Cod reggae #1

The playlist, more or less, now available through the magic of YouTube.



This isn't a perfect solution to the Mixaloo or Finetune conundra, of course. Ideally, if I were truly in the now, I'd use iTunes to create a playlist, but, if I'm not mistaken, you have to buy all your music through iTunes in order to create a public playlist in the iTunes player. In other words, you can make your own playlist but to share it with others, you need to have spent $0.99 each on songs you already have in your own collection. Ah, capitalism.

And this isn't the entire Cod Reggae #1 playlist either. I couldn't find a video for The Brothers' "Sing Me" (it's pretty obscure, even though it was a Top Ten hit in the UK in 1977 or so) or even any songs by them. I also couldn't find videos for The Kongas' "Jungle" or Midi, Maxi, & Efti's "Masenko," although in the latter case, I included a video for their song "Ragga Steady," which should give you an idea of what this Ethiopian-Eritrean-Swedish pop group from the '90s sounds like.

I did a similar thing for Serge Gainsbourg's "Aux armes et caetera." There are two "homemade" videos for this tune in YouTube, one which has a warning before you watch it about "adult images." I watched only part of it, and as best I could tell, the so-called adult images include shots of Vladimir Lenin and Abu Ghraib's excesses, which . . . well, the latter need more exposure, although the former, the snaps of Lenin, seem positively quaint in this day and age, my snide remarks about capitalism notwithstanding. Perhaps later we could don our Young Pioneers uniforms, join hands, and sing "The Internationale" or "The Red Army is the Strongest in the World." Just for fun.

The other video doesn't have any warnings but probably should: It features a beautiful Asian nymphette in a bikini running a bath (for herself, one would assume). I decided not to use that video either (and turned away before, perhaps, I was scarred for life by what was to follow), which, in reality, is pure Serge Gainsbourg, but then so is the one of Abu Ghraib. Instead, I opted for a homemade video of the dub version of his reggae number, "Lola Rastaquouère."

I did, however, choose the "skin option" for Timmy Thomas's recording of "Why Can't We Live Together," the homemade video featuring some scantily clad babe gyrating rhythmically to the tune. What she has to do with a song about world peace, I'll never quite fathom, but I can see how she might relate to the theme of "world piece" instead.

Enjoy . . . or whatever . . . while you can. This approach doesn't necessarily resolve the copyright issue, but to be sure, if anything does impinge upon someone's copyright, YouTube will take action, remove the offending video, and, thus, seriously interrupt my studies in mixology.

But fear not: Cod Reggae #2 is coming soon to a YouTube near you.

Cod reggae #2

As promised, mix #2. Funnily enough, my tastes seem even cheesier, one might say even more Velveetastic, in visual, rather than merely aural, form.

Neat, hunh?

Pop music is not a crime

Another song about dancing/
I know you’ve heard it all before/
If i wrote a song about more serious things/
Would you want to hear some more?/
It’s just that i really like to dance/
I guess that sounds pretty trite/
Would you dance to a song about dancing?/
Guilty pleasures feel so right

Freezepop, "Pop Music Is Not a Crime"

* * *

I like to think that my musical tastes would make your mental mixtape exhausted and confused, or, worst case, give you a tension headache and causing you to lie down in a dark room for a few hours. That tape might include a tracklist like so:

• Something from an avant-garde composer such as Steve Reich, Philip Glass, and Arvo Pärt
• A little modern and classic jazz from the likes of Miles Davis, John Coltrane, the Cinematic Orchestra, and Eric Truffax
• Worldbeat sounds like North African rai, Bollywood, Arabic-language pop, and Brazilian samba and jazz
• Contemporary guitar-based Britpop by the likes of Keane, the Kaiser Chiefs, and Peter, Bjorn, & John (even though the latter are actually Swedish, but who's counting?)
• '70s soul and disco, including Barry White (and lots of him), Cerrone, Silver Convention, and both Thelma Houston's and Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes' versions of "Don't Leave Me This Way"
• '60s Merseybeat and "girl" singers like Dusty Springfield, the Dave Clark Five, and Sandie Shaw
• Anything French, particularly Etienne Daho, Air, Mylène Farmer, and especially Serge Gainsbourg
• All those trip-hop groups from the '90s like Portishead, Olive (the first album only), Mono, and "Six Underground" by the Sneaker Pimps
• Guilty, dance-around-your-bedroom-in-your-underwear-singing-into-a-bottle-of-Brut-aftershave (not that I've ever done this . . .) pleasures like the Spice Girls, ABBA, and Kylie Minogue
• Maybe some Joni Mitchell to mellow you out a bit while simultaneously making you moody, or some Carly Simon so you can see how angst-ridden and long-suffering the upper classes in our fair nation truly are
• And, lately, even a little bluegrass and classic, pre-1975 country; consider it an homage to my Dad

I will listen to the occasional opera and have even found myself liking a little hip-hop--most definitely Missy "Misdemeanor" Elliot, as well as Common, Talib Kweli, and Kurtis Mantronik. I draw the line, though, at almost all contemporary Top 40 country and pretty much every last bit of gangsta rap. In both cases, I just don't think I'm either suburban enough or white enough for it to speak to my tortured soul. In the latter case, too, I just can't relate to the street-hardened billionaires who make it. You earn all those Benjamins (as one says . . .) and you blow it on an Escalade? We are *definitely* worlds apart. What about a nice Mini Cooper? You can still trick it out, though admittedly it's a bit of a challenge to fit all your entourage in the backseat.

