Paper or plastic?

I was innocently minding my own business, simply catching up on older mail in my Bloglines RSS feeder, when I discovered this item available via MSNBC, dated October 9, 2007:

Brain found in bag near Va. apartments

Unclear if it's human or animal, police say; awaiting word from examiner

That's quite a find! I'm still not sure how it turned out, but whether animal or human, a brain in a bag is not your usual home-from-a-day-of-shopping-at-the-mall kind of treasure.

Nevertheless, it's not much a mystery to me. I'm sure a quick cross-reference with the Congressional Record or the daily newspapers would reveal that the President himself had indeed been at a barbecue/pool party that weekend at that very apartment complex. One of his now-divorced frat buddies--now living single in an apartment complex (a Whispering Pines, a Mistyfield Ponds, a Heatherview Mews, if you will) near the airport, because don't you know, he's in sales and has to travel a lot--had the Prez and some of their good ol' boys over for a few beers. They fired up the smoker, got comfortable with a few cold ones, let their cares slip away while they watched the game (the Cowboys of course!), and next thing you know, His Serene Cokeheadedness has stuck his brain in a bag for safe-keeping. Wouldn't want to get it dirty or scuffed up. Most definitely wouldn't want to wrinkle it.

Not in a grocery bag, I suspect. Not even in a brown paper lunch bag. No, more likely in one of those tiny, plastic snack bags ("fun size" perhaps) you mistakenly buy at the Giant Eagle, thinking its a full-sized sandwich bag.

And then he went and got distracted, thinking up new nicknames for his buds (Brownie is now Katrina, Rummy is now Resigned, and Dick . . . well, he's still a Dick) and forgot all about it. Kinda like his whereabouts and daily routine during his alleged service in the Alabama Air National Guard in the middle of that other regional conflict.

Of course, I could prove this conjecture, or at the very least, make it sound more plausible, at least as plausible as any argument against Western Civilization as made by Glenn Beck or Rush Limbaugh (who kinda look like they could be our Ill Douché's frat brothers, come to think of it), but I'm just too lazy. Too lazy to search the Congressional Record and too lazy to come up with something other than a cheap laugh at Our Fearless Leader's expense.

But, hey, if'n you're too chintzy to pay for healthcare for non-insured, sick children (why not just kick some puppies instead? or send some orphans to the alms house?), then all ya deserve is a cheap laugh, bubba.

Slowly I turn . . . another year older

Obviously, there was a great gap (and, no doubt, gasp, as we all need to come up for air sometime) between my last post in September and my first post in October--the reason being that I turned another year older (rising to 46 on the Hot 100, still with a bullet, which is probably heading straight for my cranium) in the interim and decided to celebrate by making a marathon motor tour of Central New York and the Niagara region of Ontario.

I have a few stories to tell from the adventure and hopefully I'll get to those before I've forgotten all about them (age can do that to you) or have moved on to some other blogworthy (one can but dream) observations about life, love, and a certain senator's testicles.

But today I'm pressed for time at the mo', traveling a fair amount for work until mid-November. So instead I'll give you the short version (for me) and share a few photos from my travels.

I had a wonderful time visiting my friend, the Itinerant Professor of Chinese in New York State, and also enjoyed a splendid retreat on my own in Niagara Falls and Niagara-on-the-Lake.

While in New York, I did some hiking with the Itinerant Professor, traveling to Chittenango Falls, Green Lakes State Park, and another nature preserve near Earlville and Hamilton, New York. I also dined out a lot, went to the movies, made some new acquaintances, and did the antiques roadshow circuit of Central New York.

In the Niagara region, I made myself quite at home at the Brock Plaza Hotel, the same hotel in which Marilyn Monroe stayed while filming the appropriately titled Niagara in the early 1950s. It was as camp a decision as I've ever made (other than my antiquing adventures mentioned above). I just had to do it--it seemed like a charming and slightly fabulous way to spend one's birthday. Heck, I even splurged and spent the extra $30 a night (woo hoo!) for the fallsview room, instead of the one with the vista of the late '70s modern parking deck. Despite my fear of heights, I even opened all the windows of my 11th floor room and let the roar of the American and Canadian falls lull me to sleep.

On my last day, before heading home, I spent the afternoon in the sublime Niagara-on-the-Lake, situated just so with a perfect view of Lake Ontario. I could have done more there--such as get my Anglophilia groove on while enjoying afternoon tea at the Prince of Wales Hotel--but it was hot and humid that day. Just call me Lily White of the Valley--I must be the only person who goes to Canada and gets a sunburn.

