Ob la di, Ob la da

Is Rich Rodriguez's decision to abandon West Virginia for Michigan the most devastating betrayal in college football history? I think it is. Rodriguez, a native son, essentially dropped a nuclear bomb on his alma mater, shattering both a Top 10 program and the psyche of an entire state.

An exaggeration?

Unless you have ties to West Virginia -- my dad was born and raised there, and I'm a WVU grad -- it's hard to explain how much the Mountaineers' rise to national prominence meant to the state. Yes, major-college football is hypocritical, corrupting and even absurd. But it also unifies like no other sport. Go to any town or holler in West Virginia, and I'll bet you'll find people wearing blue-and-gold. 

Big deal, you say? Every college has fans, often equally as passionate. True, but the difference is that Longhorn fans or Buckeye fans or Hokie fans or Nittany Lions fans or 99 percent of the world's fans live in places where they are inherently respected, where simply saying the name of their state doesn't prompt sneers or snickers.

West Virginia -- the state -- has always been the nation's stepchild, lacking in pedigree and respect. Out-of-state companies stripped it of its coal and timber for decades, leaving behind denuded hillsides and sludge-filled rivers. Today, West Virginia's people are portrayed as hicks, hillbillies or rednecks. Demographically, nobody wants the place -- its poor (50th in the nation in median household income), under-educated (50th in the nation in the percentage of college graduates) and old (3rd in the nation in the percentage of senior citizens). Worse yet, most of its people speak with country or mountain accents, no doubt provoking jokes -- ironically enough -- in places like Boston and Brooklyn.

Statistics, of course, never reveal the whole picture. Years ago, the federal government declared Pendleton County -- near where I live in Harrisonburg, Va. -- a poverty area. It came as news to the folks there. They felt no more poverty-stricken than Bill Gates. Yes, their incomes were low, but their back yards were groaning with garden-fresh vegetables and their housing costs were minuscule.

Is West Virginia sophisticated? No. But neither was much of America when America became a great nation. West Virginians are salt-of-the-earth people, friendly, helpful and country-smart. They also know what the rest of the nation thinks about them. That's why the WVU football team's ascension meant so much. For once, West Virginia had produced something that not only equaled the best in the nation, but something that was cutting-edge. You watched the Mountaineers and you saw the future of college football. And they looked damn sharp, to boot. WVU was actually become trendy.

For people who are used to being made fun of, who crave the respect of their countrymen, WVU's football team was an in-your-face retort to their critics. 

"Pride" is such a cliche, but it fits this situation perfectly. Check out youtube videos of Mountaineer fans singing "Country Roads" en masse after every home football game or at the Sugar Bowl two years ago. It'll put a lump in your throat.

Which brings us back to Rich Rodriguez. By bolting West Virginia for Michigan, Rodriguez gave currency to the people who patted WVU on the head and said "nice little program -- but don't think you're more than you are." Here's what CBSsportsline.com columnist Dennis Dodd wrote after Rodriguez left: "West Virginia is still West Virginia, an amazingly overachieving program tucked away in the Allegheny Mountains. A charming little program that channels the coal industry in that both work damn hard to produce something good for the state." 

That's light years from the rhetoric columnists and broadcasters were spouting three weeks ago when WVU was about to play for the national championship. Such has been the regression in image for the program because a home-grown coach decided the Mountaineers weren't good enough for him.

And that's what hurts West Virginians about this whole affair. It's not like when John Beilein left for Michigan after five seasons as basketball coach. Nobody expected him to stay at WVU; he wasn't a native. But Rodriguez was born and raised 20 minutes from Morgantown, he played football at WVU, he married a West Virginia cheerleader. A year ago, he promised to be at WVU "a long, long time" after turning down Alabama. To keep him from leaving for the Crimson Tide, the university gave him a 70 percent pay raise (he became the 17th highest-paid coach in college football at age 43 after just six seasons as a Division I coach), bumped his assistants' salaries, built an academic center and began work on new locker rooms. There was no doubt among fans that his love for West Virginia was as great as theirs and that he would remain at WVU for years.

