Curve, west of Altoona, which created a bridge along the mountains that allowed trains enough of a low-grade path to surmount nature and make it through the Alleghenies to Pittsburgh. Travel across the Commonwealth was suddenly reduced from 1 week to 12 hours. Not only was travel across state facilitated, westward expansion in the U.S. was greatly improved. This is the modern world. And Pennsylvania says you're welcome.

The great era of American rail travel steamed forth and billowed ahead until at least the 1950s. I have heard my mother, Vivien Leigh, tell of taking the train from Eastern North Carolina to south-central Kentucky in the 1950s, to visit with my Dad's relatives while he was away fighting the Cold War fight in Korea. She didn't drive then; air travel was a luxury and not likely to be available anyhow; and rail, even in the South, was a viable form of conveyance. Imagine that--being able to get from one small corner of the U.S. to another without benefit of car or plane.

And then, in the space of twenty years or so, it all quite quickly went away. The Pennsylvania Railroad, once the largest railroad in the U.S. by traffic and revenue, once the largest publicly traded company in the world, posted for the first time a net loss in revenue in 1946. By 1970, due to changing transportation needs and financial mismanagement--as well as the withdrawal of a rescue loan by the U.S. government--the PRR declared bankruptcy, with its lines and resources divided between Conrail and Amtrak.

* * *

I could go all bitter Pennsylvanian on you about the failure of a unified transportation policy in this country, the slavish devotion to the auto, the dismissal of short- and long-range planning, the denial of the needs of the carless and planeless.

Why shouldn't I be able to get from Pittsburgh to Harrisburg or Philadelphia in fewer hours than it takes to drive? Why shouldn't I be able to get to Washington or Baltimore other than via Philadelphia? Why shouldn't those without cars in my town have to rely upon a shaky, constantly retrenching mass transit system that tossed out streetcars in favor of buses? Why should those who live in the suburbs have to catch the last express bus by 6 pm? Why should Pittsburgh--an old industrial giant, simutaneously sprawling and sardine-like; a ramshackle topographical map with an overlay of cities, towns, villages, and neighborhoods; an over-the-river-and-through-the-woods, you-can't-get-there-from-here metropolis, a crazy-quilt conglomeration of rivers, ravines, and rocks--be stuck in some sort of suitable-for-the-Sun Belt transportation nightmare?

But no, I won't go all bitter on you--that would just be too Socialist for Sisterdale, wouldn't it?

Instead, I'll focus on the merits of a very Pennsylvania journey.

Through the impromptu taxi service provided by a colleague, I arrived at the Harrisburg station early in the afternoon. I checked the board and saw that the next train for Philly didn't leave for another two hours and would get me into 30th Street Station at 5:30 or so. If I wanted to make the 7:25 pm flight home, I'd have to cab it during rush hour to Philadelphia International Airport, something I wasn't sure I could do, especially as I was scheduled on the 8:55 pm flight, and the 7:25 is often completely booked. Thus, if I stayed on course, I'd still have to wait for the later flight and probably wouldn't get home from the airport until 11 pm or so. I'd have spent the entire day, from 6 am onward, in motion and in company. And I just didn't think I could face that.

Instead, as luck would have it, the next train out was to Pittsburgh. I had arrived just in time--if I so chose to do so--to switch my Amtrak ticket to head west. I could cancel my Southwest flight from PHL to PIT, saving the fare for another day. When I arrived in Pittsburgh, me and my luggage could take the East Busway home, arriving a little after 8 pm. The next day, I could take the bus to the airport to retrieve my car, safely stationed in long-term parking. And aboard the train, I could be alone and quiet. No sparring for space, no lugging of luggage, no jetting and jostling, being above it all and not enjoying any of it.

Normally, I'm not that spontaneous, too afraid that if I deviate from the plan, some sort of ill-defined chaos will ensue. I'll be stranded and abandoned. I'll get stuck, I'll become lost, I'll look foolish. Fear rules me more than I care to admit, but then it's never been an easy ride (so to speak) for me. Too much can go wrong--and has--and as a result, I've learned to become vigilant, hyper-vigilant, even hyper-hyper-vigilant. Self-reliant, self-possessed, and self-contained, yes, but to the detriment of taking a few risks along the way, even on something as seemingly benign as taking a different path home--in a physical, mental, or metaphysical manner.

However, this time, my need for quiet, solitude, and home, outweighed my devotion to the standard motion. For a few dollars more on Amtrak, I was able to take a slow-but-steady train home, riding the rails for just under five hours, enjoying the private time, sitting in internal if not always external silence with room to spare, despite there being a healthy ridership all aboard.

Along the way, I leafed through Pennsylvania Magazine and The New York Times. I started reading (finally) Barack Obama's The Audacity of Hope, a quick pick I'd made at the snacks-and-mags shop at the Harrisburg station, putting aside for now Canadian author Ann-Marie MacDonald's dense tome, The Way the Crow Flies. I was entertained by the exuberant, Germanic chatter of Amish travelers sitting around me. I savored the autumn scenery as the train surmounted the Alleghenies, the leaves almost at peak color, the sky, dramatic and intense with the coming of stormy weather. I texted a friend in England, and another in Nevada. I thought about a Mallo-Cup I'd had earlier in the week and the pierogies I'd had for my lunch that day, instead of the semi-healthy snacks I'd assembled for my travels. I saw Altoona and the Horseshoe Curve; Johnstown and its notorious flood plain, along with the inclined plane that takes you--and your car--to higher ground in Westmont; Pittsburgh and its still rumbling and smelting steel works, the Strip District, and dahntahn.

And I wished for a moment that I could stay on this train and in this mindset forever. Out of my normal time and place, above, through, and beyond the day-to-day that gets me down or stresses me out. Yet in a very Pennsylvania space, one that isn't completely lost or abandoned to age and modern foolishness.

Maybe there isn't a Pennsylvania mystique, the same as there is for Texas. There is cold weather, short summers, cloudy skies. Old buildings, a creaky infrastructure, a shaky economy, and faded industrial glory. There are too many billboards, above-ground pools, trailer parks, and adult bookstores. It's tradition-bound, clannish, hardscrabble, and, yes, perhaps even bitter at times.

But there are just as many reasons for why we live here. Spring. Fall. Trees. Snow. The mountains. The rivers. Voices. Food. Culture. People. Home. Pennsylvania.

I won't stay here forever. At least I don't expect that I will. I miss Texas. I'm fond of Kansas. I love Chicago. I fantasize about California. And I still think about Canada, with or without an election looming. There's too much of the world to see, too much of life to experience, to stay in one place for a lifetime.

Be that as it may, my life is pretty good here. Maybe not what everyone would want. Maybe not entirely what I would want, if money were no object and commitments to people and duties no small thing. But good, solid, enjoyable, satisfying. But it's here and it's mine. And here is home. Why would I want to be anywhere else?

Who shot B. F.?

2008-10-18T12:44:00.007-04:00

Fact: From 1995 to 2004, I lived and worked in San Antonio, Texas.

If I have any regrets about leaving Texas--and occasionally I do--they are as follows:

Only visiting Big Bend once
Not visiting Palo Duro Canyon at all
Never attending Rodeo in San Antonio
Never touring South Fork Ranch on one of the few occasions I was in Dallas and had the time to do so

There are times that I miss living in Texas. Oh, I hated (and constantly bitched about) the summer--that nine months of hot, sticky heat that resulted in the birth of a mewling, sickly autumn. Plus, that suburban Republican mindset that supported George Dubya through two governorships and now two terms of presidentin'--well, I could definitely live without ever witnessing that again.

But there is a Texas mystique, an exoticism, if you will--equal parts sexiness and sagebrush, cowboy style and country pleasures--that you just don't find in many places in the modern U.S., which seems determined to franchise and homogenize itself into submission to a capitalist master.

For me, the TV show Dallas, at least in its early years, really captured this mystique.

Sigh. Infidelity, hunky cowboys with bad perms and amazing waistlines, spousal abuse, and bitter, bitter loneliness surrounded by ranch-style opulence. They don't make 'em like that anymore, except perhaps today in the suburbs of the real Big D. Tip: Watch Cheaters sometime.

After Texas, I eventually wound up in Pennsylvania. The Keystone State indeed has its charms--a glorious, brightly decorated fall is definitely one of them, along with rowhouses, pierogies, whoopie pies, the Amish and Mennonite communities, and the leftover riches of the 19th century robber-baron class.

But a style? Exoticism? A mystique of its very own? Alas, no.

I think it's safe to conjecture that no one is ever going to make a TV show with Henry Clay Frick's Claymore Mansion in Pittsburgh as the opening shot for every fraught-with-tension family scene. No one's ever going to collapse on their bed, bitterly rueing their trap of a loveless marriage, while in the background, an announcer at the Pennsylvania State Farm Show blares, "Ladies and gentleman, the award for best cowboy goes to Joe Warhola of Altoona." No one's gonna tune in to watch the lives and lusts among the Plain People, even if the show is set in a town called Intercourse.

And ain't no one into the 21st century wondering who shot Ben Franklin. Although I'm pretty sure it wasn't Sue Ellen's baby sister Kristin.

Editor's note: What kind of name is Kristin for a Texas woman in the 1970s anyway? You knew she had to be up to no good with a Yankee name like that.

My kind of town

2008-10-04T21:31:00.006-04:00

Just home from a few days in Chicago, where I spent my time wisely . . .

. . . enjoying too much food at Russian Tea Time

. . . admiring the visual masterpiece that is Seurat's La Grande Jatte, as well as Grant Wood's American Gothic, perhaps the quintessential American icon, both on view at the Art Institute

. . . shopping too much at the largest H&M and Filene's Basement I've been to so far

. . . wishing that so many fine examples of Louis Sullivan architecture hadn't been demolished but glad some of the stunning details have been preserved

. . . appreciating being in the land of broad shoulders, if you catch my drift

. . . cheering on Alanis Morissette at the Chicago Theater (although disappointed that she didn't perform "Hands Clean" or a few other favorites from her last three albums

. . . getting mobbed on the Red Line train at Lawrence as the crowd from the Beck and MGMT concert at the Aragon overwhelmed the station

. . . marveling at the return of stripey, peg-legged pants, and Sid Vicious haircuts, among today's youth. Thirty years later and just in time for my birthday.

