Lost Verizon

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wow, how cool and edge-cutting is that?

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

Or something!

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

Much as I expected.

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

"On any phone line?"

"On any phone line."

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

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

"Your name isn't Barrett?"

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

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

Thank you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, but our records state otherwise."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How long will this take?" I ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Great!" I say. I like assurances!

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How may I help you, Mister Barrett?"

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

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

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

I explained again that I still had no dial tone.

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Power to the inculcated people!

Yours truly,

Che "Mister Barrett" Guevara.

Motion sickness

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

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

And then I up and move again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

Is Pittsburgh the answer, though?

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gotta move on

Well, I talked about it, talked about it, talked about it, talked about it . . .
Talked about moving . . .
Gotta move on . . . gotta move on . . .
Won't you take me to Funkytown?

Lipps Inc., "Funkytown," 1980

Why the long silence from Blogtucky? Well, I'm on the move again, this time to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, Steel City, Iron Town, the gateway to . . . Ohio and . . . West Virginia.

The official move doesn't take place until 6 July 2007 (less than a week away!), but as you can imagine, I'm now busy trying to organize the move, finish up at work, and pack, pack, pack.

OK, OK, so truth be told, my mother, Vivien Leigh, is visiting and doing the bulk of the packing while I finish up at my old job. But I still have lots of fretting and kvetching to do, regardless. And that's hard work, especially as we know how fully and tirelessly I apply myself to both.

I'm very excited about this move and the change in employment that lays underneath. The opportunity to be back in a larger city--one with a vibrant arts scene, friendly people, creative cuisine, mass transit, and loft apartments that are actually constructed from old warehouses and factories and are not newly designed and built lofts on the site of former rowhouses (I'm talking to you, Washington, D.C.)--seems like a better choice for me, personally, something that everyone who knows me, well or otherwise, has realized from the start, but a fact that seems to evaded my consciousness until the last year or so.

I'm excited, too, about the new job, which represents something of a departure from the day-to-day professional work I've done over the last decade. Thus, it's both exhilarating and frightening at the same time, like, I dunno, performing a book cart drill team routine before a live audience or something. I've been in need of a change for a while, long before the sad turn of events from this past spring, so I'm hopeful that this is indeed a good, positive move.

I have about five or six different postings in the works right now, but I think they are going to have to wait until July, post-move. I also need to think about whether I need to rename Blogtucky to something more yinzer-friendly (On top of ol' Blogegheny? By the banks of the Blognongahela? Tall tales from the Pennsylvania Blogpike?) or just leave it as is, 'cause Blogtucky is still a pretty yinzer-friendly concept.

After all, Blogtucky is more a state of mind (or sumthin') and not so much a place. Despite the ridiculousness and celebutardedness I've often written about, what I hope I've conveyed a little so far is that there is indeed life in the "Flyover Zone," that indeterminate area between the Eastern Seaboard cities and the Left Coast. Or I think I've at least conveyed that that *I* am located in the Flyover Zone, and I do happen to be a living, breathing (if not always thinking and conscious) entity. Take your pick.

So go west, middle-aged man, to Pittsburgh, to a new job, a new home, and a new life, if you're lucky. See y'all on the flipside of July.

Farewell, Falwell

I'm not sure I can do better than The Onion on this one.

Don't let the Pearly Gates smack you on the backside as you make your way to warmer, but not necessarily sunnier, climes.

The shooting galleria

Earlier this month--it is hard to believe it's only been a couple of weeks now; it feels like years already--I managed to escape my so-called life and travel to Kansas for a family visit. Given my Dad's death only six weeks prior to my visit, I really felt as though I had to get home soon--for my sake as well as my family's.

It was instantly clear upon arrival that I'd made a wise decision. Despite the freeway pile-up of work I had left behind and the train wreck of meetings I was blowing off, flying out to a warm and sunflowery (in spirit if not yet in landscape) Kansas was a well-chosen journey for my psyche, my soul, and my body.

Upon landing, my Mom and sister and I hit the Zona Rosa shopping center near Kansas City International Airport. We had an early dinner at Montana Grill, one of the Ted Turner-owned chain of steakhouses (that's bison steakhouses, by the way). Then we took a long walk around the very trendy, rather fabulously designed, Southwestern-flavored outdoor center, watching the crowds, window-shopping, and soaking up late afternoon sun.

There were kids, there were teens, there were families, there were bikers, there were singles on the make, and there was us, and it felt good, after a forever-delayed spring in Pennsylvania and a very sad, grievous winter watching my Dad slip away from us, to be able to enjoy ourselves, almost sans souçi, in the warm sunshine. Because of my Dad's ongoing health problems over the last few years, for quite some time it had not been possible to do something as a family this spontaneous, public, and physically demanding. I'm only sorry my Dad wasn't there to enjoy it, because when he was well, this is the sort of the thing he would have enjoyed.

The next day, we were all at home in Lawrence, having a lazy afternoon of TV, chatter, playing with my sister's good-natured but entitled princess of a dog, reading the weekend Kansas City Star and the Lawrence Journal-World, and reminiscing from time to time about my Dad. We have our sadness, but we also have lots of satisfying memories and funny stories to recall. And let it never be said that the Licious clan can't find time to chuckle and giggle in the face of adversity.

When we had been together in March at the time of my Dad's death, we still found moments of humor. As my sister wrote his obituary for the local paper, and attempted to make it more personal, relating his hobbies and interests, she wondered aloud, "Would it be too much to put in here how much he hated the Kennedys?" We abstained, but, really, in Kansas (and most of the country, for that matter), it would have only made my Dad even better liked.

