Give it some Gas

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No?

Ah, something for later, taters . . .

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

Two-minute hate (and then some)

My fellow Americans, my fellow citizens of the world, our soliders overseas and at home, the people of the nation of Iraq, and why even you, Mrs. Anthrax and Mr. Chemical Ali--On this lazy, humid afternoon in mid-August, when most of us are droning along in our jobs until quittin' time, on vacation, dodging hurricanes in the Gulf of Mexico, or avoiding petrol bombs in public squares, I feel it is my duty to make you aware of the latest official wisdom from the Ministry of Truth with regards to the ongoing war between Oceania and Eurasia, as evidenced by this article from the CNN website, published Wednesday afternoon, 22 August 2007:

U.S. officials rethink hopes for Iraq democracy

BAGHDAD, Iraq (CNN) -- Nightmarish political realities in Baghdad are prompting American officials to curb their vision for democracy in Iraq. Instead, the officials now say they are willing to settle for a government that functions and can bring security . . . .

. . . "Democratic institutions are not necessarily the way ahead in the long-term future," said Brig. Gen. John "Mick" Bednarek, part of Task Force Lightning in Diyala province, one of the war's major battlegrounds . . . .

Hmmm. And, again, altogether now but louder, HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM.

So . . . how would this scenario be different than, I dunno, life with Saddam Hussein and the nondemocratic governmental structure that was in place in Iraq in, oh, say, 2003?

Please pardon me for this question if it at all sounds like I'm giving aid and comfort to the enemy, whomever they may be now. I'm frightened of terrorists and fundamentalist social extortionists, both international and homegrown, as much as anyone. However, I guess I'm just confused over why more than 3,700 U.S. soldiers and tens (or hundreds?) of thousands of Iraqis have had to die so that we can get back to the same place we were four years ago.

There were those of us who thought this invasion was a bad idea from the beginning, a classic case of tilting after the wrong windmill--or oil well, as the case may be. Why, even Dick Cheney knew we wouldn't succeed in Iraq--at least the 1994 version of him did. The 1984 version of him has possibly forgotten this point, though. Reeducated right out of him. I envision Cheney in the dreaded Room 101, but instead of being threatened with Winston Smith's great fear (rats), there's a moment involving a remote ranch, a hunting rifle, a shotgun blast, and 24 hours without a visit by medical or police authorities.

Bound to make you change your allegiances. Or die trying.

In times like these, I'm reminded of a bumpersticker my friend the Gladman told me he saw on a car in Texas sometime before the last national election: "If you're not outraged, you're just not paying attention."

Folks, we should be paying very close attention, and we should indeed be outraged. No matter what your political stripe--red, blue, green, pink, or full-spectrum rainbow coalition--this should officially piss you off.

My fear is that it won't, though. I suspect most of us feel helpless in the middle of this muddle, maybe even somewhat depressed or world-weary from it. Thus, if the war hasn't pissed you off so far, if Katrina and the botched response to that didn't madden you, and/or if the constant lying, the excessive greed, and the total lack of interest in good government accompanied by an intense fixation on wielding power at all costs didn't infuriate you, well, I don't know what would.

This isn't condemnation of you, dear reader. I'm as guilty as anyone, maybe more so because I whine publicly and still do little but stew and steam in the August heat. I'm furious, seething, apoplectic, would love to foment revolution, go wild in the streets with protest, and have hyenas with tapeworms feast on the entrails of our leaders--and that's just for this afternoon's entertainment. When I'm really wound up, I have far worse scenarios in mind for the idiots in charge, the expression of which would be ill-advised and liable to prevent me from flying for years to come.

Yet I sit here in my home office typing this blog entry for I don't know who.

What is wrong with me? What is wrong with all of us? What's it going to take to get us angry enough to take action and demand a government that doesn't do what it wants (money, power, control) or what we want (whim by whim by whim), but aims instead to do the right thing for the right reasons?