I sometimes/often sound defensive whenever I talk about music--for example, in my previous post on the Spice Girls. Ah, paranoia, man's best friend, at least this one's. It's just that I think I'm always ready to be blasted for my curious and sometimes downright dodgy musical preferences. Consider it coming from a family of four kids who were always very passionate about their tunes and who staked their claim early to some of the best popular music on offer at the time--my sister, Beatles (enough said); my brother, the Honorary Curator of the Lynyrd Skynyrd Memorial Museum, the one-man champion of Southern rock; and my other brother, the Romeo of Duchess Lane, who first brought Bruce Springsteen home (in album form, that is), as well as a slew of '70s senstive singer-songwriters like Emitt Rhodes, all the better (I suspect) to appeal to the feather-haired, blue-eyeshadowed girls that lived in our subdivision.

School for a gay kid, at least in the '70s, was pretty much a never-ending turmoil of hiding all too poorly one's differences, and one great source of tension between the Third Sex and the Rest of Teenage Humanity were lunchroom discussions of our record collections. There were three listening choices for any "normal" American boy in the '70s--Kiss, Aerosmith, and Led Zeppelin, with maybe a pass for Deep Purple or Yes, and, seriously, maybe even for Queen, who could be forgiven all manner of eccentricities because they were British. Interesting that these bands almost always featured long-haired, flamboyant singers, some with make-up and some singing in falsetto and at least one of whom was gay. Nonetheless, they sang about chicks, cars, and partying, so they had to be straight, right? Don't confuse the issue, boy, with your homoerotic subtexts!

Meanwhile, the Lone Homosexual at the table tried to stuff his mouth full of tater tots and whole milk before anyone could ask him about his tunes. They talked about Kiss; I thought about the weekend's shortwave radio listening--namely, the pop music programs from 208 Radio Luxembourg and Radio Nederland, and wondered if Boney M would make it to number 1 on the BBC Top 20. They played air guitar alongside of Led Zep; I dreamed of attending an ABBA concert (who interestingly enough ended up recording "All of My Love"--the only Led Zep song I really like--in ABBA's studios in Stockholm--so, ha, take that pimply bullies of the '70s!) and somehow befriending the band and maybe stealing Benny (the bearded one) away from Frida or at least helping Agnetha pick out her next hairstyle. They rocked out to Aerosmith, and I funked around the living room to Parliament and Bootsy Collins in heavy rotation on my parents' console hi-fi.

To further underline the point, two of my earliest music purchases were 1) a 45 of "Waterloo" by ABBA, fresh from their win at the Eurovision Song Contest, and 2) an 8-track tape of the soundtrack to Shaft by Isaac Hayes. That pretty much says it all, doesn't it?

Musically and pop culturally, I've just never fit in--I couldn't if I tried, and I recognized that early on and went my own way, but kept it all very sotto voce, at least until adulthood.

And still . . . it's hard to fess up to these squirrelly, non-progressive tastes. The older I get I guess I'm supposed to like more serious stuff, and sometimes I do, but just as often I don't. I mean, ferchrissakes, I am 46 years old and went to a Spice Girls concert. WTF? Just call me Old Spice. I will also accept Mid-Life Crisis Spice as an alternate designation.

I'd like to think absolutely nothing is weird about that, but you try convincing a potential boyfriend otherwise. I speak from experience: I spent three years with a guy who regularly raided my Björk and ABBA collections but just as regularly ridiculed my then-fascination with Kylie Minogue and '70s soul. It was tough going, and in the end, when the going gets tough, the boyfriend is just so much extra baggage to be tossed over the side.

However, I am thinking of making the Spice Girls the Love Barometer for all future relationships. If he doesn't wrinkle his nose when I sing along to "Wannabe" on the car radio, maybe he'll get to second base on the first date (even though I'm not really sure what second base is and for gay men, most likely it's the sharing of a post-coital cigarette). If he can appreciate the '60s pop stylings of Emma Bunton's Free Me album, then there will be a few more dates. And if he toe-taps along with Mel B's hit, "Feels So Good," my favorite Solo Spice effort, then it's you + me = love, I believe.

Sounds fair, doesn't it? And most logical.

* * *

Cod Reggae: The Playlist

There really is no accounting for taste, mine or anyone else's. I get tired of defending mine, mind you, but then I haven't always been generous in my appraisal of other's tastes either. Those screaming divas from the '90s make my ears bleed; the Carpenters, especially during the holidays, make me want to set snowmen on fire and kick elves in the nuts, bless their hearts; and I've never forgiven Shakira for recording all those Latin pastiches for the English-language market, when she did perfectly good rock en español for the rest of the Western Hemisphere. But, hey, that's me.

It should be noted, though, that I am a frustrated DJ at heart. I've always forced . . . uh . . . shared my music with others through homemade mixtapes. Recently through Facebook, I've played with the Mixaloo and Finetune applications as a way, in theory, to create online mixtapes to share with friends, but which, in reality, come up far shorter than my aspirations.
Mixaloo lets you put together a compilation of up to 15 songs. You choose tunes from their library, and you can choose as many from a particular artist as you like--as long as you don't go beyond 15 songs. The choices can be limiting, though. Recently, I tried to make a compilation entitled A Gainsbourg Family Album, which featured tunes by Serge, his former squeeze Jane Birkin, their daughter Charlotte, and others who have recorded or worked with them or have been inspired by them in some way.

But I ended up frustrated--there was very little Jane Birkin to select from in the library, including practically nothing from her excellent Rendez-vous album of duets; there was no Etienne Daho, including the duet of "If" he did with Charlotte Gainsbourg a couple of years ago; there was no Mylène Farmer; and there were only a few remixes of Serge Gainsbourg tunes, although they did include an exceptional Vibrators adaptation of "Je t'aime . . . moi non plus." So at least there was that to appreciate.

