Queen Visits Turkey

Turkish President Abdullah Gül today welcomed Britain's Queen Elizabeth II and her husband, the Duke of Edinburgh, at the beginning of a four-day visit to Turkey. It's the royal couple's first official visit to the country - which sits on the cusp of Europe and Asia - in 37 years, and comes as Turkey is struggling to enter the European Union; by the Queen's presence in Ankara today the British government is making it known that the UK's position is in favour of a European (and therefore pro-Western) Turkey.

When last the Queen visited Turkey - in 1971 - excited crowds surged past protective barriers and swarmed the royal party's open cars; there was no possibility of such a breach of protocol today. There was, however, a noticeable indication of the religious schism threatening the largely Muslim country - the president's wife, Hayrünnisa Gül, wore a hijab to greet Her Majesty, an act which ensured that military leaders boycotted a state banquet in Ankara on the first night of the visit. The Turkish military are sworn to uphold the country's secularism.

Secularism has been a hallmark of Turkish life since the modern republic was establish by Mustafa Kemal Atatürk in October 1923; in recent years, though, that sacred principle has been under fire as Islamic fundamentalism is on the rise in Turkey as it is around the world. A secular, European Turkey has long been a British desire, and the hope is that the Queen's visit (coming as it does less than two years after a similar visit by Queen Beatrix of The Netherlands in February 2007) will do much to encourage that.

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Autumn Kelly Puts Faith In Royal Family

Ever since it was announced in July 2007 that Canadian Autumn Kelly was set to marry Peter Phillips - eldest son of The Princess Royal and eldest grandson of Elizabeth II - royal watchers* have been all a-tizzy over whether or not he would renounce his place in the succession (currently he's eleventh) or whether she would convert from Roman Catholicism to suit the Royal Family; under the terms of the Act of Settlement 1701, none of their number can either be Catholic or be married to one if they want to maintain their right to the throne.

Well, it seems she's done the heavy lifting in this instance; her conversion to the Anglican faith was recently announced. The last time this rather sticky wicket presented itself was in 1978, when Prince Michael of Kent decided to forego his birthright to marry the ersatz Marie-Christine von Reibnitz.

The marriage of Autumn Kelly and Peter Phillips is set to go ahead May 17th at St George's Chapel in Windsor Castle.

*Okay, okay, just me.
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Stanley Cup Semi-Final Heating Up

I don't publish much in the way of sports news; call it a residual effect of having to deal with jock bullies my whole childhood. I found this video, though, which neatly sums up how I feel about the current Montreal Canadiens-Philadelphia Flyers contest; made by and starring super-hot Internet sensation Jon Lajoie, it celebrates the rough-and-tumble working-class ethos of the winningest team in hockey.

Go Habs!
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Star Jones, Al Reynolds To Divorce

When does losing a beard not involve a razor? When it involves a divorce lawyer, that's when.


Star Jones, former cohost of The View, married Al Reynolds (an investment banker) in November 2004 amidst much hoopla - some of it concerning her ability to find a never-married black man in his late 30s. Almost immediately the tabloids went into overdrive trying to find proof of why he'd never been married and, when unable to do that, just saying what everyone else was thinking*.

The Jones-Reynolds Wedding was a tacky monstrosity of corporate shilling which cost Jones her cushy job of nine years, her comfy seat next to Barbara Walters, and whatever credibility she'd previously accrued either as a journalist or as a human being.

As an act of hubris, though, the matter is finally settled. Jones filed divorce papers in March; because the matter is uncontested, the papers are sealed. Through spokespeople, both parties have said they are determined to take the high road. Only time - and the tabloids - will tell if it's too little too late.

*He's a giant homo; not for nothing has his nickname been "Big Gay Al" for the past four years.

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Madonnathon: "Papa Don't Preach"

In celebration of the hypocritical mewlings of Pope Benedict XVI, whose first official visit to the United States this week coincided neatly with the third anniversary of his elevation to the pontificate, as much as in celebration of Madonna's new album Hard Candy (which drops on April 29th!) here's a personal favourite Madonna video of mine, one which was the subject of much ferocious debate amongst us in the 11th grade* following its June 1986 release.

Papa Don't Preach was the second single from her album True Blue; the video, directed by longtime Madonna collaborator James Foley, starred the then-unknown Danny Aiello as Madonna's father, Debi Mazar as one of her friends, and Alex McArthur, who plays her boyfriend; in response, Aiello later recorded an answer song entitled Papa Only Wants the Best and despite that managed to become a star anyway with his appearance in Moonstruck the following year.

Papa Don't Preach was covered by Kelly Osbourne in 2002.

*High school being the forerunner of the blogosphere.
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Viscount Severn Christened

Viscount Severn, infant son and second child of the Earl and Countess of Wessex (as well as the Queen's eighth grandchild), was christened today in a private ceremony at the family chapel in Windsor Castle; officiating was the Dean of Windsor, Bishop David Conner. The baby's five godparents are Denise Poulton, Jeanye Irwin, Alastair Bruce, Duncan Bullivant and Tom Hill.

Unlike most royal babies since Princess Victoria in 1841, young James was christened in a new gown, a replica - made by Angela Kelly and the Palace's in-house dressmaking team - of the Royal family's heirloom christening gown, which is now being preserved by order of the Queen.
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Madonnathon: "Borderline"

Of the five singles officially released from Madonna's self-titled 1983 debut album, only Borderline hasn't aged like milk; which is not to say that Lucky Star doesn't bring back memories or that Holiday isn't a great sentiment - Hell, even Everybody, Burning Up, and Physical Attraction can be a great blast from the past. But that's exactly what they'll be, is a blast from the past. In the summer of 1984, though, Borderline seemed like a blast from the future - a tantalizing glimpse into what she would achieve...
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Pope's Positive Message For The US

At the start of his first visit to the United States today, Pope Benedict XVI wished to state first and foremost that his message to the people of that country - and not just the 75 million of them not going to Hell - was a positive one.


I'm positive that the Vatican and the Holy Mother Church stands at the forefront of the global struggle to obtain human rights for all people. I'm positive that queers (especially the uppity ones) are not people, which is why I can say what I'm saying while keeping up a positively scathing attack on them and their equal rights. I'm positive that in commanding you all to verbally and physically attack queers whenever you see them (or think you see them), you won't have any trouble carrying out something which isn't terrorism at all, but the work of God, who is the God of love. I'm positive that this sort of hypocrisy is just the sort of thing people have come to expect from the Roman Catholic Church.

I'm positive that life begins even before the moment of conception, just as I'm positive that death begins at the moment of birth. This is why it's so important that every fetus made be born, even if it only lives long enough to be baptized a Catholic. Whatever degradation, squalor, and violence it encounters from the moment that holy water hits its precious face is probably its own fault, since it's a filthy evil thing born out of an even filthier, more evil act. I say this because, as a "celibate" I know so much about sex, and as a religious leader I know even more about science.