Then came the loss to Pitt, setting in motion a chain of events that led to Rodriguez's betrayal -- or, from another viewpoint, career move. 

Looking at it objectively, Michigan is Michigan. Next to Notre Dame, it might be the most spine-tingling job in college football. Even though WVU has a better chance of winning a national championship in the next couple of years than the Wolverines, even though Rodriguez made more money at West Virginia than Lloyd Carr did at Michigan, even though the old royalty is being shoved aside by the nouveau riche. Also, there's the kid-in-the-candy-store factor: Rodriguez had to be intrigued by how his dynamite offense would work with world-class recruits at every position rather than world-class recruits at only a few positions.

And let's not forget WVU's reactionary administration. Rather than being pro-active and giving coaches lucrative new contracts on its own after mega-successful seasons -- like Beilein's NCAA runs and Rodriguez's No. 1 ranking this year -- West Virginia waits until richer schools swoop in with offers. That's no way to make a coach feel loved. On the other hand, WVU isn't in the Big Ten or SEC, meaning it isn't wealthy. Fiscally, I'm sure it does the right thing. But in this case, nobody was more valuable to the state's morale than Rodriguez. Even if it meant boosting the taxpayer portion of his salary significantly, I think West Virginia should have made him a $3 million coach on Dec. 2, the day after the Pitt loss. (And, yes, I know how corrupting that is to the university, but if you're going to play with the big boys, you have to act like a big boy.) 

There is a chance, of course, that WVU could land on its feet. Rodriguez was a brilliant coach, but so perhaps is a Jimbo Fisher. And, regardless of who gets the job, the Mountaineers will be a national-title contender again next year, which might generate enough fairy dust to keep the program humming. More likely, I think, a program that was poised to be a perennial Top 10 occupant will sink back into the pack after the next couple of seasons.

Regardless, West Virginians won't forgive Rodriguez. If there's one thing people in the Mountain State know, it's a blood feud. And this is one.

Please, dear God, don't let me wet the bed again. Please, dear God, don't let me be soft. Please, dear God, don't set me be gay.

If you think you've seen all the coming-of-age films you need to see, you're wrong -- unless you've already watched "C.R.A.Z.Y.," a twist-your-heart-until-it-bleeds French-language flick that floored critics with its passion and wisdom.

Set in Quebec from 1960-1981, "C.R.A.Z.Y." injects you into the membrane of a tight working-class family whose five sons include a drug addict with a temper, an egghead, a jock and a fattie. But the movie revolves around Zac, who spends his adolescence suppressing his homosexuality out of deference to his conservative father. Played with astonishing skill by the stunning Marc-Andre Grondin, Zac represents every kid who has to endure an assault by his parents on his orientation. In this case, Zac -- with a few detours -- finally accepts and embraces his sexuality.

"C.R.A.Z.Y." -- the title is an acronym of the five sons' first names -- doesn't paint black-and-white pictures. Every major character -- except for perhaps the saintly mother -- is complex. The lunch-pail father, for instance, is a sympathetic figure, a loving parent who simply can't cope with the notion of a gay son until tragedy shakes him out of his bigotry.

While the film's theme is a gay coming-of-age story, "C.R.A.Z.Y." also is a powerful tribute to family and spirituality, subplots that will bring you to tears. At the same time, the humor is razor-sharp and the music -- Patsy's Cline's "Crazy" in a recurring theme -- makes the flick wholly entertaining.

Every straight person with a brain should see this film. How good is it? Rottentomatoes.com's analysis of reviews gave it a 100 percent positive rating.

And, finally, from a gay guy's point of view, Marc-Andre Grondin is as close to perfection as human beings come. Watch him lip-sync to David Bowie's "Space Oddity" (you know, "Ground control to Major Tom...") and you'll fall in love instantly.