Finetune was even more frustrating to play with--you could select up to a very generous 45 tunes for your mix, but only *3* of them could be by the same artist. Three Serge Gainsbourg tunes out of a body of work that spanned at least three-and-a-half decades. Sacre bleu! And there was also the issue, as with Mixaloo, of not a lot of availabilty of non-English-language music, which kind of runs contrary to the point of A Gainsbourg Family Album mix.

So I'm back to basics with my mixtapes, making them at home on a computer, the old school way.

I have started, though, to move beyond the standard one-song-after-the-next mixtape. Last year, I invested in some music software, MixMeister Express, that lets me actually make the mixtape a mixtape, that is to say, let's me mix the tunes together, match beats per minute, and add sound effects if so desired.

The first mix I did was entitled Cod Reggae. I'm not a huge reggae fan, but with what the British call "cod reggae," that's OK, I don't have to be. "Cod" in this case is short for "codswallop" or, in other words, rubbish, junk reggae. Reggae for the non-purist. In short, pop reggae. Just my size.

So, below, I present you with Baby's First and Second Remix Albums, Cod Reggae 1 and 2. In MixMeister you're limited in your mix only if you plan to burn it to a CD; then you have to limit the number of tunes to fit on a standard-sized CD-R. No surprise here, I had more tunes than I had space for (and still could have included several more--what? No Elvis Costello and "Watching the Detectives"? No UB40?). So I broke Cod Reggae into two mixes, and I was fairly pleased with both of them, if I do say so. Let's see what you think:

Cod Reggae 1

Jimmy Sommerville—“To Love Somebody”
Agnetha Fältskog—“The Heat Is On”
Althia and Donna—“Up Town Top Ranking”
Dawn Penn—“You Don’t Love Me”
Third World—“Reggae Ambassador”
Boney M—“Brown Girl in the Ring”
The Brothers—“Sing Me”
Scott Fitzgerald and Yvonne Keeley—“If I Had Words”
Steely Dan—“Haitian Divorce”
Culture Club—“Everything I Own”
Dollar—“Who Were You with in the Moonlight”
Timmy Thomas—“Why Can’t We Live Together”
Tom Browne—“Funkin’ for Jamaica”
Kongas—“Jungle”
Midi, Maxi, and Efti—“Masenko”
Marta Sánchez—“Desesperada” (extended version)
10cc—“Dreadlock Holiday”
Aswad—“Shine”
Bob Marley and the Wailers—“Could You Be Loved”
Serge Gainsbourg—“Aux armes et caetera”
C. J. Lewis—“Sweets for My Sweet”
Señor Coconut y Su Conjunto—“The Robots”

Cod Reggae Mix 2

ABBA—“One of Us”
Gorillaz—“Clint Eastwood”
Marta Sánchez—“Arena y sol”
Allen Toussaint—“Yes We Can Can”
Maryam Mursal—“Lei Lei”
Blondie—“Die Young, Stay Pretty”
Lily Allen—“Smile”
Ace of Base—“Don’t Turn Around”
The Police—“The Bed’s Too Big without You”
Apache Indian—“Lovin’ (Let Me In) (Bhangra Flava)”
Kirsty MacColl—“Mambo de la luna”
Bob Marley and the Wailers—“Jamming”
Manu Dibango—“Soul Makossa”
Boney M—“Hooray! Hooray! It’s a Holi-Holiday”
Bananarama with Fun Boy Three—“It Ain’t What You Do”
The Specials—“Ghost Town”
Scritti Politti—“The Word Girl”
M.I.A.—“Bucky Done Gone”
Roxy Music—“Love Is the Drug”
War featuring Eric Burdon—“Spill the Wine”
The Chakachas—“Jungle Fever”
Grace Jones—“My Jamaican Guy”
The Clash—“Guns of Brixton”

See what I mean about my pop diet? My cheesiness is showing ("If I Had Words" by Scott Fitzgerald and Yvonne Keeley, "Who Were You with in the Moonlight" by Dollar), as well as my eclecticism (ABBA mixed into Gorillaz! A cha-cha-chá version of Kraftwerk's "The Robots"! Manu Dibango's "Soul Makossa," which isn't reggae in the least!).

I wish I could legally put these online so you could hear these, but, alas, I can't interpret international copyright agreements in any way imaginable so that I can do so, and I'm all about being a law-abiding citizen of our fair-to-middlin' republic, as I'm sure we all well know.

But, friends, you never know what might end up included in a future birthday box, stuffed into a Christmas stocking, hidden in your yard by the Easter bunny, or baked into a Thanksgiving pumpkin pie.

Mmmmm, and what could be more appetizing for the holidays than a little cod mixed with pumpkin . . . .

Spice up your life!

Editor's note: The wayback machine continues its journey, now moving forward slightly to early December 2007. With any luck, we'll be up to the present tense by spring . . . 2009.

* * *

If for only one weekend in my long life, I earned the right to call myself Spontaneous Spice.

As bizarre as it sounds, this is my story: I, a 46-year-old man, on a whim, with only about a week to plan, made two quick strokes of his overburdened Visa card and . . .

Got the rhythm, the melody, and the juice to savor . . .

Became a little bit wiser, baby, and put it on, put it on . . .

Stopped right now, thank you very much, and decided I need someone with the human touch . . .

Gave you everything, all that joy could bring, this I swear . . .

Slammed my body down and wound it all around . . .

In other words, I spiced up my life. For you see, in early December, I traveled to Las Vegas, not for a two-day arc of gambling and debauchery (penny slots and a couple of weak mojitos at an off-the-strip tapas bar don't count for much of anything on the debauchery toteboard, I'm told), but, instead, to see the Spice Girls reunion tour at the Mandalay Bay Resort.