These aren't necessarily rhetorical questions, guys. The more we tarry, the worse it's going to get for all of us, at home and abroad. We need to figure out answers and take appropriate action, 'cause clearly those who wield power over us aren't paying attention and need to be reminded of who's in charge here. Us.

Agogô a-go-go

Not one to sit on my laurels or even a very hard seat at a concert hall for too long, I've branched out further since the Patti Smith music hall review, becoming not only a passive audience member but an active participant in the performance. Let's chalk it up to being scared/scarred for life by a certain bookcart drill team routine.

By chance, last week my friend Fouchat sent me an email advertising some Latin dance classes to be held in my neighborhood over the past weekend. Latin dance? ¡Ay! Too much sass in the salsa. Too much rhumba in the rumpus. Really, just too many steps to memorize, rinse, repeat. Thanks, I'll stick with the bump. I have ample resources to implement it.

But in the same email was reference to an organization called Samba Pittsburgh (two words you would never really expect to see conjoined, hunh?) and their upcoming percussion and dance workshop. Hmmm, now we're talking.

I have had a fantasy ever since childhood of being a percussionist--except that, in the traditional bass-cymbals-snare universe, I don't orbit so good. Thus, I tend to favor intricate, world-music-oriented drumming, the stuff you find way out in the tabla-conga-bongo solar system. When I lived in D.C. centuries ago, I used to love to hear the African drummers perform at Dupont Circle on a Sunday afternoon. There was little more sublime than enjoying some splendour in the grass with friends, a book, and a blanket, accompanied by the expect drumming and organic, go-with-the-flow rhythms.

Come Saturday, I walked into the Attack Theater in Garfield (or thereabouts), anticipating that the drummers would be off to one side, setting up, and getting ready for their performance, while I would head to the seats on the opposite side and listen attentively.

"Oh, hi, look everyone, he's here for the drumming workshop!" someone said to me, and before I had a chance to say, no, no, I'm just Susie Sorority of the Silent and Extremely Uptight Majority, and I'll stand in the corner, cheers thanks lots, this very friendly woman began introducing me to members of the bateria (the band in Brazilian samba). And then someone handed me an agogô to play.

Agogô? But I just got here . . .

An agogô is this double-bell instrument that you play with a drumstick. You tap out a rhythm that works to "decorate" the sound of the bateria, playing over it to add lightness and color to the bass and the popping, crackling drums. (Editor's note: There are a couple of sound files of an agogô being played here.)

OK, so it's probably the Brazilian equivalent of the triangle, but before long, I was getting the beat, not perfectly but steadily, and following along with the conductor quite well, knowing when to start, increase or decrease speed, and stop, all by listening to him play a whistle and nod his head. There were about six or seven of us in this little bateria, led by an expert and encouraging conductor from São Paulo. And dare I say it? Dare I even think it? After about an hour of practice, we sounded pretty good!

I don't think anyone in Brazil has to worry about samba jobs being outsourced to North America, mind you, but we did alright. In fact, I kept thinking, I want more. I don't want this to end.

But it did, and we moved on to the samba dance workshop, which was really the only thing I intended to participate in all along. Somewhat less successfully, though, I should admit. Oh, I enjoyed it, but I'm not necessarily good at patterned dances. Still, the samba that we practiced wasn't all that patterned--it wasn't the formal, ballroom dancing samba that you might see Apollo Ohno glide (or, worse, Billy Ray Cyrus churn) through on Dancing with the Stars, but, instead, the type of samba you might do at a party in Brazil or as part of a samba school during carnaval.

Eh, despite the lowkey, people's samba approach, I still needed some work. I felt rusty and stiff in my step and awkward in my body. There were probably too many people for the room, and I think by now we know how I feel about crowds. The instructor was a sweetheart, though, and even the professional dancers who were there from the theater's resident company were incredibly charming and mellow, learning and laughing right along with us.

Of course, it wouldn't be a day in my life without a total stranger on a public conveyance confessing their sins to me or, in this case, some bitter crone in a leotard, piled-high hair, and a permanent sneer, glaring at me, seeming to resent my very existence. She spent most of the workshop giving me the hairy eyeball for sweating too much, taking up too much space, or graduating from a state school and not a private one. Or something.