So I headed home to Pittsburgh, vowing to return another time for a longer visit. All in all, it was a splendid way to spend a birthday.

Perhaps it all sounds very lowkey and a "small" way to celebrate one of life's milestones. I mean, $30 extra for a fallsview room? Maybe I need to learn to expand my definition of splurging.

Nevertheless, it was exactly what I needed, precisely what I had been craving. Some time away, some time with friends, and some time alone, in a lovely and tranquil setting.

Oh, it's come to this, has it? First, gardening and origami, now beauty and peace over excitement and frenzied adventure?

Yes, thankfully so, it has.

A cock-and-balls story

Whodaho? Idaho. No, no. Larrycraigdaho.

I know, I know, I know. I've become something of an alternative, public-access, cable channel devoted solely to the surreptitious movements and incendiary TV appearances of America's Poster Boy for Repressed Sexuality, U.S. Senator Larry Craig, R-Idaho.

Call me tacky, call me obsessed, call me easily amused--but watching Larry Craig on TV is a bit like watching Dancing with the Stars. You know you should be spending your time in more productive ways--but it's just so darned entertaining! What will the dance consist of this night--a tango? a foxtrot? a hustle? What will La Larry dance to? "I'm in the Mood for Love"? "It's Raining Men"? The world's smallest violin playing "Nobody Knows the Troubles I Seen"? More importantly, will his leg (third or otherwise) fly off in the middle of a particularly exuberant herky-jerk?

Ah, think big, dear ones! Tonight it will be a choice of all three plus a wildcard--meet number four, a new dance partner!

This week, in an interview with NBC's Matt Lauer, Mrs. Larry Craig, aka Suzanne "Bearded Lady" Thompson, appeared side-by-side with His Lechness to refute the incessant accusations that hubby is a dyed-in-the-pink-wool homo.

Matt did a good job with the interview, but as is to be expected, Larry stonewalled (no pun intended) rather well. Then again, he's had several weeks and a few court appearances behind him, so surely he's practiced and perfected his denial and outrage by now.

Still, there were some surprises (and by surprises I mean out-and-out howlers) in the interview. Such as when Laddie Larry played the victim card, told how awful it was to be ridiculed and derided before the nation at large, wished ill, wanted gone, etc., etc., all for political gain.

Yes, yes, I quite agree. As a gay man during the era of politicians making careers and scapegoats out of us queers, I know just how you feel, Larry. It sucks (if you'll pardon the expression) to be judged on behavior deemed by some to be unseemly and immoral--although science strongly indicates its nature, not nurture, at work here. To have your private sexual life held up for ridicule and misrepresented in the media. To be paraded before an unkind populace and made to explain yourself repeatedly. It's so unfair to be treated such, rather than being credited for your record of good works and exemplary behavior.

Oh yes, my heart goes out to you. My pure, unironical heart.

But by far the best moment in the interview had to be when the Missus denied claims by someone (unnamed, probably reported on by that little-newspaper-that-could back in Idaho) that they had seen and could describe the Craig Family Jewels. *Shudder.*

And that's a shudder felt so deeply as to be mistaken for amoebic dysentery, because not only did Mrs. Craig bring this tale to our attention (an area of knowledge I had been quite comfortable living without, thanks all the same), she also added in a significant, I'm-fresh-from-coaching-by-her-husband's-chief-of-staff tone, that she should know what her husband's bits and pieces look like, having examined them and all, and they didn't look at all as they had been described.

Please. Let's all take a moment to let this sink in. Then let's all pull out our imaginary icepicks and stab ourselves in our mind's eye until the image fades from view. There. Better now.

I actually blushed at this detail. Not because I'm a prude and shocked by the reference to the pater genitalias. (I've seen a few in my time, but thankfully none of which belonged to ol' Larry.) No, it's more that I was embarrassed for the both of them, especially Mrs. Craig. That she would go on national television to defend her husband from (repeated and loudly repeated at that) charges of sexual misconduct with other men in public places by discussing this cock-and-balls story . . . well, I just feel ashamed for the both of them. Clearly they'll do anything to stay right where they are, no matter how humiliating and tawdry.

