Tracy Morgan Predicts... Black Is The New President

Ah, remember the good old days... Like, way way back in what, March 2008? That's when Tracy Morgan returned to his old stomping grounds at Saturday Night Live in order to throw his support behind Barack Obama, as well as sharing a little banter with Seth Meyers. You see, in those days the Democratic nomination was still up in the air between Obama and New York's Senator Hillary Rodham Clinton; the previous week Tina Fey and Amy Poehler had proclaimed their support for Clinton with the ingenious line 'Bitch is the new black.'

It took me awhile too warm up to Tracy Morgan, who today turns 40; his performance as Tracy Jordan on 30 Rock, however, has turned me into an unreserved fan.
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Books Wormed: "A Garden Of Sand" by Earl Thompson

Owing to my recent deployment at a locale where there's more time to do it in than actual work to do while there, I'm back on a reading kick in a really big way. I figured I might as well put all that bookworming to good use - while it lasts - by adding to one of those features which has been much-neglected of late, namely Books Wormed... ~ MSM

When Earl Thompson's novel A Garden of Sand first appeared in 1970 the 1930s was still, for a lot of people, within living memory. Yet human nature seems fixated on the idea that the past was some G-rated paradise, so there seems to have been no shortage of shock at the contents of this novel, which is almost entirely shocking even today. Epic, yet intimate, lurid, yet honestly so, A Garden of Sand blows the lid off a seemingly lid-proof Depression-era America - a time when even good people, it seems, were forced to resort to their most craven impulses every minute of the day just to survive.

Ever since they occurred, the Thirties has served as a pretty convenient shorthand for artists everywhere; when times are bad, it seems, storytellers of all kinds - be they novelists or film-makers - like to turn to those hardscrabble days for perspective, especially when a contemporary setting would seem to be lacking in the necessary gravity to convey whatever threat or privation needs conveying.

There are enough hard-luck losers in A Garden of Sand to populate a dozen Tom Waits albums, with enough left over to keep him busy telling their myriad stories until he's a hundred; in following Odd 'Jack' Andersen almost from the moment of his birth Thompson has fashioned a story which contains not only all of those lives which intersect his, but a powerful morality tale as rich in philosophy as it is in imagery.

Amazingly, A Garden of Sand was Earl Thompson's first novel, yet it's no typically tepid freshman effort. Thompson's masterful handling of prose - laced with equal parts dynamite and poetry - suggests bullying, sweet-talking, and in general a situationally ethical approach to getting the story told; it's a surprisingly muscular way of handling the despair, apathy, and inevitable ruin to which many of his characters find themselves inexorably drawn. If this were journalism (which, in a way, it is) his every subject would leave their author's presence in either tears or handcuffs and often enough both.

Having extensively perused numerous works either from or about the Thirties (as research for my own novel, set in 1934-5) I can safely say that A Garden of Sand reads as brutally true as any I've read; if God is in the details then Earl Thompson is God... His evocation of time and place teems with finely-observed insight. So completely realized is his universe - centred on Wichita, Kansas - that upon closing the back cover I wanted to re-open the front cover and experience it all over again.

Now that's what I call a good book...
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The Barington Encounter: Part Two

[PART ONE]

In the previous part the town of Barington was described, and some anecdotal insight was given into the nature of its residents; the aliens have arrived, and been described, but invariably the narrator has wandered off on some wacko tangent or another about the various other races known to enjoy Earth, so who knows when he (or she) will get down to the whole "humans interacting with actual aliens" shtick. ~ MSM

I should explain that, on Andromeda, it is not a crime to be ordinary like it is in other places. In fact, it's rather a requirement; because special people invariably had an unfair advantage in life, and equally invariably got special treatment because of it, and because to the Andromedan mind this was spectacularly unfair, over many thousands of millenia each and every Andromedan had come to have the same build, the same intellect, the same salary... It was, to the highly evolved if highly pedantic Andromedan mind, the only way they could all be equals.

Had they been Centauris, though, these Andromedans would have been among the first to earn a free trip to Earth as exiles (whom they called borings); Earth’d, the most popular programme on Centauri television, twice daily featured the dullest of their race being lured to Earth by attractive females then abandoned, often without their clothing (especially if it's a week in which ratings are compiled, cruel nudity being almost as popular there as short video clips of blokes getting clocked in the goolies on Earth).

If in your workplace you have a coworker who is large and silent, chances are you have met an Earth'd Centauri. If you’ve seen a Yeti or better yet, a fellow with an excellent Wookiee costume at a nude beach, known anyone or anything even remotely Sasquatchian (including Sasquatch), chances are he - for they are always a he - was a loser on Earth’d. They are large and hairy because they are Centauri and they are silent because they’d rather not talk about it, thank you very much, denial being a rather chic pastime of their race. Still, you should always hug one if you can; in Centauri mythology it’s said to either ‘bring luck to the helper’ or else ‘help the hugger get lucky’. Exactly which, naturally, has been the cause of much sectarian strife between the intersecting systems of Alpha and Beta Centauri, as translations vary - a situation scarcely remedied following twelve centuries of bloodshed known as the Translation Wars, during which the good people of Gamma Centauri were wise to keep well out of by professing a deep affection for atheism, until they and their planet were devastated by an attack from the agnostics of Centauri Delta.

Likewise, if you’ve ever seen a leprechaun, a pixie, or a fairy (especially when potted) you’ve seen an Oriononian - since normally the only way a human being can see fast enough to make one out is with the aid of some chemical assistance. On the other hand, a gnome who just stands there leaning on his rake and grinning insipidly - whether beside a water feature or as the focal point of a rock garden - that’s an Oriononian ‘colonist’, a variety of layabout whose slackdaw ways are so anathema to the flibbertigibbet Oriononian majority that he (for again, they are always a he) is exiled forthwith to concentration camps (which on Earth are known by the twee euphemism 'garden centres') and from there they are sold into what constitutes slavery on Orion - being forced to slowly farm the most shadowy corners of the dampest countries on the most obscure planets forever. Oriononian colonists, it should be noted, are the most contented exiles ever, though they do not brag about it like, say, Australians.

So Centauris and Oriononians you may have seen, but you wouldn’t have ever seen an Andromedan on Earth; until, that is, May 12th. That’s because these five were the first of their kind ever to come here, and, as has already been alluded that was the day they arrived. The reason for this is a long and convoluted one, and one which is scarcely believable besides; still, I'm going to tell you anyway...