As friends and neighbors of my parents and sister heard the news, they began bringing over plates and piles of food, glorious food--comforting ham and scalloped potato casseroles, fresh fruit, luncheon meat and bread with condiments, pies, salads, and more. After several nights of this, along with a sidetrip to Bigg's Ribs for further sustenance, we suddenly were faced with having to reheat what was left of the Chinese chicken salad casserole or make dinner on our own. I couldn't help but ask my sister, "So . . . is there anyone else you know who can cook . . . and would they take requests?"

Black-humored blasphemy you say? Well, you didn't know my Dad, and you don't know my family. That's just us. And my Dad would have no doubt been in the middle of it, enjoying the laughter, helping us heal the pain with our family's off-brand humor.

If only.

* * *

In the midst of this drowsy, dragonfly idle, suddenly, CNN interrupted their usual Sunday numbing novena of headlines to announce that there had been some sort of shooting at a Kansas City shopping center with a promise of further details as they learned them.

The afternoon wore on and the news was sketchy and convoluted. Was the gunman still alive? Had he been inside the mall or out? Had he left the scene? How many were wounded? How many were dead? And at which shopping center had he been?

We fielded a phone call from my brother in Virginia who was making sure that we had stayed in Lawrence that day and were all safe and sound. We were fine, but with details still filtering through, we started to wonder--had there been a Target at Zona Rosa? There had definitely been a Starbucks, but was it near the Target? Could we have been at the very site of this shooting just the day before?

Eventually, it turned out that the shooting had happened at the Ward Parkway center on the southside of KC. (Zona Rosa is on the far north.) But it wasn't until the following day that we had a clearer sense of what happened and where. At least three dead on the scene and another killed previously at the shooter's home. At least two more wounded. A police officer shot. The shooter killed.

This, of course, had occurred less than two weeks after the shootings at Virginia Tech, the worst mass killing in U.S. history. At least so far. There, 32 had died. At least another 14 were hospitalized with wounds from the murderer's weapons and ammo. Some 170 rounds of ammunition had been expended. The shooter was killed, apparently by his own hand. And an eternal horror show of tales were revealed about the killer and his disconcerting life and times, as well as a neverending litany of vignettes about the lives of those who had died and what they might have become had they not been shot to death in a public building.

It was a similar but smaller scale tale back in Kansas City. It wasn't long before the local stations started broadcasting backstory about the killer, one Mr. David Logsdon, a former Target employee with a history of violence, and, apparently incredibly easy access to firearms. The story took an even odder twist, though, when one channel featured a, to say the least, colorful account by a long-time neighbor that perhaps Logsdon had been involved in Satanic rituals in his backyard. The neighbor had spotted some strange ceremonies, including possibly a wedding, that Logsdon and others had participated in.

But, no, it wasn't Satanic worship. Apparently, area Pagans explained, Logsdon had been a member of one of their covens but had had a falling out with the group several crystal deodorants ago.

Satanic worship. Paganism. Sunday afternoon shoot-em-ups at Starbucks and Target. Yowsah. Whichever travel diarist or tourist guidebook writer first said the Midwest was dull clearly took the bypass when they visited Kansas City.

* * *

Still, it hardly seems the point, whether Mr. Logsdon was an acolyte of the Dark Lord or a devotee of drumming circles under a full moon. Hardly the point at all but--like car wrecks, hold-ups, building demolitions, and internet predators--guaranteed "click tease" fare to get us to watch the evening news. Satanic rituals. Puh-puh-puh-puh-leez.

Oh, I'm not saying I would welcome the First Church of Beelzebub operating a community center next to my home. The noise from the human sacrifices would be terrible, the inverted pentagram topiaries a bit OTT, the constant black clothing a drag on neighborhood morale, not to mention a traffic hazard once we fall back to standard time and the evenings grow longer and darker. And, goodness, the Halloween bakesale would pose an iffy social landmine, wouldn't it? How to peruse the cupcakes and delicately inquire just how much blood of the innocents was used in the recipe without offending one's brooding, prone-to-retribution neighbors?

But have you seen how the average televangelist dresses? Have you ever tried to maneuver a temple parking lot on a Saturday? Can you imagine the challenge you might face trying to sell your home if it was located next to the prayer center of a fatwah-friendly mullah with a perpetually aggrieved following? And don't even get me started on the Scientologists. No way would I welcome an accidental encounter with the likes of Tom Cruise, Kirsty Alley, or John Travolta in my borough after midnight. Jesus (so to speak).

Secular humanist (but, oddly, neither atheist nor agnostic) I am of the mind that no religious group presents itself publicly in the best light or with the least weird spectacle. So to me worrying over whether the killer was an aficionado of the Grand Poobah of Pestilence and Plague is moot. Seemingly even less important is the great Pagan v. Satan debate. Claiming a fresh-from-the-kill mass murderer as formerly one of your own might not be the smoothest PR move. Does anyone at this moment really need a lesson in the characteristics and distinctions of Earth-centered religion when one of your former participants has just gone Target-practicing at a local shopping mall? Just let everyone think he's a Satanist, for (heavy irony) God's sake. Then let the Satanists take the bum rap and keep on keepin' on with your Pagan thang.

The whole Satan/Pagan deal is nothing more than a fiery red herring, of course. It only serves to distract our attention from the fact that with widespread handgun and assault weapon ownership in this country, coupled with a certain tendency to resort to hysterical, often violent, means to solve emotional disturbances or perceived slights, the reality is that you can't go to a university, the post office, a hospital, a fast-food restaurant, a chain coffeehouse, a department store, NASA, a shopping center, CNN headquarters, an Amish schoolhouse, or, well, you name it, without fear of being the victim of a spree killer's "I Don't like Mondays" foul disposition and studied aim.

Now say what you will about guns not killing people, that people kill people, the fact remains that making guns--specifically, easily-purchased-by-the-distraught-or-insane, high-powered, multiple-round shooting kind of guns--readily available, you are more likely to hear of 30-some people having their lives violently cut short through said firepower rather than, say, because of an out-of-control archery set, nunchaku run amok, or extreme bitch-slapping.