To celebrate the visit, here's a musical and visual montage culled from YouTube of some of my favorite Chicago moments. Some of the clips featured were overheard around town. Some of the other images are merely popular culture reminders of the significant role Chicago plays in American history and life.

Chicago. My kind of town. And my favorite American city.

The sad state of Republican glamour

2008-09-30T21:42:00.017-04:00

First it was Nancy Reagan, all '80s lacquered hair and makeup and that Wilma Flintstone, lop-sided, off-the-shoulder gown held in place by a boulder-sized choker. Sort of a Pasadena-meets-Bedrock version of Dynasty for the dowager empress set.

Then, after many, many years in the cosmetics-and-conditioner wilderness--Barbara Bush, Marilyn Quayle, Laura Bush, to name but three--it was Ann Coulter of all people, the Jenna Jameson of the Punditocracy, that caught the discerning, right-wing, horndog's attention. All bleached-blond hair, anorexic-ravaged body, perma-tanned countenance, and overly pneumatic "tires" as it were. I know she makes me feel tired just looking at them.

I mean, her.

But then . . . I don't know what happened. Maybe the craziness of Ann Coulter--the looks of a fast-deflating blow-up doll with the high-pitched screech to match--overstayed its welcome and the Bowtie-and-Viagra set started frothing at the mouth for a different kind of gal. No more of those one-night-stand-and-a-boiled-rabbit-in-the-morning babes like Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction. Instead, we'll have the sloe-eyed and pouty-lipped comforts-of-home honey that is Miss Anne Archer!

So along came the hockey mom and the pit bull combined--ladies and germs, I present to you, the Guns-and-Ammo Playmate of the Year for 1985, Sarah Palin.

Sarah Palin and Tall, as it were. More like Sarah Plain and Small. Caribou Barbie (wish I'd thought of that first). The WASP version of Evita Peron, at least if the photo (thank you, Wikipedia) of her waving to the descamisados at the Republican National Convention can offer any insights into her Miss Half-Baked Alaska persona.

It has been challenging for me to fathom the appeal of Sarah Palin. Oh, I get how that tough-talking, gun-toting, Jesus-loving mother/political barracuda plays in Heartland and Hearth. (Sort of.) She's just like us! Except that her opinions are better-defined than ours! Let's follow her!

It's a wasp-waisted George "Dubya" Bush in a pencil skirt, folks. In fact, it's highly reminiscent of the I-could-have-a-beer-with-that-politician mindset, just with a gender twist, brought up-to-date with beauty queen hair and a flattering choice of discount eyewear from LensCrafters. The same mindset that led a significant segment of the population (aka, Joe Six-Pack, as Sarah likes to call them, in her patronizing, homespun way) to think that they would far rather have a beer with Dubya than, say, Al Gore or John Kerry. And realizing what a good drinking buddy Dubya would make, it stands to reason that he would also make an excellent president.

It's hard to fault that sort of logic, of course, but, hey, that reasoning didn't turn out so good, now did it?

As the saying goes, most poor souls are just dying to be told what to do, and I guess Sarah Palin is as good (relatively speaking) a person (relatively speaking) to do just that. She is, if nothing else, more palatable personality-wise (relatively speaking) than Dick Cheney, for example, or even the now soul-deadened, right-wing marionette that has overtaken John McCain's cerebral cortex and voice box. You can only go but up from there, I guess, especially if you like your strychnine candy-coated.

I've never been one, though, who enjoys being told what to do and, in fact, when done so, I often have chosen to do the exact opposite. One too many entreaties to buy a "sensible car" impelled me to buy a Mini Cooper this summer. One too many admonishments to "get with the times" makes me hang onto my vinyl disco collection. One too many recommendations to settle down, buy a house, and get a boyfriend still finds me mortgage-free and unencumbered. It's just my nature to be different, to samba to the percussive tonic of my own drummer, and I think it's served me rather well over the years.

So I question authority and conventional wisdom at all times. It may have taken me ages to invest in an iPod, it may have made me wary of jumping on the Obama bandwagon early on, but I think I'm happier, safer, and saner for it.

Nonetheless, I don't think I'll ever come around to getting Sarah Palin. I simply don't understand the fuss, at least on a deep level (assuming there is one), and I certainly don't fathom her alleged sex appeal.

Granted, I don't butter my toast on the side of the bread that rises up for Sarah Palin. We know this already--and besides I'd prefer a nice imported marmalade, if truth be told. But doing my utmost to be objective, I simply can't comprehend her alleged va-va-va-voominess, the thing that for a while there seemed to bring grown reporters and pundits to their knees--or at least prevented them from standing up from behind their desks while on camera.

These guys keep acting like Sarah Palin is Veronica when she is really more Betty. No, wait. Betty had some good sense and a serviceable wardrobe. Rather, Sarah's got Betty's looks but Veronica's steely determination to sucker Archie into going steady, whether she's expecting his baby or not. Or maybe it's that to them, Sarah is Barbie, when she is so obviously Skipper. Or, worse, Midge. (Cindy McClain is clearly Barbie. All plastic with no moving parts. Duh.)

It was all going quite out of control there for a while, and, thankfully, a few too many deer-in-headlights answers about geopolitics and the inability to name one major newspaper or magazine has allowed heads to cool, reporters to stand, and realities to be pondered.

Still, I knew we'd hit a new low in American culture when mainstream media outlets starting discussing Sarah Palin's "MILF" factor.

For those of you who don't know, MILF is an acronym made popular by that other pinnacle of contemporary culture, American Pie. That's right, folks, a movie that made famous the salving of a youthful male's sexual yearnings through intercourse with an apple crumble is giving us new ways to think about government and politics. And MILF stands for (brace yourself, gentle readers) a "Mother I'd Like to Fuck."

Charming, no? A mother one would like to fuck. But then, if she's a mother you'd like to fuck, wouldn't that make you a mother fucker?

A MILF. I don't think even at my most unbridled and horndoggiest I could ever imagine saying that to another human being--even if I were a heterosexual teen with raging hormones, Stacy's mom has got it going on and all that. Every now and again I see an attractive father out with his kids and I think to myself, hmmm, I wish you were my Daddy. But I don't mean that in a literal, parent-child way, of course, just a lascivious one. (Which I guess would make me interested in, appropriately enough, some FILF.) Nonetheless, I'm certainly not walking up to one of his kids to share that information.

However, our pundits and reporters are secure in themselves enough to share this feeling with us. We are indeed blessed!

Yet I guess the situation with Sarah is not much worse than when early on in this interminable presidential race the Pundi-tards tried to make a shirtless, frolicking-on-the-beach Barack Obama an International Male catalog pin-up. And I'm still haunted by that postcard during the 1990s of the heads of Bill Clinton and Al Gore photoshopped onto buff, surfer bods, hugging each other, and smiling brightly for the cameras, as if that tag team was about to usher in a new era of gay love--at least right before Clinton signed into law the Defense of Marriage Act.

Which begs the question, at least for me--do countries that have parliaments or dictatorships have to go through this much psycho-sexual meshugas to elect a new leader?

Is anyone north of the border working up a sweat over a photo of a tight-jeans-and-plunging-neckline-down-to-there Stephen Harper?

Did heterosexual Cambodian women and homosexual Cambodian men dream of a page 3 layout in the Phnom Penh Daily News of a six-pack-abs-bedazzled Pol Pot?

Did British men in the 1980s fantasize about a hyper-shellacked centerfold of Maggie Thatcher?

Does anyone really want to see Venezuelan bully boy Hugo Chavez posing in a cowboy hat, fringed vest, and buttless chaps? Or German prime minister Angela Merkel in full dominatrix gear?

Or is this all too much of a Maxim-um overload to consider?

Somehow I can't imagine any of this political porno happening anywhere but in our own little fair-to-middlin' republic. The land of the freak, the home of the bored, with libertines and cheap thrills for all. Oh man.

I figure it must all come down to dissipation and decadence. At least that's the only way I can explain to myself the appeal of Sarah Palin. That or there's just so much Viagra in the water supply these days that most of the country's gone blind.

Not to mention deaf. As well as just plain dumb.

Where the rubber meets the road

2008-09-26T20:25:00.003-04:00

These days, I don't think that I'm that easily shocked, at least not by matters sexual and sensual. One doesn't get to be almost 47 without some of the shine being rubbed off the ol' doorknocker, as it were.

Nonetheless, one thing that never ceases to give me pause--and bring a little color to my whiter-than-white cheek--is finding a used condom left unfurled on the sidewalk where anyone (and, per usual, yours truly) can stumble upon it in broad daylight.

Oh, I don't mean to go all family values on your medieval self, this being an election year and all. Still, I was surprised to discover not one but two used rubbers in flagrante near my office building today.

Granted, I don't work in Shadyside or Squirrel Hill or "dahntahn" even. It's not a neighborhood nearly as nice as other places in Pittsburgh, chiefly being a "pre-loft conversion" warehouse district stuck smack in the middle of some ol' robber-baron (rubber-baron?) mansions--Henry Clay Frick's Claymore is just around the corner, for example--and what might be generously described by a Democrat as a disadvantaged area--and by a Republican as a slum/investment opportunity.

It's a little bleak, but I've seen worse, although apparently not lived worse, if I'm taken aback by a little lust's labor's lost.

Still, the prevalence of two tugs of fun, evidence of the quickie that dare not speak its name (but does at least plan ahead and wear protection), makes me think twice about staying too late at work on a moonless night. I'd hate to round a corner in a hurry, lest I get smacked in the face by a flying prophylactic. Worse, I'd hate to slide into home (as it were) on a farflung French letter--ribbed for your protection but perhaps not intended to provide safe traction on, uh, slippery surfaces.

