Next whistle stop on my virtual book tour (are you still on the train?) is Liz Cameron’s blog, Slowly-by-Slowly. Liz writes with depth and poetry about her cross-cultural life as an American married to a Turk through the eyes of a troupe of Ottoman era Karagöz shadow puppets. She’s not insane. It’s a metaphor, silly. Of greatest interest to me, though, is that Liz lives in Provincetown, a pretty little New England seaside resort which is a summer mecca for gay visitors – a kind of American Brighton. Yes, I am that shallow. My invite to ogle the shocking males must be lost in the post. The shocking mail in Turkey is to blame, no doubt.
Hop over to Slowly-by-Slowly to catch the book review and to hang out with M’Lady and the crazy marionettes.
I was really pleased when Istanbul Stranger asked me to guest on her blog as part of my virtual book tour. She’s deliciously witty, calls a spade a spade and her sharp observations about her life in Old Constantinople are a joy to read. She’s American but I think her writing style has a distinctive ironic British twist. Maybe she was a Brit in a former life. I’m there to plug my book but, as this isn’t Oprah’s Book Club, I thought I’d regale you with tales of my first visit to the good old US of A.
I’d like to introduce American Expat returnee, Charles Ayres. Charles is funny and talented, and quite famous in his own lunchtime. He’s written for Harper’s Bazaar and Metropolis, handled the international PR for Tokyo FM’s annual Earth Day concert and popped up the big and small screen, most notably on the Japanese TV show “It’s OK to Laugh” (Waratte ii Tomo) and film “The Billion Yen Jackpot!” (Juoku-en Kasegu!)
Charles lived in the Land of the Rising Sun for 12 years and left after the 2011 earthquake. After experiencing the Big One, he moved to San Francisco to wait for the next Big One. He’s released his autobiography, Impossibly Glamorous, “The rudest book you’ll ever love,” detailing his life growing up as a raver in the American Midwest and taking over New York and Japan.
Charles has been a great supporter of Perking the Pansies, virtually from the beginning, and jumped in to help with promoting the book. He was one of the first to review Perking the Pansies
I first stumbled across Jared a while ago. I can’t remember how. It was one of those chance meetings. I was immediately drawn to his writing – witty, eloquent, reflective, sometimes broody, sometimes ironic, always interesting, always honest. Two recurrent themes seem to re-surface – his relationship and love for his children and his relationship and love for his late father. These touching refrains are both intertwined and separate at the same time. It’s a fascinating and compelling paradox. You won’t be surprised to hear, therefore, that I’m delighted to be featured as a guest blogger on lick the fridge.
Happy New Year to pansy fans one and all from a stormy, rain-sodden Bodrum. In the best tradition of the New Year and all those cheap-to-make review and top ten TV compilations I give you:
Perking the Pansies Top Ten 2011
An eclectic mix of the mad, the glad, the sad and the bad, the old, the bold, the sold and the gold. It’s interesting how few of these posts are actually related to expats directly. The list represents around 20% of all hits to Perking the Pansies (out of about 500 posts). Fancy that.
Gay marriage is a hot topic across the pond, particularly since the State of New York legalised it in July. The noisy vitriol from the opponents is depressingly predictable. In the end, I hope reason will triumph over ignorance. Meanwhile, over in Blighty, Stonewall recently awarded Melanie Phillips the Bigot of the Year Award. It’s much deserved. Ms Phillips is a columnist for the Daily Mail (no surprises there) and has written extensively on LGBT rights (they shouldn’t have any), Civil Unions (What next, getting hitched to your budgie?) Gay Marriage (God says no). Perhaps her most ludicrous assertion is:
“Mad as this may seem [you said it!], school children are to be bombarded with homosexual references… In science, they will be directed to animal species such as emperor penguins and sea horses, where the male takes a lead role in raising its young.”
So, let me get this right. All fathers who bring up their children are gay? Does Ms Phillips drink?
In the final analysis, nothing I can say will make much of a difference but this video just might:
Google sits astride the internet like a leviathan. Forget Yahoo or Bing or a host of smaller search engines, only Google counts. Their search algorithms can make or break an online presence. If you don’t show up in the first few pages of Google, you may as well not be on the internet at all. It’s all about search engine optimisation (SEO) and ways to make it better. There’s an entire industry dedicated to improving it (or trying to cheat the clever geeks at Google). How’s a humble little jobbing blogger in a faraway country most people couldn’t place on a map ever going to make his mark? Well, Perking the Pansies does well. Google favours fresh, frequently renewed content and my content is frequently renewed, if not fresh. Sorted.