Don't believe me? Well, I have witnesses--Vegas Texan and Kangaroo, who rounded out our little triangle of unbridled fandom. And like the crucial climax in a classic film (Cannonball Run, for instance), we ended up in Vegas, along with Kangaroo's sister and brother-in-law and our friend, Sin City Flake (also known as Clippy in our friend Snappymack's blog). While Sin City Flake was a non-starter in our concert-going, she did at least have the proper skeptical-yet-bemused appreciation of our endeavors and provided one of us with housing and transportation, not to mention explanations of the various types of tequila one could give as wedding gifts if one was so inclined. At least that's how I remember it. Maybe it's the sleep deprivation talking. It's certainly not the mojitos.

* * *

One could view this as the gayest thing I've ever done. It even shocked me in its unrestrained queerliciousness.

I prefer, though, to view it as the completion (one can but hope) of the homo queerectus music appreciation arc I have been working on since 2004, when I attended the Donna Summer concert at Wolf Trap outside of Washington, D.C., and the Kylie Minogue tour at the Earl's Court in London in 2005. (What I did in 2006--other than work, work, work--I can't even remember. Perhaps wrote a gushy fan letter to Patsy Gallant or completed my collection of Tina Charles 45s and b-sides. I just don't recall, and it's probably better that way.)

And, truth be told, it was the best of the three concerts, and one of the better, more entertaining events I've ever attended. Patti Smith last fall still wins hands down, and Bebel Gilberto and Feist are tied for third in terms of enjoyable live music entertainment value. (Editor's note: FYI--nothing gives me greater, more perverse pleasure than to juxtapose Patti Smith, Feist, Bebel Gilberto, the Spice Girls, Donna Summer, and Kylie Minogue in the same blog posting.)

Donna Summer, while in strong voice and a good all-rounder, seemed to lose the plot about 2/3rds of the way through the concert and didn't even bother to sing "I Feel Love," "This Time I Know It's for Real," or "Love to Love You Baby"--although, now that I think of it, being spared seeing a grandmother simulate multiple orgasms on stage is indeed something I could live without.

Kylie Minogue followed the plot a little too closely and stuck to the script of her increasingly elaborate stage spectaculars, occasionally bothering to contribute a note or a dance step, and only at the very end acknowledging the audience's presence, which was the highlight of the concert. (Note to Miss K.: Follow your sister Dannii's lead and get your personality and singing voice back. People want to see and hear you.)

The Spice Girls on the other hand were consummate entertainers--singing (at least four of them; none of us was ever quite sure about Victoria's contributions), dancing (or at least posing in a very sexy way while wearing some cracking outfits), laughing it up (Geri to the crowd regarding Mel B's second place finish on Dancing with the Stars--"She was robbed! She was robbed by a midget!"), and having fun with the audience and with one another.

The Girls have always been criticized for not being that talented, for being a manufactured product, instead of being true artistes who sprung forth organically from the musical matmos. Yawn. While I won't be screaming "Leave the Spice Girls alone!!!" into YouTube anytime soon and can't argue against their origins (they did answer an ad to be in a music group, but then, so have others), this complaint just seems to me like the rock critic's stock-in-trade response, doled out everytime the critic doesn't quite get pop music. I always feel like for most rock critics, it's a case of those-who-can't-do-write-criticism-for-a-living, as most seem to keep dreaming the secret dream of being the Saint Sebastian-esque lead singer with great bedhead hair in yet another phallus-centric guitar band. I look cool--but I hurt! And chicks dig me!

Double yawn.

I, on the other hand, would argue that the Girls have always been greater than the sum of their musical parts. Singly, other than Mel C, none of the Spiceys ever struck me as a musician first, pop star second. In fact for a few of them--namely, Geri, Mel B, and Victoria--you could argue the order should be stardom first, pop music second--or maybe even a distant third--as they seemed to have more to prove personally than professionally. In concert, you realize that the band relied heavily on vocals from Mel C first, Emma second, and Mel B third, which is probably why Geri left and Victoria turned her life toward fashion and David Beckham. The poor dear.

However, I'd argue that together they were magic, and whatever you say about the vapidity of pop culture and Top 40 music (and there is plenty to say), it's difficult to fake magic, even with a full suite of Pro Tools and a legion of back-up dancers. It takes some form of raw talent to make something out of nothing or little at all, and while the Girls are sufficient singers and entertainers on their own, together they are stardust, they are golden. I'm not saying that the Beatles or the Stones should hang their heads in shame (other than for their choices in dalliances and life partners), but I think giving credit where credit is due is in order here: The Spice Girls had something. They had "it," at least for a while.

It's not as though I was always a fan. The first go-round in the mid- to late-'90s, well, I barely paid attention. The Girls, ubiquitous with their Girl Power and dodgy style (what was Geri doing with her hair? why was Mel B wearing all that leopard print?) seemed more cartoon-like and focus-group-driven than anything, and the influence of the market in their careers could still be pointed out today. (Reportedly, they each received $10 million apiece to make this tour.)

Still, when the bubble burst in 2000, just when I thought they were getting interesting musically ("Holler" and the whole late, lamented Forever album, which saw them take a turn in a more R&B direction), to me it seemed like that bursting bubble sucked the air right out of the room--and with it a lot of pop fun and whimsy. No more three minutes-and-thirty-seconds of pop heaven, no more wacky '90s-meets-the-'60s style, no more flirting with Nelson Mandela, who totally seemed to enjoy it and appreciate the silliness and the fun. Not bad for a man who'd spent nearly 30 years of his life in prison fighting apartheid. Ponder that and, just a suggestion, perhaps you could lighten up a little yourself? Only asking . . .