Propaganda campaigns featuring Charlton Heston aside, guns do in fact kill people. Granted, they aren't liable to go off without a little encouragement in the form of clip-loading and trigger-pulling, but in and of themselves, guns do streamline the process of severing arteries, splintering skulls, lacerating vital organs, and taking lives.

Of course, due to our wildly famous, high-concept war on terrorism, not to mention our own adventures in homeland-focused big hate in Oklahoma City and New York, we've learned that all sorts of materiel can be turned successfully into weapons of mass destruction. Chlorine. Fertilizer. Panel vans. Airplanes. To name but four.

What's a government to do--outlaw Clorox in the gallon-sized jug? Arrest all swarthy pool boys? Padlock the gates of Agway? Require all electricians, drycleaners, and plumbers to haul their wares in see-through Miatas? Ban all fast-moving objects with internal combustion engines? Then only the MagLev, Conestoga wagons, and Detroit-designed cars will be approved forms of mass conveyence in our brave new world.

Well, of course not. How silly. Fertilizer, chlorine, panel vans, and 747s do have other uses, after all. Plan all we want, but no matter what we do, how we cope, how many precautions we take, as long as people want to kill, there will always be a new weapon of choice.

But what other purpose does a gun--specifically a handgun or assault weapon--have other than to kill or wound, especially human beings? Very few of us get our fresh deli meats and rotisserie chickens while positioned in a deer blind during hunting season, but instead at Safeway, Giant, Weis, or Wegman's. Some of us even don't eat meat at all. I for one refuse to believe that the holes in Swiss cheese can only be achieved through careful deployment of firearms in the dairy section. Therefore, that leaves only one metaphorical tin can on the fence railing remaining for target practice with a gun--us. And I can assure you that that tin can wasn't orginally labeled "asparagus" with the rest of the label now blown off from excellent marksmanship.

So, again, other than the yen for fresh venison from time to time or to shoo away a bear from a picnic, what else do we use guns for other than to kill people? In self-defense or on the offense, whether we're "law-abiding" or just mean or crazy, killing each other seems to be the main purpose of a certain type of firearms in our fully loaded, number-one-with-a-bullet culture.

With that idea more or less established, you have to start wondering about how many accidental and on-purpose shootings per year are we willing to tolerate before we agree that the situation needs to change? Whether we need more or less gun control (and I hope by now you're thinking more, although I'm not advocating a total ban on guns--it's unrealistic, and, besides, if people want to hunt, let 'em hunt), improved mental health services, a more economically even playing field, anger management classes, or just a couple of years in finishing school to teach us some manners, it seems imperative that something in our way of life needs desperately to change.

And if the Virginia Tech massacre didn't bring that home, what exactly would?

Oh la la

Maybe it's the fact that we're fresh from an exciting and newsworthy election, pitting the debonair (if shriekingly right-wing) Nicolas Sarkozy against the chic (if vague and litigious) Ségolène Royal in battle for the French presidency.

Perhaps it's the recent conclusion of the Eurovision Song Contest (even if it was won this go-round by Serbia, not exactly a French-speaking nation) and a rush of stars-in-my-eyes memories of the Serge Gainsbourg-penned, France Gall-sung, "Poupée de cire, poupée de son." (Editor's note: I'm assuming--in fact, I'm hoping and praying--that France Gall was a much better singer than the clip indicates. She sings this ditty like an over-Red Bullied, playground-grande-fatigue-suffering, and tone-deaf child. Admittedly, the cover by Dubstar, featuring French musical warhorse Sacha Distel, sounds better to contemporary ears.)

Or maybe it's the fact that when I was in Baltimore in early April, I had a "French martini" (chambourd, cranberry juice, Stoli raz--yum!) at this little Mediterranean boîte, Casbar on Charles Street, and have never quite recovered. Mind you, not so much from the kick-in-the-head hangover but, instead, from the I-need-an-AA-meeting-stat! sensation I get whenever I think about that drink and crave another round. With the tab preferably being picked up by Olivier Minne.

Comme si, comme ça, qué será será. I may be in through the out door of Hollywood rehab centers because of that martini, but my semi-obsession with all things French keeps on keeping me high.

But what gives? There's so much going on in the outer world, as well as my inner world, that I feel I should write about (grief, politics, religion, gardening, origami) and yet the most I can focus on at the moment are Etienne Daho's plus grands succès, Mylène Farmer's provocative, expletive-fueled hits, and, mais oui, Moroccan hip-hop in the comely form of Ahmad (or Ahmed, depending on where you read) Soltan.

Coca-Cola and surfing on the beach at Casablanca. It's jihad with all the trimmings, innit?

I blame it all on Radio France Internationale. I am a frequent listener via the internet to RFI Musique and at work am often mentioning it to others as an interesting "station" to tune into during the day. Naturally, given my rather odd sensibilities--très Vidal Sassoon with un peu smidge of Gore Vidal, I suspect--they ignore my suggestion.

Most of the music is not in English (nor is it solely in French--you're likely to hear Spanish, Italian, Russian, German, Arabic, and songs in other languages--shocking, I realize, to we monolingual United Staters), so there is no distraction from hearing lyrics in my native language while trying to do my work. In fact, it is a nearly all-music channel, so there is little "text" in any language to distract.

Nonetheless, the music tends to be upbeat and often poppy, often with a worldbeat flava, so there is the distraction of catchy tunes wafting from my computer speakers into my rather cluttered mind. And the distraction can sometimes begat more distraction, leaving me wanting to know more about the song, the artist, the meaning of the lyrics, and where to find the music for sale or available for (legal) download.