1923 -2008
Little Jack Scott, though, struggles. The name is a curse. It’s eclipsed by other more illustrious Jacks plastered all over the web. Who are these pretenders to my rightful throne? Well, there’s Jack Scott, (AKA Giovanni Dominico Scafone Jr) the Canadian singer ‘undeniably the greatest Canadian rock and roll singer of all time,’ apparently. I’d never heard of him. Sorry. Then there’s the late Jack Scott, buck-teethed weather man who died in 2008. He was everyone’s favourite weather guru and brought magnetic weather symbols to live broadcasts on the BBC. Unfortunately, they often slipped down the board or dropped off altogether. My final Jack is the now infamous Mayor of the little town of Cordova in Alabama which was flattened by killer tornadoes earlier this year. Mayor Scott refused to allow trailers into the town to house the newly homeless because he didn’t want to encourage trailer trash. Sounds like a fine and upstanding pillar of the community.
So, what’s a diminutive, washed-up ex pretty boy with his best years behind him to do? Change his name to Dick Stillhard (no wait, that’s already taken).
Thanks to Spainstruck for the inspiration for this one.
I recently received the first edits back for the book. I downloaded the file with nervous anticipation, expecting it to be mauled with angry red lines and a must do better report at the end. I was pleasantly surprised to find the text relatively intact. My editor is a talented young man from across the pond called Kilian Kröll. Kilian’s day job is treading the boards as an eminent life coach. He’s also a superb writer and is moonlighting as editor at the request of my publisher, Jo Parfitt. Jo gave him the specific remit to check the text for British idioms and cultural references that might fly over the heads of our Yankee cousins. Kilian is well-qualified for the job and is doing sterling work – meticulous and professional. His interventions have been smart, literate and illuminating. Striking the right balance between keeping the essentially British feel of Perking the Pansies and appealing to the greatest possible audience is going to be tough. Cor blimey, mate.
With Liam back in Blighty, I’m making do. Our Turkish neighbour, Bubbly Beril, knocked on the door and shoved a DVD in my hands.
Based loosely on a true story, Under the Tuscan Sun is the tale of an American woman whose marriage collapses around her. She emerges from deep despair and paralysing sense of failure by making a new life in Tuscany, all by chance. It’s a sentimental, sugar coated yarn of love lost and a life regained. Boo to the nasty man who dumped her and hurrah for the cast of colourful characters who pick her up, dust her down and help her start all over again. I cried like a child.
Of course, life isn’t really like a movie. Not everyone’s that nice. The female flotsam washing up on our shores seeking comfort in the arms of a Turk are mostly onto a hiding to nothing. It can work but the odds are stacked against it. For me, the most significant part of the film was that the Yankee expat first arrived in Italy on a Tuscan gay tour. Beril had picked up the subplot. She was saying, ‘I know and I don’t mind.’
According to loopy pastor Mark Driscoll, masturbation by men* is a homosexual act. (What, even when leering at a well-thumbed mucky girlie mag?) However, Mad Mark says it’s not a touch of lavender if there’s a woman in the room (even if she’s minding her own business and busy knitting in the corner, presumably). Mr Driscoll looks the very image of a modern Millie and I rather admire the precision of his immaculately pressed collar.
As I was reading his wacky words, memories of my misspent youth came flooding back. The teacher that taught RE (or Divinity as we called the subject at my traditional grammar school) told us emphatically that masturbation made you go blind. You can imagine the reaction from the post-pubescent boys. It nearly caused a mini riot. Despite the disbelieving groans from the self-abusing spotty adolescents, he was utterly unbending in his belief and warned us of the dire consequences of a quick furtive fumble under the sheets. If my fast fading memory serves me right, it was the only sex education I received at school. Mind you, since my glasses resemble jam jar bottoms, he may well have had a point.
* Mad Mark doesn’t seem to have anything to say about female masturbation. Presumably he thinks women are just non-sexual receptacles for male lust and so wouldn’t do that sort of thing. I’m thinking of popping a Sex in the City DVD in the post to enlighten him.
Next whistle stop on my virtual book tour (are you still on the train?) is Liz Cameron’s blog, Slowly-by-Slowly. Liz writes with depth and poetry about her cross-cultural life as an American married to a Turk through the eyes of a troupe of Ottoman era Karagöz shadow puppets. She’s not insane. It’s a metaphor, silly. Of greatest interest to me, though, is that Liz lives in Provincetown, a pretty little New England seaside resort which is a summer mecca for gay visitors – a kind of American Brighton. Yes, I am that shallow. My invite to ogle the shocking males must be lost in the post. The shocking mail in Turkey is to blame, no doubt.
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Perking the Pansies 