SIDENOTE: I downloaded "C.R.A.Z.Y." from netflicks and watched it on my computer. The downloadable movie selection is limited, but the platform was satisfactory. It wasn't high-def, but the netflix media player was large enough and sharp enough to make the experience enjoyable.

In perhaps the most priceless quote ever uttered -- well, supposedly uttered -- by a Middle Eastern leader, Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad denied the existence of gays in his nation.

"In Iran we don't have homosexuals like in your country. We don't have that in our country," Ahmadinejad told a hooting Columbia University audience in response to a question about the persecution of gays in Iran. "In Iran we do not have this phenomenon. I do not know who has told you we have it."

As happy as I am to be a phenomenon, I must say I doubt that Ahmadinejad actually said that. Yes, I know, it was on TV. I watched it. But Ahmadinejad was speaking in Farsi, and I'm thinking the translator blew it. My best guess is that he was speaking about the persecution of gays, not the existence of gays. Otherwise, he is indeed a complete dope.

Of course, either way, he was lying. Like many a Muslim nation, Iran treats gays despicably.

The most annoying thing in the world right now? All of the people who are urging us not to drink bottled water. Their reasoning: Bottled water is environmentally unsound because it uses plastic bottles and needs to be transported -- both of which require oil. 

OK, I agree that drinking Fiji water is idiotic. Or Scandinavian water. Unless those sources have special minerals that turn gray hair black or erase wrinkles or add 3 inches to your dick, there's no need to drink them. In fact, I chided one of my writers the other day when I spied his square bottle of Fijian H2O. The oil consumed to ship it to Virginia constituted environmental rape.

But is it so bad to drink Deer Park if you live in Virginia? Or Poland Spring if you live in New York? Both are drawn from sources nearby (usually Pennsylvania and Maryland for the Deer Park sold here in Virginia, and Maine for the Poland Spring sold in NYC). Yes, they're in plastic bottles. The solution, though, is to recyle the plastic, not to discourage people from drinking bottled water. Because, I guarantee you, almost nobody is going to carry around a refillable bottle full of warm tap water. If anything, they'll turn to soft drinks or fake "juices."

So why are the anti-bottled water people annoying? Here's why: I'm guessing many are upper-middle class folks who live in sizeable houses and drive SUVs. That's just a guess. I've done no studies on the matter. And I'm not talking about the activists who spend their lives on these issues. I'm talking about the do-gooders who've taken up the cause. Perhaps they should downgrade to a VW before yapping about water.

(Sparkling waters such as Perrier and San Pellegrino -- which, along with Deer Park and Poland Spring, are owned by Nestle, by the way -- probably are OK to buy, even though they come from Europe. The market for sparkling water, I think, is a fraction of that for flat bottled water, so they're a luxury we can afford envrionmentally.)

I watched two gay coming-of-age films recently -- one American, one Swiss. I liked both, but as you might suspect, the European movie was far more layered, far more thought-provoking than the American one. And, as you might suspect, the American flick was more fun to watch than the Swiss one. 

"Garcon, Stupide" is about a 20-year-old kid who works at a chocolate factory in Bulle, a small town in the French-speaking part of Switzerland. He's an uneducated lad who relies on a slightly older woman to help guide him through life. The director, Lionel Baier, does a nice job of "growing" the kid -- showing how a handful of people enter his life and change him. Baier also touches on issues that all gay guys deal with: obsession, suspicion that everyone you meet wants sex, the desire to be "normal" (in this case, to have a wife and family). 

"Dorian Blues" focuses on a teen-ager's coming out story. It's funny and touching, though sometimes a little too bitchy. The best part is Dorian's relationship with his ultra-loyal, straight, hunky, football-playing brother. It's a nice film about how tough it is for gay people to have relationships -- with everyone from family to friends to lovers.

I keep reading that the "surge" is working -- and not just from the dumb, demented or diabolical. Neocons aside, people like Hillary Clinton (please, Barack, find your voice quickly) also are acknowledging that the injection of more American soldiers in Iraq has pacified parts of that nation.