Spending my time making good employ of some petroleum products of my own--gas for my car, for example, to drive myself to work--is seeming like a far more attractive proposition. And better for the environment. Mine, at least.

If only . . .

2008-09-03T10:54:00.005-04:00

Fresh from today's entertainment headlines . . .

Jessica Simpson: Why I Almost Quit Singing

Sometimes even *I* won't kick a dog (too hard) when it's down. After all, with all that's wrong and venal in the word, Jessica Simpson's use of invaluable natural resources to fill whatever gaping need for attention she has in her soul seems a relatively minor offense, when compared to, oh say, anyone who might proudly and unironically attend the Republican National Convention this week.

Here's hoping Jessica does for country music what she did for Robbie Williams' "Angels."

Enter screaming.

No foreigners allowed

2008-09-01T21:19:00.000-04:00

Well, so much for my vice presidential politicking and armchair dream-team quarterbacking. How could I forget that someone not born in the good ol' U.S. of A. cannot become president?

Article II of the U.S. Constitution states

No person except a natural born Citizen, or a Citizen of the United States, at the time of the Adoption of this Constitution, shall be eligible to the Office of President; neither shall any Person be eligible to that Office who shall not have attained to the Age of thirty-five Years, and been fourteen Years a Resident within the United States.

Thus, my choice for Obama's running mate, Madeleine Albright, is about as big a public goof-up as choosing a one-term governor with a slash-and-burn management style, who only seems in favor of two things: More babies and more drilling.

See, it really does all come down to the psychosexual, doesn't it?

I've always thought that that little constitutional stipulation of "no foreigners allowed" was provincial, xenophobic, and hypocritical in the extreme, especially for a country that prides itself on being a nation of immigrants. But whoever said Americans don't have a strong sense of irony just wasn't paying close enough attention.

So Madeleine Albright--born Marie Jana Korbelová in Prague, Czechoslovakia, in 1937 to Czech parents, who escaped to Switzerland, Serbia, England, and finally to Colorado (a Westerner after all!)--would not be an acceptable running mate for Obama or anyone else, due to constitutional restrictions.

But look on the bright side! Now no one can try to push Arnold Schwarzenegger or Jean-Claude Van Damme into the spotlight for the highest national office! Nor Pamela Anderson, William Shatner, Gerard Depardieu, Amy Winehouse, the girls from T.a.T.u., the former members of ABBA, Osama bin Laden, Charlize Theron, Charo, or Kim Jong-il.

Although I wouldn't count out the Republicans trying to change the Constitution to let one particular candidate sneak into the Oval Office. That Charo, she would be a formidable opponent, with more cuchi-cuchi than Sarah Palin could ever muster.

Oh-bomb-uh

2008-08-31T12:56:00.003-04:00

Before we head too far down the overgrown path of my psycho-sexual (emphasis on psycho, definitely not on sexual) life, let's recap for a moment (and analyze ad nauseam) that very American, summertime reality show, The Race for the White House.

And what a jaw-dropping, mind-boggling, space-time-continuum-imploding series of episodes we sat through this week!

We saw the first African-American man nominated for president by a major party. We witnessed a Kennedy (Teddy, to be specific) rise from the dead (rather than leaving someone for dead) to inflict his has-been family's legacy upon the Democrats once more. Next up, we beheld the Republicans make a bold move and nominate their first female vice president--none other than Designing Women's Suzanne Sugarbaker. (Former beauty queen, fond of guns and right-wing politics--all that's missing is the pet pig and Consuela the maid. You tell me the difference.)

And, finally, we saw the nation's first major-party presidential candidate make an equally bold move by doing the exact opposite of all popular expectation--ignoring his experienced, well-known female opponent and choosing instead as his running mate the most boring, ineffectual white guy in American politics (after Joe Lieberman), none other than the Delaware (Dream) Destroyer, Joe Biden.

Wow! The Nielsen's must be through the stratosphere.

I won't even attempt to cover all these topics in this one posting--there aren't enough bytes in the universe, and my attention span isn't that good to begin with. So I will instead just try to focus on one (or two) topics at a time, leaving further snide comments about those damned Kennedys and Miss Half-Baked Alaska 1977 for another day, another entry.

* * *

To say I was majorly underwhelmed and grandly disappointed by Barack Obama's choice for vice president doesn't even begin to explain the depths of depression I experienced upon hearing the news while visiting family on the Cote d'Kansas last weekend. For you see, I fear that this choice for veep was a fatal mistake, that by ignoring Hillary Clinton's supporters in favor of the same ol' same ol'--an old-line, ineffectual, establishment white guy from the Northeast, Barack and Company have just cost the Democrats the election in the fall.

I hope I'm wrong. After all, my track record at picking presidents is spotty at best, famously thinking that Mondale stood a chance of beating Reagan in 1984. However, I can't help but think that in one amazingly bone-headed move, the Candidate for Change and the fresh-from-life support Democratic Party just did a political 180, reverting to type, sticking with the tried and the torpid, and have thus ruined for all of us any chance at a speedy retreat from Iraq, the provision of universal healthcare, the development of a decent social safety net, and an earnest focus on global warming and alternate sources of energy.

Moreover, I am concerned that the Democrats, through their amazing ability to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory at every turn, have resigned us all to more greed, more social conservatism, more polarizing national discourse, and perhaps worst of all, the sort of Ice Princess glamour that can only be proffered by a beer-distributing heiress from Arizona.

I think the Dems owe us all big time for these indignities. They not only ruined our weekend; they may well have sacrificed our lamby little lives for at least another four to eight years.

* * *

Unfortunately, it was never as simple as choosing Hillary for V.P.--although perhaps it should have been. It was a lengthy, hard-fought, and somewhat nasty battle through the primaries, and perhaps those wounds, mistrusts, and jealousies don't heal easily, even (or especially) among the Statecraft Class. Plus there is so much baggage with the Clintons, as big-mouthed Bill Clinton seemed to want to remind us of at every turn, despite his wife's and the country's best interests otherwise.

Still, if you can't let bygones be bygones within your own party, how they heck are you going to make peace in the Middle East?

But American Tourister aside, 18 million votes and a delegate count that was on par with or (with Michigan and Florida in full and fair play) exceeded that of Obama's should have been extremely hard--if not, what? illegal? unethical? impractical?--to ignore.

Yet ignored it was. In favor of . . . Joe Biden, of all things. The beige carpeting, pressed wood paneling, and dingy Laz-e-boy recliner in the national basement rumpus room known as the U.S. Senate. What a world, what a freakin' world.

While in some corners, Obama is widely derided for being a good speechmaker and little else, I think the power of making a good speech--that is, empowering people through leadership--should not be so easily dismissed. Still, in practical terms, he does lack a great deal of national and international experience. (He's only a year older than I am, after all, and I have enough trouble figuring out international electrical currents and small appliance plugs.) It's a fair complaint, and, all in all, I'd feel more comfortable with him if he'd done a Hillary and not a John Edwards and bothered to finish out one or two terms in the Senate, rather than using the first term as a launchpad for national and international stardom.

Granted, the critique of experience is unevenly applied. Bill Clinton had little national or international experience prior to becoming president, as most certainly did George Dubya--although, admittedly, summoning the specter of the Doofus of the Century is hardly a pro statement in favor of winging it and learning on the job.

So I understand the necessity for Joe Biden, as opposed to, say, Kansas Governor Kathleen Sebelius--a savvy politico but one without national recognition (yet)--but I can't get excited over the prospects of a Joe Biden anywhere near the White House either. What does Biden bring to the table other than a too many years of service in the same job? Three electoral votes from Delaware? Wouldn't those have more than likely gone to Obama anyway? Old-line liberal Dem voters from the East and Midwest? Again, likely to support Obama regardless. Women voters? Western and Southern voters? Bitter, working-class Pennsylvania voters? Not bloody likely on any of the three counts.

And exactly what experience, what accomplishments, does ol' Non-Smokin' Joe bring to the table? Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock--time's up! Exactly. As last Sunday's political pundits waxed on about the Joe-you-don't-know, regaling us with tales of his Pennsylvania roots, the death of his first wife and child, and his daily rail commute from his home in Delaware to Washington, D.C., all I could focus on was this--if Ol' Joe is so effective a leader in the Senate, then why, after nearly four decades of commuting via Amtrak, is Amtrak such a steaming pile of caca as a national transportation system?

Thus, without a bold move--like selecting Hillary Clinton for veep, or maybe someone like Madeleine Albright (part of the Clinton legacy but not one necessarily tainted or ruined by it)--one that takes into account the more conservative nature of this nation (and I'm not sure selecting Hillary would have done that), the political disenfranchisement that I know many outside the Northeast feel (and I'm not convinced selecting Madeleine Albright would have accomplished that either but a Kathleen Sebelius or Janet Napolitano might), and one that recognizes the strongly motivated faction that Hillary represents--I'm just not sure November will bring about the changes that we all say we crave and which, whether we realize it or not, we desperately need.

* * *

Just because I have been massively depressed over the prospect of the likes of Joe Biden one heartbeat away from the presidency, doesn't mean that my family and I haven't been able to find some humor in these happenings. It is indeed a case of should we laugh or cry? I've attempted to do the former, at least a little, even though I really have wanted to do the latter to anyone who will listen.

Lucky you.

The first funny for me was the acclaim that Joe Biden's nomination seemed to engender among the news media--with the lone exception of a reporter from the San Francisco Chronicle who flatly stated, "Joe Biden came in fifth in Iowa--how is this going to help anyone?"

Honestly, who knew people in San Francisco were that aware?

From the pro-Biden-nomination camp, my favorite accolade came from CNN's Candy Crowley, who remarked that Biden was an excellent choice because he is "beloved" by Pennsylvanians, apparently because he hails from Scranton and lived there until he was aged 10 or so.

Ah, Scranton. The Dunder-Mifflin of American cities.