[CONTINUED]
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Friday Watchlist - November 7th

Bessie Smith - "I'm Wild About That Thing"
Of Montreal - "Disconnect The Dots"
U2 - "Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own"
Demons and Wizards - "Crimson King"
The Libertines - "The Last Post of the Bugle"
Luba - "Every Time I See Your Picture I Cry"
Doris Day - "Ten Cents A Dance"
Guns 'n Roses - "Locomotive"
Ima Robot - "Creeps Me Out"
Destiny's Child - "Say My Name"
The Specials - "Friday Night Saturday Morning"
Good Charlotte - "Time After Time"
ZZ Top - "Tush"
Adam Rickett - "Everything My Heart Desires"
Pansy Division - "The Biggest Lie"
Kate Bush - "The Man With the Child in His Eyes"
Eva Cassidy - "Songbird"
The Buzzcocks - "Lipstick"
Dar Williams - "Farewell to the Old Me"
The Punters - "Candlelight and Wine"
Robert Johnson - "Honeymoon Blues"
Incognito - "Deep Waters"
George Michael - "Too Funky"
Alannah Myles - "Still Got This Thing For You"
Gwen Stefani - "Hollaback Girl"
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Yes We Can!: The Election of Barack Obama

On Election Night President-elect Barack Obama accepted the mandate of the American people with his usual aplomb, addressing the crowds in Chicago's Grant Park with a stirring, classy acknowledgement of American ideals; yet whatever change was wrought on that extraordinary night must be tempered with the knowledge that a substantial minority of people in the most populous US state lost their civil rights on the same night when yet again an American electorate jazzed on change voted for it with one hand and for the same narrow-minded view of equality with the other...



Growing up gay means growing up aware that even second-class citizenship is a mirage in the distance, an illusory opportunity - but an opportunity nonetheless... All the legislation in the world - even if, by some miracle it should actually be enforced - doesn't make for equality all by itself; therefore, the same applies to state-sponsored discrimination. By voting Yes on Proposition 8 the voters of California haven't banned marriage equality but merely deferred it; oppose it though you might, it will one day happen - as it has already in Holland, Canada, Belgium, Spain, South Africa, and soon in Norway, whereas as recently as 2002 none of these countries did. How many more nations will have to come to the simple realization that equal rights mean equal opportunity for all before they all begin to? How many people will end up on the losing side of history because they were unable to comprehend that simple fact?



For my part, I believe the presidency of Barack Obama will render greater change for good than the previous administration did for evil - maybe even undo what hatred and bigotry Karl Rove's neoconservative agenda has wrought by poisoning the wells of people's minds with fear. If I may paraphrase the President-elect's own words, we can always hope... Yes we can. Allowing marriage equality doesn't weaken marriage or family but strengthens it; nor does allowing it make it mandatory - as a simple majority of California voters seems to believe - any more than passing hateful propositions will undo the heartfelt vows of the 16,000 gay couples whose California marriages have now been rendered null and void.
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Pop History Moment: The Election of Barack Obama

It was a hard-fought campaign, filled with the kind of lies and outrageous pandering to the lowest common denominator we've come to expect from the Republican Party, but also with a charismatic candidate the Democrats can only seem to muster up occasionally (although, not often enough for the liking of the Pop Culture Institute).

We knew going in it would be an historic campaign - from early on it was clear the Democrats were either going to field a black man or a woman - but for weeks now those in the punditocracy have been likening this one to the 1960 Presidential campaign, which pitted Senator John F. Kennedy against Vice President Richard Nixon, for the way it has gripped the zeitgeist not just in the United States but around the world.

Now it's official... Barack Obama, the junior senator from Illinois, has handily defeated the senior senator from Arizona, John McCain; the brief bump in the polls McCain got from selecting as his running mate Alaska governor Sarah Palin appears to have backfired on him, whereas Obama's selection of Joe Biden seems to have sufficiently quelled fears of Obama's lack of experience for the majority of American voters.
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The 2008 Vice-Presidential Debate (According To "Saturday Night Live")

So, I've been pretty mum on politics this election season, at least since the primaries got underway in January; anyway, I figured Election Day was the ideal time to break my silence, by posting my favourite bit of comedy from the entire campaign - a spot-on parody from Saturday Night Live of the 2008 vice-presidential debate; the debate was held at Washington University in St. Louis, and was itself the most watched vice-presidential debate in history with more than 70 million viewers.

It stars, of course, Tina Fey as Sarah Palin, Jason Sudeikis as Joe Biden, and Queen Latifah as moderator Gwen Ifill...

SNL's parodies of Sarah Palin have been just about the only things that have gotten me through the muck and slime of the current campaign; judging by how quickly they've each gone viral, I'd guess I'm not alone in that. Fey has gone on record as saying she hopes to be done playing Sarah Palin on November 5th, so I say bravo to her for making the most of this unique opportunity and stepping into the spotlight for the sake of pop culture.
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The Barington Encounter: Part One

In honour of the fact that my friend James Mullin has managed to trick me into reading at this afternoon's open house at Vancouver's Tanglewood Books, and in honour of the fact that the blog is caught up to date for the first time in a long time, I've decided to launch a new feature here at the Pop Culture Institute, namely that of serialized fiction. Beginning today and running each Sunday from now on until either I finish the damn thing or the damn thing finishes me, it's the completely un-awaited, utterly unsought-after novel-in-progress The Barington Encounter, which is dedicated to Douglas Adams...



CHAPTER 1

Barington was a very normal town in Sussex. I say was, because… Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves before we've even begun, shall we?

Barington, as I’ve said, was a very normal town in Sussex. As a place it consisted of a medieval centre, little changed since the 14th Century, except for the number of shops offering Tandoori chicken, which had lately increased exponentially, although only since 1982. It had a minor cathedral, two even lesser stately homes (which could more rightly be called stately cottages - were there such a patently ludicrous designation), and a stand of trees where Henry III once got a hangnail, an event commemorated there now by a somewhat tatty brass plaque placed in the vicinity by the local chapter of the Society of Sticklers for Historical Minutiae in 1991. Wreathing this ancient if entirely ordinary red-brick jumble was a ghastly grey sprawl of tract houses punctuated here and there by even ghastlier blocks of council flats, most of which dated from 1964.

In other words, Barington was a very normal town in Sussex.

The residents of Barington were a God-fearing lot, naturally. They attended the cinema and garden shows, and occasionally even church; they drank any number of pints in any number of pubs, took picnics on the village green and even bought tickets in the National Lottery - but only if they were deliberately cultivating a reputation for thrill-seeking. Likewise, they shopped for goose liver pate and veal chop and unfairly traded, inorganic, cruelty-enriched biscuits from the Fourth World at Selfridge’s - the Third World having recently been deemed by The Daily Mail to have become far too uppity for demanding a tenth of the lifestyle enjoyed by its consumers, and therefore unworthy of any further custom.

Baringtonians could be counted on to always vote for the government candidate in by-elections, provided he was a Tory, and might even profess a poignant longing for the good old days (whenever they were) whether drunk or merely awake. Poll after poll showed time after time that while the average Baringtonite went up to London eight times a year, it wasn’t always for the reasons one might think, whilst every single time any of them went to Brighton it was for one thing and one thing only. Otherwise, why bother, eh?

On any given day, say May 12th, they would be as comfortable in their suburban smugness as they inevitably were in their carpet slippers... So then it came as quite a shock to the residents of Barington, not to mention the Nation, when on that selfsame day Andromedans turned up at a rented house in Juniper Mews with a hired lorry full of furniture.

Actual Andromedans mind you, from the planet Andromeda. Not a Greek family from, say, Clapham. And not some Doomsday cult in matching trainers and trackies, either, though that is what they resembled.

Andromedans. Five of them.

