Chilly scenes of Pittsburgh #1: Have a seat

While winter still trudges onward in my little corner of the world, I hope to share with you a few random images and observations about life in the snow-capped hills and vales of our fair burg(h).

Here's the first, a little composition I've entitled "Have a Seat," which I snapped on my walk to work earlier this week, after our last "major snowstorm." More about that in a sec.

The story behind the picture is that parking is at a premium in most inner Pittsburgh neighborhoods, with most residents and visitors parking on the street, rather than in driveways (what are those?) or garages. Despite the initial allure of housing choices when I first moved to Pittsburgh last summer--a dirty, third-floor walk-up in Bloomfield or a recently mortgage-flipped rowhouse along a crack alley in Brighton Heights--yours truly counts himself lucky that he was able to find a nice-if-small apartment with an egregiously pink-tiled bathroom close to work that also has a detached garage. Must keep that 12-year-old, 150,000-mile, teal-colored Subaru safe at all costs, of course.

Thus, many people in urban Pittsburgh value the spaces in front of their homes, even if they don't actually pay directly for them. So they will do their civic duty and shovel snow out of the space--but with a catch: They'll put a chair in the space, which means don't you dare try to park there; it's reserved for the now-exhausted homeowner who shoveled the snow, not for some upstart drive-by visitor who might try to claim it as his or her own.

I have one friend in town who, whenever he sees the ol' chair-in-the-parking-space routine, is instantly annoyed. "Oh whatever! Like they can claim the space as their own! It's public property!" goes the lament.

I just find it amusing. I mean, this may be a socially binding contract--I clean the space in front of my house, thus you don't park there--one I am willing to go along with, as long as everyone doesn't do it and as long as the Citizen Shoveler also bothered to scrape the sidewalk in front of the homestead as well.

However, I can just as easily envision driving a Hummer (well, no I can't actually envision myself doing this, but for the sake of argument . . .) down the street, seeing a snow-free space occupied by only a rusted-out folding chair or a little, handmade, wooden bench (see picture), and without further thought, riding over the top of the "obstructions" to claim the space, resting my multi-ton, 12-miles-to-the-gallon-downhill vehicle comfortably over the now-flattened pancake symbols of proprietorship.

Ha. I'm older and I have more insurance, as the saying goes.

***

Ah, if the local news and the Weather Channel have taught us anything, it's that even the most mundane of climatic events can be, well, climactic. The case in point here is that this past week, we had maybe 5 inches of snow in town, then some melt, then maybe an inch or two more a couple of days later. I had *thought* this was no biggie for you Northerners out there--you and your "Well, in Chicago, we don't ever close the schools because of snow" and your "In the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, we don't stop playing outside until the windchills get down to -50F"--but, unfortunately, every moment in American life, at least those portions validated by television, has to be full of drama--or at least enough noise to fill the chasm-like (chasmatic?) void of our existence.

So now we get "severe" weather reports on the local news, even though its the same ol', same ol' daily forecast. It might rain, it could snow, the sun may shine (which would be something of a newsworthy surprise during a Pittsburgh winter), but these events do not necessarily qualify as "severe," at least according to me, Life's Great Deskchair Arbiter of Reason.

The Weather Channel, of course, does this, too, so much so that my mother, Vivien Leigh, and I both noted sometime in January that we had to make ourselves stop listening to their reports because we had grown anxious to leave the house and head to the store for groceries, take a walk around the neighborhood, or go to work (and we get paid to do that). Really, sometimes the sidewalks in Kansas and Pennsylvania can be a mess, but the streets and highways are normally safe. Maybe a plague of flying monkeys, a rain of blood, or a few old Russian spy satellites might keep us indoors, but some sprinkles or a snow shower elevated to "severe weather" status? Pish-posh.

Nowadays, the Weather Channel has added sound effects to its "local on the 8's" forecasts, so no longer do you merely read the daily forecast or hear it intoned by a generic male voice, you also get to hear rain! And wind! And thunder! Just in case you've forgotten what they sound like!

I'm not sure they've figured out a sound effect for snow or sunshine yet, but give them time, give them time.

It's not just the Weather Channel that has added sound effects, however. Again, one of the local weathercasts now features this annoying, electronic, emergency-infused dee-dee-dee, dee-dee-dee sound when the weather is about to be acted out. ('Cause let's face it, it ain't read or reported anymore; it's played out more like an overcaffeinated, pantomime version of the Genesis story.)