Sigh. Perhaps she didn't like crowds either.

Nonetheless, I made it through the workshop without having Miss Flashdance (what, no cut-off sweatshirt? no welder's hat?) have a Showgirls moment and throw marbles on the floor to ruin my chances for stardom in a gen-u-wine Las Vegas-style review. No, that I did all on my own with my very shaky abilities at being my funky self in a different cultural context.

Nonetheless, I managed to end the day on a high note--an invitation from the music conductor to come practice with the bateria whenever I wanted to. So have agogô will travel!

Since then, I've been surfing the web for agogô and drumsticks--they are surprisingly inexpensive (see note above about Brazil's answer to the triangle)--and think I might just have to make the purchase, then join the band at Flagstaff Hill in Schenley Park on one of these nights when it doesn't rain two inches per hour for a rousing lesson in assault and bateria.

One of the neat things about samba music and samba dancing, at least that I gleaned from these workshops, is that kids, it's OK if you try this at home. Everybody rhumba and anyone can samba. It's not designed to be formal, rigid, oppressively detailed, or exquisitely refined in such a way that one needs to be able to read notes, have an advanced degree in musicology, or be able to turn one's legs backwards from the rest of one's body before stepping out onto the stage. Não, with samba, we're just supposed to get steppin'.

I'll happily comply, whether I find the right agogô or no.

Because too often I've been scared off by doing and trying anything in the realm of art, figuring I don't have what it takes--enough talent, enough coordination, enough skill, enough bravado. As a child, I used to like to draw, but I gave that up, figuring I'd never be Da Vinci or even the artist behind the Magic Drawing-Board on Captain Kangaroo. I used to want to be an architect until I learned there was science and math involved, and Barbie that I am, I quickly realized that math is hard! I've struggled with writing over the years, sometimes doing it, sometimes not, and for years trying to force myself to be a short-story writer, when that is so clearly what I'm not. (All the fiction I make up for this blog really happens.) I didn't try out for grade school band or drama club or perfect my Spanish or finish my African animals origami project because, well, I got busy or felt ashamed or figured I'd never be great, so why try?

Sad, really. Worse, it's just plain pathetic. Forty-five and rarely ever been blissed out in art of his own making.

But what if it's simply a matter of enjoying and doing and not being necessarily great (or even good) at it? What if it's simply a matter of having fun? Birds do it, bees do it, even educated Brazilians apparently do it. Have fun, that is.

So away we agogô. This school for samba looks like it might just teach me more than how to follow steps and feel the beat. The lesson to be learned may turn out to be that, well, there's really no lesson at all. Just have fun.

For all my vague yearnings over the years for more meaning in my life, something deeper, something "real," really all I have ever wanted out of this move to Pittsburgh--or any move for that matter--was a better, more supportive, more freeing environment in which to explore my interests and follow my heart's desires, both the personal and professional ones.

Right now Pittsburgh is playing my song. And not only can I dance to it, I can also accompany it on percussion.

Dancing barefoot

Lest ye think all I've done since I made it to Pittsburgh is eat, think about eating, or write about eating, I'll have you know I have also managed to consume a fair slab of 'Burgher kultur and société.

For example, just a couple of weeks ago, I was fortunate enough to attend the Patti Smith concert at the Carnegie Library Music Hall in Homestead. Fantastic! One of the better concerts I've ever been to and amazing that a woman even older than me (imagine!) can still keep her art, life, and sensibilities fresh and fun.

Yes, Patti Smith and fun. Even harder to imagine than someone older than me with dewy-fresh sensibilities. When I used to read about Patti Smith in the pages of Creem and Rolling Stone way back in the '70s (that's 1970s, not 1870s, smart-alecks) or see her parodied by Gilda Radner in the golden age of Saturday Night Live (remember Candy Slice--that twisted Whitman's Sampler of Mick Jagger and Patti), I just found her scary. Drawn features, rake-thin body shrouded in mannish dress, and that hair, which had obviously never been introduced to Mr. Conditioner. A Breck Girl she wasn't.

