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

Ripped from the headlines--

"Cheney Resting Comfortably at Hospital after Chest Pains"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Try harder, though.

Herr today, gone tomorrow

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

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

Ski Pennsylvania!

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So . . .

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quite literally.

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

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

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

Glory!

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

Unlike me and my knees.

A really big snow

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

From here to paternity

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

Phew. I barely missed that dodgeball of contrition.

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

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

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

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

Doubles troubles

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

Anthony Edwards

With goatee but without glasses.



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



Jason Statham

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



Andre Agassi

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


Mario Biondi

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




One of the members of the group The Bad Plus

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

John Travolta

Good lord. Now you're just being cruel.


Mister Garrison

Bitches. All of you.
















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

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

Yes, actually, it is.

State of shock

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He was so out there," I offered.

"Mm-hmm."

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

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

Oh. My. Goodness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rest in peace, Michael.

Palmetto Road

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

Specifically, a dog named Bucky.

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

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

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

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

Again.

* * *

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

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

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

What's new, Buenos Aires?

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cue chilling Law and Order style sound effect.

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

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

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

Well, praise Jesus! Praise Jenny!

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

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

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

Haiku you

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You tell me if I've been successful.

Sarah Palin--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rush Limbaugh--

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

George "Dubya" Bush--

Dubya celebrates
Memorial Day like so--
Memorizing stuff

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

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

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

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

Oh, if only.

Hang in there, kitten!

OK, admittedly, my recent morning soundtrack might have been too much for some sensitive souls.

As my friend the Gladman put it, after listening to Portishead:

I don't understand most of your musical postings, but the part of your blog clip that I played sent me running for the Xanax. Tipper Gore was right about warning labels on music, she just didn't go far enough.

Hmmm, well, not everyone's musical tastes are the same or even in sync most of the time, and I shall remain mostly silent on the detriment to my well-being of hearing "lite jazz" played in heavy rotation at a holiday brunch the Gladman threw several years ago, an event I endured on a morning when I had had . . . well, let's just say, too much fun and too little sleep the night before, celebrating the Birth of Our Lord in a less than holy (but more than spiritual) way.

The excellent hosting duties and superlative cuisine made up for Aural Assault by a Deadly Kenny G, but, alas, I'm still scarred in many ways.

Nonetheless, when I posted on my Facebook profile that perhaps listening to Portishead on the walk to work on a gloomy Monday morning might have been a bad idea, one work friend responded to the post, "I'm surprised you made it at all!" And this from a soul who wouldn't be caught facing the Dark Side without wearing a fitted cap, Doc Martens, and rolled-up dungarees, with his wallet held in place by a very long chain. Plus he grew up in McKees Rocks and is a philosophy major. Not to be trifled with!

So as penance--and because the second morning of snow quickly dissipated and, instead, the sun shone most of today, thank you very much--I'm now on a mission to raise the human spirit through song, 3 minutes and 30 seconds at a time.

Please give these a try and let me know if you still need the Xanax.

Basia Balat, "In the Night" (and, no, it's not *that* Basia):



Ayo, "Help is Coming" (I used to hear this on RFI Musique all the time, and now it's been released stateside):



Amadou et Mariam, "Dimanche a Bamako" (yes, as heard on NPR, just another example of my liking stuff that other white people like):



And the aforementioned "Happy Up Here" by Röyksopp, which, really, if that doesn't get your spirit moving, then it's too late, you're already dead:



But wait, only four songs about happiness and twenty songs to kill yourself by? And one of the four is a retread? Isn't that a bit out of balance?

Yes, exactly.

Welcome to my Dark Side, kitten.

April in Pittsburgh

Happy up here, my ass . . .

This is what I woke up to this morning, an inch or so of snow on the ground, still more coming down from the sky, and a temp of 30 F--just two days after a glorious, sunny Sunday, when the high reached 70 F.

Further proof that hell has frozen over? That stinkin' Carolina won the NCAA.

Harrumph.

Happy up here!

On my walk to work this morning, I started out listening to the latest Portishead album, Third, on my iPod.

Here's a sample, their single, "Machine Gun."

Ugh.