My personal favorite "sound fills the emptiness in our souls" moment happens on CNN Headline News during the "Morning Express with Robin Meade" program--formerly, a perfectly simple, news report for the bleary-eyed with a charming, if somewhat cheerleader-esque host, which now has been repackaged as information for the Harried Generation. Whenever there is a "breaking news" item--which as best as I can tell involves anything from a bad road accident in Ohio to an "ooh snap! oh no you din't!" moment between presidential candidates--you hear this drum rat-a-tat-tat, which means you're supposed to stop what you're doing--eating, breathing, sharing a quality moment with loved ones--and snap to attention. It's all very Winston Smith, if you ask me.

What makes me giggle, though, is that rat-a-tat-tat. It's like that children's wind-up toy where the monkey bangs on a drum or crashes cymbals together. After the tattoo, I half-expect Robin Meade to appear on camera, bare her teeth, and do that slow eeeeek-eeeeek-eeeeek that the toy monkey always does.

If only. Then and only then might the broadcasters get my undivided attention.

"Hermey doesn't like to make toys" is just code

Editor's note: As promised long ago, a totally inappropriate piece of holiday tale. You've been warned.

* * *

You know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen, Comet and Cupid and Donner and Blitzen. But do you recall the most fabulous reindeer of all?

While visiting my Mom, Vivien Leigh, and my Sis, the Number 1 Beatles Fan of All Time, in Kansas over Thanksgiving, the conversation took an interesting turn. We had blown a little too hastily through our standard entertainment choices--the DVD sets of That Girl! my sister owns and the several weeks' worth of Dark Shadows episodes on loan from Netflix. Thus, we were in desperate need of something, anything, to enjoy while we convalesced from the overindulgence in turkey and trimmings.

Not one to click too much from channel to channel, I used Sunflower Cable's on-screen guide to review the holiday weekend's TV offerings. "Hey, there's a Meerkat Manor marathon on the Discovery Channel. Have you seen this? You guys might like it," I suggested. "Although bad stuff does happen to the animals, and I know how you feel about that." The latter comment was directed toward my sister, who has the world's biggest heart when it comes to mammals, especially of the hirsute, cold nose, and lick-themselves-silly variety.

"No," Vivien said, "Your sister doesn't like that one."

"Oh," I said and chalked it up to the occasional animal death.

Beatles, who does a lot of theorizing in her career as an academic, explained: "It's because the show is so sexist," she said.

"Sexist?" I ventured timidly.

"Tell him your interpretation," my Mom encouraged her.

"Well," she began, "All the female animals, whenever they are out in the open, are 'vulnerable' and can't make it on their own without a man [male animal, that is] being present. The women 'abandon' their children, then are 'punished' for their foolishness by being killed by a predator. Who says that's what's going on? Maybe the females just want to be on their own away from the kids. Maybe it has nothing to do at all with that very sexist interpretation," she said.

"Hmmm," I said, genuinely intrigued. "Sounds like something you could get an article out of."

The conversation turned to other theories, notbably queer theory and the concept of the "gay vague," as my sister put it.

"The gay what?" I said.

"The gay vague--the concept that there is a gay subtext, an indication of gayness in the text, the scene, but it is not explicit. For example, two men are seen together in a scene, and there is an intimate interaction between the two of them--maybe one lights a cigarette for another--something symbolic, but it's not explicit, it's left open-ended so that you don't know for sure whether they are gay or not. Yet it appeals to a variety of audiences, both gay and straight."

"Oh, you mean, like, in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer," I ventured.

"What?" my Sis asked, now herself genuinely intrigued.

I took a deep breath and began extolling a theory I'd had in my head for a number of years.

"Well, Rudolph is an outsider. He is rejected by his family and friends, not allowed to join in with the others because he's different. His father in particular rejects him for his difference--his very obvious difference--and Rudolph runs away to the Island of Misfit Toys, which if that isn't a stand-in for San Francisco or Fire Island or Mykonos, I don't know what is. Along the way he picks up two other misfits--a blond twink with ambitions (that would be Hermey or Herman or, better still, "Her-Man") and a 'bear,' in the gay sense, in the form of Yukon Cornelius."

I continued . . .

"Finally, Rudolph heads home because his family needs his help. Thus, he becomes socially acceptable and part of the community once they discover the benefits of his uniqueness, his 'flaming' red nose and its ability to light the way for Santa and keep Christmas on track for everyone. Despite being an 'outsider' and, thus, to some, an enemy of the family and tradition, Rudolph ends up supporting both structures. The classic 'gay helper' role, I think you would call it. Just like those queens on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.

"I mean," I stuttered, feeling that maybe I'd gone a bit OTT with this analysis, "it's not necessarily a gay story, but you could interpret it that way.

"Oh, and Clarice is just a beard," I added.

"Exactly!" she said. "That's the gay vague!"

And to all a good night.

Give it some Gas

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No?

Ah, something for later, taters . . .

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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