Blame it on Geri leaving too soon. Blame it on their audience growing up and moving on. Blame it on them trying to take on management duties and not knowing what they were doing. Whatever. During the concert it struck me as a sad turn of events, because when they were hot, they were blinding white lightning fever pitch hot--entertaining, funny, and fun. They brought a particularly British cheeky-chappy sparkle to the pop world. To see that disappear from the pop culture scene was regrettable, at least for me.

While the Spiceys were often decried for being too manufactured, in their wake we got even more prefab pop--Britney, to name but one example--where the music seemed incidental to the fame, or, in Britney's eventual case, the infamy. Think about it for a moment--in the space of less than ten years we went from the Spice Girls singing about their "Mama" and pinching Prince Charles on the bum to Britney writhing on stage with an oversized snake (hello penis!) to the tune of "I'm a Slave 4 U" and paparazzi photo ops sans panties. What a world. What a freakin' world.

* * *

But are the Spice Girls art? Ah, who can say? And, honestly, who cares? Increasingly, I find myself finding art in all sorts of odd spaces, or, at least, finding fun in those places, and giving not even two zig-a-zig-figs about art.

It's all relative, of course. Each of us finds genius--or at least entertainment--in the strangest of choices.

After this last year, though, it's been hard not to notice how short life really is, how fleeting the moments of pleasure are, and that if you really want something (if you really, really, really want it . . .), no matter how seemingly light or frivolous, you better get a move on and go for it, at least if you can afford to do so.

Spontaneous Spice I truly am not--in fact, I was so worked up about winging this little adventure that I contemplated going into the bathroom before take-off and just giving a huge hurl to the porcelain gods to get the nervousness (or whatever) out of my system. But it all went fine, off without a hitch. No one died. No one went bankrupt. No one broke into my home while I was away and stole everything I own. My luggage didn't go missing and I didn't end up having to buy an entirely new wardrobe at H&M (dammit). And no one at my place of employment got bent out of shape because I planned not to be at work on Monday "on account of red eye." (A flight-induced ailment, as it happens.) All was calm, all was bright.

This time my occasionally adventurous spirit took me to Vegas to see the Spice Girls and, more importantly, to enjoy a great outing with friends, something I suspect I'll remember for years to come.

Where will yours (and your Visa) take you in the year to come?

A post as timely as my holiday cards

I promise, and I eventually deliver.

If you turn the wayback machine on this blog to December 24, 2007, you'll see my contribution to the growing canon of Christmas lore and queer theorizing.

You are so welcome.

Houston, relax, 'cause for once we don't have a problem

T minus ten and counting . . . to the ball drop on Times Square and the symbolic official beginning of the New Year, at least for those of us in the Eastern Time Zone in the U.S., who pay even scant attention to what goes on in New York that doesn't involve someone running for president.

For the rest of you (us? me?), there's always the giant wrench that is dropped from the top of the fire station tower in Mechanicsburg, Pa., or the giant sardine that is dropped from a tall structure in an obscure village in Maine, one my Mom, Vivien Leigh, heard about earlier today. I don't know if there's anything in particular that is dropped from a high place in Pittsburgh on New Year's Eve. The price of domestic steel circa 1983 perhaps?

Lest the North Carolinians among us forget, there is also the giant acorn that hurtles toward earth from the top of some nondescript office tower in downtown Raleigh. Really, Raleigh, an acorn, of all things. I know you pride yourself on being the City of the Oaks and all, but kicking a giant representation of the byproduct of oak tree fertilization over the ledge of the [insert corporate banking entity here] tower while thousands of (sadly) sober North Carolinians scream themselves silly (no doubt to ward off the 20F weather and wind chill that was in abundance the last time I was among the throng) just isn't my idea of fitting tribute to the old and a warm embrace of the new. But I'm like that.

So what is my idea of a good way to spend New Year's Eve? Right now, writing one more blog entry before the year ends. As a couple of you told me, I owed you one, being that I had only written one other entry for the month.

I owe you more than one, actually, as I had a number of events and thoughts, both happy/sad and bitter/sweet, to relate this month. You may read about some of them yet. I think I also owe the Spice Girls at least one full blog posting, rather than merely some vague allusions in my previous entry. In addition, my take on Rudolph the Pink-Nosed, Tinsel-Donning, Personal Friend of Dorothy should see the light of day at some point, even if I retroactively date the post to December 25th, a belated Christmas present for you all. (You're so welcome! And it's just the right size!)

Thus, this blog entry = payback for all of you who think that I've abandoned Blogtucky to play online Scrabulous via Facebook. I have a little but not completely. So fear not--it's just that during the frenzied holiday season, it's easier for me to come up with single words like "qat," "taiga," "guano," and "orzo" over the course of several days than it is for me to pull together 500+ of them at one time, strung together with ornament hooks and popcorn garland into a reasonably coherent and desperately funny 'tis the season presentation. And perhaps after two years of blogging and more than 100 entries, I may just pull off that feat one of these days. Just don't expect it this go 'round.

Surely I have more going on than liveblogging the New Year, though, right? Well, maybe, maybe not. I have an invitation from my friend Fouchat to join him for a holiday outing or inning, depending on our mood, and there are always a few public celebrations I could glom onto, if need be. However, given previous New Year's (ref. giant wrench, giant acorn above), little sounds more appealing to me this year than staying home, fixing a nice dinner, and watching back-to-back episodes of season 1 of Kids in the Hall and SCTV Network 90, both of which I purchased this afternoon at a still have-a-happy-holidays-or-else-dammit! Monroeville Mall.