This was the age of Charlie's Angels, after all. Having grown up on a steady diet of ABBA, '70s soul and disco (much to the utter shame of my more street-cred siblings), and Aaron Spelling TV, I wasn't quite ready for prime-time Patti. By the time college rolled around, however, punk was in full force as a social and musical statement/style concept and not simply as a pastime for junkies who needed something to do with their hands when they weren't shooting up. Punk's dark-hued and sin-tinged ethos of rebellion was a welcome challenge from what disco had evolved into, which as best as I can deduce was some sort of mutation into drug-addled celebrity pond scum and suburban spouse-swapping trilobites gone wild.

During my high school years, on the radio you could hear Patti Smith's "Because the Night," a song she cowrote with then still dark and brooding Bruce Springsteen. This song was probably mainstream America's first bitter taste of punk and the rawest, darkest, most powerful pop song that Kasey Casem ever had to present on the Top 40. Later in college there were trance-inducing tunes like "Frederick" and "Dancing Barefoot," the latter being one of my all-time favorites, even if I can never quite get the lyrics right.

An adult Patti resurfaced in the late '80s and thanks to my friend the Upstate New Yorker, I've kept up with her career ever since. I don't know that I'm her number one fan like my friend is, but as sort of a tribute to him and because I wanted to see what all the fuss was about, my fellow nouveau Pittsburgher Fouchat and I made it a date to go see her in concert.

I couldn't let the event go by without a little silliness. Knowing that Patti is revered by a certain element, that her rather dense (and, to me, somewhat precious) poetry causes some to writhe in a Teresa of Avila-esque ecstasy, I kept telling my friends that I sure hoped she'd start off with "The Warrior." Or maybe she'd invite Don Henley on stage for an encore, and they could duet on their hit "Sometimes Love Just Ain't Enough." Or perhaps during a lull in the set, I'd flick a Bic and screech out, "Sing 'Goodbye to You'!" (For the record, those are songs by Patty Smyth and Scandal, not Patti Smith, about as far from punk as Britney Spears is from Mother Teresa. Now it's no fun if I have to explain these things . . . .)

Nevertheless, once the concert began, I was all attentivenss and good behavior.

And, wow, what a concert it was. The setting--a restored concert hall from the late 1800s--the music, the band, the crowd, and the Patti herself, all made for a perfect and marvelous moment.

Yes, I did say even the crowd. Have I mentioned that I don't particularly like crowds? Honestly, I don't particularly like a good portion of humanity, for that matter. (Just call me by my maiden name, Miss Anne Thrope.) Generally, in public spaces, especially in ones where people tend to forget that they came to see a performer rather than be a performer, I expect the worst, that the crowd will be filled with persons in the known universe least capable of conducting themselves in a sane, sensible, and sagacious manner.

After all, I did once view an entire Gypsy Kings concert through the bellydancing gyrations of an over-peroxided trophy wife and her lumbering, wasting-away-in-Margaritaville husband, whose dance-style indicated that perhaps he was suffering from the DTs, thought there were rats scampering around his feet, and had decided it best to stomp them to death, not necessarily in any time to any music, real or perceived. This suburban Sid and Nancy managed, on a completely empty row, to position themselves right in front of me and my friends and proceeded to do their own take on the Moroccan mashed potato through most of the concert.

Admit it--you, too, would be contemplating the benefits of a taser-dispenser in the restroom, now wouldn't you?

In Patti's case, I figured the audience would be filled with aging rockers who got lost on the way to the Aerosmith concert. Or, worse, guys and gals who, like, work at the counter at Starbucks/Whole Foods/FedEx Kinko's (or in a mailroom anywhere on Pitt's campus, for that matter) but who are really in, like, a band, ya know.