I'm positive that the leaders of this great nation are willingly and gladly partaking of a Crusade against unbelievers, doing everything they can to wipe out the infidel scourge now overtaking Europe which the wussies of the 12th and 13th centuries failed to do when they had the chance. I'm positive, as well, that the Roman Catholic Church - alone among world religions - is entitled to a seat at the United Nations; I'm also positive that once we get on the Security Council, it's "Look out San Francisco!" Two words: dildo nukes!

I'm positive that poverty can be eradicated; in fact, as I sit in my marble palace filled with priceless art treasures I can't help but be reminded of the way Jesus himself lived, and thinking what a chump he must have been for not having more bling. Same with all those poor people starving on our doorsteps; obviously they haven't prayed enough, or they wouldn't be starving on our doorsteps now, would they?

And finally I'm positive that when I get back to my luxurious hotel suite this evening my handsome male secretary Georg Ganswein will give me an extra long hot oil rub; seeing as it's my first visit to the United States as your pontiff, he's also promised me the full release. I can't wait; in fact, I'm as giddy as a choir boy who's just joined Hitler Youth.

DISCLAIMER: The contents of this speech may have been paraphrased, read between the lines, and sifted from tons of bullshit. It also definitely contains nuts.

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Reader's Choice Tuesday*: Daffodils

Today's Reader's Choice is from Sr. Mainar (aka Javier) a frequent commenter, who asked for more of my photography. I figured that given the season and the subject matter of the previous post and the fact that I asked for reader input only to seemingly ignore it, this would be an elegant solution to various conundra.










*When I originally came up with the idea for Reader's Choice I called it Reader's Choice Monday, since Monday is my day off, and the best chance to get some extra writing out of me. But then I thought... Why couldn't every day be Reader's Choice Day? So now it is. ~ MSM
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Prince William Earns His Wings

Today The Prince of Wales (in his role as Air Chief Marshal), his wife the Duchess of Cornwall, and surprise guest Kate Middleton were on hand to see Cornet William Wales earn his wings as Flying Officer Wales at RAF Cranwell, near Sleaford, in Lincolnshire.

It's all a part of the heir presumptive's military training, which has already seen him serve in the Army and which will next see him tackle duties with the Royal Navy. All of which is in preparation for his one day being Head of the Armed Forces, of course.

It turns out Prince William was a quick study at the controls, flying solo after just eight days of training.

Prince William was just one of 25 graduates who received their wings insignia from the Prince of Wales, who was also on hand to distribute trophies for excellence. It must have been a poignant moment for Prince Charles, who was one of the first to graduate from Cranwell in 1971.

During his twelve week course, William learned to fly light aircraft and helicopters, making him a competent (but not operational) flier; the full course for an RAF pilot is four years long and includes jets and heavy aircraft as well.
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Madonnathon: "Beautiful Stranger"

Beautiful Stranger has such a cool vibe - reminiscent of the Sixties - likely because it contains heavy samples of a song by The Mamas & The Papas called The In Crowd. Madonna's co-producer William Orbit had used the same sample previously on Ray of Light, and again on the song Amazing.

The song was written for (and included on the soundtrack of) Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me (1999), a film which itself heavily sampled from its predecessor and continued to reuse the same gags in its successor.

The video was shot by Brett Ratner on May 1st, 1999, at Universal Studios; it costars Mike Myers as Austin Powers and features cameos by Michael York as Basil Exposition and Verne Troyer as Mini-Me.
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Madonnathon: "Ray of Light"

After the catharsis of an address to my readers, how better to follow it than a Madonna video; and so, having just parted the clouds of the past hundred days, what should appear but a Ray of Light? This was the song - from the album of the same name - which saw me through a much darker time than this...

Ten years ago on April 1st my grandmother died; that she was more like my mother than my mother was needs to be said. Additionally, she was my best friend. She used to piss me off from time to time, but then that's what I look for in a friend, and what I wouldn't give to have her pissing me off still. She still haunts me dreams, though; in fact, I dreamt about her last night. She smiled at me and said, "You're driving yourself crazy again. I wish I knew why you did that." I wish I did too, grandma, I wish I did too.

It was a confusing time was 1998; although I was in one of my rare relationships, my then-boyfriend was a cold fish from an emotionally abusive Christian family, and so I got no support from him. I was mad at the way the doctors had failed to treat my grandmother - diagnosing a gall bladder attack when in fact it was a heart attack she was having - and my mother's blind faith in them and the toxic little pellets they're so fond of dispensing meant that I grieved mostly on my own.

I might have been alright if I hadn't still been hurting from the death of Princess Diana the previous August, but as it was, it felt like yet another of those times when the universe decided to pile on Michael. As it is, it would take me almost an entire decade to pull out of it, and in fact, I may not be all the way out yet. No one ever fought as hard for peace of mind as I have, though, so I may come to it still.

Fortunately there was a frenzy of activity to keep me busy then; the day my grandmother died we'd moved across the hall into a larger, brighter apartment. With her death the decision was made to move to Vancouver, which we did. Through all the packing and cleaning and moving this album was more or less the soundtrack, and hearing it still takes me back to that time. For a long time I couldn't listen to it, for the painful memories it brought up, but lately I've taken to playing it again. Now it reminds me of movement and progress and change - all of which I need more than anything right now.
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2008: The First Hundred Days

Well, for all the fanfare which greeted the year it's been a frustrating tussle, at least for me.

I've been sick since the end of January, the principal underlying cause being neurosis; there's so much to write, so much to read, and so much to do that I spent most of February asleep on the couch. In my zeal to write my way out of my crappy job and my boring life I may have inadvertantly burnt myself out. Lack of exercise and an electrolyte imbalance conspired to make my body unable to do any of the things my mind had been screaming at it to do; this was followed almost immediately by a fallen arch in my left foot, which replaced a month of numb apathy with a month of excruciating pain.

While in my mind I realize that I only have a year or two more of this before I can relax a bit, I also realize that I may not be able to take a year or two more of this, and so will have to force myself to relax now, in order to allow both a time to rest and the time to look after basic life skills before the ability to do so is lost forever. Already I can feel myself pulling away from people in person, preferring the company of people on the Internet (although that tendency has always been one of my strongest).

Also on the minus side, I lost my first columnist; check out his new enterprise here. The Pop Culture Institute's loss is his own gain, and I wish Mr. Gagne the best of luck grappling with the impenetrable irrationalities of Christianism.

On the plus side, I couldn't be happier with the way my writing has been; I've written fewer posts, but the ones I've made have been longer, which is all a part of my plan to train myself to start writing for magazines at some point down the road. Also, there's been some innovation; despite its failure I quite enjoyed the virtual vacation, and am quite looking forward to writing another one, knowing now what sort of a commitment it is to write one. I'm also looking forward to meeting your needs better with the Reader's Choice feature, which so far is being won by Mr. Davey.