This quest for physical representation of the hit in my collection has led me to some intensive web-searching gymnastics over the years--and I do mean years, as the right song may stay in my head for that long and, with some luck and carefully chose search terms, will gradually reveal itself line by line, note by note.

* * *

A case in point.

Sometime before I left San Antonio in 2004 (perhaps in 2002 or 2003), I kept hearing this lush, aural soundscape in heavy rotation on RFI Musique. Try as I might, I could not grasp a lyrical line to hang onto. When I do, I generally then take the lyric, slap quotation marks around it, and Google it, nine times out of ten coming up with an artist, a title, or at least a lead that eventually places me at the scene of the song.

But this tune--all swirling strings and dub effects (men chanting, a woman sighing sensually)--gave me nothing to work with. Other than the realization that what I was trying to identify was a tasty slice of French electronica. And the French create electronica almost like we crank out American idols. So I had some work ahead of me.

I web-surfed but, honestly, how do you create search terms for a sound? Especially when you're not versed in such a language (I mean music, not French necessarily) or even sure what you're listening to?

Eventually, in fall 2005, I posted a description of the song to a French music group in Yahoo, hoping that someone would identify it for me. My description went like so:

This is a very lush, electronic tune, awash with strings (very 1950s and dreamlike) with a dubbed, breathy, orgasmic female vocal, backed by a vocoderized and dubbed male voice speaking certain phrases. What are those phrases? Well, my French isn't good enough to identify any lyrics unfortunately, but this "song" is more like a musical soundscape, not a traditional verse-chorus sing-a-long song. It's very ethereal and trancelike, and I'm sure it's some DJ hit, rather than a well-known singer/artist.

I didn't receive a response to my query, but I was closer to an answer than I knew, which I only realized earlier this year.

One morning, I was driving to work and popped in a new CD I purchased over the internet--the Belgian group Hooverphonic's No More Sweet Music. (Editor's note: Hooverphonic is one of my favorite groups, but this CD hasn't so far been released in America. Thus a little more debt for me with Amazon dot pick-yer-internet-country-domain-abbreviation.) It's an odd little collection this one, consisting of two discs, one entitled "No More Sweet Music," the other, "More Sweet Music." Each disc features the same songs but in often radically re-recorded versions. These are not boring ol' DJ remixes but variations, interpretations. One version of the song may be more electronic and beat-heavy; the other may be more ballad-like. But the styles are mixed on both CDs, so you don't end up with one designed for your glowstick pleasure and the other for your chillout session. Instead, each interpretation makes you appreciate the song and listen to it more closely.

Anyway, after listening to the "More Sweet Music" disc the previous day, the following morning, after I ran out of range of XPN, I inserted "No More Sweet Music" into the player. And on Route 15 somewhere south of York Springs, all was revealed: The opening, swirling strings from the mystery soundscape began emanating from my car's speakers.

Well, almost all was revealed. Not quite Eureka! it would turn out. While the strings were the same, nothing else in Hooverphonic's version sounded like the song I remembered hearing on RFI Musique. Perhaps the version I had heard on the radio was a remix of the Hooverphonic tune?

I didn't have the time to surf the web at work--nor, of course, would I ever do this for personal business, I can assure you. So I had to wait until I arrived home later that evening. I checked the Hooverphonic website, but no, this tune, entitled, in fact, "No More Sweet Music," had not been released as a single. No single probably equals no remix, I figured. Hmmm. So. What now?

I checked the liner notes. Hooverphonic's "No More Sweet Music" featured a sample of a tune called "Lujon" by Henry Mancini. And so apparently did this mystery song.

So don't bore us, get to the chorus--after a while, I wound up in Wikipedia in an article on sampling in music, then found a link to a list of songs sampled by artist, and voilà! I discovered that "Lujon" had been sampled by Sergio Mendes and Erykah Badu in their hit, "That Heat," and by French DJ Dimitri from Paris in his song, "Souvenir de Paris."

It took some further surfing to find a free mp3 on the web to reconfirm that this was indeed the mystery tune. (Editor's note: I'd point you to it, but I can no longer find it.) It took still further surfing to figure out on which Dimitri from Paris disc I could find a recording of this song. And that search wasn't as easy as it sounds as I could only locate one recording, a Japanese pressing of Dimitri's Sacrebleu album, that featured the song as a listed bonus track. (Other discs may or may not have the tune as a hidden bonus track.)

So electronic, check. Strings in a 1950s' style, check. Lush, check. DJ hit, check. Male voices? Actually dubbed male and female voices speaking phrases you might here on a Paris street. The erotic, female moaning? Actually, a dubbed female voice chanting "Paris" (Pah-ree) over and over again, both quickly and slowly.

Not bad for four to five years' work. But this is the sort of search gymnastics I'm willing to contort myself through in the name of (pop) art--mine or, in this case, someone else's.

Bend me, shape me, give me a higher credit line, please.

* * *

Oh, I have other examples. There are a couple of tunes I remember hearing on shortwave radio from Europe in the mid- to late '70s--via the "DX Jukebox" program on the English service of Radio Netherlands, transmissions from the German service of Deutsche Welle, or heavily jammed broadcasts from the Russian service of Radio Free Europe. ("'On Broadvey,'" as the DJ used to say in those Cold War-era commercials on U.S. TV.) I'm still trying to track these down.

A soul-gospel shout-out with the chorus, "You + Me = Love, I believe!" You can't even imagine how badly a search engine accepts plus and equal signs.

A very Munich-in-the-disco-era tune, featurng a cooing female voice singing "Fly, fly, butterfly" over again, with a man's voice coming in after the female voice intoning "butterfly" in a breathy but masculine refrain. And, no, folks, it's not "Fly, Fly Butterfly" by Arabesque or "Fly, Robin, Fly" by Silver Convention. Been there, done that already.