They were quite a sight, they were. They dressed alike, and even from behind fluttering curtains up and down the mews they looked alike, though to each other there was no resemblance whatsoever; aside from the superficial of course, which distinctions their race had long since ceased to recognize, since they were both highly advanced and well smug about it besides. They were all tall and thin, these five, though their tallnesses and thinnesses did vary somewhat, if only slightly. They all had sky blue skin of identical tint and shiny silver pompadours of similar sheen - like Michael Rennie in The Day The Earth Stood Still. Not that they would have known that, though, since ironically none of them were very keen on sci-fi, which anyway wasn't terribly popular on Andromeda owing to the fact that it was frequently quite entertaining.

Yet even in this the longer one looked at them the more it seemed that their bluenesses varied even as different corners of the same summer sky differed, and as they each had different hairdressers (who naturally sold each of them different hair care products) even their shiny silver pompadours varied in shininess and silveriness despite the uniformity of their pompadourability. Their expressions could either be called ‘serene’ or ‘blank’ (depending on which newspaper one read) and their demeanour on this day consisted chiefly of movements somehow jerky and fluid at once; like their skin and hair colours entirely the result of withdrawal from suspended animation and not merely a splendid affectation of their race. More’s the pity.

Their manner of dress resembled boiler suits, only better fitting and with more pockets, in a quilted silver material that was not unlike oven mitts, which could be considered quite sexy to them as was into that sort of thing. These were, in fact, pyjamas, which had been cleverly designed for space travel, with each pocket designed to hold its own specific organ. Beneath these they wore their more normal costume, a one-piece unitard which, if the silver jumpsuit didn't get you, the unitard certainly would, clinging lovingly as it did to each agreeably situated bulge. Again - provided you were into that sort of thing. Their outfits were each completed by a pendant - an eyeball with a pewter coloured iris in a triangle of platinum hung by its two upper corners on a heavy silver chain - which like them unblinkingly looked this way and that and unlike them recorded all it saw and transmitted said images back to Andromeda.

Yet for all their clever coveralls and classy blue skin and despite the altitude of their shiny silver hair - even in consideration of their lithe swimmers' builds with their gymnastic proportions packed into clingy undergarments - these were five very ordinary Andromedans indeed. In fact, Andromedan Idol had over 300 million applicants that week when the finalists were chosen, and these five had won out, simply by being the most ordinary of them all.

That they'd been so chosen for their mission specifically because of their stupendous ordinariness isn't such an odd thing if considered logically; after all, what good does it do a truly advanced alien race like the Andromedans to send off its really extraordinary people to a place where they might be captured, tortured, and/or autopsied during prime time on national television? Not that Andromeda had any truly special people (for reasons that will be gotten into later) but just as a for instance...

And so, knowing considerably more about Earth than most Earthlings knew about Andromeda (or in fact Earth) and taking into account the savagery of the race therein ensconced - gleaned by scientists who'd been forced to watch literally every episode of Crimewatch, many of whom had to be put on life support to get them through the entertaining bits - the Andromedan government was taking no chances at losing one of its Glorgap Prize appointees to the scalpel of something that was, in Andromedan terms at least, still within spitting distance of the ooze out of which it had evolved.

See? Here we're getting ahead of ourselves again...

[CONTINUED]

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"Miles Away" by Madonna

At this moment I am the closest I'm probably ever going to get to Madonna; for the first time ever she's deigned to play our little town, in a venue I can see from my front window. These are truly exciting times in which we are living... Whatever the reason she's had for overlooking us in the past, Madonna's blonde ambition has finally brought her to Lotus Land, with the commensurate level of wigging out by the local media; for that very reason, I haven't gone overboard marking the event at the Pop Culture Institute.

In the past Madonna always said the reason she avoided the Pacific Northwest because the humidity played havoc with her vocal chords; obviously, all those years living in England have been a great help to her and her moisture-sensitive throat.

Miles Away is, of course, Madonna's break-up song, its lyrics positively redolent of her years with Guy Ritchie; the third and current single, taken from her 2008 album Hard Candy, no doubt takes on added poignance as the Sticky & Sweet Tour continues its money-making juggernaut around the world.
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A Year Of Hits

Can it really be a year since I first installed this little honey of a widget? Well, I guess since it reset, it must be so. I can't tell you how many times in the last twelve months I've clicked through and stared at this map, watching as my intrepid little words started working their way around the world. For those who don't know, each red dot represents a hit; the bigger the dot the more hits from that locale. These represent 20,580 visits to the Pop Culture Institute.

Watching those red dots bloom has been very entertaining. They first appeared (predictably) in the area around Vancouver-Seattle, then in New York City and London - to my complete and utter bliss; things more or less spread outwards from those points, with some surprising turns of event along the way - like all the hits from the Persian Gulf region! I was a bit shocked to see so many hits from South America, so I guess it's time to let go of my preconceptions about my fellow hemisphereans; for some reason, I also figured I'd get more hits from Africa, so go figure on that one as well...

Now that I think about it, that map also fits in perfectly with the anniversary of the eradication of smallpox; only I hope my words can be just as infectious as they spread around the world, without killing hundreds of millions of people in the process. Hey, a boy can dream, can't he?
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The Queen Visits Google

The video kind of says it all, but I figured I haven't been too great with the current affairs lately, so when something historic came along (baited with royalty, and so guaranteed to get my attention) I figured I should post it. Thank you to Mr. Gagne for sending me a reminder link.

You can be like me and subscribe to YouTube's Royal Channel here.

The video the Queen uploaded during her visit is below, some great old footage of a buffet lunch given by the Queen for returning Olympic champions in 1968; later that evening, Her Majesty hosted a similar banquet for this year's returning Olympians.


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Happy National Coming Out Day

I can scarcely believe it was two years ago when I first published a piece in which I came out - not as gay, which, let's face it, would be too obvious even for me - but as a spinster. That announcement caused quite a little brouhaha among my friends, but only because they're lovely people who refuse to see me for what I am, which is a spinster.

I am taking this opportunity to reiterate my previous claim; even though in the past twelve months I did have a brief fling with a wildly inappropriate person - making me more or less the quintessential dater - that affair did nothing to change my mind with regards to this status. Despite all the flirting I do on Facebook, I'm only teasing when I do that; if just about any of those guys came near me in life I'd run from them like it was an Olympic event.

Unfortunately, for all the positive it's given me, my life in Vancouver has permanently ruined me when it comes to dating and all that. I doubt that even moving would fix the problem now. Some things, once they're broken, cannot be fixed - and this is one of them.

On the occasion of National Coming Out Day 2008 I'd like to add to my previous declaration the word 'workaholic', making me a 'workaholic spinster' in the mould of Miss Jane Hathaway. The gay men of Vancouver will no doubt be crushed that they'll never get the chance to reject me again, but I know I'll rest easier not having to be called Gramps or Fatso by men older and fatter than me at Bear Night.

In a way, it's them I feel sorry for... I'm a pretty great boyfriend, all things considered; in fact, in certain circles I could even be considered a catch, especially if I put a little more work into it. Alas, I was just never able to meet the standard of perfection gay men (especially the ones in Vancouver) seem to be looking for. Oh well... As they say, 'You win some, you lose some.'

Unless, of course, you don't win any. They don't say what to do in that case.
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Happy World Mental Health Day

This World Mental Health Day it's important to keep in mind that mental illness is reaching epidemic proportions in Asia. The suicide rate in Korea, for instance, is skyrocketing; already in Japan there are suicide clubs, wherein Japanese youths meet each other online to lend support to each other in their time of crisis. Police there are becoming accustomed to finding hired vans filled with young people who've all asphyxiated themselves with carbon monoxide.