So I guess your argument is as goes Pennsylvania, so goes the nation? Oh, Candy, be careful what you wish for.

Look, I know we Pennsylvanians are 10 million strong--and there must be at least double that number that fled the state and reside elsewhere now, chiefly in Florida. Nevertheless, I kinda don't think the Keystone State represents the national zeitgeist. Maybe the Northeast and Midwest zeitgeist (maybe), but there are several million more people and 30 or more states scattered around this country. Being that most Americans outside of Pennsylvania still envision our Commonwealth as a decaying, industrial rustbucket with miserable weather (none of which is really true anymore, at least, in the case of the former, if you don't leave Pittsburgh's East End or stick to Philadelphia's Main Line, and at least, in the case of the latter, for six months out of the year), I can't trust that the rest of America is in sync with this particular state of independence.

And if it is, then as a nation, we're all far worse off than we ever imagined.

Furthermore, regarding the "native son" factor, I can truthfully say that in my four years living in Pennsylvania, I've never once heard anyone mention Joe Biden's name, let alone tell me how much they love him. Hell, no one even talks about Snarlin' Arlen Specter, and he's been one of our U.S. senators since at least before Cher's first farewell tour.

Governor (and heavyweight Hillary supporter) Ed Rendell, check. Senator (and middleweight Barack supporter) Bob Casey, check. Even that right-wing asswipe, former Senator Rick Santorum, check. All mentioned.

But Joe Freakin' Biden? Un-unh.

Still, that "beloved by Pennsylvanians" comment struck me funny and rather inspired me to think about the ways that Pennsylvanians might have paid homage to Joe Biden, if only they'd remembered him from the ten years that he lived in state.

For example . . .

Being that it takes less than 6 hours to drive from Pittsburgh to Philadelphia but nearly 9 hours to travel via Amtrak the same distance--which you can do only twice a day in either direction--the Keystone Limited could be renamed the "Biden Our Time." Very Limited.

Or if Joe decided to drive the distance in one of his many motor tours of the Commonwealth, apple-cheeked residents bedecked in our traditional state costumes of lederhosen and dirndl skirts might shower his limousine with freshly made scrapple and pierogies as he wends his way along the Pennsylvania Turnpike. (Scrapple in the east, pierogies in the west, maybe some chicken-and-waffles in between.)

Or perhaps up in State College, once the snowpack melts, it could finally be revealed that Joe's visage had been carved into the face of Mount Nittany.

Or possibly birds on their migrations north and south could spontaneously fly in formation, organizing themselves into a flight pattern resembling Joe's profile, the whole while vowing not to crap all over the countryside, at least until they made it as far as New York or Maryland.

Or maybe here in Pittsburgh, they could resurrect plans to construct the Colossus of Steeltown--the oft-delayed, 1,000-foot high, fully nude sculpture of our beloved Joe straddling the confluence of the Three Rivers. Patterned after one of Jean-Claude Van Damme's famed mid-air splits, Joe's left leg could stretch to Mount Washington, his right to the top of Heinz Field, and his rather optimistically endowed nether regions cast a shadow somewhere over Point Park. Triple X marks the spot.

What? Too much? Not enough?

Hey, it's this or I tell you how my Mom, sis, and brother spent the weekend comparing the current crop of presidential and vice presidential contenders to regular cast members and bit players on The Andy Griffith Show.

In short, we concluded that Joe Biden was either dull-as-dishwater civil servant Howard Sprague or possibly community goofball Floyd the Barber. We were more sure about John McCain, who is most definitely inveterate rock-thrower Ernest T. Bass at the moment when Andy and Barney tried to clean up his act and make him presentable to Mayberry society. Suit, tie, improved diction, but still, it didn't take, and he was back to throwing rocks by the end of the episode.

We drew the line, though, when a friend of the family suggested that George Bush was best represented by town drunk, Otis Campbell. We thought that was too extreme a critique--the comparison defames town drunks everywhere.

Damn you, Anderson Cooper

2008-08-30T10:44:00.004-04:00

Yes, yes, I know already--I haven't written in a while. Got the message, got the call, got the point! Here, on this lovely Labor Day Weekend, as I sit home alone with my cat and my canary, I'll try to make up for my lack of words.

Oh, you've definitely been forewarned . . .

* * *

It's somewhat pathetic then that my first post in a month's time should be about none other than my former crush, Anderson Cooper, that pasty, prematurely gray, adventure junkie-slash-news puppet who works for CNN but occasionally (and quite bizarrely, I might add) subs for Regis Philbin on Live with Regis and Kelly Lee.

Is this a trend? Having the highly overqualified sub for the mysteriously popular ailing or vacationing celeb? Can we expect Twyla Tharp to pinch hit for Britney Spears when she fluffs her next MTV Awards dance routine? Doctor Ruth Westheimer to stand in for Kim Kardashian the next time she fails to show up for a sex tape audition? Michael Phelps to announce that the show must go on when Lance Bass sprains an ankle on the upcoming season of Dancing with the Stars? And, finally, to completely (yet symbolically, PETA) flog a dead horse, when the Jonas Brothers' tour bus gets stuck in some Partridge Family-like hiccup in the rural Midwest, will anxious and overwrought tween girls at the Iowa State Fair that evening here these immortal words over the loudspeaker at the Corn Palace . . . ? "Ladies and gentleman, I present you with the Jonas Brothers' understudy band--Philip Glass, Steve Reich, and Arvo Pärt!" With maybe Pennsylvania's own Glenn Branca thrown in, 'cause he can keep a good beat?

No? Sigh. What I wouldn't give to be at *that* concert though, if for no other reason than to see Philip Glass ripped to ribbons by hysterical tween groupies.

And therein lies one of the reasons Anderson got out my car (not a Saab 9.3 canary yellow convertible it turns out, but a silver Mini Cooper) and into my dreams again--before going to bed last night, I was relaxing with some soup, that is, The Soup, formerly Talk Soup, the E! Channel program, which samples clips from a wide variety of TV shows and media events and pokes fun at them. Sometimes it's a little mean, but most of the time, it's quite hilarious, in a schadenfreudian "I love seeing celebrities suffer" kind of way. And who doesn't enjoy that?

The Soup showed a clip of Anderson with Kelly Ripa talking about some celebutards (I think it was the low-hand Lohans this time), with Anderson sagely pointing out that he felt himself unknowingly drawn into the story of these stupid, trashy people (or words to that effect). That's my Anderson, at least he's good at getting to the heart of the matter. Too bad he is so unironic as to realize that's how many of us felt hearing about the life of his mother, heiress and jeans slinger, Gloria Vanderbilt. Oh those camera-mugging, cash-trashing Knickerbockers . . .

So already we have the hypnotic suggestion close to bed time, "Remember the Anderson!" soon followed by a cry from--Jesus H. Christ--Neil Patrick Harris of all people to "Remember the 'Mo!" As it were.

For you see, earlier that same day, I had picked up a copy of Pittsburgh's Out, our horrible, horrible, horrible monthly gay newspaper, which as far as I can tell, does not so much cover the G/L/B/T/Q/?/W(hatever) news in our fair 'Burgh as serve as a sort of bar rag chronicle of who was out (get it!?) and about at various Pittsburgh socials, drag shows, nightclubs, and dear god in heaven help us, bathhouses.

Please note, should I ever be photographed in a gay male bathhouse enjoying "foam night" on the rooftop deck with a gaggle of scantily clad faggles, do drive a stake through my heart, shoot me with a silver bullet, decorate your house with garlic pot pourri pronto. 'Cause clearly I'm already gone and am now only a zombie-like, blood (or whatever)-sucking shell of my former sentient, shy self.

Which, of course, means, now that I've said it, that a) by the time I'm 50, such a photo will turn up in the pages of Out, b) I'll try to write an article for Out but be rejected because of c) the existence or lack of existence of such a photo, and/or d) the existence of this blog critique. Naturally, the article will be returned to me with the words "horrible, horrible, horrible" scrawled over the cover sheet. Because that's the kind of postmodern gal I am.

And, yes, e) all of the above is a valid guess.

Anyway . . . and I do have a point here and a story to tell . . . there is one regular feature in Out, "Quote Unquote" that features, as best as I can discern, gay people and their hags making fools of themselves in the media. A case in point, this quote from (Sir) Ian McKellen:

My own death threats have declined considerably. I think I've become rather boring now to the public at large on this [gay] issue so I'm thought to be unremarkable.

Oh, Ian, you just don't get it, do you? You are boring and unremarkable to the public at large because you're a navel-gazing, scenery-chewing douchebag. Jeez, to thine own self be true, Hammy-let.

Or this one from San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsom:

I don't have much patience--particularly for people in my party, the Democratic Party--that are arguing for [civil unions for gay people] as somehow equal. That's not audacity. That's not authenticity. That's not about conviction. That's about accommodation and political posturing. And I'm done with that.

Well, you're not quite done with that, Gav. I mean, you're a politician: Posturing is in your blood. Goodness gracious, Mitt Romney as governor of liberal Massachusetts supported gay marriage at one point, and you see how that turned out when he ran for national office, don't you?

And then there's this quote from Doogie Howser, which got the dream ball rolling along a little further last night:

Mmmmmmmm. Anderson [Cooper]. He's dreamy. Just dreamy. I've been a fan of his since Season 1 of The Mole. I just thought he was so cool when he talked in this cool, low, secret-agent voice--'If you can accomplish this task . . . .'

Firstly, Anderson Cooper hosted The Mole?!?! Just how desperate was this guy to get noticed way back when? And, wow, I never realized that Doogie was still a 14-year-old dweeb; I thought he was older than that by now, even though he does certainly talk like one. Dreamy, indeed.

And that's pretty much what got the dream wheel turning last night. And the dream went something like this . . .