My reaction: So what?

The salient points remain the same: 1) Was invading Iraq worth -- at last count -- 3,725 American lives and tens of thousands of Iraqi lives? 2) Was it worth weakening the United States both militarily and morally? 3) Was it worth setting the stage for the election of an Islamic government once the Americans slink home? 4) Was it worth -- again, at last count -- nearly half-a-trillion dollars ($454,818,446,792)?

It doesn't surprise me that parts of Iraq are safer because more soldiers are patrolling them. It would surprise me if the end result was any different than I think it's going to be: that the Americans are going to withdraw (claiming victory, but -- in fact -- having been defeated), the Iraqis are going to suffer a period of turmoil (where fewer people die than have perished because of Bush's policies) and that Iraq will have a fundamentalist Islamic government in league with Iran.

Meanwhile, the whole adventure had zilch to do with combating terrorism. Well, almost nothing. As study after study after study has shown, Iraq was not a factor in terrorism before the United States made it one by its invasion and occupation -- thereby playing into the Islamic militants' hands. Read Lawrence Wright's "The Looming Tower" -- this year's Pulitzer Prize winner -- and tell me that Osama bin Laden isn't cackling in his cave at the sight of America bogged down in a war against Muslims. It's exactly what the terrorists want -- and, as luck would have it, a stupid president and his arrogant neo-con advisers accommodated that goal.

So, perhaps the "surge" is succeeding in quelling the violence in parts of Iraq. Unless you're willing to keep American troops there forever, though, it means little.

It took me a long time to figure out 100 percent that I was gay. I mean a l-o-n-g time. But that speaks more to my naivete than anything else, because I certainly had clues. 

For example: As a seventh-grader living at Eglin Air Force Base on northwest Florida's sugary-white Gulf coast, I'd go to youth-league baseball games with my dad -- not because I was remotely interested in the sport, but because the local team had a cute pitcher who always threw himself out of his shirt. Those glimpses of skin -- along with the Pixie Sticks I'd buy at the concession stand -- sustained me for weeks.

Of course, there were other clues in my early teen years. When pink bellies became a fad, I was in absolute heaven. And what budding Baby Boomer queer can forget TV shows like "Flipper," where kids our own age were running around shirtless for 30 minutes. 

Still, I put those feelings on the back-burner. Not only did I have no idea what a "homosexual" was -- though I can still picture the precise moment I asked my parents about the word, which had just come up on a TV show (a rarity in the '60s) -- but I figured I would grow up like everyone else in the official version of Mainstream America and settle down with a wife and children.

Boy, was I stupid.

It began to dawn on me that I was gay -- though, again, that was such a foreign concept in my world that I didn't really understand it -- when I was a junior at Baumholder American High School in Germany. My best friend was a smart, witty, slightly stocky kid named Rich. Never once in the year or two we spent together at BAHS did the words "gay" or "homosexual" cross our lips. But even then, I suppose, my gaydar was finely tuned: I knew he was gay from Day 1. He, on the other hand, apparently was clueless about my orientation. It wasn't until about five years ago that I told him I was gay, too. 

Anyway, I remember us going to bars in Baumholder (there was no true drinking age in Germany at that time) and getting plastered. Weekend after weekend. Once, when I stayed over at his house, we were stumbling home and I pretended to be drunker than I was. The reason? Simple: I wanted him to have to half-carry me home, knowing there was no way he could avoid skin-to-skin contact with me, thanks to a particularly loose shirt. It worked. One of his hands kept me from falling to the sidewalk -- pulling up my shirt in the process -- while the other wrapped around my naked waist. It was a total turn-on for me -- and, I'm guessing, for him.

Pretty strong clue, huh?