I mean, honestly, just how big a pair of whores are the both of them that they're willing to do not a tell-all but a tell-a-lurid-some to the world at large about the Senatorial Box? All this for what exactly? To be the Power Couple of Idaho in the post-Demi and Bruce era? For the chance to discuss, ferchrissakes, policy all day in a room full of aging, gray-suited men? (Whatever floats your dinghy, Larry.) For the opportunity to have an impact not on war and peace, healthcare, education, and social welfare, but on more pressing matters--like ads by Moveon.org, gay marriage, and Terry Schiavo? To continue to inhabit the power-mad but ultimately unsexy world of Official Washington, a construct so goyische that you'd swear the Capitol was made out of Wonder Bread and Miracle Whip?

It hardly seems worth it. But then owning a McMansion in the Virginia suburbs, having an entourage of sycophantic Young Republicans to guide you through every political landmine (although apparently not through the Minneapolis Airport), and getting to vote against other people's happiness is just too perverted a fantasy even for a known homosexual like me.

I'm not being fair here. I do a disservice--to whores. 'Cause whores at least have an honorable way of life. They avail themselves and their privates to others, make others happy by doing so, and don't deny it all when the going gets rough. They even do it for free! All very unlike a certain Congressman and his wife.

However, despite my rantings, the interview was successful in that it finally obliterated from my thinking that Loose Lips Larry is gay. I truly believe he's not. Labeling someone gay (in a post-Stonewall, pre-South Park way) implies that they have an affiliation with and understanding of homosexuality as not merely a sexual proclivity but a social and cultural alignment. In other words, there's more to homosexuality than just sex--but "homoculturality" won't make it past your spellchecker. And calling it "homosocialism" is just asking for trouble from the punditards on Fox News and CNN.

Oh, I'm still not convinced that Larry Craig hasn't at some point engaged in some form of same-sex sexual activity, whether in an airport restroom of his choosing or in some pup-tent-on-the-range, Brokeback Mountain fantasy style, acted out possibly with Dick Cheney. Or Karl Rove.

Possibly. Probably. Who knows? But even all that doesn't mean you're gay, as "expert" authorities like Dr. Drew--who, best as I can figure, represents some sort of Malibu Buddhist pinnacle of better sexual enlightenment through tanning and Botox--keep reminding us on the Larry King Show. That just means you're a man who has sex with men.

In other words, as they say in the vernacular of the sexual underworld, you're nothing more than a cocksucker.

And, Larry, I suspect you're the biggest one of 'em all.

Flushed away

Larry Craig keeps me up at night. Figuratively speaking.

It's true. I woke up at 6:30 on a Saturday morning after a tiring week of travel with the burning, yearning desire to write more about Our Lady of the Latrines, Larry Craig.

Whose story, I might add, changed once again this past week--"My confession stands, but I'm staying put in Congress!"

Hurray for democracy.

A comment from No Rella regarding my last blog entry pointed up to me something I had missed and left unaddressed in my previous opining--that is, that La Larry intended not only to use a public restroom for the purpose of making a date for sex but that he also probably intended to seal the deal in the very same place. Through the playful interaction of hands under the stall wall, the coy, flirtatious use of a shopping bag to hide at least one pair of shoes, and the discreet charm of an impersonal, silent, sticky-floored encounter--a Last Tango in Plumbing Fixtures, if you will--ah well, who says romance is dead?

Seriously, I don't think it fully occurred to me that Dumb and Detective, or anyone in a similar predicament, all dewy-eyed and star-crossed over the stained tile and hand-dryers at Minneapolis International, would go all flagrante delicto in the fragrant, delicate ambiance of the men's room in which they just met. I guess I just figured they'd find a comfortable, private corner in, I dunno, Terminal A, Gate 46, to profess their undying (until 5 minutes later) lust.

Naive of me, truly, but then while I've been aware of such things happening (no, really), it's always been difficult for me to imagine their full realization. OK, well, I can imagine; I just can't see myself ever doing.

I'm awkward at best in public, just walking and talking. The thought of getting down to serious sexual hijinx in just about any public setting has always struck me as impractical (where would we put our clothes?), impersonal (how are we going to talk about what's going to happen/what has just happened?), and potentially hugely embarrassing. I could just see, in the throes of passion, the stall door flying open or the whole cubicle falling apart, the walls peeling away one by one, leaving me more humiliated than simply by the fact of just having experienced the world's most intimate act amidst the revolting charm of a public toilet.