[Insert wavy TV image and trance-like music here]

Somehow I ended up in Baltimore, in a working class, rowhouse neighborhood (why I couldn't stay for that in Pittsburgh, I haven't a clue), at a family party of sorts. Whose family, I don't exactly know. It wasn't mine, and it certainly wasn't some Vanderbilt shindig. The weather was lovely, early September, sunny, and pleasant, so the party was held outdoors. There was potato salad and cole slaw and burgers and hot dogs and nary a morsel of tofu or seitan to be sniffed or suffered. Real food, real imaginary people.

Anderson Cooper accompanied me to the party, and I introduced him to the family who resembled something less than the freaks in a John Waters' movie and more like those out of Tyler Perry's Madea's Family Reunion, except that there were white people at the party and maybe only 10 or 15 or so, not a Cecil B. DeMille (or Demented) cast of thousands.

Then Anderson and I ended up in the back of a limousine (now, now) as it traveled across the Brooklyn Bridge (of course), talking with one another, sitting close, and enjoying the conversation and the growing physical and emotional warmth between the two of us. Our hands kept touching each other, and at one point, I enveloped his in mine, as we continued to talk. Before long, though, he stealthily removed his hand from my grasp, because, don't you know, even in my dreams, guys don't commit.

Suddenly, once again, we were back in Baltimore, around the corner from the party, talking to some other neighbors and wondering why a little boy covered in mud was trying to crawl through a doggie door to get back into his house. I invited the neighbors to join the party and walked back around the corner, holding hands with Anderson and a young hausfrau from the 1950s, ready to introduce them to the family matriarch.

And then, as they say, I woke up, Pam Ewing.

I should add, too, that other than the pasty Anderson and the neighbor lady, I had a hard time discerning who was black and who was white in the dream. It kind of kept changing, in fact. Why it should matter, well, I leave that to you psychology majors and minors in the reading public to dissect and reflect. All I will say further on that particular point is that it wouldn't be a dream of mine without a celebrity, some sexual and social discomfort, and at least one mode of transportation.

Make of that what you will.

* * *

None of this should imply that I still have a crush on Anderson Cooper. Yes, I did once, but that was right after I met him and before I saw him cry one too many times on national TV over god knows what. I don't mind a man that cries, mind you, and Hurricane Katrina was a horrible, horrible, horrible travesty that we've yet to deal with in any meaningful way. But, really, Anderson, no one, post-Regis and Kelly, is buying the tears anymore.

Besides, Anderson never bothered to track me down, get my number, start calling me at all hours of the night, and showing up at my workplace or home at inappropriate times--all things I would have done for him (and done quite well!). So why should I bother further with him?

Yes, you students of psychology, while there's no more to the dream, there's always more to the story. But it's a long holiday weekend. Best to pace myself.

Doing the Can-Con

2008-07-31T08:44:00.006-04:00

I need to write something, don't I? Instead of just enduring this post-vacation distraction and, it must be said, mild apres-holiday depression.

Ten days elsewhere, visiting my friend Smidgen in Ottawa, first, and attending Bluesfest, then on to Niagara-on-the-Lake and the Shaw Festival. With a lot of lovely friendship, poutine, Korean barbecue, shopping, Group of Seven paintings, ice hockey, al fresco dining by the Gatineau River in Wakefield, Quebec, and driving and drinking (but not at the same time) in between. Too bad it had to end.

But . . . I don't feel like writing about it all quite yet. So I won't, and, instead, will just torment you with a few videos that should keep us both in that Canadian State (er, Province? Dominion?) of Mind for a while longer.

Besides, under law, I'm told that 35 percent of all blog postings must feature Canadian content. Just following the rules.

* * *

The immoral majority

2008-07-19T08:38:00.004-04:00

Fresh from The Onion newsroom (sensitive-nature alert: language and imagery may be a tad offensive to you):

'No Values Voters' Looking To Support Most Evil Candidate

Really, though, the no-values voters have had a highly successful president for the last eight years. Time to give someone else a chance to scrape bottom.

Meet Tim Winni

2008-07-01T23:23:00.002-04:00

Change is good.

Blogtucky is now 2-1/2 years old. As I do so often in life as I near the 3-year mark of anything, I feel the need for a shake-up. Thus, I've changed the name of this blog to, simply, Bothered and Bewildered in Blogtucky.

The formerly "bewitched" part had always sounded a little too precious for my tastes, a little too "he listens to showtunes" (which I don't) or "he fancies himself a modern-day Samantha Stevens" (hardly; I would have kicked the dueling Darrens to the curb years ago).

I debated taking the title further, renaming the blog Bebitched, Bothered, and Bewildered, because, let's face it, that is my chief emotional response these days, being a bee-yatch. ('Cause I'm so good at it, that's why.) Then again, I'd really like to name it something completely un-blog-related, much like my friend, the Sin City Flake, did with her as-yet-to-be-acted-upon blog, Rejected Zen. So Bothered and Bewildered will have to suffice for now, until I can come up with something catchier or just get totally bored and need to do something, anything, to keep me engaged in my own writing life.

* * *

Speaking of precious, my former moniker Raplicious had become rather hackneyed-sounding, too. Sooo five years ago, which, come to think of it, is when it came about, thanks to some after-5 pm goofing around with my friend Snappymack at our old office in San Antonio.

So when I needed a new nom du blog, I returned to the source of my original incarnation and inspiration--La Snappy--who suggested "Tim Winni."

That Snappy's got a long, good memory. I had told her a story from last fall, about when I had been at a professional meeting in Central Pennsylvania, a region I had only recently left after working there for--wouldn't you have guessed it?--three years. At the meeting's luncheon, to my surprise, I was was singled out before the entire group as a special guest. "And now the man who needs no introduction . . . ."

Thus, Tim Winni was born--The (Ti) Man (M) Who (Wi) Needs (N) No (N) Introduction (I).

I felt like such a rock star at that moment, although admittedly a rock star well past his prime and one whose career was successful in some Far Rockaway of the entertainment world. In other words, at that momen, I was Estonia's answer to Elvis.

But so be it. Estonia's quite a lovely little country, at least the parts of it I saw way back in 1985. And Tim Winni makes for an excellent blog guise.

At least until I change it out again.

California dreamin' #4: The nojito

2008-06-30T10:57:00.003-04:00

Editor's note: Ah, how did you miss California dreamin' entries #1, #2, and #3, you ask? Well, let's just say, while I like to tell a story in sequence, I don't necessarily write in sequence. The others will join us soon.

* * *

Something new to be bitter about (as if I, Miss Ann Thrope, needed any inspiration): The bad mojito. Or, as Curtis, a new acquaintance of mine (from that other Carolina) refers to them, the "nojito."

Wish I'd thought of that.

What exactly is a nojito you ask? Clearly, you've never had one, or you wouldn't need to ask for explanation. A nojito is a very badly made mojito, and as it is summer in North America, they are legion this time of year. I will admit to being shaky on the contents of even a good mojito--that sublime, summery intoxication of rum, sugar, lime, and mint--but like art and Hair Club for Men devotees, I know it when I see it. Or in this case, taste it. Or better still, in this case, reject the taste of it.

Nonetheless, I'm not a bartender, so I don't have to know how to make the perfect mojito. That, in theory, is what I'm paying, you, said Bartender, for knowing and doing.

As we know from recent commentary, I feel slighted by capitalism's inattentiveness to my needs these days. I also feel indifferent to the appeal of most religious beliefs (see California dreamin' #3, a post yet to be composed as of this writing), however organized or disorganized. Nevertheless, here is one occasion where I would enjoy seeing the brutality of the gods medievally smite Das Kapital's collective ass for serving up an inferior product.

So what makes a nojito in my overwrought opinion? Here are some tips for the wannabe-tipsies and amateur mixologists among us:

Just because you stick something that looks like mashed up mint in a glass doesn't not mean it's a mojito. For all I know, you could have flipped the page to the Italian section of your cookbook and have now just created the word's first Birdseye Frozen Spinach "Rum Florentine" Highball.
Just because you pour a lot of rum, tequila, grain alcohol, or Listerine in a glass does not a mojito make. Save some of the alcohol to disinfect any wounds I inflict upon you for serving up such a waste of my time.
I want to taste lime, real lime, not RealLime juice, lime green jello, or lima beans.
Feel free to add some other flavors to a mojito--I'm not opposed to getting absolutely slap-happy, girl-drink drunk this time of year, especially when I'm at a conference and nowhere near a steering wheel. I do like the conceptualization of a pineapple mojito, a pomegranate mojito, et al. However, too often the execution is, well, a-booze-mal. (Ha! I'm opening in Vegas next week!) Either it's all pineapple or no pomegranate--the bipolar approach to mojito production. Please try to follow the ANSI standard.

My current shortlist of nojito offenders here in the five blocks of F--king Anaheim that I have traversed is as follows:

The Crappy the Discontented Dwarf's Mojito served up at a Tortilla Joe's in Downtown Disney. I know, I know, you screw with the Mouse, the Mouse screws you. You buy a drink at a fake Mexican cantina housed in a fake Wonderbread-based town, and you are bound to get a fake mojito. Served with a smile by the very friendly wait staff--and all for only $8.50 a pop, not including tip.
The Pomegranate Patrón Mojito served up at Roy's Hawaiian Fusion Cuisine, an otherwise excellent restaurant with an exceptional drinks list (ginger daquiris!!!). This left me more blotto than I've been in ages, so much so that I could swear there was the web address for the local AA chapter written in the bottom of the glass. I did not have a good time getting to the bottom of things, though; this wasn't a fun, "I feel tipsy and want to run through a fountain with my clothes on" kind of drunkenness, but, instead, more of a flophouse in the Tenderloin, "please let me curl up and die" kind of alcoholic poisoning experience. Cost: $11.00.

I'm sure there are others out there--I've certainly had a few, but, really not that many--and I'm looking forward to hearing your horror stories, as there is nothing quite like sharing a little misery with the ones you love.

In the meantime, please consider this a public service--your chance to fight the power, to stand up and be counted, to stick it to the man: This summer, just say no to the nojito!