A bilingual French-English tune from the late seventies with the chorus, "Do you speak French? Do you want to speak French? Well, parlez-vous, français!" The song features a male voice speaking words in one language, with two or more female voices responding with the translation in the alternate language. Example:

Man: "Taxi."
Women: "Taxi!"

Non, mon frere, it's not the Luxembourg entry for 1978's Eurovision Song Contest, "Parlez-vous français" by Spanish girl group Baccara. I'm way ahead of you here, both in trying to identify these tunes as well as in the realization of the enormous mounds of steaming, craptastic knowledge I have in my head about totally useful pop cultural moments.

Further, I realize I should be spending my time more wisely. I should be writing. I should be vacuuming and doing dishes. I should be caring for the infirmed in a field hospital in Gabon. I should be single-handedly stopping global warming. I should be figuring out what I want to be when/if I grow up. I should be trying to make that blasted origami lion I've now ripped to pieces twice, thick-fingered Vulgarian am I. I should be praying that at least a few of my wildflower, sunflower, herb, and tomato seeds germinate in this lifetime.

But instead, thirty years on, I find myself trying to recreate in my CD and mp3 collection an exact aural replica of the 208 Radio Luxembourg playlist circa 1977.

As well as the RFI Musique playlist circa 2007 it would seem.

Oh la la, indeed.

Pardon my French

As my mother Vivien Leigh noted recently, everyone in our family is so unused to all things high falutin' that when something classy our way comes, my siblings, my parents, and I are practically beside ourselves over the chic-i-ness of the experience. Put us on a first-class flight, and we'll take advantage of every offer of a free drink, food item, or warm washcloth. Let us ride business class on AirTran, which now seems to be the only way my brother wants to fly, and we'll go rhapsodic over the satellite radio offerings. And we were to go to a spa--a legitimate one, not something untoward in San Antonio that *some people I know* insist on calling a spa--we'll take the massage, the manicure, the pedicure, and the facial, thank you. With extra cucumbers--for snacking!

Much to our shame and despite a certain amount of boot-strappiness about us, we're all a bit like the Clampetts from The Beverly Hillbillies. You half-expect us to ask at dinner for the fancy pot-passers from the billi-yard room, to check to see if the ce-ment pond is open and whether our critters can join us in a swim, and in our best Elly Mae voice to bid fare-thee-well to our fuss-budgety neighbors with the expression, "This has been a Filmways Presentation!"

A recent case in my point: My job took me traveling again, this time to Philadelphia. Philly not exclusive and chi-chi enough for you? Ah, but you haven't had the luxury of wining, dining, and sleeping on the tab of a major international publishing conglomerate, have you? Which I have now done--and least the sleeping with part (figuratively speaking), as I arrived too late for the dinner and instead just enjoyed the accommodations and the cuisine at the hotel.

And quel hotel! I was put up (with or otherwise) at the Sofitel Philadelphia, which apparently is one of a French-owned chain of luxury (at least to me) hotels, with locations throughout the world. Think sort of a rather high-end Hilton minus the whoring heiress constantly in the glossy mags. Philadelphia Sofi, as I now like to call her, is a looker, a rather large boutique-y hotel near Rittenhouse Square, blooming out of a 1950s international-style office tower on the site of the old Stock Exchange. Much better than it sounds, trust me.

I probably won't do justice to a description of the hotel, nor will the photo I found on their website of the interior of one of their rooms. You get the idea, though, but imagine double the wood paneling, triple the French blue accents on the drapes and wall coverings, and quadruple the free (they are free, aren't they?) samples of posh-sounding toilette items by Roger et Gallet--which for all I know could be the French equivalent of Equate or Suave. The manufacturer of said toiletries was a person/company/brand named Jean-Marie Farina. It might as well be Jean-Marie Buckwheat.

Lifelong resident of Possum Trot that I am, though, I had to check the price of one night at the Sofi, and it was . . . somewhat unimpressive. A mere $220 a night, which, yes, I've got my nerve, is a lot of money, especially when I'm not paying. However, I was really expecting the room to be more in the $300 to $500 downtown range, not a piddly $200 in the outer suburbs. This doesn't mean I think less of the hotel. It's more that I'm impressed by what $200 will get you in Center City--in terms of accommodations, I mean, not the call girl selection in the hotel bar.

Not that there were any, as far as I could tell, but until I knew the price of the room, I was thinking, man, if I were a call girl, I would totally ply my trade in this hotel! Just proves my point that I don't know how to act when I'm around nice people. You can take the boy out of the Days Inn, but you can't take the Days Inn out of the boy. 'Cause once I learned the price, I just figured anyone who would pay $200 bucks for a hotel room probably isn't going to pay the same amount or more to go, well, around the world. And I'm not talking from Philly to Paris and back again.

Nonetheless, it does go to show you what a little more frivolity and free-wheeling with cash and credit can buy you. I figure it's like wine: Once you graduate from the $8 and under, cherubically labeled, preciously named wines (Turning Leaf? How about Turning Slowly Toward the Toilet to Vomit instead?), and move into the $10 and $20 or above bottles, you definitely get a finer octane of beverage.

Just a little tip for you.

Another little tip for you is not to mistake the French-style toilet for a bidet. An extra $50 to $100 bucks a night doesn't get you that kind of luxury.

* * *

But let's get to my favorite part of the stay at Le Sofitel--the fact that on the hotel cable system, they offered "TV5Monde--Etats-Unis," i.e., French TV Network 5--World, the U.S. edition. With a little encouragement, I would have skipped the presentation I had to make the following day, just to stay in the room to watch "TV Cinq," as now I'm going to insist on calling it.