Needless to say, I don't get laid nearly enough. I think about the details way too much, and, really, folks who are doing the nasty in the men's room probably aren't looking for the kind of guy who prefers long walks on the beach, cuddling in front of a fire with someone special, and good conversation. Silence, discretion, and a lack of personal interaction (other than with a spare appendage/orifice) are required here, not my kind of bon mots, thoughts on the definition and use of torture in war, and even details on one's turn-ons and turn-offs. (I'm assuming in this situation that for the eager actors pretty much everything would be a turn-on. Even oxygen.) Plus, in general, I find that most men aren't attracted to the kind of guy who, when describing life's more romantic (if bourgeois and pedestrian) moments, make them sound like the storyboard for a commercial for a feminine hygiene product.

Just an observation.

So, like, it never really sunk in that Larry would be doing the deed with the Hot Cop from the Village People in situ. And just for the record, I'm not down with that particular aspect of the situation. Like I said, men's rooms are pretty vulgar all on their own; I want to go in, do my business, wash my hands clean of the situation, and move on. I don't particularly want to have to mill about in a crowded anteroom while Larry and his latest Mary pretend to spend a penny while exacting a pounding of the flesh on my time, on my dime. It's the kind of selfish, public behavior that drives me crazy--"Oh, my needs are so special that I'm going to take up space for my carnal knowledge while you dance around outside, hopping from leg to leg, waiting to do what this place was intended for. Is that OK with you?"

No, it's not OK with me, not that you were really asking my permission, nor would you necessarily be able to, your mouth full and all.

I am reasonably content to lead a fairly compartmentalized life, generally using facilities in their intended manner, no questions asked. I use the left lane on the Pennsylvania Turnpike as a passing lane, not a travel lane (unless traffic is horrendous, and so it often is). I refrain from using tables as footstools, even in public waiting areas. I quietly accept that plastic bags from the drycleaners are safety hazards, not toys.

So those more free than me, those who throw the rules and regs of comportment to the winds, the rest of us be damned, tend to bring out the uniformed-police-officer-with-a-trigger-taser-finger in me. Have you ever seen the John Waters' movie Serial Mom, in which Kathleen Turner's character starts killing people for offending social custom--swiping parking spaces, not separating their recycling, wearing white after Labor Day? I can so empathize.

So, based on this and other absolutely flawless lines of reasoning, I don't empathize or sympathize much with Lewd Larry. Nevertheless, I can't help but think maybe ol' Larry got a bum deal--just not the kind he wanted.

What did Larry Craig intend to do? OK, dumb question. Despite his incessant denials, I think we all know what he intended to do, if given a half a chance and a willing, blond, chiseled jaw participant. But he didn't actually do it, and, thus, reluctantly, in his defense, I have to say I don't think he should have been charged with anything. Intent to molest another shoe? Possession of small pieces of toilet paper with intent to distribute between private stalls? I'm no legal scholar, as I've noted before and as my attempts at a living will and copyright interpretation no doubt would prove, so maybe intent is all you need to arrest and get a confession to "disorderly conduct." However, it would seem to me that you'd have to have some very specific action going on, a little South-of-the-Bible Belt exposure in view, before you could bring in the police, handcuffs, and interrogation room. Unless you're into that sort of thing.

Imagine my shame and consternation, however, in trying to defend Larry Craig's actions, intended or otherwise. I'm not all pro-let's-have-sex-wherever-we-like-'cause-we're- feeling-horny. But I'm not all pro-let's-support-another-asshole-conservative-who-has- consistently-voted-against-anything-gay-affirmative-while-still-enjoying-certain-fruits- of-his-labor-available-only-to-willing-participants either. In situations like these, what's a right-on kind of homosexual supposed to do?

* * *

To say I find myself at odds with most of the big gay world--as well as the world at large--is something of a duh statement. (Read the blog. All is revealed.)

During the midst of all this homo hullabaloo, a friend sent me some photos from San Francisco's notorious Folsom Street Fair, held annually in the old meat-packing section (heavy irony) of the Anything Goes Capital of America. For the unitiated among us--and, please, I beg of you, don't ever go to the Folsom Street Fair and say, "I'm ready for my initiation!" because I'm pretty sure you won't like the results (or so I'm assuming)--the fair is sort of an arts-and-crafts approach to kink. Or, if you prefer, a better description of the fair might be to say that it is the kink-and-arts approach to leathercraft.