The next few months ought to see some great innovations, including interviews, fiction (both serialized and one-off), a second series of Vancouver Views, and of course the long-promised debut of the Poppets. So stay tuned!

~ MSM
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Madonnathon: "True Blue"

Madonna's last album - Confessions on a Dance Floor - was released in November 2005, two full months before the Pop Culture Institute was born; I am determined to make up for that now by going as whole hog online over the release of her latest album Hard Candy as I normally do in private, part of which involves oodles of posted videos over the next three weeks.

Did I mention the album is being released three weeks from tomorrow? Ahhhhhhhh!!!!!!!

It's okay; I'm better now. Anyway, here is the title track from her 1986 album True Blue; as the third single from her third album, it has special powers, which only gay pagans can access.
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Introducing: Reader's Choice Monday

Is there some topic you're dying to have me write about? Some person or event that's meaningful to you whose coverage I might have neglected? A genre, subculture, or holiday I've either willfully or absent-mindedly avoided?

If so, leave a comment, and next Monday your suggestion may well appear on the Pop Culture Institute. Just remember, you have to play to win*!

*You won't actually win anything except the satisfaction of making me work harder.
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Happy Birthday Zach Braff

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"4 Minutes" by Madonna (with Justin Timberlake)

Did I mention that Madonna has a new album - her eleventh - coming out April 29th? Well, I haven't mentioned it yet today, anyway. 4 Minutes is the first single from Hard Candy; a duet with Justin Timberlake and Timbaland (who work together so often - and so well - they should just change their name to Justin Timbaland), and as one might expect the song is insanely catchy.

With its release Madonna's longstanding contract with Warner Records will be nearly at an end; only a compilation either later this year or early next remains, neatly tying a bow on a dozen albums which taken together will comprise a remarkable career, beginning when she was signed by Warner-affiliated Sire Records in 1982.

There'll be no writing off Madonna just yet, though; this year she turns fifty, and likely has as many albums in her again as she's already released. Or, if you like, consider things this way: the more encouragement we give her singing the less likely she'll be to return to acting.
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Duke of Edinburgh Discharged From Hospital

The Duke of Edinburgh was released from King Edward VII's Hospital in London today after three days under medical supervision for a pulmonary infection brought on by a persistent heavy cold; the hospitalization was said to be of a precautionary, rather than emergency, nature. It meant, though, that the Prince was forced to miss a Thanksgiving Service at St. George's Chapel, Windsor, for the late mountaineer Sir Edmund Hillary, attended by various dignitaries from New Zealand as the newly-widowed Lady June Hillary and that country's Prime Minister, Helen Clark.

Both upon entering and exiting the hospital His Royal Highness was ambulatory; he's said to be recuperating at Windsor Castle, having canceled a scheduled visit with the Queen to the Britannia Royal Naval College (where legend has it they met) in Dartmouth on April 10th.

Now 86, since his early seventies the Queen's husband has been living with a heart condition - which remains unspecified - and is currently patron of the British Heart Foundation. During the recent three-day State Visit to the UK by French President Nicolas Sarkozy and his new wife Carla Bruni Prince Philip joined Her Majesty and The Prince of Wales at various engagements looking as robust as ever.

The Pop Culture Institute wishes him a speedy recovery; may he provide us with spectacular gaffes for many years to come.
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Canada's Tories In Gay Slur Shocker

I know, I know, you're shocked... Canada's Conservative Party - populated by nutjobs and peckerwoods of all kinds (besides the usual contingent of douchebags and asshats which typically comprise the political right), the same Conservative Party that tried to revoke marriage equality a full year after it had been passed because its leader (our illustrious Prime Minister Stephen Harper - shown here wearing the costume of the more charismatic, albeit less dangerous, Charles Manson) takes his orders directly from fundamentalist Christians in the United States - has been hit by allegations that some of its members - get this! - might be in possession of ignorant, ill-informed, and bigoted views of gay people!

I know, I know... You coulda knocked me over with a feather - unlike the aluminum baseball bat with which many of these people would prefer to knock me over.

Tom Lukiwski, the current Member of Parliament for the Saskatchewan riding of Regina - Lumsden - Lake Centre, has been shown on a videotape made in 1991 saying "There's A's and there's B's. The A's are guys like me, the B's are homosexual faggots with dirt under their fingernails that transmit diseases." The tape was recently released by that province's left-leaning NDP; also shown on the tape the thoroughly evil current Premier, Brad Wall, being thoroughly evil years before anyone had ever heard of him by mocking the Ukrainian ethnicity of then-NDP leader Roy Romanow.

Although tradition dictates Lukiwski had to make a formal apology, outside the Commons he returned to lying: "If I could take those comments back I would... They do not reflect the type of person that I am," he has said. And yet, they so totally do; obviously he's a pig who gets drunk and blabs hateful bullshit into the nearest camcorder given the slightest opportunity. Still, he seemed to realize that this incident would taint his political career in perpetuity; or at least it will, as long as I have a breath left in my body. He could always co-host a show called Canada's Funniest Career-Immolating Videos with fellow Tory Stockwell Day; I could watch that clip of him arriving at a press conference on a jet-ski over and over again.

A n y w a y... The Prime Minister has refused to discipline Lukiwski further, saying “He has given an unqualified apology — clear, heart-felt remorse for these actions . . . I believe when such apology and remorse is sought from an individual member, the generous and high-minded thing to do is to accept that apology.” Wrong again, Stevie Blunder.

The real irony in all of this: the Conservatives only have a minority government! That must really irk them, having to be a minority...
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"Luff Song" by Lucy Knisley

I happened to come across this sweet little video while surfing YouTube the other day, and once I'd heard the first three or four lines of the song I knew I'd be featuring it here. I do loves me some puppets!

You can subscribe to her channel here.
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Bonus Video: "Hung Up" by Madonna

Heavily derived from ABBA's Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight), Hung Up was the first single from Madonna's last album, Confessions on a Dance Floor. I've posted it here because a) it relates to the previous post, and b) it relates to many future posts as well, since Madonna's new album Hard Candy drops on April 29th; I'm as giddy as a school girl about that, as you can imagine.

So far the new single - 4 Minutes - has been burning up my iPod (it's also my ringtone, so if you call me and I don't answer right away, you'll know why), and if the rest of the album is that good I can already tell it's going to be the soundtrack of Summer 2008. All of which means there's going to be beaucoup (or de trop, depending on your perspective) de Madonna on the Pop Culture Institute over the next three weeks.
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Virtual Vacation: San Francisco - There's No Place Like Home

In the end a three-day virtual vacation was a little more than I could handle; in planning it out, I never took into account how long it would take to actually write the thing, especially while alternately writhing in pain and gooned on Advil. Still, I did get a magical day out of it (even though it took three slightly less than magical days to write). So I came home, humbled once again by how much bigger my ambition is than my talent; waking up, I was no longer in room 1220 of the St. Francis Hotel, but in the equally magical (if more sorely in need of housekeeping) Pop Culture Institute.