California dreamin' #2: The paws that refreshes

2008-06-27T21:12:00.010-04:00

Viva California--or at least the limited stretch of it I've seen on this trip, having so far only traveled from LAX to a convention center near the Happiest Place on Earth, Incorporated.

Notably, it was a trip with little incident. In fact, at least one good thing happened along the way--I arrived at the airport on Thursday afternoon only to find that my reservation had been canceled, due to major delays through Houston, my halfway point. Now given the way I have felt about coming to F--king Anaheim, I must admit that my heart skipped a beat at the thought of not having to head out at all that day, even though I had a Friday fairly chock full o' meetings.

Bonus! If my most important meetings were moot, could I just skip the conference altogether, stay home, and catch up my housework, gardening, Sims, and backlog of DVR recordings (e.g., I really need to know where, when, and how Jess is going to turn into Tess on One Life to Live).

However, once again, reality prevailed over fantasy in my life--I knew I had to go west, and, quite amazingly, the Continental rep rebooked my flight, this time as a non-stop to LAX. It did mean that, upon landing, I would have about a 45-minute ride to Orange County before being able to relax. But the non-stopper also meant that I would arrive in California a full 2-1/2 hours before I was originally scheduled to. Hurray! Could I be hopeful for a moment that my notoriously bad travel karma was starting to change for the better?

Well, now, really, Sweet Polly Purebred, how do you exist in this world? Of course when the sun shines, a little rain must fall, too, that song by Albert Hammond about Southern California notwithstanding. But, girl, don't they warn ya? Man, it pours.

In my case, the drenching came in the form of Diet Coke. Now I like an ice cold Diet Coke as much as any gay gent watching his middle age spread before him. However, I generally do not like it served, like revenge from a spiteful, philandering boyfriend, in my lap. Unlike that scenario, I didn't end up with a tell-tale rash or a distinctive itch. But I did end up with some icy caffeinated goodness in my lap and down the side of my right leg, thanks to the butterfingers of the woman sitting next to me. While trying to maneuver a cup of coffee for her companion, she inadvertently dropped the cup of Coke into my lap, some 36,000 feet above Missouri.

Of course, it could have been worse--the coffee, not the Coke, could have landed in my lap. Still, I won't pretend that I enjoyed the incident, since it soaked the only pair of casual trousers I'd brought on the trip. I had tried to pack light--the airline recommended way and not operate under my usual paranoia, "I should bring more clothes in case I spill something on them."

Well, *I* didn't spill anything, as it turned out, and see what I get for heeding a corporate edict and not my own good counsel?

I couldn't stay irritated for long, however. The woman had been pleasant the whole flight, chiefly occupying herself by reading passages of the Bible in Spanish to her companion, albeit somewhat loudly during the viewing of Chocolat, the inflight movie. No religious zealot she--at least as far as my weak Spanish could elucidate me--she seemed to have a sense of humor and personality as well. In one scene in Chocolat, when we briefly see a dog hump another dog (it has context in the film, take my word for it, and is not intended to be purely prurient), La Guatemalteca caught me blushing (hey, I'm a white guy, it's what I do best), and we both shared a giggle over the moment.

The interaction all seemed innocent enough until the Coke-spilling incident, when the nice lady laid hands on me--but not in a religious, healing way. She was, shall we say, very thorough in dabbing the spilled drink from my lap and legs. She even repeated her method more than once to make sure she got every, uh, drop.

I alternate between being highly clueless and highly suspicious, which is no mean feat, I can tell you. I wasn't feeling particularly clueless at the moment, more suspicious than anything, but thought, oh, just let it go. She's reading the Bible ferchrissakes! How untoward could her attentions be, especially with her sisterly companion at her side? I'm such a perv in spirit if not in deed. Honestly.

However, a few flashes of smile, a few gentle touches of arm later, and I felt my suspicions were confirmed, my being fully clued in. If there is indeed a god (and I like to think that there is from time to time), then here was my golden opportunity to find religion, turn straight, and improve my Spanish all in one.

Wisely, I think, I chose to remain heathen, homo, and linguistically befuddled in one language rather than two.

Man, nature, technology

2008-06-20T06:52:00.020-04:00

Increasingly I find it difficult to trust people--and by "people," I don't mean family and friends. Specifically, I mean sales and customer service staff from airlines, car dealerships, and cellphone companies. By which, ultimately, I don't mean people at all, but instead some insipid race of money-devouring, soulless changelings who walk among us, feeding on our ATM withdrawals and paltry self-worth, hiding their true nature until after we've been worn down, sucked dry, and become a host for the long haul for their parasitic ways. Such as by way of a two-year contract for a cellphone or a five-year loan for a new car.

Which, I guess, brings me back to people again, 'cause the situation is more than a little vaguely reminiscent of any number of ex-boyfriends I've had. One small, hard case in point (about customer service reps, not ex-boyfriends, 'cause, really, I've moved on) . . . airlines. We know how I feel about them already, don't we?

Luckily, lately, I've been able to arrange most of my travel so that I drive instead of fly, even with gas at more than $4 a gallon (and who among us so Pollyanna that we dare not believe that it will be at $5 or even $6 a gallon by summer's end?). Still, in a week's time, I am facing the prospect of flying to California on business--and, god help me, to Anaheim at that. Not San Francisco, San Diego, or even America's favorite urban suburb, LA (im)proper.

No, instead, it's just Anaheim. Or as I have become fond of saying, F--king Anaheim, like it's some sort of dreadful date movie, a Chasing Harriet or a Kissing Louise, with a wispy blonde lead and a misunderstood-but-darling guy doing a second-rate imitation of an already second-rate actor (read: Ben Affleck).

F--king Anaheim, home to that other ever-smiling, money-devouring, soulless leech of corporate greed--Mickey Mouse, the Kelly Ripa of cartoon characters.

I'm just imagining what the delays will be due to this time--no plane but crew; no crew but plane; plane and crew but no engine; no plane no crew no engine no fuel; Midwestern flooding; Middle Eastern terrorism; or perhaps global warming causing Walt Disney's head to thaw at a precipitous pace.

Despite the obfuscation with delays and yellow-bellied sap-sucker security levels, essentially what it comes down to is this: The airlines hate us. They provide a service to us--albeit a crappy one--and yet resent us for taking advantage of the service, when really all they want us to do is fork over our funds, make no demands upon their time or resources (hell, these days, they won't even let you check a bag without greasing their already greasy palms), and go away as quickly and as quietly as possible.

And, basically, this is the problem with contemporary capitalism as practiced in the United States: There is an exchange of money for a desired object, be it a car, a cellphone, or a space for your butt and a suitcase on a plane. Once, though, you have paid the bill, the service--even when you pay for one of those lovingly offered, practically useless, extended service contracts--seems to come to an abrupt end. So what you get is not good capitalism--"I can buy lots of lovely things with my hard-earned money, and if I have a problem, I can quickly get it resolved"--but bad capitalism. Very bad capitalism. "Help! I've been anally probed by a cellphone salesman, and now I've been impregnated with a useless piece of plastic crap that can't pick up a signal when there are leaves on the trees! And the gestation period for this telephonic Alien bastard isn't up until summer 2010!"

Now what would ever give you the idea that I'm speaking from personal experience?

* * *

Ah, telephone service. Yes, it's taken me almost a year, but I'm back to that topic again. But this time my middle-aged crazy wrath is not directed at Verizon but instead at T-Mobile, the German-owned cellphone giant that kept Catherine Zeta-Jones in diamonds and superior smirks for a several years.

I have had my Motorola 330-something-or-other for 2-1/2 years now, and since about the beginning of the year, I've seen a noticeable reduction in signal strength. Granted, I live in a particularly hilly part of Pennsylvania, which, truth be told, describes pretty much all of Pennsylvania except maybe Philadelphia and environs. Thus, I thought maybe just maybe some of my reduced signal strength was due to spotty coverage along the Pennsylvania Turnpike or the ubiquitous cloud cover over Pittsburgh, my new hometown. I know, I sound like I think a fax machine transmits ink through the phone lines, don't I? But I was grasping at microwave signal straws (or ionized moonbeams or carbonated death rays, whatever it takes to make a cellphone ring around the world) to explain why my mobile at age 2 would start to degrade so badly in signal strength.

Oh, I've dropped it a couple of times, stuffed it in the bottom of a bag or two, and played a few too many hands of Mahjong on it while stuck at the airport. But I'm not one of those persons who lives and dies by his phone. If anything, my phone and I have more of a passing, casual acquaintance with each other rather than a hot-and-cold, bipolar affair.

The wilds of Pennsylvania aside, though, I started to notice problems with signal strength at major airports--Kansas City and Las Vegas, to name but two. I also started to notice that even when sitting next to someone with a T-Mobile cellphone, they would get multiple bars while I would get nothing but empty wrappers. Even walking from my house to work--hardly a trek along the Appalachian Trail--I would be lucky to generate the occasional bar but would occasionally get an "unregistered SIM" message and tales from friends of dialing me up but being told that my phone was not in service at this or any time.

What gives? I should be able to call T-Mobile and get some answers, shouldn't I?

Ha. What a poor, pitiful, capitalist pawn am I.

I did make the call and got some . . . words . . . not necessarily answers. The number on my sim card wasn't the number they had on file--had I changed it out recently? No, never actually. How many bars was I seeing on my phone while at home--3? 4? Maybe 2-1/2, I noted. Had I tried cleaning the interior of the phone and the battery connections with a static- and lint-free cloth? No, actually, that hadn't occurred to me. Will that help? Well, who knows? Who cares?

I could swear that I spoke to the same customer service assistant the last time I called T-Mobile when I had a problem way back in late 2005--a call I made from Germany on a landline because I discovered that despite the promise that I could use a global, quad band phone on their pay-as-you-go plan, surprise! Frankfurt does not believe in tears! You cannot--you have to have a plan.

The customer service rep had the the same very strong Alabama drawl and a best-foot-forward approach to making a difference in resolving my problem, dadgummit, yet the same vague cluelessness about what to do to make it so.