This kind of scenario is bound to increase as the world gets more complicated, diets change, work becomes more sedentary, and an ageing population puts greater and greater strain on its children and grandchildren.

Wherever it strikes, mental illness is the most misunderstood category of disease; even worse that sexually transmitted infection, I would guess. Alongside ignorance is its trusty sidekick, denial, which tries to act like there is no problem. Complicating matters even further are drugs, designed to help with the problem of mental illness (especially serotonin re-uptake inhibitors, or SRIs), which often do more harm than good; one major side-effect of Prozac is suicidal tendencies, especially in teenagers.

The solution, typically, is as complex as the problem. There will never be one cure for bipolar disorder, for instance, that works for everyone - no matter how hard doctors try to cram us all into the same box, all people are different, and the variables are far too numerous. Still, it's no reason to despair.

If you or someone you know has or thinks they have a mental illness, it's worth your while to investigate all the options - including counselling, exercise, diet, and medication - until you find the combination that works best for that individual.

[S O U R C E]
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Cross-Promotion: Bear Schmear!

Way, way, WAY back in the mists of time - oh, a good six months ago or more now - I stopped commenting on Joe.My.God, owing to the fact that one of my typically sensitive and/or amusing (albeit well-thought-out) comments* elicited an entirely uncalled-for and utterly hateful screed from a well-respected regular commenter called Freddy in P'Town. It was not the first time, evil knows, but I decided it would be the last. At the time I recalled watching one of my commenters, Tank, dissipating his considerable talent over there by grappling with an oodle of petty minded skanks to the exclusion of his own blog**; I did not want that to happen to me, and have since made a clean break.

Well, it's pretty obvious that I was never gonna be the kind of A-Gay that gets either Joe or his readers all wet in the drawers anyway - the only porn star I look like is Ron Jeremy - so it was no big loss to me; I'm of better use to Joe as a foe than a friend anyway, so that's what I'll be. Since his route to fame and fortune is antithetical to me - anathema, even - I'm just waiting for the ideal moment to enjoin that battle.

In the meantime, it wasn't a total loss; out of that experience I seem to have gotten a new reader, who goes by the name Richey Rich there, and who publishes a blog out of the Los Angeles area called Bear Schmear!. Recently - ie: today - I was in another of my funks, P'd-O about some imagined slight or other*** (I am notoriously thin-skinned for such a mouthy bitch) when what should I find over there, under the delicious title Brain Candy****, but a lovely glowing tribute!

Talk about making my day! So, in aid of New Media camaraderie, I would do as my friend has done and encourage my readers to check out Bear Schmear!; things have recently been tough for Rich - not only did he unearth some homophobic porn in his parent's house during a recent visit but a good friend of his passed away as well. Since parental bigotry and dead friends are two issues I know something about my heart really went out to him, despite the fact that he's a friend I haven't met yet.

Thanks for the kind words Rich, and know that every good deed will be rewarded - at least if I have anything to say about it.

~ MSM

*Well... Technically I said that Michelle Obama reminded me of Omarosa. But I digress...
**After all, as fun as it is fighting a battle of wits with an unarmed opponent at first, after awhile my old compassion kicks in, and I find myself feeling bad for the guy just wasting his time with an idiot.
***Or maybe it was low blood sugar.
****The same title as The Kids in the Hall's debut movie - one of my all-time faves!

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"I Am Excited" by Charlie McDonnell

Today YouTube personality Charlie McDonnell turns eighteen, which means today I can begin perving on him in a legal manner; his Youtube channel charlieissocoollike has over 85,000 subscribers and his 88 videos have been viewed more than 2 million times since April 2007. Already, he's been featured on The View; as a result more than 1.5 million people watched his breakthrough video How To Be English.

McDonnell has pledged to shave off all his hair for charity on his 18th birthday, in aid of Cancer Research UK, which ought to blunt the perving a bit for a couple of months, at least until it starts to grow back...
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August Has Been Totally Aug-some!

Due to some bizarre confluence of conditions, August has been the most productive and popular month in the history of this blog; whether one measures our growth since our inauguration (as the Pandora Institute, on January 26th, 2006), rebranding as the Pop Culture Institute on December 25th, 2006, or the date we hit our stride, August 5th, 2007*, in terms of hits and page views August 2008 was the shit. Only two months last year - September and October - saw more posts as well, and given how many I've been republishing, I suspect things are only going to get better between now and the end of the year. Provided, that is, I can stay off the sweet weed - which, with an incentive like this, won't be a problem.

As anyone who reads USA Today knows, bar graphs don't lie; the one above confirms that in the past 31 days the 180 posts I've put up (including this one, officially my 2,680th post) garnered 1,768 page hits and 2,241 page views. My current averages are: 64 page hits and 95 page views a day and rising (not including visits from the two computers from which I regularly post, natch!); while this translates into about twenty readers a day, those who do read appear to be coming back for more. Now, I'm no statistician, but that all seems pretty rockin'.

Well, that's enough blather; I've got a new record to break!

~ MSM

*Also known as The 1,000th Post.
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Addressing My Critics: Madonna Vs. Mariah

Well, I must say that for all the posts I've published here, and for all the scandalous things I've written, I've been pretty lucky with the negative comments. In fact, I can think of only one other (nearly a year ago now) in the more than two and a half years I've been at this - it originated from Rome, and basically said "you suck you should quit"; I was highly amused by that, as though the opinion of one stranger (possibly the Pope) would convince me to chuck away all the work I've done here. Oh! And there was that one other tense time when I dared to criticize San Francisco mayor Gavin Newsom for having sex with someone else's wife, but that was sent anonymously from a friend with the intention of drumming up a controversy and potentially readership - a manipulative tactic I cannot support in any way, no matter how well meaning it might have been.

I think in both cases I handled things fairly well, by dealing with both of those promptly when they happened within the body of the blog rather than posting them as comments. I choose to do the same with this one; I will continue to reserve the right to douse anyone who flames me in the best way I see fit today as well.

Having published the final Madonna birthday post at 12:30 AM I decided to take myself to bed and try to get some sleep; between the heat wave and my idiot neighbour I quickly gave up on that idea and decided to check my emails one last time. That's when I discovered the following comment, received at 1:35 AM from a stranger named Bojan:

"Nobody can't ever be bigger,better than Mariah.Mariah rules.
Mariah wasn't pushed by her ex-husband.It was MANdonna,whose sales wer calculated to make her slaes records bigger.IT IS CALLED PAYOLA,HONEY.
Even for a 100 years from now,Mariah will always be remebered as a truly talented music GENIOUS,unlike MANdonna who will always be just an average,untalented singer,pseudo acctres and failed movie director.
an MDEIOCRITY KILLS."

Whomever they are, they've covered their tracks well; I've been unable to detect where the hit came from. My last reader was from Mahidol University in Thailand, and by deductive reasoning I can only assume that my offended party a) is not a native English speaker, and b) could benefit from a refresher course in Buddhism in a big way. If, in fact, that's where the comment originated.