The Folsom Street Fair is not for the faint-hearted or even the not-so-easily shocked. As an article in Wikipedia describes it, the Folsom Street Fair is

. . . [O]ne of the few occasions when sadomasochistic activities are encouraged and performed in public . . . [the fair] attracts a considerable number of sightseers and those who enjoy the attention of onlookers as well as the hundreds of photographers and videographers. Although the costumes and activities can be eye-opening and transgressive, the event tends to be very peaceful and non-threatening.

So, heck, it's fun for the whole family! Especially if your family is into flogging, branding, bondage, and other things you don't really want to know too much about (again, or so I'm assuming).

Again, what's a right-on kind of homosexual to do? On the one hand, these folks on display and, well, splayed, at the Folsom Street Fair are consenting adults. Who am I to play Nanny 911, Big Moral Government Edition, and say, no, you can't do that in public?

On the other hand, jeez, you're doing this in public! And the whole world is watching!

I'll leave the defense or critique of such behaviors to those who have more of a vested interest. I will say that while some aspects of the activities on view might be described as playful, fun, and even sexy (two men dressed in leather, kissing each other, maybe be shocking in some circles, but in and of itself, it's hardly inflammatory), others look like some sort of odd psychotherapeutic passion play, a way to work out childhood traumas over and over and over again, for all to see. Snaps for your bravery, I guess, but I really wish you'd just talk it over with a counselor. In private.

Still, this view of San Francisco is something of a raw-like-sushi bento box of a Marilyn Manson concert, an Xtreme! Sports event/Ironman competition, Disneyland for naturists, a DIY home improvement show aimed at people with a fondess for excessive use of duck tape, and a steamy, night-time lockdown at Louisiana's famed Angola Prison--all balled up into one and left whimpering in the corner. There's more to the city and its culture, including its gay culture, than just the most kink-fueled and attention-grabbing, but direct your vision to certain corridors and corners in the City by the Bay, especially on a gorgeous, sunny weekend in October, and you're liable to see more of the wild side than you would, say, in Peoria. Or Pittsburgh, for that matter.

So, whatever. To each his own. There are more important issues to wrestle with, more significant topics for me to spank, more demanding points for me to parade around on a leash attached to a dog collar.

Nevertheless, a little discussion and analysis of the behaviors in evidence might be required--particularly with regards to the "in evidence" portion of the conundrum. For you see, the photos sent to me were credited to the American Family Association, the Donald Wildmon-operated shriek-tank that has created a successful cottage industry out of sending snail- and e-mail screaming bloody apocalypse about the conservative Huey, Dewey, and Louie anti-Christs of our time--indecency, obscenity, and homosexuality.

Well, no cultural critic ever went hungry, no minister de-flocked, by parading examples of tawdry public behavior and tasteless media representation before a repressed yet eager audience/congregation. Need convincing? Have you ever heard of Mel Gibson's The Passion of the Christ?

Still, while I'm not feeling particularly protective of fundamentalists wittle feewings, I can't say that I'm all gung-ho for the right of my fellow Friends of Dorothy to make rubber-clad, bullwhip-inserted-where?!?! spectacles of themselves on the streets of Any City, USA. I want to be all libertarian laissez-faire on yo' (properly protected) ass, but it's a neverending and not particularly satisfying challenge for me to justify your right to do whatever you want in public, when it is used as a way to keep me and my more mundane fellow travellers from getting basic legal protection in housing and employment, not to mention respectful treatment by public officials and private citizens.

So what's my point exactly? I guess it's that public actions have pubic consequences. Have yourself wrapped in leather mummy drag and strung up like a rotisserie chicken in the streets of San Francisco and someone might take it the wrong way and use it against you and your kind on a fundamentalist website. Try to secure a blowjob in an airport toilet, and you're liable to have your constituents read about the details on The Smoking Gun website, as well as on the front page of The Washington Post. And no one is really going to be all that up for defending your right to do so, especially if your behavior is going to make them blush with embarrassment and shock--or, worse, miss their connecting flight.

So maybe don't do that. Or, if you must do, think about who might be watching, paying attention, or able to hear/read about it. Or barring that, close the blinds, shut the door, and get the hell out of my way. I've got a plane to catch.

Hello Larry!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

Mine's thirty-three

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Plus we'd all win at Scrabble.

Dannielynn has two Daddies

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

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

* * *

Stern Says Book's Gay Sex Claim `Absurd'

By Associated Press

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

And further--

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

First, Heather had two mommies. And now this.

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

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

Give it some Gas

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No?

Ah, something for later, taters . . .

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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.