Why I'm like that, willing to fob off professional responsibilities for weird TV, I don't rightly know, but on trips out of the country--or even just across the country--I find beaucoup amounts of enjoyment in watching local TV. When I went to Russia in 1985, I got hooked on these glitzy Communist-era variety shows (the glitter! the glamour! the awful 5-year-plan-gone-bad hair dye!) on whatever the TV network was called then (GosTeeVee Raz perhaps?).

Later on that same trip, when I was in Sweden, I marveled at how the evening's TV programming was introduced by a woman sitting in an armchair with a sidetable and a lamp, relating to the audience what the night's offerings would be. Like something off the Dumont network in the early '50s--or perhaps for an artier comparison you would accept a reference to the TV hostess in François Truffaut's film adaptation of Farenheit 451. I'm half-surprised the Swedish TV presenter didn't refer to every audience member as "cousin" or show film on the evening news of my trying to make my way around Stockholm, commenting "Look at him run! Like a scared rabbit!" (Editor's note: You really gotta see the film. And, still, the pay-off on the joke won't be that good.)

When I went to England in 1993, I spent an entire (and lovely, rainless) afternoon indoors watching Alfred Hitchcock's film adaptation of Rebecca on BBC 1, 2, or 4 (no, must have been 1 or 4 because I'm sure the sheep dog trials were on 2) just because it seemed like the thing to do in England on a lovely afternoon.

I've watched soaps in Australia and England, Top 40 music shows in Germany, 'tween and teen programs in Mexico, gay TV networks (pre-Logo) in San Francisco, weird (and homoerotic) weightlifting programs on public access in New York, and more Can-Con in Canada than I care to admit (and god knows, there's a lot of it).

However, my night with TV Cinq is going to rank right up there with the best/worst of them, all because of one TV show, a little something called possibly Fort Boyard (Boyardee?) or Les Petits Princes or maybe something else entirely different. It was kind of hard to tell.

It was also difficult to tell what the program was actually about, even though it was subtitled in English. Some thing's just don't translate well, I guess. But it went kind of like this: Children 12 and under were encouraged to run around a fort perched on a remote rock off of France's western coast (Fort Boyard). The children were then dared to do reality-TV-styled stunts--walk a plank from a tall parapet and jump maybe? try to avoid getting eaten by tigers who've suddenly been released into a pen the children were just in?--in order to earn money (francs? euros?) for some sort of charity, maybe something to do with sick children. One of the sick children was present, and alors, even the infirmed in France look gorgeous and stylish! The child was small and was probably no more than 8 years old, but she had this fantastic asymmetrical bob with a crinkly fringe over her right eye. It was like some sort of 1920s space age 'do, the kind someone in Aldous Huxley's Brave New World might have worn.

Or it's possible that the contestants were trying to earn money for two little people that seemed to accompany the children everywhere--and by little people, I don't mean peasants, I mean dwarves, although they could have been "les petits princes" for all I know. Very confusing. And yet even the little people looked stunning!

It gets worse or better, depending on your perspective: One of the hosts, a sylph-like woman named, I'm sure, Sylvie or Veronique or Chantal--something charmingly and quintessentially Gallic--wore no make-up and her cornsilk blonde hair was held in a simple ponytail. Her clothes were attractive but unimpressive--a flowered, sleeveless top, casual slacks. And yet Sophie looked fantastic.

More to my liking was Olivier (and this really was his name), the hunkiest 40-something rent boy on French TV (or so I would imagine). Black muscle tee, with the muscles to go along with the shirt, a handsome face and friendly smile, tight black trousers, and a great rapport with the kiddies. What is so not to love about this guy?

In Britain, the joke is that every male presenter on BBC Children's TV (BBC 3, I believe) is a big raving showtune-loving gal at heart. And, of course, they are. But on French TV, well, you just hope and pray that the male TV hosts know all the words to Gigi, is all I can say.

Sadly, my local cable provider's idea of international TV is Univision and BBC America, all well and good but not as expansive as I had in mind. They pretty much scoffed when I wrote to suggest that they should consider adding Deutsche Welle TV to their offerings because it has excellent international news and business reports.

Thus, I'm fairly convinced they won't take seriously my suggestion to add any French TV channels 'cause I think the hosts are, well, haute.

Now I can sleep at night

At last! The word we've all been waiting for! Larry Birkhead is the father of Anna Nicole Smith's baby, Dannielynn! Perhaps now CNN and the Fox News Channel can return to their regularly scheduled programming and more pressing matters--like who next will Britney Spears hook up with in rehab? Inquiring minds . . . .

For the record, I can't pretend to be above it all; I was slightly interested in the outcome of this episode of As the DNA Sample Turns, much in the way that I can't ever seem to turn away from an episode of Maury entitled, "I've Slept with So Many Men, I Don't Know Who My Baby's Daddy Is," or more/less explicitly, have to watch the news anytime there's a pile-up on the Harrisburg-area Capital Beltway, as I'm always curious to see what bodies they pull from the wreckage--and, more importantly, what they are wearing.

All along, my wager was on ol' Hello Larry. Of all the major actors in this Greek tragedy (and let's face it, there was a Cecil B. Demented chorus of thousands who could belt out in unison that they had slept with Anna Nicole and thus could claim possible fatherhood of lil' DL), he actually seemed interested in the child, not just the money or the publicity. A radical approach to celebrity fatherhood in this day and age.

All told, Larry was the cutest of the suitors we knew about, so under American popular cultural law, he should win the award for Best Gamete in a Supporting Role. I do still find it difficult to believe he could actually participate in a procreative, not just recreative, act that might result in parentage, however. The blond highlights in his hair concern me, as does that voice. It could be the David Beckham factor at work here: Looks like Tarzan, talks like Jane, yet, nonetheless, only swinging one way in the jungle. Being that Hairy Larry is a celebrity photographer, though, I suspect, ultimately, it's as the sage of our time Cheryl Crow once sang: "This ain't no disco, this ain't no country club either. This is L.A." The phrase "Larry's gone Hollywood" may explain the hair at least.