"Single" sounds like such a frivolous term for a song so dour. While certainly a fine example of musical creativity, I generally would not recommended anything called "Machine Gun" (except by the Commodores, which is probably more my style than I care to admit) for easy listening on a dreary, damp Monday morning. I did feature Portishead in my list of twenty songs to kill yourself by ("All Mine"--icy despair, retro style--and you can dance to it!). So I should have known better, but Third even outmiseries the misery of an April Monday with snow in the forecast and a bitter chill in my disposition.

Gone are Sunday's sunny 70s; hello, 50s, 40s, and 30s, and the desire to throw myself under a passing Port Authority bus. Remind me now why I decided to limit my caffeine intake to one cup of coffee a day? And reduce my consumption of chocolate to practically nil? Health concerns? Well, the wheels of the bus go 'round and 'round and seem to have a road-gripping retort to that theory, now don't they?

So, Monday a.m. and Portishead shall never meet again. Instead, for quick relief and a desire not to tie up traffic on Penn Avenue, I turned to a little "Melody a.m.," or at least a Melody a.m. revival in the form of Röyksopp's new single, "Happy Up Here."



So enough of the depression and alienation! There's plenty of time for that in the future--tomorrow will probably be worse anyway! Let's dance and sing and play Space Invaders. I'm sure Torbjørn and Svein would want it that way.

Trader Woes

First, let me say, right off, that while this rant/posting is about Trader Joe's, the chi-chi supermarket chain, coming soon to a high-income neighborhood near you, I do not have a problem with Trader Joe's, in and of itself.

In fact, generally, I like it, at least in concept. You get high-end food at, admittedly, high-end prices. (Four cloth bags of groceries for $91.58--such a bargain!) The staff is often quite friendly and helpful, with no exceptions being all that exceptional--excepting maybe the one check-out clerk who insists on wishing me a "blessed day" through gritted teeth after every transaction. I keep feeling like she's doing field research for her church. "Befriend the goofy homosexual and report back to us on what he purchased, so we can boycott those companies. Praise the lord!"

And what is not to like about chocolate-covered sunflower seeds, Marcona almonds with rosemary, and the TJ-brand mac 'n' cheese? Good, waist-wasting eats.

Compared to the local mega-chain Giant Eagle (nostalgic for the dark days of bread lines, grim decor, and surly service of the Soviet Union? They live on at Giant Eagle), Trader Joe's and Whole Foods are making-glorious-people's-revolution for Pittsburgh foodies.

I still wish we had a Wegman's for comparison and contrast. I can see how that would be a tough sell in town, with both TJ's, Whole Foods, and the Gucci Eagle Central Market covering the Oakland-Shadyside-Squirrel Hill-East Liberty 'hood. But surely Mount Lebanon, Fox Chapel, Wexford, or Oakmont could support a Wegman's. Heck, Erie has a Wegman's--and several Tim Horton's, too. Yet Pittsburgh has got bupkus to show for New York-based megamarts and Canadian doughnuts.

Second, I'm not saying I want to move to Erie anytime soon. In addition to Tim Horton's and Wegman's, Erie also had 129 inches of snow in January alone this past winter. I'm sure it's lovely in a certain light during a certain time of year, but if I were living in Erie, I'd be thinking of something other than 20 songs to kill yourself by. I'd be thinking of 20 ways to do it.

I do have my quibbles with Trader Joe's. The Pittsburgh store seems a bit undersized compared to some other TJ's I've been to (as does the Whole Foods, and as did the late, lamented Filene's, may it rest in peace). And there are times when you just can't get what you want. You go one night and they are completely out of parsley, flat-leaf for curly. You go another, and there's been a run on toilet paper or pineapple. You go yet another, and that Applegate Farms free-range Amish sandwich meat and cheese I like is nowhere to be found. Nor is the bread. Or the fat-free milk.

So, from time to time, the Trader Joe's experiene can be a bit frustrating merchandise-wise. But, really, the crux of my bittertude toward TJ's is not TJ's itself. It is with those who frequent Trader Joe's.

Excepting yours truly of course.

Really, I'm talking about a certain type of denizen of Trader Joe's. The Trader Schmoes. The Trader Slows. The Trader Foes/Fauxs.