I won't promise I'll never do it again - after all, I got four comments out of it, which is four more than I ever get out of writing about the minutiae of life at the court of Elizabeth I - but if I do it again, I'll be better prepared ahead of time. Someone once said (I forget just who) "It takes a big man to admit when he's beaten"; right at this moment I feel like Rodney King, but I'm not going to let failure stop me, but simply learn from it what I can and move on.

Now without any further ado, I've got two days of catching up to do in just under three hours...
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Virtual Vacation: San Francisco - A Pilgrimage To Grace

Although it had been my original intention to walk back to the hotel after returning from Alcatraz, all the reverie and fresh air had left me unexpectedly fatigued - which is especially surprising, since it's only a virtual vacation. So I decided to take the cable car from Powell & Bay to the Nob Hill crossing; after all, what trip to San Francisco (even a virtual one) would be complete without a ride on a cable car? I decided, though, to resist the urge to make myself Rice-A-Roni, although by now I'd decided there were certain other "San Francisco treats" I thought I might enjoy while on my sojourn.

At the spot where the Powell-Mason line crosses California Street atop Nob Hill I disembarked with the same casual insouciance with which I'd jumped on at Fisherman's Wharf, and walked the two blocks to Grace Cathedral, yet another of the sites made memorable by Armistead Maupin, in this case in the well-named sequel to Tales of the City, More Tales of the City. Along the way I passed the Pacific-Union Club and the Fairmont, another of the city's iconic hotels - featured in Alfred Hitchcock's 1958 film Vertigo.

Although in the novel a cult of Episcopalian cannibals was practicing their predilection on a walkway high above the central aisle, there was no such ghoulish transubstantiation on offer today; instead, I walked the Labyrinth, looking for the meditative state it promised. I would have stayed to see more - there's an altarpiece in the AIDS chapel designed by Keith Haring - but as will happen all of a sudden I came on all tired.

Five blocks south on Taylor and two blocks east on Geary and I was back at the St. Francis Hotel; passing the famous clock in the lobby I got my key from the desk. The concierge on duty reminded me that my delivery had arrived from earlier, and I slid him a twenty with a weary smile. Upstairs, I barely had time to notice the sumptuousness of the room before falling onto the bed and into a dream as surreal as the day I'd just had.
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Virtual Vacation: San Francisco - Alcatraz

As the boat pulled away from Pier 33 I felt the same shiver that thousands of prisoners must have gotten arriving for the first time, staring down the incontrovertible prospect of coming here; its imminence imbues the moment with immanence, as what seems like a tiny speck out in the water grows ever larger, until suddenly its cliffs loom above you, letting you know who is the more powerful in no uncertain terms. Yet as big as the rock is, even as big as is the sea, the sky is even more so; after a day of witnessing it in slivers, I am suddenly aware only of its size. For as big as we imagine ourselves to be, the smallest mountain is bigger than our biggest building, and even the mightiest mountain is but a speck of dust beneath the sky.

Following a brief orientation at the visitor's centre (to help further put me in my place) we are free to explore what we can by ourselves, so I decide to make the obligatory trek uphill to the cell block, snapping pictures as I go. Being here - predictably, I guess - has me thinking about the prisons in which we find ourselves. Mine (like those of many others, I suspect) is a voluntary incarceration, no matter how externally imposed it may feel. In some ways, this may be another reason why we travel, since when we do we are both out of our comfort zone as well as out of our routine; it's not too outlandish to suggest using a vacation as a means to escape from our various mental prisons as well.

The fact that I had to come to a penitentiary for that insight is not lost on me as I reach the bleak building at the windswept top of a place they call The Rock, leaving me - not for the first time - literally between a rock and a hard place. While peering into the tiny cells I'm aware only of the cramped space I've prepared for myself by my own self-loathing, and looking into the even darker cells of solitary confinement I get a horrifying glimpse of what my life might be like if I dared to risk flouting the authority that I've imagined has put me there.

Like the sea around this virtually impregnable fortress, all kinds of forces larger than I am seem to conspire to keep me incarcerated: swirling eddies of doubt, riptides of prejudice, and choppy currents of culture. It's just not that easy to make a run for it, as those men who'd tried to escape this place discovered, to their peril - none of them were ever seen again. As well there are the jailers who while, in my case at least, are entirely imaginary are no less menacing for it. So completely have I swallowed the necessary bunkum about what it means to be a gay man that I've forgotten what's more important: the necessary truth about what it means to be a human. So well have I imagined not only their tyranny but the hold I've given it over me that it never occurs to me how easy it might be to throw off my shackles; after all, since I put them on myself it wouldn't be physically possible for me to lock them as well.

When your life is at an end, it doesn't matter what your BMI was or how chiselled your features were; what matters is that you were kind to people, what you managed to learn, and how much of what you learned you were able to impart. The body of Gyllenhaal is downright dangerous if it's paired with the social skills of Ted Bundy; so too is the brain of Einstein when paired with the thoughts of Charles Manson.

It's not lost on me that for my first virtual vacation I came to what - for many - represents the capital city of gay, one of the first places gay men were able to come in droves to throw off their own shackles, in this case of heterosexism and religious dogma. My own difficult life among my fellow gay men - gleaned from a preponderance of bad experiences first in Kelowna and then in Vancouver - all comes down to me, and how badly I handled them when they occurred, how willing I was to turn an unfair insult into a home truth. My escape from them, then, ought to be as easy as my submission to them was in the first place.

After three hours of exploring (both the site and the psyche) and with a fresh perspective on both myself and the city I returned to the jetty, made the obligatory pass through the gift shop, and caught a few more images of the birds who are the island's only inhabitants now. I find it amusing that Nature's most free creatures now inhabit a place once deemed fit only for her least free. Images and insights from my lunch with Marc are still swirling about in my head as I begin to endlessly nitpick my earlier performance: Was I charming enough? Was I too negative? Did I interrupt him? Fortunately I'm able to keep my hands busy as the boat returns to the city, which action generally succeeds in calming my mind. One phase of my virtual vacation now virtually over, I turn my mind to the next destination, the only one which seems logical now...
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Virtual Vacation: San Francisco - Fisherman's Wharf

In Tales of the City, Mary Ann Singleton was standing in Aquatic Park looking at San Francisco Bay when she made her fateful (if fictional) decision to never return to Cleveland. So that seemed to be the most sensible place for me to go to next; besides, I figured I'd be safe, since my visit was only going to be three days long and I wasn't actually going to be there in person. Plus, it gave me a chance to walk Lombard Street on the way; as these things go, one couldn't ask for a lovelier garden path down which to be led.