Anyway, I did all of the above and then some, and the phone worked slightly better--that or I am more of a hopeful romantic than I realize--at least for a day or so.

And then it went right back to dropping signals in unlikely places--my office, a city bus, my neighborhood, and, weirdly, a Panera's on Forbes Avenue in Oakland, right across the street from a T-Mobile shop. Funny, the phone had worked fine--in fact, wonderfully, while I was on the street in front of the T-Mobile shop--and just as amazingly when I walked into the shop itself. But across the street in the "dead zone" that is apparently Panera's--a dead zone not unlike that near Dick Cheney's private lair in Fairfield, Pennsylvania--I could no more raise a signal than Catherine Zeta-Jones could illustrate a genuine emotion (other than perhaps revulsion) with Michael Douglas's unsheathed torso in sight.

"Hi, I seem to be having a problem with my cellphone. The signal strength is wonky, highly variable. I noticed this started a few months ago--"

"A few months ago?!" chimed the sales rep, a man-child who had decided to wear his father's ill-fitting clothes that day. "Well, it's spring, there's lots of foliage. That may be why your signal strength is so poor."

"Foliage?" I asked, incredulously. It was such a ridiculous notion that I didn't even try to cover up my I-don't-suffer-fools-easily edge to my voice. "You're telling me there are too many trees out now, and that's why I can't get a decent signal?"

"Yes, that could be the reason!"

"So," I said slyly, starting to warm up to what I envisioned as an entertaining game of cat-and-mouse, with me being the cat, and Junior about to have his sinews separated like strands of spaghetti, "pretty much all of Europe and North America are without cellphone coverage this time of year on account of all the trees. So the reason why I couldn't get a signal at the Las Vegas Airport or the Kansas City Airport, which are both fairly tree-free, is because . . . ?"

"You have an old phone!" blurted another sales rep.

"And you have a stupid haircut," I said.

Well, OK, no, I didn't actually say that. Alas, somedays, I'm too much of a Southerner still. I just thought it, wished ill on his people, and regretted later that I didn't say what I thought.

"The phone is less than 3 years old," I said.

"That's really old for a cellphone!" Spikey said. "Cellphones change out all the time nowadays, more often than cars."

I didn't really know what that sentence was supposed to mean, but if he thought he would win an argument about the rapid obsolescence of cellphone technology with someone who had just unloaded a 12-year old teal-colored Subaru, he was in a for a surprise.

"We have phones that are outdated within 6 to 8 months of release!" he added.

For a second I was quiet, stunned into submission by the knowledge of the short lifespan of the average cellphone, which was starting to rival that of the common housefly. Finally, I focused on Spikey's face and not his hair. "Have you ever heard of landfills?" I asked.

And from the look of all the product in his hair and a quick vision of a dumpster in a back alley in Oakland full of dessicated bottles of L.A. Looks or Bedhead or whatever it is the kids use nowadays, I assumed he had not. He reminded me of that blond douchebag Chad in the commercials for a rival cellphone carrier--Nextel, Alltel, Dotell, whatever. You must have to swear an oath of fealty to the "energy" industry, promise to use copious quantities of petroleum-based hair gels, in order to get a job with a cellphone company these days.

I argued with them for a while longer, enjoying pointing out the ridiculousness of their case. Now at least I know why professors must enjoy their work so much--you can always be the smart one in the room when you're surrounded by 19-somethings with too many dollars, not enough sense, and a training course in sales and marketing under their belt. After all, these are kids who've known nothing other than life in a post-Reagan America. You could tell these chumps anything--war is peace, freedom is slavery, waterboarding is not torture, I did not have sexual relations with that woman--and they would swallow it, crook, slime, and finker.

However, when my voice rose higher in exasperation--"You mean I should buy a new phone from T-Mobile because you tell me to, even though there's no guarantee that the new phone will work any better than the old one?"--all three of us seemed to reach the same conclusion, that this was no fun anymore and really just a big waste of our time. I wasn't going to crumble in the face of being called out for having an "old" phone (and thus for being old, dated, obsolete, and irrelevant myself). I wasn't going to feed my head and give into my psychological panic over my irrelevance and please the young pups by forking over more money and agreeing to a 2-year, even unbreakable by O.J.'s defense team, contract either. And they were no doubt tired out by having to think on their feet for more than a second or two.

I fancied for a moment that they must have been thinking, "Who knew sales could be this challenging?"

But who am I kidding? I'm sure "Wearing down the old curmudgeon" was covered in the first week of their sales seminar, "Selling and Suckering: The Customer as Patsy." They just needed to practice with one of their bros to perfect their technique.

Ultimately, I've got nothing on them, except a little cockiness, which I suspect will make me tragically vulnerable to their next good cop/bad cop sales pitch.

* * *

I'd like to conclude with a paean to the Good Ol' Days when the Customer was King/Queen. (And in my case, sometimes both.) If work by contractors was to be done on time, by golly it was! If your car didn't work, you took it into the garage, the mechanic fixed it, and charged you a reasonable price! If you visited a museum exhibition or watched a show on PBS, you never once saw a commercial for Lexus or Pfizer disguised as sponsorship!

But sometimes I'm not so sure the good ol' days were indeed the good ol' days--although I do recall a time when Pfizer and Lexus didn't sponsor everything cultural moment in our lives. The world has had a long history of economic exploitation, and in some places and periods, it has been worse than others. If you're successful at capitalism, you get to buy lots of nice things for you and your family. But what if you're unsuccessful at it? Or, as is the case in the U.S., what if you're too successful at it?

It seems like a particularly greedy era in which we are living. It gets back to the point I first made, that used to, it seemed that we exchanged money for goods *and* services, not just goods, and not crappily made goods at that. Nowadays, clearly the emphasis seems to be solely on the money endgame, rather than the satisfaction or service. Wealth is concentrated among a few, elites and elitism rules, and whoever dies with the most toys wins. The poor aren't worthy of our money through charities or taxes--they're losers, after all, unsuccessful saps in a country where nothing succeeds like success.

I keep fantasizing about a time or place, in the past or in my future, when this wasn't or might not be the case. That may indeed be just a fantasy. Even when I visited the Soviet Union in the 1980s, I could plainly see that enforcing economic equality (which was equal in propaganda but never in practice, as in some Politburo members were more equal than others) at the risk of human rights might not be the best approach. Even if I did think I would look fabulous in all that Young Communist drag.

But I can't help but wonder if at least attempting more economic equality through, I dunno, social welfare programs and public spending, the sorts of wild and crazy things that make places like Canada, Sweden, Australia, and Germany (T-Mobile excepted) such pleasant and stable nations, might make us a kinder, gentler country. Would we be nicer to one another? Would we feel less edgy and more relaxed? Would we be less selfish? Would we be less likely to covet our neighbors' consumer goods and more likely to be unconcerned with their personal lives? Would we vote for someone who supports government-funded universal healthcare and pension plans instead of someone more concerned with geopolitics, oil revenues, or interns?

Doing so might make Americans unrecognizable to ourselves. We are, after all, a country of cowboy swagger and economic can-do-ism, and I don't think we necessarily want to do away with those aspects of our nature. If nothing else, people like Donald Trump and H. Ross Perot provide a lot of comic relief.

But, jeez, you think we could lighten up a little and maybe cut each other some economic slack. After all, we've got all the money we need. We're the wealthiest country in the world! Why not spend some of the moolah on our own nation-building rather than some place else's? Maybe we should give ourselves a break and serve up some Good New Days, rather than just dream about old ones.

Now that's a service you could sell me, no matter how much hair gel you're wearing.

Scott's tissue

2008-05-29T06:54:00.010-04:00

At the gym last night, I nearly fell off the treadmill a couple of times--and not just because the Pittsburgh Penguins scored big and won their first game in the Stanley Cup finals. Go Pens!

No, instead, I was no doubt riveted to the twists and turns in the coverage over former White House Press Secretary Scott McClellan's newly released book, What Happened: Inside the Bush White House and Washington's Culture of Deception. In this book, McClellan reports that el Presidente "signed off on a strategy for selling the war that was less than candid and honest," a sell he decided to make at least a full year before the war began.

Further, according to MSNBC, McClellan states that "Bush relied on an aggressive 'political propaganda campaign' instead of the truth to sell the Iraq war." Yet McClellan writes that "he did not believe Bush or the White House 'deliberately or consciously sought to deceive the American people.'"

So, let me get this straight . . . they consciously lied, but they didn't mean to consciously lie? Is that even possible--at least without your head exploding in the process of trying to manage two polar-opposite thoughts in your brain at one time? Only in official Washington perhaps. Only from the pen of a professional spin doctor.

OK, so perhaps I wasn't quite as riveted to the endless discussion on MSNBC, CNN, Headline News, and Fox News, as I claim to be. In fact, I would never claim to be riveted to anything emanating from the mouths--or whatever--of the talking heads at Fox News. Except perhaps if they were reporting on Steve Doocy's sudden, horrific disposal at the hands--or whatever--of a band of rampaging, dysentery-infected baboons.

To be completely honest--a rarity in this day and age, I realize--the entire time, I had the sound down, listening instead to the new Santogold CD on my Nano, and was merely watching the parade of red-faced, apoplectic TV hosts scroll by on the flat screen before me. With no big primaries in sight, the pundits have got to feed on something, and this will certainly do just fine, offering enough fresh meat (yet still with the vague tang of bleach about it) to fill their gullets for a day or two. Chow down, chimps!

So I staggered on the treadmill more out of disbelief, disbelief that the Pens came back from a 0-2 loss record in the finals, and disbelief that anyone is at all surprised by Scott McClellan's assertions. Haven't we known this all along, that the Iraq War was based on trumped up, nay, manufactured, charges? That there was no real national debate about going to war? (There was the illusion of a national discussion but, in reality, there was hand-wringing on the left, jingoism on the right, and a whole lot of stunned silence from the majority in the middle.) That the decision to go to war was a done deal from the get-go? That if you didn't agree with the need to go to war--or anything else the administration promoted--you were a disloyal American, actively supporting terrorism? That this president and his administration would do or say anything to win, to hold power, to be have their way--no matter how severe the consequences and losses are for others? Both in the short-term--the loss of life in Iraq--and the long-term--the loss of a healthy democracy in America?