After a few turns around the living room with the Chicken Lady, Edith Prickley, and Lola Heatherton, I'd like to continue the good start to the year, perhaps with a little midnight yoga and meditation, which should go well as long as my neighbors bypass their usual clogging practice or riverdancing or high-impact aerobics with weights or whatever it is they do upstairs by night. Then I would sleep peacefully while a goodly portion of the rest of North America tries to get in one more sexually transmitted disease or naked, drunken photo shoot for their MySpace page before the year is over. Yes, I am middle-aged; hear me go gently into that good night.

Despite the cynicism and sarcasm (they are as natural to me as air and water, as Earth, Wind, & Fire, as Donny & Marie), I have had good New Year's Eves before. I remember one particularly lovely one spent with my parents and sister at the beach in North Carolina, watching fireworks explode over the Atlantic. I remember another spent with friends at Candlelight Coffee House in San Antonio, listening to a strong band, noshing on excellent food, laughing it up with (and, it must be said, at) friends, then toasting with champagne (or a reasonable facsimile thereof) at midnight.

But this New Year's Eve will be different, and I'm fine with that. For you see, if there has been one overriding theme for the year, it has been exhaustion. Exhaustion from work and from life, from death and grief and moves and fresh starts and trips and packing and unpacking and happiness and regrets and dreams of the future. I'm tired, folks, and I'm ready for some downtime, however minuscule between Christmas last week and the trek back to work this coming Wednesday.

Exhaustion has been part of the year's mood, but so has another feeling: Thankfulness. I haven't ever really said this, and now is as good a time as any, especially if I want to start off the New Year on the right karmic foot (no doubt bent behind my head in yet another failed yogic moment): Thank you for reading. Thank you for being my friends and my family, the two major groups in my life for whom I write and upon whom I rely, perhaps more than you'll ever know, which is unfortunate, because you really are very important to me. If I had another idea on how to spend New Year's Eve, it would be this: thanking each and everyone of you for your friendship, kindness, and love this past year with a hug and a wish that we all might move forward together in the next and the new.

So no big finish, funny or otherwise. That's it. A quiet New Year's Eve and a tender word.

Blogtucky will return in 2008, the gods willing, and I hope you'll be there right along with me.

Happy new year.

"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.

Shhhh . . . don't tell anyone

Editor's note: Sometimes you just gotta get the garbage out of your brainage system with a throwaway post. Too many trips to the mall. Too many reruns of Miracle on 34th Street. Too much holiday *hiccup* cheer. So here I go tossing some lean scraps of humor upon the town dump of Blogopolis. Please do forgive.

* * *

I need to write something, don't I? So how'd it be if I wrote about Victoria's Secret?

Not a natural fit for me, you say? I have to agree: Satin short-shorts tend to chafe me, and I have a sporadic fear of heights, so the angel wings are definitely out. And, oh yeah, almost forgot, the sight of scantily clad women with larger breasts than brains makes me frown, then yawn, then suddenly crave a snack of overripened cantaloupe. Do go figure.

Nonetheless, my sleepiness and oral fixations aside, ads for Victoria's Secret are ubiquitous this holiday season, 'cause don't you know, nothing celebrates the birth of the Christ like too-thin, top-heavy models strapped into shiny shiny, skimpy skimpy undergarments probably crafted in a South Asian sweatshop by women burkha-ed from head to toe. Victoria's Secret simply can't and shouldn't be ignored. And my goodness! The Spice Girls new greatest hits album is currently available only from Victoria's Secret outlets in the U.S. until January. And, hey, you know me, Old Spice can't live without his Holiday Spice. Zigazig ha.

So, like many a lame stand-up comic before me, I present you with what I think Victoria's secret actually is. Inquiring minds and all that.

• She doesn't understand the phrase "sanitized for your protection."
• She thinks Britney needs a hug. Just not from her.
• She really liked that season on Dallas when SueEllen formed her own lingerie company, hired J.R.'s mistress Mandy Winger as the lead model, then after she'd pulled the rug out from under Mandy, screamed at her, "I'm cutting you off, you viper!" That was hot--and, come to think of it, exactly how her own business got started.
• She has a hard time reconciling her Ph.D. in gender studies from Wellesley where she completed her dissertation on lesbian iconography in the womyn's music movement with her corporate imperative to get bored, horny men to shower their wives and/or girlfriends with size zero silk panties, thongs, and underwire bras. But goodness knows she's trying.
• She can see Posh, Sexy/Ginger, and Baby as Victoria's Secret Spice models, but Scary tends to favor too much leopard print (no, really) for the corporate board's tastes, and Sporty, well, Sporty needs to stay away from the tattoo parlors. Not a good look when paired with hot pink, fur-trimmed teddies.
• Who knew? While she likes to think of herself as a free spirit and had one or two "experiences" while attending one of the Seven Sisters back in the day, she finds all that girl-on-girl action in her ads to be a little icky.
• She is, like, so over Heidi Klum's 15 minutes of fame already. What, is there no work on German TV anymore? Maybe as hostess of a new season of Bowling for Euros with Celebrities? I hear ex-Chancellor of Germany Gerhard Schröder is really good at nailing the 7-10 split.
• Even she thinks that David's a little thick in the noggin and has a too-high voice to be taken seriously, but staying married to him keeps her in Jimmy Choos and Manolo Blahniks (applies to Victoria Beckham only).
• If it was up to her, she'd wear nothing but granny-styled flannel nighties and bunny slippers from October until April.
• Really, a new mixer, a bread machine, or a Roomba would be fine for Christmas, thanks all the same. Don't go to too much trouble, though.

Thanks, ladies and germs. My name is Schecky Licious, and--to your neverending regret--I'll be here all week.