I couldn't stay at Aquatic Park long though - certainly not long enough to visit Aquatic Park Historic District (gotta save something for my next visit!) - because virtual vacation or no I had a schedule to keep.

I'd made arrangements to go for lunch at Fisherman's Wharf with one of my virtual friends, in keeping with the theme of the trip; thanks to Facebook I have many such virtual friends in actual cities all over the world. When the time comes that I'm able to visit these places in person - hopefully as a roving photojournalist for the Pop Culture Institute - I'm looking forward to meeting these people in person, so they won't merely be virtual friends anymore.

The friend I met is Marc Smolowitz, a guy who (in my current incarnation) I wouldn't have the nerve to go anywhere near but who, in my virtual guise with the body of Jake Gyllenhaal, I could approach with unmitigated calm. For the complete pop culture experience I chose the Bubba Gump Shrimp Co., even though I knew Marc is Jewish going in (and thus may not be able to eat shellfish); I'm kind of like that - sensitive after the fact, always a little too late. Also, I'd dragged him into the tourist trap of Fisherman's Wharf, where no red-blooded resident would be seen dead. Plus I didn't really care for the movie Forrest Gump, although you'd think I would. Still, what kind of blogger would I be if I wasn't self-absorbed in the extreme?

Having never had lunch with an Academy Award nominee before, I was full of questions; by the end of the meal I was also full of shrimp, which my virtual abs crushed like the bugs they are in a way my actual abs never would have. We digested by watching buskers on the pier, and while I shopped for tacky souvenirs we discussed issues raised by the documentary The Weather Underground, for which he nearly earned himself the coveted Hollywood dildo. I'd recently blogged about their March 1971 bombing of the US Capitol as part of my continuing push to remind people that terrorism in America didn't begin on September 11th, 2001 - no matter what the Republican Party would have you think - so I was eager to talk with someone who knew a little bit more about the subject.

Marc was also involved in the 2001 documentary Trembling Before G-d which - as a Jew queen myself - I found very enlightening and entertaining, in the best tradition of enlightertainment here at the Pop Culture Institute.

Before I could drag him into the Museum of the City of San Francisco, though, Marc begged off, and so I toured the exhibits by myself, after which I lavished out even more virtual cash (since its supply is virtually limitless) in the gift shop. Now suitably laden down I entrusted my purchases to a cab driver then called the concierge at the St. Francis Hotel to keep an eye out for them, and would he be a dear and put them in my room with my luggage? Such a delight to flirt with; I made a mental note to remember his name, so I could give him a nice big tip later. Leaving the museum I ambled (albeit purposefully) through The Cannery, determined to drink in the atmosphere but not buy anything until my next adventure.

On the way to Pier 33 I made a point of waving at the Holiday Inn - the hotel Mary Ann herself fictionally stayed in during her visit, and the one I could more probably afford if I was to ever go there in person - and with a suitably Gyllenhaalian elan to cover my vestigial trepidation I dashed along Bay Street toward Embarcadero with glimpses of my next destination lurking in the silver blue bay ahead of me.
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Virtual Vacation: San Francisco - In Search of Barbary Lane

Given that part of the reason I chose San Francisco for my first virtual vacation is my enduring affection for the 1979 novel Tales of the City by Armistead Maupin, I've decided that my first order of business should be to go in search of 28 Barbary Lane, described in the book as being "off Leavenworth between Union and Filbert". Now, I'm not a total loony; I know the street is fictional, but it gives me an excuse to ramble zig-zaggedly through Chinatown and Telegraph Hill before making my way to Russian Hill on my little pilgrimage. The image, by the way, is from the Tales miniseries, and looks just the way it's described in the book.

Setting out from the hotel eastward on Geary Street, I take a blocklong diagonal on Market Street, before turning north onto Montgomery Street craning my neck all along the way like some kind of tourist (although, to be fair, I do this at home too).

I decide to take in the viewing platform at the Transamerica Pyramid before continuing on; the views looking north from the 27th floor are as breathtaking as I'd expected. The other reason I'd like to travel is to take as many pictures as possible, which is also why I'd be traveling alone; this habit of mine invariably become irksome to even the most patient of companions. Using my Eyewitness Guide as a, well, as a guide, I take several photographs of Russian Hill, as there are no suitable ones on the Internet.

Leaving that building I decide to check out Jackson Square, which is where the offices of Halcyon Communications were in Tales. This charming bit of old San Francisco makes it stand out from the rest of the downtown, which is fairly Manhattan-ized; I grab a bench and try to see if I can spot some latter-day Mary Ann Singleton or Beauchamp Day among the crowds.

That bit of reverie done with, I make my way along Columbus Avenue as far as Washington Square in the North Beach neighbourhood; after taking a look at the ornate twin spires of Sts. Peter and Paul Church (and taking a few pictures) it's just four blocks west on Union Street, a right turn onto Leavenworth, and at the mid-point of the block I'm in the actual heart of the fictional place that first stole my heart so many years before.
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Virtual Vacation: San Francisco - Checking In

One notable benefit to the virtual vacation is the ability to stay in places I could never normally afford; such is the case with the uber-posh St. Francis Hotel, at Union Square. Yet for a pop culture junkie like me, where else would I stay? Built just before the earthquake it remains the largest hotel in the city, was the site of the scandal that brought down Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle, and has been featured as a location in numerous films as well.

The hotel also employs a historian, whom I might treat to breakfast upon my arrival - say, in The Oak Room - to get the low-down on the high and the mighty who've stayed under their roof. My own room, 1220, is one of those in which the death of Virginia Rappe was played out. Ghoulish, maybe, but then it's not like I'm planning to buy a Ouija board and have seance or anything.

Breakfast over, it's still too early to check in, so I leave my luggage with the porter and decide to go out sight-seeing while I wait. Seeing as this is a virtual vacation the weather is lovely and warm. Being an inveterate walker (when not laid up with one of the occasional injuries which plagues me - like the one I have now - since I'm also accident-prone) I'll be doing as much of it as possible on this trip. Also, since it's virtual, there are no hills too steep for me to drag my Jabba-esque bulk up them; still, I've also decided to travel in my virtual body, which resembles that of Jake Gylenhaal. Turns out a virtual vacation is more fun than I'd expected, and I've only been at it an hour.
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Virtual Vacation: San Francisco

As much as I long to travel, and visit those parts of the world I've (until now) only read about, I must admit that - like most fruits - I don't travel well.

First there's the the stress of being out of my routine, accompanied by the inevitable disruption in my finely tuned homeostasis, both of which are, after all, the point of travel but neither of which, I must admit, I particularly enjoy. Then there's the prospect of having some minimum wage flunky from the Department of Homeland Security spelunking in my rectum, looking for Osama bin Laden and/or a portable nuclear device, neither of which would fit up there unless they're smaller than a suppository. Although I have been known to keep toxic gas up there on occasion, it's never enough to kill more than a bird or maybe a medium-sized houseplant, making me less of a threat to the United States than Taco Bell.