Surprisingly, though, about 98 percent of the crowd was great--a real mix of ages, ethnicities, genders, and lifestyles. Other than the leftover Grateful Dead campfollowers who arrived during the middle of the fourth (!) song, the only blips on the screen were this aging queen (perma-tan, muscle shirt sans muscles, and too much time spent looking at the crowd looking at him and not the stage) and his hag (frosted [!?!?!] hair in a style reminiscent of the season on Dallas when SueEllen once again got off the bottle and into trouble with that 12-year-old (looking) kid from The Blue Lagoon, also cursed with the same is-everyone-looking-at-me-yet?-'cause-I-am-so-cool/hot! affliction), who crowded the stage at the very start of the concert and no matter what Patti sang, kept up this bizarre, jazzy, finger-clickin' badass-ness during her performance.

Maybe they were thinking they were at an Ella Fitzgerald tribute concert and somehow all those finger pops would bring Ella back to us. I just don't know.

But once the cop gently encouraged them to return to their seats (without a billy club, darn it all) and Patti calmed the audience ("Now I know some of you want to sit, and some of you want to stand, but I'm pretty sure before the evening is over, everyone will have their moment . . . hey, my next career should be in crowd control!"), it was a pitch-perfect evening.

Patti went through some of her better known tracks ("Because the Night," which had me rockin' in the aisles, "Summer Cannibals," and "Gloria," but sadly no "Dancing Barefoot" or "People Have the Power"), as well as a number of songs of her new album. That album, Twelve, features covers of some of her favorite songs. There's quite a range of predilections on display, from Jimi Hendrix to, goodness me, Tears for Fears.

As Ms. Smith predicted, everyone had a chance to do his/her/its own thang--sit, stand, dance, or, like me, all three.

See, we really all can get along. Bliss.

Southern culture on the shelves, part 4

Krispy Kreme. No exclamation mark. Oh, OK, maybe a half one.

After three years without regular access, I have managed to locate and visit one of Pittsburgh's three count 'em three! Krispy Kreme doughnut emporia.

Despite the long absence from nature's perfect food--the hot-off-the-belt, sugary, gooey Krispy Kreme glazed doughnut--I showed some admirable restraint (for me) and had only two doughnuts, neither of which was a traditional glazed. I didn't see the light on, that gluttoness, gluteness beacon in the night that fires a synapse that bellows "hot doughnuts comin' through!"so I stuck with the sticky I know and love best--cake doughnuts--opting for one sour cream and one chocolate.

The sour cream cake--probably my favorite doughnut variety of all time, with the possible exception of some sort of doughnut (or anything) with chocolate on it or in it--did not disappoint. It was an outstanding example of its kind, both sweet and not-sweet, with a slight tang (but, thank goodness, no Tang) to it, solid like cake, but gently yielding to the bite. Bon apetit.

The chocolate cake, though, was in fact a disappointment. I'll never understand how one can screw up chocolate anything, but this sample was not up to the usual Krispy Kreme standard, nor did it represent the "ideal copy" as it were, the official ANSI standard of cake doughnuts the civilized world over.

It tasted . . . funny. I half-wondered whether the store clerk had mistakenly given me a blueberry cake (blech!) instead.

That or KK has started replacing our regular cake doughnut ingredients with those made from Folger's Crystals. That or possibly anti-freeze.

So you gotta think something's gone horribly wrong in the kitchen if'n your chocolate cake is even vaguely reminiscent of blueberry or, worse, conjures up unpleasant images of unleashed pets and freshly drained radiator fluids. That or it's an example of fusion cuisine gone tragically, terribly wrong, reminding me of that odd little Italian-Thai restaurant on Pennsylanvia Avenue in D.C. I frequented years ago. Oh, I so wanted to like it, but, alas, after a number of tries, the pad thai and pesto penne with soggy, overcooked vegetables rendered me bitter and morose.

Getting back to la-not-so-Kreme-de-la-creme for a moment, I don't know what went wrong in the Krispy Factory. Maybe the recipe didn't translate from North Carolinian (where Krispy Kreme brought forth its first offerings) to Pennsylvanian. One too many y'alls and shoogs, none too many slippys and nebbys.