Still, what a disappointing denouement. I was so hoping for a surprise twist in the script, one especially in the form of Zsa Zsa Gabor's husband, Frédéric Prinz von Anhalt, being revealed as the Baby Daddy. Imagine the Zsa Zsa-rific, extreme slapping action and terrorist orange-level of drama it would bring to the courtroom. I would have also accepted the frozen semen of the late oil billionaire J. Howard Marshall in the understudy/under the ground role of DL's father.

Unfortunately for Larry, though, being the father of Dannielynn also means owning up to the fact that you had unprotected sex with Anna Nicole Smith. Good golly. There are petri dishes with fewer spores growing in them. There are grease traps in low-rated, Health Department-inspected hotdog stands with less gunk. There are collapsed Pennsylvania mines with lower levels of noxious fumes and fewer chances of a cave-in from overuse. You get the idea.

If I were Larry, I'd proudly proclaim my fatherhood, but I'd also be producing deposit slips for the First National Sperm Bank of the Bahamas as a way to prove my excellent physical health to future mates.

Probably too late for him to prove excellent mental health, though.

Death and taxes

* * *

Death

Obviously, I've been abnormally quiet lately, not having posted since March 20th and only posting twice during March. Although most of Blogtucky's regulars know the story, let me explain.

After nearly 83 years of life, including 1 marriage of 54 years, 4 children, 3 wars, some 30 years in the Marine Corps, 6 years living with Alzheimer's, and numerous other life achievements and events, my father passed away on Wednesday, March 14th, 2007.

Gratefully, I was home at the time, just having made it to Kansas the previous evening. Not that my being there changed anything or stopped his passing. Maybe it added a little comfort to his final hours. I'd at least like to think so. Still, I'm glad I was there for him, for my family, and for me.

Initially, after he died, a weird sort of adrenaline kicked in. In addition to making an excessive amount of origami flowers, I started thinking through a play-by-play of my emotions and reactions to this (at least for me and my family) cataclysmic event. I thought I would post word of my travels to and from Kansas (surprisingly and gratefully seamless for a change), my family's reactions and emotions, as well as my own. I'd talk about the many friends and neighbors who came to visit with my family and let you know about the food they brought and the kind words and thoughts they shared. I would consider telling about the lovely cards, notes, flowers, gifts, and prayers my coworkers and friends shared with me before and after. And, of course, I would also pay tribute to my Dad.

But, soon after the adrenaline rush subsided, I realized that it just may be too personal and too raw right now for me to tell you all that, especially in an open forum like this blog. Blog's are a funny thing, anyway. How much is too much to reveal? And who cares besides me what my thoughts are on any given topic, especially one as sad as my father's passing?

Nonetheless, talking openly about my Dad's death might do me some good. Despite being more of a feeling person (I skew toward being an INFJ on the Myers-Briggs), reacting to situations more with emotion than logic, I have learned to play things closer to the vest over the years. And, let's face it, our culture encourages this, the valuing of thought and logic over emotion and feeling, even in the most intimate of situations and relationships. In the immortal words of one old boyfriend after a painful break-up (underscored by his taking me to see The Virgin Suicides as a parting gift/shot and not really getting why this might be upsetting), "You know, you really should keep some of those thoughts to yourself."

And I'm nothing if not good at taking life lessons from a walking, talking sphincter.

Still, even writing this post is incredibly difficult. It just makes my father's death all the more real, as if I have to admit it, acknowledge it, as a fact. And, yet, I feel the way I'm expressing my emotions and sadness herein is with as flat an affect as I can muster. I'm saying I'm sad, rather than illustrating that I'm sad. Why is that?

A clue may be gleaned from the words of my friend the Gladman, who said to me the other day, "The thing is you've had this major life event happen to you. You know it's significant. You know nothing's going to be as it was. But, in the meantime, you have to figure out what it means and how to deal with it."

Yes, exactly.

Over the last few weeks, I've felt upset and broken-hearted over my Dad's death, but probably more than anything I have just felt numb and in shock, stunned by his very quick passing and having so soon to return to a "normal life." It seems too soon to go back to business as usual, and so I haven't really. Up until the last couple of days, I've purposefully avoided social events, at least the ones I had the option to avoid. And up until Thursday, to give the appearance of mourning dress, I also have avoided wearing bright-colored clothing, a style (perhaps regrettably) I sometimes favor. I certainly haven't felt like writing or taking pleasure from other pastimes or interests.

The other overriding feelings for me of late are anger and impatience. I don't think I'm so much angry over the fact that my Dad died "too soon"--he lived a good life, even with Alzheimer's, one of the cruelest diseases known to us. But I could be kidding myself. Who doesn't die too soon? You always want more time with someone, more time to say the important things, but also more time just to be with them and appreciate them for who they are. It certainly does feel as though he died too soon for me and my family. So maybe I'm just fooling myself into believing that I don't feel anger toward the world over my Dad's death.

I suspect this anger and impatience may come from another place, though, one best expressed by my friend EcoGal, who sagely said to me upon my return to work, "You think all this was ridiculous and unimportant before you left, just you wait." So true. Because while I haven't felt like returning to my usual interests and activities, I have had to go back to work. Attend meetings, supervise, talk, direct, innovate, present, act, show up, produce, and all the rest. It's hard coming back to an environment I felt somewhat indifferent to and more than a little irritated by before my Dad's death. Now it seems intolerable. I feel like I could jump out of my skin at any minute, quit on the spot, turn on a dime, and walk away, never to return.

Not practical, perhaps, but there you have it, my fantasy way of dealing with the loss and the pain.