Now, even aside from the ghastly spelling and usage, I can pretty much tear this comment apart in my sleep. Since I'm awake, though, it'll not only be easier but way more fun as well.

I accept that, preferences being what they are, there are going to be people who prefer the badly sung screeching of Mariah Carey over Madonna any day; it so happens that my friend Emma Uganecz (a trained opera singer and vocal coach) one day spent the better part of an hour outlining for me in a very calm and rational manner how badly Mariah Carey sings, and how she's damaging her voice singing the way she does. She went into breath, and phrasing, and used highly scientific terms I couldn't even hope to understand; what it all came down to is, the way Mariah passes breath over her vocal chords is damaging to them, the kind of damage that erodes her upper register every time she hits that show-offy dog whistle note of which she is so fond.

Now, as to the rest... I once worked in a record store, so I know how Sony Records used to force us to buy any new Mariah Carey album by the hundred rather than the dozen so as to inflate her sales figures; we always ended up sending back half to three-quarters of them, and returns aren't calculated into sales figures. Three quarters of the Mariah Carey CDs shipped to our location ended up chipped and shipped to China to make Happy Meal toys. Warner Music Group did no such thing with a new Madonna album, which anyway outsold Mariah Carey 2 to 1. I know this because I used to do the monthly inventory counts. As for Bojan's use of the word "payola", that word refers to the bribing of radio stations to play an artist's music, another tactic frequently used by Sony.

Tommy Mottola's links to organized crime are well known, and have been the subject of punditry for years; Sandra Bernhard did a hilarious bit about it in her act for a long time. Despite the fact that when Mariah Carey married him she put herself and her record label into a serious conflict of interest is of the utmost importance, but for the sake of this post it's neither here nor there. No other female artist at Sony (and damn few of the male ones either) got much promotion while Mariah and Tommy ruled that roost, as the majority of the annual promotion budget went to make Mariah Carey look like a far bigger star than she is.

Mariah Carey's music is repetitive and boring; some might call it familiar and soothing. There's a lot more Madonna on the radio stations I listen to than Mariah, and that's even considering that Warner Music Group is no longer promoting Madonna. True, Madonna's acting has not been the greatest, but then again did anyone see Glitter? I didn't think so. Once again, these are preferences, and therefore not for me to judge. I have no issue with Mariah Carey as a person; whenever I've seen her on talk shows she seems sweet enough, and I truly felt for her when she had her meltdown, as the destigmatization of mental health issues is one of the chief aims of the Pop Culture Institute. I only wish Mariah would cut the MOR crap and sing better material, maybe even write a song or two herself, in much the same way I wish Madonna would stop control-freaking her directors long enough to let them wring a decent performance out of her for a change.

Well! Now that I've got that off my chest, maybe I can finally get some sleep...
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The Adventures Of A Lame Duck President: The Prank Call

Poor George W. Bush... Despite a high-profile mini-tour of Asia over the past week (culminating in a visit to the Olympics to pay homage to his new overlords, er, support American troops - ATHLETES! - support American athletes...) he finds himself with more and more time on his hands as his advisers a) abandon the sinking ship of state like the rats they are and/or b) learn to say 'Barack Obama' without clenching their teeth like they used to while partying with George, back in the old days. Under the circumstances, leaving him unattended near an open phone line was not the best idea...

George W. Bush: Heh heh heh... (ring ring) Foreign phone. Sounds funny. (ring ring) Heh heh heh...

Pakistani Telephone Operator: Hello?

W: Uh... Yeah. Is this Islam-is-bad?

O: Yes, this is Islamabad. What number please?

W: So this IS Islam-is-bad?

O: We must have a bad connection. You sound just like that infidel sell-out to the West Salman Rushdie who should die in a hail of bullets when you say that. What number please?

W: Uh, I was just wondering... Is your refrigerator running?

O: No sir it isn't.

W: It isn't?

O: No. Thanks to rolling power cuts, the papadams my wife packed for lunch will go bad. (sigh) I guess another bout with dystentery is the fate Allah has chosen for me.

W: Well then, in that case, do you have Prince Albert in a can?

O: No sir. That is tobacco, a stimulant forbidden by the Koran.

W: I see.

O: We do, however, have Osama in a cave.

W: What? What was that?

O: Only kidding, President George W. Dumbass.

W: Aw, no fair! How did you know it was me?

O: Because you do this every week sir.

W: But I disguised my voice!

O: By impersonating yourself.

W: Dang!

O: Now if you don't mind, I'd like to keep this line clear. We're expecting a call from Kim Jong-Il.

W: Wait! What?

(click, brrrrrrrrr...)

W: Damn crazy Paki... Gets me every time. Heh heh heh...
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See For Yourself: "Mata Hari" (1931)

I was lucky to find this clip on YouTube, of a scene from the film Mata Hari featuring the electric chemistry of Greta Garbo and Ramon Novarro. Yeah... I doubt that even sophisticated CGI techniques could make a Republican believe there's so much as a glimmer of heterosexuality on display here.
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Screened: "Mata Hari" (1931)

As entertainment, Hollywood movies cannot be beat, especially those from the 1930s and 40s; as history, though, Hollywood films from any age are never anything but pure hokum. Ah, but what gorgeous and entertaining hokum they are... A Dutch dancer with a Swedish accent (and an Indonesian name!), a Russian pilot with a Mexican accent, and a German spy with an American accent, all feature in a movie set in Paris (but clearly made in California); typically, the real story, while just as interesting, isn't half as much fun as this exotic tomfoolery.

Despite its unusually high hokum content (even by Hollywood standards) the film was a runaway success when it was released. Humans, it seems, are unable to resist a bit of myth-making, even if it means abrogating the truth; as always, it is one of the stated aims of the Pop Culture Institute to simultaneously exult in and help unmake these myths.

Greta Garbo plays the woman herself*, slinking from lover to lover in a series of increasingly slippery velvet dresses; plagued by his love for her is General Serge Shubin, played by Lionel Barrymore, one of the final romantic roles of his career before he was shipped off to play Andy Hardy's father. Ramon Novarro encloses their love triangle, as Lieutenant Alexis Rosanoff. However, none of Garbo's scenes - especially the love scenes - are in the least erotic. Small wonder; Lionel was the Barrymore least likely to ever enflame anyone's ardor, and mannish as she was - even though she's playing a dancer, she has all the grace of a tractor - Garbo was still too much woman for Novarro, who would have preferred that she hadn't been one at all. Scenes that once made millions swoon now look like... Well, like hokum.

As an aside, the film contains a significant reference to Our Lady of Kazan - last mentioned on this blog as recently as July 8th - who momentarily becomes "the other woman" whom our Russian swain betrays for lust. After their tryst, Garbo relights the eternal flame she'd made him snuff out previously with the sort of anti-Christian insouciance that had not only brought on the Motion Picture Code but subsequently caused it to be enforced.

Also scattered throughout the film are portraits of Tsar Nicholas II, another of our favourites here at the Pop Culture Institute; these would have added an extra layer of meaning, giving a Thirties audience the chills; the movie is set in 1917, the same year as his overthrow, events fresher in the public memory then than now.

So I would definitely recommend this movie to anyone, provided they don't have a report on Mata Hari due in which they will be marked for accuracy.