That or the North Carolina begat-ers decided to keep the secret, special recipe to themselves and sent the leftovers from failed culinary experiments out-of-state. Remember what they say about the Mason-Dixon Line: Where the South comes to . . . and the North to . . . um . . . well, you Yankees are better off not knowing.

All I know is that unfortunate bastardization between chocolate and Janitor in a Drum was the first doughnut ever to give me heartburn. So, yeah, I'm thinking anti-freeze. Or weak-willed weed-killer. Or maybe those little sour Chinese candies--you know the type, the ones that taste as if they've been left to soak for a year in a stagnant mix of lye and battery acid--melted down over a can of Sterno and mixed in with some of the meal used to make the casing on a Hot Pocket.

Trust me, stick with the sour cream--or wait for the light to come on and go for the top shelf, reserve glazed. But while we're this far north of the border, we might as well just keep on moving up I-79 toward Erie, hang a right on I-90, then head toward the Ontario border and smack dab into the warm, welcoming, sugar-caked embrace of Tim Horton's.

Ah, blame Canada. Then have another doughnut.

To dye for

Boy, is my face red. Or at least a very deep brown.

After a few recent photos taken of me in which I more closely resembled the Talking Snowman (as voiced by Burl Ives) in the Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer Christmas special--all portly good cheer, all incredibly, indelibly white--I have taken up the habit again of dying my facial hair. I've done it before, but it's always been before some big event--a job interview, a date, a photo op for a spread in Hello! or OK! to show off my fabulous celebrity lifestyle. I've never exactly been consistent with it, though, usually doing it once, then not touching it again (or, as the case may be, re-touching it) for weeks or even months.

Of course, facial hairs are short and tough. As I'm no ZZ Top-wannabe, I am prone to trim, pluck, cut, and otherwise maim mine regularly. Thus, after a dye job, if all goes well, I have about a day or two of hmmm-that's-kinda-dark, followed by a week-and-a-half of hey-that's-more-like-it, before gradually fading into someone who looks like they should whip out a gee-tar and begin the conversation with "Well, you know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen . . . ."

However, you could replace "Vixen" with "Geezer" and perfectly describe me at that stage.

Normally, if things don't go well, it's a case of shoulda-left-it-in-longer. If I'm lazy (who me?) or haven't trimmed the facial hair in a while, then I'll only hit the top hairs on my mustache and goatee, leaving the underside still gray and white. Thus, it will look like I've barely done anything--"something's different about you . . . did you get new glasses?"--but by week's end, all will have returned to its formerly gray, Eastern Bloc state. Day wear, evening wear, swim wear. Blah.

To my surprise, though, I have discovered that there is a third state of being, heretofore unexeperienced by me--that is, leaving in the dye for way too long and combing in the color thoroughly from root to tip. After walking around town all day looking as though a mad clown attacked me with a Sharpie during my sleep, I'm beginning to long for my holly-jolly, Burl Ives-ian self.

The dye I use, Just for Men ('cause goodness knows, none of us he-man types could be caught stocking up on bottles of Lady Clairol or Garnier "Shilled by a Former Star of Sex and the City" Nutrisse) gives you just 5 minutes to achieve magic in the mirror, discovering your new "Mystery Date" self. (Will I be a dream? Or a dud? Or an utter horrorshow?) Just for Men previously made three shades in my range--medium brown, ash brown, and light brown. Ash brown was probably the closest match for me. Despite having medium brown eyebrows and, in a previous life, medium brown hair, my facial hair was a mix of brown, blond, gold, and red. And ash brown, whatever shade that is exactly, seemed to be the shade du moi.

However, apparently, I wasn't the only one confused about what color ash brown actually represented, as I can no longer find that shade on the market, only the light and medium browns. You know, we guys--even us gay ones--lack the gene that distinguishes robin's-egg blue from blue-green, teal, or aquamarine. Keep it simple, Corporate America.