While I pride myself on not bringing everyone down with me as I make my way through the murky sewer tunnel of grief, it's hard to return to my ol' jokey, we'll-sing-in-the-sunshine self. Writing and humor certainly are ways for me to deal with my emotional conflict and anxieties. And writing and humor, too, may be a way for me to keep expressing the "Dad" in me. My father was nothing if not funny, not to mention highly opinionated, often at the same time. And, golly, lookit, so am I.

Thanks for that, Dad. And thanks for so much more that you gave me over the years. I wouldn't have it any other way.

* * *

Taxes

The other ridiculous and pointless thing I've come home to is tax-filing season.

It's that time again in the U.S., and given recent events, I find I'm behind in getting mine prepped for mid-April's deadline. So, as a result, I spent Good Friday at home, making some progress, finishing my federal and state taxes. Now all I have to do is a recheck, then I can e-file, and wait for the $45 refund from the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania (woo hoo!) and the $110 payout to the federal government (boo hoo!) to be deposited/withdrawn from/to my bank account.

I've never been one of those no-government know-nothings that seem to have taken hold of our federal social policy over the last couple of decades. I'm probably one of the few people in America that wouldn't object to slightly higher taxes, if it meant that those funds went for a stronger social safety net for all citizens and a serious investment in mass transit over highways. But given that any national discretionary income seems to be going toward a war effort that practically no one supports (except some politicos in Washington and the blood-in-the-water research-and-development and real estate firms in the D.C. area that feed off of them), maybe it's less a case of mo' money for the feds than better spending and management of the income already received.

Much a similar argument could be made toward the way I handle my personal finances. Some cases in point in the form of a couple of big reveals from this year's resignation to taxation without decent representation:

• I made slightly more charitable contributions this year than last, but it still seems like an awfully pathetic amount. I can do better.
• I made slightly more income this year than last (a whopping $70). Which, again, seems like an awfully pathetic amount. And, again, I can do better.
• I really have to get a better handle on my retirement accounts, not to mention my spending, but you know, laugh today, cry tomorrow, we're all going to die someday (see above), and whose life is it anyway? So I suspect it's going to be bidness as per usual with the Raplicious family accounts ("Party of one? There's ample seating in the debtor's prison, sir") over the next year. Or ten.

Ah, but what is this letter from the West Shore Tax Bureau that has been hanging around my desk for the last month or so?

Apparently, in Pennsylvania, we have an additional tax "opportunity," if you will, and that is the local, school district tax, which is something I have to admit to being fairly unfamiliar with and ignorant of until this year. Oops.

The year 2006 was my first full year of living in the Keystone State, and thus the first year that 1 percent (and please pay attention to this number, as it's about to rock my world) was subtracted from my pay for local school district taxes. When I lived in Maryland a full 5 percent (or more) was subtracted from my Pennsylvania-garnered pay to fund the Free (?) State's coffers. While Pennsylvania state income tax is currently around 3.07 percent--an incredible bargain compared to Maryland's--things get more complicated in the Commonwealth because of the addition of local school district taxes, which run the gamut from under 1 percent to, I dunno, maybe 3 or more percent, depending on your township/school district/municipality/whatever. And there's a whole 'nuther layer of complication if you live or work in Philadelphia and environs, but we just won't go there until we have to, girlfriend.

It's all relative, I guess. I mean, in Texas I didn't pay an income tax at all, but I was often brusquely shook down for various and sundry--for example, state park entrance fees, which were in the $30+ range for a carload of folks. I'd like to be able to confirm this--it may indeed cost more--but when you go to the Texas Parks and Wildlife Division website and try to search for entrance fees, well, interestingly enough, the information appears to be top secret. Homeland Security dontcha know.

In Pennsylvania, my experience so far tells me that state parks and game lands are free. So, all things considered, I can live with the local school district tax.

However, a problem arises with the fact that I don't happen to live in the local school district where I work. And because of this geographical reality, my employer apparently is only required by the Pennsylvania Department of Revenue (or so I'm figuring) to collect taxes of 1 percent for "out of county" (and thus out of local school district) residents.

All well and good, except that the school district in which I reside charges a local tax of 1.7 percent, not 1 percent.

Thus I find myself a week or so before tax-filiing day needing to pay an additional 0.7 percent or $300 to $400 to meet my tax burden.

Cripes. Talk about tax-and-spend socialism smacking you in the face with a dead Soviet-style communist fish of reality. Ugh. And it's not even Lent anymore. (Is it? Easter traditions--something else I can proclaim to be ignorant of, for good or for ill.)

I can both meet the deadline and pay the burden, although plans for that new home stereo system--oh, and groceries--just got set back by a couple of months. Hey-ho.

Still, bitter misanthrope that I am, I can't help but feel that this is a part of a plot by my employer to impel all worker bees to live within five to ten miles of the company hive. (And just one part of the plot, mind you. Oh, I have other examples, believe you me . . . .)

After all, the local tax rate where I work is the same as where I live. Why not charge me the full amount instead of having to cough up bitter cash during tax season? Who knows? Maybe I'd even get a refund! If you can pay 5 percent to Maryland, why can't you manage an additional 0.7 percent for my Cumberland County school district?

Because, my somewhat suspect reasoning goes, my employer hates the fact that I'm not willing to drink the corporate Kool-Aid, to take a ride on the tail of the comet Hale-Bopp, to get Sirius, to run my dedication up the Mount Carmel flagpole and see whether I salute it appropriately. Instead, it holds it against me that I am not the Borg and I am unwilling to assimilate into the institutional ethos.

Or it could just be an accounting nightmare to deal with--hundreds and thousands of potential school districts and so many employees--not to mention a subtle imperative to get me to save more and often throughout the year. But where's the sturm-und-drang in that approach? Personally, I've never seen a tree of logic and rationality that couldn't be felled by a strong ax of drama under any circumstances.

And INFJ that I am, I couldn't have it any other way.