^{*Today would have been Margaretha Zelle's 132nd birthday.}
*

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What Pride Day Means To Me

Unlike in previous years, when I've wittered on about "community" and "human rights" in this space, today I've decided to discard the pretense and come clean; when it comes to Pride Day, although I enjoy my annual glimpse at oodles of boobies and the opportunity to move among drag queens in the daylight, the only thing I really care about seeing is hot homos. The rest of the year, of course, I am specifically forbidden access to them, and have to make do instead with a potent combination of porno, straight guys, and imagination. Here then are - in my own humble opinion - the ten hottest guys at Vancouver's Pride Day this year (some of whom, I admit, may be straight). ~ MSM


Number Ten: This is J, the Trojan model I voted for to be Mr. Trojan via text message at the fair following the parade. I included him because - hello? can you not see him? - but I decided that, in keeping with my politics, I'd have to put him last - if only because he's obviously spent every day of his life basking in the admiration of others, and missing out on the greater acclaim of a rinky-dink blog like this one won't mean bupkiss to him.



Number Nine: A beefy guy with a baby? How am I supposed to resist that? I'm ostensibly only human, after all. Not even the fact that he's overtly Christian is a turnoff - that's some powerful cute there.



Number Eight: As usual, the police were at the parade, trying to trick convince gays into joining the police force, where they will then be given the most dangerous assignments and denied backup; this is a game (also played by security guards) called "Smear The Queer" popularized by the LAPD in the 1980s with Mitchell Grobeson. My only hope is that, despite being given bait like this, gay men resist joining the police force en masse; or, if they do fall for the bullshit line that the police care whether gay men live or die, may I suggest turning the tables and playing a similar game entitled "Get The Het". I trust you boys will be able to figure out how to play...



Number Seven: I make no apologies for appreciating the male body as it's supposed to look, before sedentary jobs and additive-laden foods render it a shapeless, weakened mass not unlike my own. I occasionally find myself wondering what my life would have been like if I'd been born attractive - more like daydreaming, really - but in recent years don't have the energy to waste on envy, preferring simple admiration instead.



Number Six: Even in a shirt, this is clearly a tidy little bundle of cuteness; I included him despite an abundance of same simply because of his haircut, which rendered him a) the dead spit of the guys I used to crush on in high school, and b) the farthest thing from a twink clone I saw all day, which probably means he's straight. Still...



Number Five: Gifted cartoonist and quintessential artist John Crossen has long been one of my favourite people, an assessment just about everybody he's ever met will share with me. Only it's not just his mind I admire; in person he puts one in mind of an even humpier, even funnier Dan Butler. It was great running into him following the parade, and smoking a J in the shade of a tree with English Bay on one side and about 50,000 of Vancouver's finest people on the other.



Number Four: This year's living Parade Marshall (his co-marshal was the late author Jane Rule) was Sahran Abeysundara, a spicy treat from Sri Lanka, who made an impassioned plea to the assembled throng on behalf of gays on the Subcontinent, who live with far less freedom than do their counterparts in the West.



Number Three: Being painted saffron gives this fuzzy little morsel an exotic flavour, visually at least.



Number Two: Vancouver's next mayor is going to be Gregor Robertson, a charismatic entrepreneur and former MLA whose advocacy on behalf of affordable rental housing for the city's working poor has gotten him plenty of press, not to mention earning him nearly as much respect from the Pop Culture Institute as his matinee idol looks and lean frame. Given the ease with which he rollerbladed the entire route, pressing the flesh the entire time, running for mayor should prove a dawdle by comparison.



Number One: Much as I expected, despite the masses of flesh and beautiful faces on display, by far the hottest guy at Vancouver's Pride Day this year (as much for his flesh and his face as his fire) was human rights worker and Facebook heart-throb Luke LaRue, whose radiant soul is on constant display thanks to an ever-present smile. So much so, in fact, that even though this photo was taken at the same f-stop as the others, it still seems over-exposed, and thus I had to struggle to render an image from it, not least of all because my glasses kept fogging up.
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RIP Tim McLean

Just when I thought it wasn't possible to shock me anymore comes the news from Manitoba that Vince Weiguang Li stabbed fellow Greyhound bus passenger Tim McLean dozens of times with a hunting knife; while the rest of the passengers fled the bus in terror, the assailant then proceeded to gut and decapitate the 22 year-old carny, before calmly displaying the grisly trophy of his victim's head to those waiting outside.

Thanks to the quick thinking of the bus driver and several of the passengers, they were able to keep the attacker imprisoned in the bus until they were able to flag down a passing truck and call for help. Li was later arrested and taken into custody in Brandon.

So while Tim McLean's life has been ended, his story is far from over. Already a battle is brewing over at Wikipedia over the validity of the page created for him there, which battle I have already enjoined.

May the Pop Culture Institute suggest you join the Facebook group that's been set up in his memory; the link to it is behind the photo.
*
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"Sunday Afternoon" by Jon Lajoie

I've been meaning to post this for some time now, but ever since I took that ten days I took off at the beginning of June I've been madly playing catch up and I never got around to it. Well, as of right now I'm officially caught up, and since it also happens to be a Sunday afternoon as well, I figured Why the heck not?

The video is the work of bonafide Internet phenom Jon Lajoie, who hails from Montreal; his YouTube channel has been a go-to destination of mine ever since my friend and muse Leanne Padgett first told me about him. Lajoie seems poised to make it big, so unless you're like me and one of his rabid fans already, someday you'll be able to say you saw him here first.

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"Cuban Pete" by Ricky Ricardo and His Orchestra

I have no reason for publishing this video today except that it's time to post a video and this one fairly leapt off today's playlist and into my lap; like I need a reason to publish a clip from I Love Lucy, anyway.

The song was first featured in the 1946 film of the same name, which starred Desi Arnaz; it appeared on the show in its first season, as part of an episode entitled The Diet in October 1951, and features the abundant talents of the inimitable Lucille Ball.
*
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Shoes!

[I sent Seumas this once when I knew he was having a bad day. On my recent bad day, he sent it back. I could watch it again and again.]
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"American Idiot" by Green Day

I realize that Green Day's massive hit single American Idiot was especially written for the truly delightful George W. Bush, but it seems appropriate somehow to dedicate it today to the recently deceased Jesse Helms.

The song is the title track of the band's 2004 album American Idiot; at the time it first appeared it was the strongest condemnation of the Bush Administration in the allegedly left-wing media*, which was then sleepwalking through White House press conferences, neglecting its duty to ask the hard questions with regards to the whereabouts of weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, flagrant human rights violations at home and abroad, and generally displaying an attitude of collusion towards this tyrant.

And yet, like most good art, it's entirely relatable to the man of the hour as well, who did his country the greatest honour he could have by dying on the Fourth of July; indeed, from now on the term "Independence Day" will have a slightly different ring to it thanks to the one and only good thing Jesse Helms ever did.

*"Left-wing media"... Hah!
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Happy Birthday America!

America's foremost perennial bigot - at least since the death of his girlfriend Jerry Falwell last year - Jesse Helms has died at the age of 86; although, given the political views and voting record of this dinosaur his wasn't so much a death as an extinction.