Light brown works OK. I use it, but often the effect is fairly negligible, plus I suspect it's a shade better suited to a man with different, fairer coloring, hair or otherwise. But what do I know? From my understanding, when doing the dye-jobbing, the rule is to go with a shade darker or lighter than your own coloring. But which coloring? Skin? Hair? Original hair--or gray hair? Hair hair--or mustache hair? Eyebrow hair? Eye color? Hunh? I'm confused.

Medium brown definitely colors and covers things up, much like hot asphalt covers the faded, cracked surface of a Pennsylvania highway. But the match is a little too good, so that after a dye job, I end up for a day or so looking a little like Chuck Norris--he of the hair, eyebrows, and beard in an exact match of monochrome-ocrity. Everytime I see him on a commercial for the Total Gym or in a rerun of Walker, Texas Ranger, I tsk-tsk and think, didn't some stylist tell him never to do that? Couldn't someone buy him a rug that contrasts a bit more with the dye? And does he dye his body hair, too? 'Cause from my HDTV vantage, the carpet is matching the drapes a little too well.

But now I'm maybe slightly more sensitive to Chuck's dilemma. Especially after trying to be hyper-efficient and multi-task the other morning (read: just hyper), and while doing so, leaving in the dye for a little longer than 5 minutes. Possibly 6, maybe even a little closer to 6 and 30. I kinda lost count. Now I suddenly am faced (quite literally) with a color that best resembles Hershey's dark chocolate and was probably only 15 seconds away from blue-black. Or, if you prefer, azure.

Not pretty. But, gratefully, not robin's-egg blue either.

So I've gone from the face of some '60s folk singer to that of one looking as though it is covered with a mass of very angry, very brown, flesh-nesting caterpillars--in just five minutes or more! Better living through modern hair products and cosmetics.

I considered calling in sick to work the day I did this--or donning a burka and telling everyone my name is Fatima, and I'm a temp, then ending all further discussion with a loud uuluuluuluuluuluuluuluuluu, followed by the query, "Now where is the photocopying device, please?" But I endured, faced the mirror and the music, and counted myself lucky that I know only a couple of people in this city well enough that they might realize my aesthetic, cosmetic faux pas.

I'm sure Chuck Norris would understand--but would he find it in his chest fur-matted, L'Oreal-colored heart to forgive me? Or would he just laugh, roundhouse kick me in the cojones, and look into the camera to say, "The chief export of Chuck Norris is PAIN"?

I'd be content with the understanding, Mr. Norris. 'Cause, really, I'm worth it.

Southern culture on the shelves, part 3

MoonPies! Found at a rip-and-run-type convenience store near the corner of Braddock and Penn avenues in Pittsburgh's East End.

As you can tell, they were tasty! A double-decker delight of deliciousness!

No R.C. Cola (as the song goes, "an R.C. Cola and an ol' MoonPie!") sightings yet though. But I would also consider a SunDrop, a CheerWine, or a Blenheim Ginger Ale.

Man, I knew there was a reason I moved to a city only 30 miles from West Virginia.

Now where did I put that lightning rod?

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

"Man says lightning found him again"

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

You can read the full article here.

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

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

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

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

Southern culture on the shelves, part 2

Green tomatoes from the East End Food Co-Op!

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

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

I swannie.

Southern culture on the shelves, part 1

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

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

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

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

Honest to God.

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

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

* * *

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

Who you callin' a Fage?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

Lost Verizon

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wow, how cool and edge-cutting is that?

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

Or something!

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

Much as I expected.

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

"On any phone line?"

"On any phone line."

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

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

"Your name isn't Barrett?"

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

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

Thank you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, but our records state otherwise."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How long will this take?" I ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Great!" I say. I like assurances!

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How may I help you, Mister Barrett?"

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

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

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

I explained again that I still had no dial tone.

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Power to the inculcated people!

Yours truly,

Che "Mister Barrett" Guevara.

Motion sickness

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

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

And then I up and move again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

Is Pittsburgh the answer, though?

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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