Chicks, man

Editor's note: Oh, I only pray that you can actually see this news brief for yourself. I need proof, I tell ya, because it's just such an odd little item, it would be easy to understand if you thought I were making it up.

But I'm not. Fact is, I'm not that clever; I just dabble at it often enough that I come off as more than a rank amateur.

* * *

Dateline Pittsburgh, Pa.: Locally based retailer Dick's Sporting Goods has made a new foray into the California market with the acquisition of a West Coast-based sporting goods retailer. Please read for yourself this blurb that appeared today on the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette's website:

Business news briefs

Tuesday, November 27, 2007
From staff and wire reports

Dick's expanding in California

Dick's Sporting Goods Inc. said yesterday it had agreed to acquire Chick's Sporting Goods, a privately held company, for about $40 million in cash. Dick's also will assume about $31 million in Chick's debt. Chick's operates 15 specialty sporting goods stores in Southern California and had sales of more than $120 million for the fiscal year ended June 30. Two additional store leases have been signed and those stores will open as Dick's stores in 2008 and 2009. Dick's said it expected the deal to be "marginally" helpful to earnings in fiscal 2008.

There is just so much wrong--and so much so right--with this news brief.

Firstly, of course, the headline. Perhaps it's a bit of a reach on my part, or maybe I'm officially a total perv, but is anyone else struck, mmm, curious by that headline--"Dick's expanding in California"? It seems like a subliminal attempt to make an otherwise unsexy news item appear a bit more hubba-hubba.

Still, I guess the writer could've gone for broke with something more suggestive. Such as . . .

"Dick's bones up on California market"

Or even the simpler,

"Dick's erects new business out West"

Which has the charm of being both beautiful and true.

But is this really that unsexy of a blurb? After all, if you read deeper, you will see that this little news gem offers up a treasure trove of potentially blue diamond-value headlines.

Because the second thing you need to pay attention to is which chain Dick californicated with: a retail operation called Chick's.

Thus, we have the potentiality of an eye-popping, attention-grabbing headline like so:

"Chick's with Dick's"

Too true, it's the perfect sales pitch to the trannie jogger among us, but otherwise, perhaps not quite the niche marketing catchphrase ol' Dick was hankering for.

And now we all understand fully why my career as a cub reporter fresh out of college was kept to a mercifully brief six months.

You're welcome, Mr. Pulitzer.

But(t) officer . . .

Don't tease me, bro, especially with this sort of "Things that Make You Go Hmmmm" piece of tale--

Quebec police look into rookie butt-slapping ritual: Police union concerned investigation over "childish" tradition will tarnish force

Last Updated: Friday, November 23, 2007 4:20 PM ET

CBC News

A "juvenile" but time-honoured Quebec police rookie initiation rite that starts with booze and ends with a firm slap on the derrière is the focus of a criminal investigation following hazing complaints.

Montreal police have been asked to investigate allegations of wrongdoing in an initiation tradition practised within the Quebec city force for more than half a century.

The ritual starts with rounds of beer, then moves to a "weigh-in" involving older officers holding new recruits down on their backs, while others bet on their weight. The game ends with a slap on the behind.

"It's childish, it's juvenile, but it's a tradition," explained Sébastien Talbot, a spokesman for the Quebec City police brotherhood. "It's always strange when you, out of context, have to explain an initiation to somebody."

I'll say. But even in context the story is still mighty strange.

I mean, honestly, imagine for a moment that you are a police officer, a male member of one of the toughest and most virile of professions a man could choose. You come home late one evening from work, exhausted, a little tipsy, your hands chapped and callused. The missus clucks sympathetically, puts her arm around you and draws you into an embrace. "How was your day, dear?" she asks comfortingly.

And the best you can say by way of explanation is . . .

"Well, we broke in some new recruits. Honey, you can't fathom how many men I laid down on top of today. Had to wrestle each and everyone of 'em to the ground, straddle 'em, pin them to the floor, all the while the other guys stood around watching and yelling out catcalls and bets. I felt like I was in the middle of a cockfight. And then when that was over, we lined up all the newbies, made 'em drop trou', bend over, and then each took turns slapping them firmly but lovingly on their bare, young, nubile asses. 'Thank you, sir, may I have another?!' Ha! I tell ya, it was brutal! But I'll be back in the thick of it again tomorrow. 'Cause that's just the kind of dedicated cop I am. Always up for cracking a case, even when the crack belongs to one of my fellow officers."

At this point, I think your wife might suggest that your career has finally hit bottom. (Bare bottom or rock bottom, you decide.) I also think she might recommend you get yourself down to the local queer bar for some advice and comfort, while she sits down to watch a very special episode of Oprah entitled "The Thin Blue Vertical Line: The Lowdown on Police Officers on the Downlow."

Starring you, of course.

* * *

For posterior's sake, the full story is archived here.

Coffee, tea, or a millenary event so devastating in its impact that no lifeforms and no Starbucks remain

I should have known I was in for a significant head cold this week. That funny feeling I got mid-day on Monday was my first clue--that weird somethin'-somethin' in my head and my sinuses that tells me things are not quite right, that something in my system is amiss and awry.

So I acted accordingly, heading to the local Giant Eagle after work. (Such a charming, comforting name for a supermarket. Whenever I think about paying a visit to Pittsburgh's sole major grocery store chain, I am haunted by the image of a enormous bird pursuing me as I make my way across the parking lot with my purchases, swooping down and picking off bags of groceries from my cart, just because he can, bad-ass eagle that he is.) There I stocked up on life's cold and flu necessities--soup, soda crackers, and juice, along with matzo meal, chicken stock, risotto, fresh-cut pineapple, and the latest issues of Star, The Weekly World News, and The National Inquirer. I believe it's important to keep up one's mental strength, as well as physical strength, during a time of illness and convalescence.