As we speak, event planners in Hell are planning the biggest event in the history of Hell, namely this creep's homecoming. Needless to say, it's all going smoothly, as there are almost as many event planners in Hell as there are lawyers. If you don't believe me you can ask any cater waiter to confirm this very fact.

It surprised me to learn (in the course of my research for this piece) that Helms was born in 1921, at the height of what is now called the Progressive Era; I only found it surprising because many of his ideas were born in 1821, in what we at the Pop Culture Institute like to refer to as "the bad old days".

Anyways, here's hoping that karma is not only a bitch but on a heavy period during a chocolate shortage today.
*
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My Vancouver Decade: In The Beginning...

It was on this day in 1998 that I moved back to Vancouver, where I have lived now for the past ten years; I say moved back because I'd lived here twice before. The first time was for six months between May and November 1990 when I arrived here from Ottawa with my then-boyfriend Morgin; the second time I shared a house with my friend James Gill, his boyfriend, and their friend Katherine during the months of November and December in 1991, following my graduation from hairdressing school. In both cases the city seemed to take no time in overpowering me, and in short order I felt I had no choice but to leave. Still, during the almost seven years between my second residence and my third I never felt like I belonged where I was; wherever I was I always felt like an exile from Vancouver, even as far away as Halifax, where I lived for most of 1992.

Recently - at least over the past four or five years - I've been feeling Vancouver beginning to overpower me yet again. Despite many years of a booming economy, like many working class people I have benefited from that boom only minimally; once again I am feeling pushed out by circumstances beyond my control, namely hordes of greedy yuppies, with their relentless pest-like gobbling up of available rental properties to build condos, not to mention the inflationary aura that clings to them like stink clings to shit. Then again, that might just be a cop out; the point is, I need to find out for myself if I am being crowded out or if I am edging myself out.

Probably the reason I've stuck it out so long this time around (apart from the inability to afford a move) is that I really have nowhere else to go; before when I left I could always return to my grandparents' house, and with their financial assistance as well. They're both dead now, and so I guess I have no choice but to make a go of it on my own. It's been a very maturing experience, in the same way meat is matured in a smokehouse; whatever tenderness I might have once had has been toughened out of me thanks to living in a city which seems to grow less friendly by the day. Yet in the city (as in myself) I will occasionally catch a glimpse of the way things used to be, or else some sparkling mirage of what could be, and that glimpse alone is enough to sustain me until the next one, even if months pass before it comes.

* * *

I originally moved here with my partner Dirk following the death of my grandmother; her presence was the only thing keeping me in Kelowna, and her sudden absence not only freed me to leave but also freed up a thousand dollars, which pretty much made our move here possible. Despite the high hopes I had for the life I would have here, I was at the lowest ebb of my life on that day as I drove Dirk's car over the Coquihalla Summit, ironically the highest point of land between my old life and my new one. Had I known how much further down I had to go before truly bottoming out, I'm sure I never would have made that initial descent by car.

My poor cat Boo - unaccustomed to both elevations and car travel - screamed away in the carrier on the seat next to me through the entire trip, almost from the moment we pulled away from our old building; unable to stop to give her more Gravol (thanks entirely to Dirk's macho posturing, insisting that we set some kind of land speed record in our journey) I was forced to endure her ceaseless howling, each yowl of her pain cutting me like a shard of glass in my heart. Given the nervous driver I am anyway, I was pretty well frazzled from the outset, with hours still to go before our arrival. Fortunately I made a travel tape, and I sang just about the whole way there - more than five hours in all, till my throat was raw.

Upon our arrival we moved into an apartment on Burnaby Street in the city's West End, a leafy enclave known for its large gay male population; after a couple of days' respite to become acclimated I set about trying to find myself something of a life. To say this wasn't easy is an understatement of a kind that's impossible to quantify, since I am not naturally given to them, and therefore have no frame of reference. Dirk already had a job, and so it became my job to get a job of my own. In addition to having prospective employers turn me down in droves, I was similarly thwarted in my attempts to volunteer.

Despite years of experience on boards of directors in Kelowna - and having spent a good portion of the previous two years organizing Kelowna's first and second Pride Day Festivals, I was refused the opportunity to volunteer by Vancouver Pride Society. I was similarly turned down by the Queer Film Festival, BC Bears, and a gay theatre company, all despite my eminent suitability in each instance. The irony is that so many queers move to the big city to become more fully involved in gay life, while I became more withdrawn from it as a result of this mass rejection. A decade later, I now participate in the gay life of the city as little as possible; while that has been a broadening experience, it has also been isolating, especially during those times when my acute cravings for affection have threatened to become chronic.

* * *

Over the past few months, I decided to take it upon myself to use my eleventh year in Vancouver to try and rediscover what it is I once loved about the place, and what (if anything) I may come to love about it once again; in short, I've decided to wipe the slate clean and give the city another try. In doing this, I suppose I've decided to give myself another try as well, for in my typically self-loathing way I don't see my failure to fit in as the city's fault but my own. I realize this won't be easy as the company I work for, in its decidedly finite wisdom, can't seem to see fit to give me a regular schedule for more than six months at a time. As such, I can't volunteer, join a group, take a class, or do any of those things which might enable me to better my own situation, at least not reliably. Still, I figure there's plenty that I can do in and around my ever-changing schedule, and so I'll try to do those things instead.

Fortunately I have this blog, and so in amongst the glib and bitchy scratchings I manage to leave here, over the next year I hope to add reminiscences, photographs, and maybe (if I'm lucky) even insights into the pull this peculiar piece of urban landscape seems to have over me. I initially considered putting it all into another blog, as this project would seem to be entirely off topic for the Pop Culture Institute; then again, so much of this blog has arisen out of my experiences here, making this particular feature pretty much function as a creation myth for the monster I've created. At least, that's what I keep telling myself.

With any luck, I may even get a book out of it!

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Marian Anderson Lets Freedom Ring At The Lincoln Memorial

Even though the famed 1939 appearance of contralto Marian Anderson on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial took place on Easter Sunday - April 9th - I decided to post this clip of her performance here not to commemorate that event, but to show what the memorial stands for.

While most of the Presidential monuments - those to Washington, Jefferson, and Lincoln - hearken back to classical times, they represent very modern ideals. Washington's obelisk suggests a singularity of purpose (in this case, that of the man himself) without which the Revolution that forged the nation might never have succeeded; Jefferson's pantheon suggests inclusion as befits the author of the phrase "all men are created equal", while Lincoln's Grecian temple (like the man himself) represents the very pillars upon which democracy rests, namely that of people standing together in support of a common goal.
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Happy Half-Birthday To Me

Today is six months since my last birthday and therefore six months to my next one, the exact middle of my personal year. In the same way the weather and the seasons on these two days are mirror images of each other, so are the birthday and the half-birthday mirror images of each other.

Instead of having a party I spent the day alone, in silent reflection. Instead of opening actual presents from people I took note of the gifts I received from the universe, and gave thanks for them. Instead of gobbling down cake and ice cream I reminded myself of the sweets life already contains.

Most importantly, I took the time to think about where I am, where I want to be, and how I might go about bridging the gap between the two. The older I get the more I am reminded, not just about the shortness of life, but the quickness of it as well; waiting for the life I want to come to me simply isn't efficient, and so it's time to go out and get the life I want. Only by following my bliss will I be able to encourage my bliss to begin following me.
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The Old Poll Is Dead; Long Live The New Poll!