There are two possible solutions to the conundrum: the first is to travel for long periods of time, and the second is to harness the vast power of my imagination to make the trip. Since I cannot presently afford the first option, the second will have to do for now. In the fullness of time - not to mention given the cooperation of the Internet gods and/or the advent of several good miracles - I will hopefully be able to accomplish the former as well. Given that I have three days off a week, that seems the ideal duration for this, the first of my virtual vacations.

It's an experiment, writing these posts; I may well invent an entirely new form of travel writing, or else my flight of fancy may crash and burn. Either way, I won't know until I've tried, so here goes who knows what... Nothing? Something? Only time will tell.

This first virtual vacation is sponsored by - no, sponsored by implies financial support - has been made possible by (that's more like it) the good people at Dorling Kindersley, whose Eyewitness Travel Guides have been fueling my dreams of world travel since I picked up my first one in 1995. Alas, I can't afford to constantly update them, so the copy I'm using is from 1996; the current guide was updated in 2006. By way of a shameless plug can I just say that Eyewitness Travel Guides are the guides that show you what others only tell you.

So, without any further hoo-hah, off we go!
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Madame Sarko Causes UK Stir

After a decade of contending with the vision of loveliness that is Cherie Blair, the British public can be forgiven for being more than a little smitten with Carla Bruni, the newly-minted Dame Premiere de France; Bruni accompanied her husband Nicolas Sarkozy on a two-day visit to the UK this past week, where according to pundits one and all she comported herself with more than enough grace, despite this having been her first visit to London as a matter of state.

Even the French have taken to her, accustomed as they are to Presidential wives who look not unlike Madame Edith Artois - then again, Bruni is a Pirelli heiress, was educated at Swiss boarding schools, in addition to being a model and an old hand at the trans-Atlantic lifestyle, having previously dated such notables as Mick Jagger, Eric Clapton, and Donald Trump. Naturally she'd be poised; still, the French Press on this occasion couldn't help but sniping that when she met the Queen her curtsey was too low, and her small-talk too gushy for their liking.

Arriving at Heathrow in an outfit reminiscent of another famous First Lady - namely Jacqueline Kennedy - she also wore flat shoes in order to accomodate the diminutive stature of her husband, a tip of her tiny hat to another gone-but-not-forgotten lady of fashion, the Princess of Wales.

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D. B. Cooper: New Evidence?

More than 36 years after the fact an unidentified man in Clark County, Washington, may have accidentally uncovered the first credible evidence concerning whatever became of notorious hijacker D. B. Cooper while grading a road on his property, near Amboy.

FBI are investigating a parachute found buried in the remote rural area which appears to be consistent with the one used by Cooper when he bailed out of Northwest Orient Airlines Flight 305 over the heavily wooded Washington/Oregon border at approximately 10:15 PM on the day before Thanksgiving in November 1971 with $200,000 in $20 bills strapped to his waist.

No trace of Cooper or the money has ever been recovered despite an 18-day manhunt conducted by 400 troops in the days following his disappearance. Due to the daring of his escape and the fact that neither he nor his remains have ever been found, Cooper is something of a folk hero; a 1981 film entitled The Pursuit of D. B. Cooper starred Treat Williams as the man himself.
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Sara Jane Olson Mistakenly Paroled

Sara Jane Olson, formerly a member of the Symbionese Liberation Army (SLA) - famed for its February 1974 kidnap and brainwash of newspaper heiress Patty Hearst - was mistakenly released from the Central California Women's Correctional Centre in Chowchilla one year early on March 17. She has since been apprehended without incident and returned to jail.

Although initially indicted along with other SLA members in February 1976, Olson (born Kathleen Soliah) went on the lam for 23 years, until she was captured in June 1999 following a profile of her on the television program America's Most Wanted which had aired the previous month.

According to Hearst, Olson was guilty of kicking a pregnant bank teller in the stomach (resulting in miscarriage) during the SLA's most famous robbery, of the Crocker National Bank, in April 1975 (at which Hearst served as the getaway driver); Olson was also implicit in the murder of Myrna Opsahl in the same heist, plus the attempted bombing of the LAPD in August 1975.

Following her recapture, Olson agreed to a plea bargain, copping to the explosives charges while the murder and attempted murder charges were dropped.

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Information: How Much Is Too Much

Generally speaking, the Situation Desk at the Pop Culture Institute is - like everything else at the Pop Culture Institute - dusty and covered in crap.

Despite my every effort to drum up controversy and thereby make myself famous (or at least Internet famous) my own good nature often gets the better of me. Oh, I've been known to be mouthy on occasion, and since my readers also tend to be mouthy there have been little scraps here and there along the way; since I am also famously touchy, though, I don't care to have my delicate sensibilities wounded any more than simply being awake in the 21st Century already wounds them, so I generally do what I must to avoid trouble. It's a fine line I walk, not unlike the famous Blondin, although I better resemble one of the hippos in Fantasia than a pillar of French muscles when I'm doing it.

So it is with a heavy heart that I clear away the crap and flick the feather duster at the Situation Desk to deal with the first genuine situation I've encountered since I called San Francisco mayor Gavin Newsom a spoiled rotten pretty boy 13 months ago (a opinion, by the way, I still hold, despite the insistence of others to the contrary).

It seems in a recent post celebrating the birthday of Queen Latifah I included some biographical detail which may have inadvertantly provided the dreaded TMI (too much information) for a regular commenter, The Question Man. Now, knowing him as I do, my first reaction to this was that he likened the post to reading about a sibling's sex life - a perennial and, in my opinion, valid case of TMI; he left a comment to this effect.

I responded to that comment in my typical fashion - that is, with a pithy if pompous bit of boilerplate about how there was no such thing as too much information, seeing as we are, after all, living in The Information Age; I mean, did neolithic Europeans ever complain about Too Much Bronze? I doubt it. Anyway, I thought that was the end of the story. Well, I've been wrong before, but never wronger than now.

Mr. Gagne - occasional commenter and sometime contributor - proceeded to get his boxers in a wad and go off on a wacko jag. Now, I have no doubt in my mind this was a good natured jag, as he only wants for me what I want - which is a million readers and money by the bushel - but often his efforts to drum up controversy are met with a hollow echo and the chirping of crickets.

Having made a study of scandal my whole life the one thing I know for sure about the subject is that it can't be forced - it has to happen organically. I have every faith that I will, before my career is out, be called to testify before a Commons committee for having called the Prime Minister a neo-fascist thug. Hell, I'll even buy a new suit, and nothing would give me more pleasure than repeating those words into a microphone, where they will be transcribed into Hansard and lovingly stored at the Library of Parliament for all time.

In the meantime, though, I simply cannot allow even humourous animosity to exist between the few readers I have, sniping at each other in the comment roll. What do you think this is, Joe.My.God or something?