But the one thing I forgot--OK, two things--are so essential to my survival that I feel as if I waterboarded myself into submission to the more powerful cold germs.

I didn't buy any coffee. And I didn't buy any creamer.

For some, forgetting coffee and creamer would be "inconvenience items," also-rans on the shopping list, an oh-I'll-get-it-next-time-I'm-at-the-store lapses. Take or leave. Give or take. Shrug shrug. La di dah.

But for others, such as myself, forgetting to buy coffee and creamer at the supermarket is akin to a jetsetting junkie leaving behind his moneyclip full of cash on a buying spree in the poppy markets of Afghanistan. It's like an alcoholic boarding a 14-hour trans-oceanic flight and only bothering to order Tab and Fresca when the beverage service comes around--and not even sneaking into the galley to drain all the miniature bottles of gin and vodka somewhere over Guam. It's like Larry Craig going to a men's room without a shopping bag.

In other words, it's a world gone totally, utterly cattywampus. Admittedly, the people who promulgated the treaties we now know as the Geneva Conventions might not call it torture (and most assuredly the White House wouldn't), but I suspect the folks behind the Gevalia Conventions would feel very differently.

I don't consider myself to be a person with an addictive personality. Obsessive, oh yes. Haven't I testified enough to that fact in these bits and bytes? But addictive, no, not really. Coffee, along with buying music online by obscure acts in countries other than the U.S., and playing The Sims (and now The Sims 2) until all hours of the night would be as Betty Ford as it gets for me. Nonetheless, the whimsy of this list aside, my forgetting to buy coffee should not be taken lightly. Coffee is serious business. It's a part of my morning routine, as innate as the first whiz of the day, brushing my teeth and dribbling toothpaste down the front of my shirt, and my being late for work. Coffee first thing in the morning is perhaps me at my Italian-roasted, espresso-ground, French-pressed essence.

The funny thing is, though, I did remember to buy coffee for my colleagues at work. Two bags of ground Peet's, French roast and Major Dickason's blend, which should get the three of us through the next week or so. (We've all got that coffee monkey on our backs where I now work.) Even stranger is the fact that I didn't really want to drink any coffee this week. It didn't taste right, and it smelled worse. All I craved this week was--e-freakin'-gad!--hot tea, and not even my usual favored, flavored rooibus or the hard-bitten, macho-man-of-the-Pampas maté, just a plain, simple, and throat-soothing lemon and ginger.

*Shiver*

What is to become of me now? Instead of my usual over-caffeinated, devil-may-care, brightly-colored-clothing, and laughing-too-loud-in-public personality, will I now be reduced to trolling the streets of Pittsburgh in Blackspot shoes and earth-toned hemp clothing, quietly asking for a soothing cup of green tea, no sugar, please? Will I drench myself in essential oils, don a puka-shell necklace, and be seen teaching a bandana-wearing golden retriever named Freedom how to play Ultimate Frisbee? Will I now always insist on unbleached and earth-friendly, fair-trade and gluten-free, organic and biodegradable, no matter what I'm ordering or purchasing? ("Do you have any options other than window or aisle seating? Maybe something in the lactose-, growth-hormone-, and cruelty-free section of the plane?")

I'm so afraid . . . so very, very afraid . . . .

Not to mention a little groggy, not the least bit jittery, and only slightly less angst-ridden than normal.

Quite rightly

It was bound to happen, and it finally did this week: My whirlwind, madcap existence on the highways and biways of Pennsylvania (Harrisburg, Bedford Springs, Harrisburg, State College, Harrisburg . . .) caught up with me and waylaid me with a "champeen" head cold.

I'll spare you the gories, which really weren't all that gory, but I do love to whine when I'm feeling low. Instead I'll share with you these "mellow yellow" photos I took from my living room while convalescing on my sofa, sniffling (and possibly sniveling) into Kleenexes, slurping chicken matzo ball soup (from an old Southern recipe, I can assure you), and counting the number of residents of Llanview who have suddenly ended up in Paris, Texas, for the reading of Asa Buchanan's will. (I'm channeling the universe of One Life to Live, just so you know. And, for the record, we're up to 18 residents so far--19 if you count Jessica's "alter" Tess and 21 if you count Viki's.)

No, mellow yellow isn't the color of the contents of my sinus passages, thankfully, nor my complexion from having become all jaundicy orange by chewing too many vitamin C tablets during my recent infirmity. Instead, the phrase captures my little corner of Pittsburgh right now, which seems to be experiencing a very late fall this year, with the leaves on my neighborhood's trees hanging onto their branches and their peak color. Even while the season's first flakes of snow fall around us.

I'd like to say I have enjoyed the fall, but I've barely been in town the last month or so, and I'm off again on Sunday, this time to Kansas for a Thanksgiving with family. But I didn't want to let the season slip by completely without capturing a little of the color on camera. Because the first steady rain or windy day will blow it all away in a snap. And then those of us in Cold Country will be left with nothing more than gritting through chattering teeth serious death threats in the direction of Punxsutawney Phil. He better not dare see his shadow on Groundhog Day, we'll mutter. No freakin' way he better promise us an additional six weeks of winter, we'll curse. 'Cause seasonal affective disorder payback is a mutha, Phil.

And, really, the season is just too splendid to mess it up by having groundhog blood on one's hands.

Paper or plastic?

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

Brain found in bag near Va. apartments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Slowly I turn . . . another year older

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, thankfully so, it has.

A cock-and-balls story

Whodaho? Idaho. No, no. Larrycraigdaho.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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