An amazing 60 people voted on the old poll, concerning which century is your favourite, and what a modern bunch you are, too. The overwhelming winner, with 23 votes, was the 20th Century.

Check out the new poll in the sidebar, and try to take it in the jovial spirit in which it's intended, please.
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A Compromise?

Owing to the immense popularity of the Pop Culture Institute amongst those few who do read it, for the time being I will continue to publish POPnews - and those posts I can repost without extensive rewriting - until such time as I can justify returning full-time and/or my up in the air employment situation has settled back into some kind of regularity.

Thank you in advance for once again coping with my galloping neurosis.

~ MSM
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A Sad Day

It is with a heavy heart and an acute sense of my own shortcomings that I come to you today to announce the closure of the Pop Culture Institute.

Having spent many hours daily on research and the creation of content over the past 18 months, it's clear to me that after nearly 2500 posts I have failed to connect with the public in any meaningful way; not only that, where I once had maybe 8-10 regular readers, in recent weeks my numbers have dwindled to 2 or 3. I routinely go a week now without a single comment; whereas my original purpose in starting this blog was in the creation of a dialogue, I seem to have created a monologue instead - or an endless droning lecture more like. Clearly my famously lovely personality has once again gotten in the way of my success.

I suppose I could have continued writing it for myself, but the fact of the matter is that even I am no longer interested in it - I've a feeling that the endless hours I've spent crouching over a computer would have been better spent doing almost anything else - and maybe it's that quality that has crept into the work, and turned off my readers. At heart, of course, I am a deeply needy person; my desire for validation makes me weak, I know. I also know that I am the only person in the world with such a need, in much the same way that I am the only person who has ever expressed bitterness or anger or sarcasm. I know this because of the number of times I am accused of such things, by people who would never dream of accusing anyone else of them, and have certainly never been guilty of such things themselves.

I will be leaving it up for an unspecified period of time as I cut and paste those posts I feel like keeping into some kind of archival document. In doing so, I am mindful of the praise and support I have received over the months, even if I have often had to fish for the compliments I've gotten. Given the bait I'm using, I should be grateful to have gotten what I have, I guess.

The greatest human failing is the assumption that everyone else is like you - that your interests are shared by everyone, that your motivations are universal, and that your prejudices are perfectly natural. Clearly, that is where I have gone wrong here. I thought (erroneously, as it turns out) that my zeal for things historical would infect all those who came into contact with this blog. In this I was wrong, and for that I apologize; to those of you momentarily touched or even moved by something I may have written, I thank you.

Being a writer, of course, I can't altogether give up writing, even though the failure of this enterprise (and my failure at it) has only served to confirm what I have already known- namely that my lack of formal education has doomed me to always be a writer, as opposed to a Writer. No doubt there will be other blogs, and in them perhaps even the elusive formula for success I have been chasing for what seems like my whole life. I may try fiction, or photography, or a subject matter which is more specific - maybe in them I will finally achieve the connection of souls which every artist (even a poor one such as me) seeks.

UPDATE: So, you may have guessed by now that not only have I not closed the Pop Culture Institute, but it's even more alive now than ever. The only reason I haven't taken this post down is a) I'm proud of the writing, even if it is a bit* on the self-pitying side, and b) I agree with every one of its sentiments.

When I initially undertook this endeavour I knew it wouldn't be easy; I knew it might be years before I found my audience (if ever) and that those who did find it would do so in a piecemeal fashion, thanks largely to the efforts of search engines. I also knew going in - as how could I not - that I am emotional and moody (a deadly combination), and that among the blog's many posts would appear works which are as deadly peevish as they are peevish in their deadliness. In this, at least, I have not disappointed.

Many thanks are due today to the ministrations of Mr. Gagne, whose management of me in the years that I've known him has skillfully alternated between feather light and hammer blunt; the most amazing thing is how he always knows which method to use when, with his method's remarkable efficacy running a close second. Though all that you see here has been due to my hard work and sacrifice, the fact that it's still here is due entirely to his steadying influence.

*Okay, a lot...
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In Theatres Now: "Baby Mama"

Michael McCullers wrote and directed Baby Mama, an unusual girl-on-girl buddy comedy, starring two of my favourite ladies - Tina Fey and Amy Poehler; although reviews have been typically sniffy, the consensus is that this is a likable (if predictable) romp through the minefield that is expectant motherhood in this day and age.

It's on my list of movies to see, but given my track record in this regard I'm sure I'll enjoy the DVD even more once it's released.
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When Is A Royal Wedding Not A Royal Wedding?

When technically speaking neither the bride or the groom is royal, yet the groom is the oldest grandson of The Queen, the ceremony in question is held at St George's Chapel - within the historic walls of Windsor Castle - and is attended by senior members of the royal family, that's when!

Not that the wedding of Peter Phillips to Canadian Autumn Kelly didn't have all the trappings of a royal wedding including - as has been alluded - a star-studded guest list*, a dowry of £500,000 courteously provided by Hello! magazine, and even a media-generated scandal designed to compete with the persistent drizzle of the day. The service was conducted by David Conner, the Dean of Windsor, the gown was by designed by Sassi Holford, and among the six bridesmaids (elegantly kitted out in mint green) was the groom's sister Zara Phillips.

Owing to the pictures row and various other tensions within the royal family, the day proved just how the personal can be political; even when the persons involved are supposed to be above partisan politics, their personal politics often can't help but interfering. To this end, many senior royals bypassed the official photo shoot and pointedly posed for the national press assembled at the gates of the castle instead, an action seen by many as intended to bring the once publicity-shy but suddenly publicity-hungry Phillipses into line. One bright spot, though, had Prince Harry formally presenting his girlfriend Chelsy Davy to the Queen for the first time, an important first step in her quest to become a royal bride.

Following their wedding the happy couple will be honeymooning in undisclosed tropical climes; upon their return to Britain they will continue to reside in their home on the grounds of Gatcombe Park where he grew up, try to return to their private life and careers in the private sector, and begin working on the Queen's first great-grandchild.

Behind the photo find the full story, lavishly illustrated, courtesy of the Daily Mail.

*Including (in no particular order) among those already mentioned, the Duke of Edinburgh, The Prince of Wales, the Duchess of Cornwall, The Princess Royal, The Duke of York, The Earl and Countess of Wessex, the Duke and Duchess of Gloucester, the Duke of Kent, Princesses Beatrice and Eugenie, Lady Louise Windsor, Sir Michael Parkinson (the bride's boss), Sir Jackie Stewart, and Mike Tindall; notable for their absences were Prince William - although his girlfriend Kate Middleton was there representing him he was attending a different wedding, in Kenya, with his ex-girlfriend Jecca Craig instead - and the Duchess of Kent, whose recent conversion to Roman Catholicism probably meant she boycotted due to the bride's recent conversion to the Church of England (which is vastly different - NOT!). Also, although the groom's father Mark Phillips was in attendance - his ceremonial sword was used to cut the cake, in fact - I could find no mention of the groom's step-father Timothy Laurence being there, although I suppose he could have been but no one bothered to notice.
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