Let it all go

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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





But, still, those fireflies . . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unholy crap

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

And my point is . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bottoms up, citizens!

A new Argentina

From this week's headlines:

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

And hair and makeup as well.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am gay; I know my showtunes, folks.

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

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

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

The railroad less traveled

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who shot B. F.?

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

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

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

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

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

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




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

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

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

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

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

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

My kind of town

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

. . . enjoying too much food at Russian Tea Time

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

The sad state of Republican glamour

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

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

I mean, her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where the rubber meets the road

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If only . . .

Fresh from today's entertainment headlines . . .

Jessica Simpson: Why I Almost Quit Singing

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

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

Enter screaming.

No foreigners allowed

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

Article II of the U.S. Constitution states

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh-bomb-uh

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

Lucky you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Joe Freakin' Biden? Un-unh.

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

For example . . .

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

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

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

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

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

What? Too much? Not enough?

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

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

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

Damn you, Anderson Cooper

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

Oh, you've definitely been forewarned . . .

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or this one from San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsom:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Make of that what you will.

* * *

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

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

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