Oh, c'mon, don't play all goody-goody. You know exactly what I'm talking about. There are the Trader Schmoes--the posh, East End of Pittsburgh types, with one foot in Shadyside and one foot on the gas pedal of their Lexus SUVs as they plow you under in the parking lot. They swear Trader Joe's is the absolute only place they shop for groceries anymore. They can't deal with the hoi polloi at Giant Eagle in North St. Clairvale East Versaillesport West Millquense any longer! Trader Joe's is all that's standing between them and starvation--and they are of course already beyond fashionably thin, so they can ill miss the calories.

This type worries me. Deeply. I mean, god forbid we should have a Day After or a Day After Tomorrow scenario play out in this country. These poor slobs won't know how to forage for groceries at Shopper's Food Warehouse, let alone be able to gather enough nuts and berries to survive on in a nuclear wilderness.

Then there are the Trader Slows--and like the poor, red lipstick, and spiteful Republicans, the Trader Slows will always be with us. Moving at a snail's pace through the aisles of TJ's, slowly picking up each item of produce, examining it with microscopic movements, and slowly returning it to the bin . . . only to pick up yet another item of produce, indistinguishable from the last, ever so slowly . . . .

These are the ones who leave their carts higgledy-piggledy in the aisles and common areas. The ones who have to chat extensively about their food purchases with everyone in line, everyone walking through the door, and everyone in the parking lot. These are the ones who see shopping at Trader Joe's as An Experience that no one has ever felt quite like they have.

The Trader Slows are to be avoided at all costs. Especially when you are in a hurry and/or have low blood sugar, which is really not the way to experience Trader Joe's. So maybe the Slows are on to something and get the TJ experience much more than I do. That or they need their own special-needs-themed store, with their own very special check-out aisle.

One variant of the Trader Slows type is the aging hippie type--Trader Cornrows, perhaps?--with wiry gray, overly long hair, and wearing nothing but organically dyed hemp fibers picked up from their last grant-funded research/shopping trip to [insert Third World country name here]. Where do these people work? Other than in academe, I mean? Goodness, it is obvious they stopped watching TV and reading magazines sometime before 1978. Instead, all their spare income goes to Trader Joe's, Moveon.org, and to periodic tune-ups of their "classic" Subaru wagon, the one in the lot that is more bumpersticker than paint job at this point.

And then there is my favorite (at least to make fun of) type--the Trader Fauxs, who are indeed my foes and the source of all my woes. You know them. They live among us. And they breed like rabbits. Fine, pampered, angora rabbits, but rabbits all the same.

They come to TJ's with an entourage, generally consisting of children, either worn en papoose, like pendants or designer gear, or, if the child is beyond the larval stage, then the child is encouraged to freely express his creativity and independence, primarily by dodging among shopping carts and around the legs of other shoppers with their own entourages, mostly of the adult variety, who insist on doing all their shopping at Trader Joe's (see Trader Schmoes above).

There is so much to loathe about the Trader Fauxs, so very very much. Nonetheless, they make me giggle to myself for one very simple reason: Is it me or have the Trader Fauxs made the mistake of naming all their offspring after humble, pre-20th-century professions? There are Porters, Tanners, Carters, Taylors (Tailors), Hunters, and Coopers to name but a few. Can Farrier, Gatherer, or Lumberjack be far behind? Is it an attempt to sound chic? Or is it an effort to make their kids more downwardly mobile, jealous of any potential success they might have, despite the incessant efforts to give them all the advantages they never yadda yadda yadda?

I chuckle further when I start to wonder if the White Trash--er, the Anglo-Saxon working poor with TV sets and Us Weekly subscriptions--will eventually toss aside all those soap opera names (Krystal with a K, Alexis, Marissa, Schuyler, Nash, et al.) in favor of naming their children after upwardly mobile professions. Little Surgeon Marshburn. Sweet Attorney Tyndall. Darling Civil Engineer Stroud. Adorable Hedge Fund Manager Jarman.

Well, OK, maybe not Hedge Fund Manager Jarman. The working poor may be poor but they are smarter than that.

And probably way smarter to stay out of Trader Joe's when they are in a hurry and have a bad case of low-blood sugar.

Just call me Trader Doh!'s.