In summation, I can only say that I hope I've clarified the misunderstanding; either that or muddied it beyond the point of apathy. Mr. Gagne's witty and literate post about dealing with conversational homophobia (written in over-reaction to Question Man's original comment) is to follow - not because it's relevant in this instance, but merely because it's relevant generally, and thus needs to be said. That, and everything he writes takes a tiny bit of the burden off me to continually have to come up with this stuff.
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"Situation" by Alison Moyet

In what may be the most brilliant segueway in the history of this august organization, the Pop Culture Institute will be shortly dealing with a situation (get it? pretty neato, huh?); in the meantime, please enjoy this awesome acoustic version of the 1982 song Situation, from Yazoo's debut album Upstairs at Eric's, as sung by the duo's former lead singer, Alison Moyet.
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A Few Words About Impatience

Friends,

I've been meaning to write to you about impatience, an issue which (as some of you may know) is near and dear to my heart, for some time now. I would have written sooner, but procrastination got the better of me - more about that later; in fact, much later. Don't hold your breath, though, waiting for me to explain how both of these seemingly contradictory impulses manage to reside in me, because even I don't know that and it's going on inside my own head even as I'm writing this.

Impatience is a scourge in the life of anyone who suffers from it. It causes frustration (the leading cause of death amongst electronics in my house), exacerbates high blood pressure (which will, in all likelihood, be the cause of my death - if, that is, such an event occurs naturally), and frankly drives my friends crazy, even though I am extra careful to choose them for their patience, knowing from the outset what I'll be putting them through in the course of our relationship.

Partly it's a result of the high standard I set for myself, a standard which I feel ought to be universally held but isn't; mainly, though, it's because I am acutely aware of the hot breath of my own mortality on my neck, and I am driven to do as much as possible before it sinks its teeth in. Occasionally when the massive work load I've assigned to myself in the admittedly limited time I have left on Earth is thwarted - or even appears to be thwarted, however temporarily - I can usually be counted on to react in an anti-social manner. This usually involves impugning the circumstances of birth, IQ, and personal habits of those responsible for said thwarting, be they the employees of Blogspot or the volunteers of Wikipedia or what have you.

While the stress involved in spending every minute of the day either writing or thinking about writing is, by and large, entirely enjoyable to me, it is stress all the same; I seem to spend those moments when I'm not in the flow of writing worrying about whether or not the last thing I wrote is the last thing I'll ever write. Imagine, then, a nightmare scenario in which I find myself in a writing flow when any number of machines and or software applications refuse to cooperate, especially since I have always placed a high premium on cooperation, having been raised by Sesame Street.

The Pop Culture Institute has always been intended as a helpmate for those in need of it, starting with myself; I am hard at work as we speak (and making great progress, too) on a cure for Writer's Block, and now, additionally, Impatience. Despite what Big Pharma might tell you, not everything can be cured with a pill, and such is the way with this; in the end, whatever cures Impatience will not have the side effect of causing anal leakage, not if I have anything to say about it. Utilizing the most up-to-date Cognitive Behavioural methods in conjunction with a rigourous regimen of relaxation techniques designed to help me "get the fuck over myself"*, I feel certain that this grievous condition can be remedied.

A cure is right around the corner; I can feel it.

In the meantime, please accept my deepest apologies if I've ever gone mental on you, made you the victim of my venting (which, while it helps me, does nothing good for those at whom I've just vented) or exposed you in anyway to my affliction during the course of treatment. Rest assured, an end is in sight; in this case I can safely say the light at the end of the tunnel is not an oncoming train.

yours,

michael sean morris

Blogmaster of Ceremonies

*Actual Clinical Term

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Dreamscapes - March 13th

Last night, I had a particularly long and convoluted dream; it went a little something like this...

The first thing I remember, I'm the age I am now, lying on my sofa, feeling sick. There's no one around - no one in my apartment building, no one on the street. I leave my building, which is in Vancouver, and suddenly I'm walking along Lakeshore Boulevard in Kelowna, the street my mother lives on, where I haven't lived for a decade. I'm walking to her house - trudging is more like it - and the farther I go the farther away it seems. It's an overcast day, near dusk.

When I'm almost there I remember that I parked my car near her place a long time ago; this would be easy to forget as I have never owned a car. I turn a corner and see the car parked on the side of the road near the cafe where I used to hang out. The car is the red Datsun F150 we owned in Regina in 1982; when I get up to it I just know there's going to be a ticket on it, since I remember parking it there two months earlier. Sure enough the ticket is for $500.78, which bums me out even more, since how the Hell am I gonna afford to pay that on top of all the other money I owe? Plus, it's a City of Vancouver ticket.

I get to my mother's house, which is not the house she lives in now but the house she lived in in Ottawa two decades ago - the basement of a wee cottage, with eccentric walls and an Escher-like floor. I go down the stairs and knock, then just let myself in.

Inside it's not my mother's house in Ottawa but my friend Doug's current apartment, only two or three times the size, only lit like the house he and I shared five years ago. My mother isn't there, but Doug and Seumas are. I say hello and then fall onto their sofa, which looks suspiciously like my sofa. There is some desultory small-talk; Seumas is trying to cheer me up, sitting in the chair my grandmother used to own, an enormous orange number we all called the Great Pumpkin. Doug is cleaning up, but unnecessarily, since the apartment is immaculate. This is incongruous in many ways, but consistent with the dream.

When he finally gets around to the part of the room I'm in he pushes against me and says (more brusquely than he ever would in real-life) that I need to move because I smell, so I get up and leave; as I'm leaving I hear Seumas tutting, but can't tell if it's at me or at him. Outside I'm on the street my mother's house was on in Ottawa, whereas when I came in her Ottawa house was where her Kelowna house is now. I notice my car is gone (as it would be since I've somehow switched cities) and before I can react I hear a siren.

I turn to see where it's coming from, and wake up with a start; there is an ambulance going past my building, and my alarm clock is ringing. I begin my day with a profound sense of dread, when I remember it's payday, which temporarily lifts the dread, until I remember how broke I am. I take an extra long shower, after which I feel much better.

Typically, I dream opposite to life; the dreams seem to burn off any residual emotion or anxiety I may be feeling. If I'm having a test, the night before I may dream of failure - that sort of thing. It's been a long time since I've had such a vivid and prolonged dream; I thought I'd share it with you now for no other reason than it was so vivid the best way to keep myself from dwelling on it is to express it. ~ MSM
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Queen's Message To The Commonwealth, 2008

Last year, Commonwealth Heads of Government met in Uganda on the edge of Lake Victoria and agreed to an Action Plan for tackling climate change. It was an appropriate place to do so: from there, the waters of the River Nile begin a three-month journey to the Mediterranean.