Granted, it is surprising that McClellan, a former member of Bush's inner circle, handmaiden to the Henchmen of the Apocalypse, put all this in writing, especially while Bush is still in office. Finally! To have dissent come from someone on the inside, rather than an outsider, who could be so easily dismissed as, I dunno, disgruntled or something. And goodness knows, if Dana Perino tells me someone is disgruntled, I feel compelled to believe her, beacon of truth that she is.

Still, Scott McClellan's tell-all feels just a little too little and a little too late. The truths in this book might have made a difference five or six years before, as we were marching off to war. But now? What are we supposed to do with this knowledge now?

Soldiers are often criticized by civilians for unwavering loyalty to a cause, even when the cause is wrong-headed or harmful. But they are soldiers--they are supposed to follow orders, and those who command and lead are supposed to act wisely and responsibly, not misusing or abusing them.

Press secretaries by their nature need to be loyal as well. They are dependent on the wisdom and responsibility of those they represent, too, and, likewise, shouldn't be disabused by the superiors.

But wouldn't a press secretary, especially one with the ear of the president, vice president, secretary of state, and secretary of defense, have a little more leeway in following orders than perhaps a soldier in the field might? Wouldn't, too, a press secretary have some responsibility to the truth (at least some of the truth), no matter what pressures he or she might be under? There's quite a bit about this in journalism education, which is how most press secretaries receive their training, I would imagine. It's a little something called journalistic ethics.

And, finally, wouldn't someone who represents the American government and is, thus, a public servant, bear some allegiance to the government he represents, as well as the people he serves?

Or am I simply asking too many questions? Goodness knows, after this little dirty bomb went off in the public square, all I can pick out of the rubble are questions.

Oh, I'm sure Scott McClellan had his reasons for sticking to the party line and staying quiet until now, very late in the Bush presidency, when telling the truth could do little harm to the administration's reputation. (As in limbo, how low can you go?) Perhaps before something or someone truly sinister was afoot--the wolf was at the McClellan door, threatening to huff and puff and blow down his well-appointed house in the Virginia suburbs should he step out of line and speak with unforked tongue for a change. Karl Rove, the world's most venal troll doll, kidnapped his wife and tied her to the train tracks, while a steam locomotive barreled toward her. Or maybe there were widows and orphans to consider, and a ne'er-do-well, mustache-twiddling banker threatened to foreclose on poor Ma McClellan and all the lil McClellan children would go cold, hungry, and homeless should Sonny go agin him.

Boo hoo, boo hoo. It all sounds very tragic indeed. Like something out of an old melodrama--or maybe a fairytale. In fact, I feel all overcome! Somebody, quick, I need a tissue. But don't give me just any tissue--I need a Scott's tissue. This is a double-hankie weepie for sure.

Make sure it's the real thing, though. That thin, little, one-ply tissue the administration passes around--you know the one, sold under the label Tissue of Lies--just can't mop up a mess like this.

Remember when

2008-05-26T10:50:00.004-04:00

Guess what? Despite the title, this isn't another nostalgic post about the merits of classic car ownership. Shocking, I know.

Instead, I'm going to go all serious on you for a moment and remind you that today is Memorial Day in the United States, a day which we have set aside to commemorate those who died while serving in our nation's armed forces.

Granted, nowadays, when we think of the official reason for Memorial Day (if we think of it at all), we view it as a time to commemorate all those who serve or have served in the military. More likely, though, we think of it as the unofficial beginning of the summer season, a great time for shopping and barbecues, a good excuse for a long weekend in ever stingy-with-the-vacation corporate-cultured America, or even the day upon which the Indianapolis 500 takes place. But enough with the cars already.

According to Wikipedia, still my source for all wisdom, Memorial Day was initially begun as Decoration Day, a day set aside to pay tribute, remember, and memorialize those Union soldiers who perished during the American Civil War. Later it was expanded to include all soldiers--men and women--who died in service to their country. However, as there is still a Confederate Memorial Day on the books in some states (I'm not naming names . . .), I'm guessing Memorial Day doesn't necessarily include in the list of honorees those who died in service against their country.

(Editor's note: Oh dear, I've perhaps lived too long above the Mason-Dixon Line. Still, I have seen Confederate flags placed on the graves of fallen Southern soldiers on Memorial Day, at least in Virginia, so perhaps finally we've all moved on.)

Anyway, I think Memorial Day is especially poignant this year. Whether rightly or wrongly, we are a nation at war, in Iraq specifically and somewhat in Afghanistan as well. Despite our best efforts at national distraction (Hillary vs. Barack! Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull! What was Britney/Lindsay/Paris/ Nicole/et al. thinking?!), it is a cold, hard reality difficult to ignore. No matter where you stand on the decision to go to war and on the outcomes of that decision, it is where we are at the moment--and for the immediate future.

I think, too, this Memorial Day is particularly sensitive for me because I keep thinking about my Dad, who passed away more than a year ago. He served proudly in the U.S. Marine Corps for some 30 years but personified the motto, "Once a Marine, always a Marine." He carried the responsibility, discipline, and camaraderie of being a Marine with him throughout his life.

Even in his later years, when he was suffering from Alzheimer's, I can remember being on a visit with him and my Mom to Bandera, Texas, in 2003 or so, and watching his face light up when he overheard a fellow Marine talk about being stationed at Camp LeJeune, where he served in military and civilian posts for many years. Even then, he was able to converse with this comrade-in-arms about their shared experiences as soldiers. Despite his illness, I think some of his strongest remaining memories were positive ones from his time as a soldier in World War II and post-war China.

Frankly, I can't even remember where I was or what I was doing last Memorial Day. In fact, much of last year is a blur at this point, in part because of job change and moving. However, more than anything, things are hazy from last year because I spent most of the year being numb from his rather sudden death.

I've been less numb over the last couple of months, which is both good and bad. Good, if you can call it that, to finally start feeling his loss; bad, if you can call it that, because it comes out at completely unexpected times and sometimes in completely unexpected ways. I can't listen to the song "Solsbury Hill" by Peter Gabriel, a favorite of mine, without becoming upset because it reminds me of an ordinary day in the 1970s when my Dad picked me up at school and that song happened to be on the radio. I can't pass a field or a wood and see the new spring growth without feeling emotional--all that newness and beauty, it just makes my soul ache. And little hassles and really stupid things that people say or do, tick me off rather quickly and deeply, much more so than before. I've never been one to suffer fools easily (including my own foolish self), but this past year has been exceptionally challenging.

Nonetheless, Memorial Day isn't all about me.

Instead, for a complete change of pace, I'm trying to think of others and of ways I can make a contribution, however small, to provide comfort to those who are enduring a particularly grueling task in our name. It is cliché to say perhaps, but whether you're for, against, or debilitated from all feeling about the war, we can at least agree (I hope) that those who serve deserve our support.

Support takes many different forms. Maybe for you it is a protest march against the war or a heated discussion with friends and family about its continued existence. Maybe for you it involves displaying an American flag at the front of your house, tying a yellow ribbon around an oak tree, or supporting "the surge" as a way to get the job done and bring home the troops as soon as possible. So be it. Whatever it takes--as long as you can look yourself in the mirror and know that your sincere intent is to honor the troops, their families, and friends, as well as the people of Iraq and Afghanistan. If you're thinking first and foremost what would be best for all of them, and not trying to promote your own pro- or anti-war agenda, then go forward and prosper. I have no argument with you.

But why not put your money where your dissenting opinions and patriotic gestures are? Why not show some love and share some humanity through a donation to a charitable organization that offers support and comfort to soldiers and their loved ones?

I'm by no means an authority on where to go to do this, but I can at least tell you about a few organizations I've become familiar with over the last couple of months. Maybe one of those is the right place for you to share some time, money, or other resources to make things a little better for everyone. Caveat: I know enough about these organizations to be dangerous, but from the outside looking in, they do seem to have their hearts and heads in the right places.

Knitting for charity--I recently was fortunate enough to visit the National Museum of the Marine Corps in Quantico, Virginia. The day I visited, there was a group from a local charity knitting helmet liners and other useful clothing for soldiers. Why I didn't take down the name of the charity, I don't know. However, this article from About.com lists some of the major U.S. organizations that accept knitting for charity, including Operation Homefront.
Books for Soldiers--This seems like a great idea, especially since they encourage you to donate books and other media that soldiers actually want, rather than letting you send any ol' thing. The one complication, though, is that they want you to fill out an application and have it notarized before you start sending materials. Seems like an unnecessary extra step, but I'm sure they have their reasons. Anyway, if that's too onerous, you can also make financial contributions to their operations.
Tunes 4 the Troops--This organization was recently featured as part of the "Heroes" series on CNN, an increasingly useless source for information on practically every topic. Still, I found the story behind this organization impressive. Clearly, sharing music with others is something I'm committed to, if recent postings in this blog offer any evidence. Granted, some of the tunes I would send along might not help a soldier (for example, does a U.S. soldier really need the entire back catalog of the Spice Girls? don't ask, don't tell . . .), but it is a neat idea, and one that would be easy to assist with.
The USO--The USO has been providing support, comfort, and recreational opportunities for soldiers for nearly 70 years. You can contribute to their efforts by offering your money or your time.

I'm sure there are others that are equally worthwhile. If you have a favorite, please leave a comment or drop me an email, so the news can be shared with others.

In the meantime, no matter where you stand on the political spectrum, for just today, perhaps we can take a moment to remember our service men and women, past and present. More importantly, in the year ahead, perhaps we can take some time from our busy lives to do something positive for the benefit of our troops.