The Nile, throughout history, has served humankind in many ways. But for all its impressive size and importance, this river is a fragile ecosystem; and its vulnerability grows with the number of people dependent upon it, so that a single incident of pollution upstream may affect the lives of countless numbers downstream.

The example of the Nile illustrates many of the challenges facing the global environment as a whole which cannot alone sustain our lives as once it did. The competition for fresh water by a growing population is itself becoming a source of potential conflict. Our own attitudes to the environment, and the use we put it to, may have consequences for people on every continent and for every ocean and sea.

The impact of pollution falls unequally: it is often those who pollute the least – notably in the world’s least-developed nations – who are closest to the razor’s edge: most affected by the impact of climate change and least equipped to cope with it.

And it is important to remember that the environmental choices available in some countries may not be an option for others. In some parts of the world, for example, fossil fuels can be used more sparingly and buildings can be made of more efficient, sustainable materials; but it is far harder to expect someone to adapt if he or she relies on the trees of a local forest for fuel, shelter and livelihood. If we recognize the interests and needs of the people who are most affected, we can work with them to bring about lasting change. Happily, this approach has always been a strength of the Commonwealth, and awareness of environmental issues is now widespread, with a determination that future generations should enjoy clean air, sufficient fresh water and energy without risking damage to the planet. Few are more aware or energetic in confronting climate change than young people, and we should support them.

In the Commonwealth, governments, businesses, communities and individuals should each strive to match words and good intentions with deeds. Every contribution has its part to play. Whatever we do, wherever we live, our actions in defense of the environment can have a real and positive effect upon the lives of others, today and into the future.

[2007 Message]
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Jimmy Kimmel Is Fucking Ben Affleck

The kind of plotzing I'm doing from this is the kind that tends to leave one permanently plotzed; considering that it first aired on Jimmy Kimmel Live earlier this week (February 24th, after the Oscars), in its first five days on YouTube this video was viewed more than 3.3 million times. At least 2 million of those views had to be someone other than me, making this some of the most popular footage in the world right now, even outside of my apartment.

All I can say about it is that Jimmy Kimmel is one lucky motherfucker; also, if Ben Affleck isn't any pickier than this at least I'm in with a chance, which is the best news I've had all day.

Enjoy it, if you're into this sort of thing; if you're not, lighten the Hell up.
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March: A Surefire Cure For The February Blahs

I had every intention of making February a fun-filled month at the Pop Culture Institute; it is, after all, Black History Month and I have always been the proud poster boy for White Guilt.

The only hitch (although it's a major one) is that I'm no fan of this particular month; I get the distinct feeling after this year it feels the same about me. I got sick, I got depressed, I took a little too much medication (which, fortunately, was the kind that has no fatal dose); nevertheless, even though the amount I took spared me it nearly killed this blog. The long and the short of it is that this year - as in years past - February was kind of a non-starter for me. The best thing about it is that even in a Leap Year it's still the shortest month.

Well, we're done with all that now. Over the course of the next eleven months, should I find myself with a glimmer of inspiration (HA!) and a spare moment (double HA!), I will be going back and filling in what turned out to be a very scanty February indeed. Not that you, my regular readers, need to worry about that until the next one comes along, when you can read it all for yourselves as if it were new. This will also allow me a bit of a cushion when, in 337 days' time, I am once again overtaken by the combination of a Canadian winter and the consumerist orgy which is all that remains of the Feast of the Lupercalia, resulting in an overwhelming desire to hide.

Rather than continuing to excoriate myself for my own deficiencies now (having been brought up on the notion that illness is weakness) I will instead endeavour to move forward and continue attempting the quality product I have always envisioned providing, doing my utmost to attract the inevitable vast readership such a quality product ought to strive for, and yes, even the cult of personality it's going to take to unite the two.

I mean, really... It's the least I can do.
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Remembering... Dinah Shore

For my last post during Black History Month I thought I'd complete two tasks with a single action, and so choose a duet by gospel legend Mahalia Jackson and birthday gal Dinah Shore.

Shore's career began in the Big Band era; although her auditions for the titans of the genre (Benny Goodman and both Jimmy Dorsey and his brother Tommy Dorsey) all flopped, her clear voice, wholesome image, and straightforward phrasing nevertheless shone through, making her an enduring favourite to this day, more than a decade after her February 1994 death.

Even more so than her recordings, film and television appearances, Dinah Shore's most enduring legacy may just be the golf tournament held every March in Palm Springs, which is a red letter day in any power lesbian's calendar.
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Friday Playlist: February 29th

Lenny Kravitz - "Mr. Cab Driver"
Billie Holiday - "Your Mother's Son-in-Law"
Concrete Blonde - "Walking in London"
Michael Jackson - "Wanna Be Starting Something"
John Mayer Trio - "Axis Bold As Love"
Fletcher Henderson - "King Porter Stomp"
Adam Ant - "Goody Two Shoes"
George Strait - "I Can Still Make Cheyenne"
Royal Crown Revue - "Zip Gun Bop"
Robbie Williams - "Rock DJ"
The Hollies - "He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother"
Joy Division - "I Remember Nothing"
Rufus Wainwright - "Harvester of Hearts"
Dead Kennedys - "California Uber Alles"
T-Rex - "Cosmic Dancer"
Kool & The Gang - "Jungle Boogie"
Joni Mitchell - "Impossible Dreamer"
Rachel Sweet - Theme from 'Hairspray'
Great Big Sea - "Feel It Turn"
The Prodigy - "Smack My Bitch Up"
Michelle Shocked - "Necktie"
King Missile - "Detachable Penis"
Michelle Shocked - "Hardly Gonna Miss Him"
Madonna - "Keep It Together"
Pansy Division - "Anthem"
Ozzy Osbourne - "Crazy Train"
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Happy Birthday James Ogilvy

1964 - traditionally considered either the last year of the Baby Boom or the first year of Generation X - saw something of a bumper crop of royal babies; in all, four were born during that twelve months, including HRH The Earl of Wessex, Lady Sarah Chatto (the daughter of Princess Margaret), Lady Helen Taylor (whose nickname in the Eighties was 'Melons'), and possibly the most minor of the so-called minor royals, James Ogilvy.


Despite his distance from the throne (at present he is 35th in the succession) and the fact that he possesses no titles whatsoever, Ogilvy is nonetheless a fascinating footnote in the history of the British monarchy - he is thought to be the only royal baby in history to be born a leapling.

Born to the Queen's cousin Princess Alexandra, The Honourable Lady Ogilvy and her husband Sir Angus Ogilvy at their home Thatched House Lodge outside London and married to Julia Caroline Rawlinson in 1988 (with whom he has two children, Alexander and Flora) Ogilvy is currently the publisher of Luxury Briefing, a magazine for those working the upper end of the carriage trade.

So low is James Ogilvy's profile that even a sycophant as panting as I was unable to find a picture to adorn this post, forcing me to make a reFoto to accompany the story.
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