Idiotically, I continued to ignore the obvious for years after high school. Now and then, I'd "date" girls. The dates, needless to stay, never ended in sex, unless you consider a back rub to be sex. I think the reason I was so naive was twofold: 1) Although I was a media addict, newspapers and TV in those days pretty much pretended gay people didn't exist, so I wasn't exposed to gay issues; neither was I exposed to channels like MTV, which portrays gay folks as completely normal (not to mention trendy); and I wasn't exposed to the Internet, where chat rooms would have shown that there were millions of people just like me around the world. 2) I was scared. The little I read about homosexuality suggested it was a bad thing done by weird people. I was deeply into politics and journalism at the time, so I didn't spend much energy researching the topic. Call me a Sexual Capitalist: My attitude was laissez-faire -- whatever I would become, I'd become. Eventually, of course, it dawned on me that the mainstream media's portrayals were simple right-wing and Christian propaganda. 

Slowly, I understood who I was. Slowly, I began dating guys. Less slowly, I began sleeping with guys. And I'm now who I am. But, as a 20something gay pal once told me with deep pity: "Oh, you missed out on things when you were young and cute. " Ouch. So, um, gay kids, don't put off your coming-out parties. You'll never regret being honest with yourself.

• OK, this is the quickest sort-of  "upscale" food you could ever make. It's great year-round when you don't feel like really cooking.
  
  1) Get a package of Italian gnocchi. I use DeLallo. Why? Because when I first decided to try a non-restaurant gnocchi, I was faced with a choice: Shred my own potatoes and form my own dumplings, or buy a pre-made variety. There was going to be no shredding on my own. Now, I'm sure Italian markets have wonderful homemade gnocchi that you can take home and cook, but I live in Harrisonburg, Va., so I had to go with a supermarket variety. DeLallo's ingredients are reasonably simple and it's available at Walmart, of all places. When the Martin's grocery store opens here -- it's supposed to be better than Kroger but not nearly as good as Whole Foods -- maybe I'll find another brand. For now, though, I'm totally happy with the DeLallo. (Do I sound defensive?)
  2) Boil water, dump in the gnocchi (which comes shrink-wrapped and non-refrigerated) and boil for about 3 minutes or until the little dumplings float to the top.
  
  That's all there is to "cooking" the gnocchi. Before you do that, of course, you have to decide what you want on top of them. Here's what I do.
  
  IN SUMMER :
  1) In a skillet with an ample amount of olive oil, slowly warm some minced garlic and red pepper flakes. Add a chopped garden tomato or two. Throw in some pine nuts if you choose. Sprinkle with salt and black pepper.
  2) Either beforehand or while the sauce is cooking, make some pesto, which takes about 3 minutes if you use a blender or processor rather than the traditional mortar route (I use a hand controlled chopper). In the blender, mince a garlic clove. Then toss in a cup or so of fresh basil and chop to smithereens.  Then add a quarter cup of pine nuts and again chop to smithereens. Add a little salt and a wee bit of black pepper. I also squeeze in the juice of half a lime, but that's just me.
  3) Pour the drained gnocchi in a big bowl. Around the edges, spoon in the tomato sauce. Over top, spoon on the pesto.
  4) Shave some parm-reg on top.
  
  IN WINTER:
  1) In a skillet with an ample amount of olive oil, slowly warm some minced garlic and red pepper flakes. Pour in a can of Delmonte organic diced tomatoes. Throw in some pine nuts if you choose. Sprinkle with salt and black pepper.
  2) Pour the drained gnocchi in a big bowl. Top with the sauce.
  3) Shave some parm-reg on top.
  
  

Cherry season is over. Actually, it ended a week or two ago. The Rainiers that I craved 24/7 disappeared; the remaining Bings became subpar. If you haven't had a Rainier cherry, you cannot possibly understand the gap that now exists in my life. Firm, juicy and uncommonly sweet, they're to a typical cherry what Myrtle Beach is to Miami Beach. With one, you get putt-putt golf and taffy. With the other, you get palm trees and gelato. Soon, sadly, sweet watermelons, too, will be gone. Nothing -- absolutely nothing -- compares to crisp, sweet, juicy watermelon on a hot summer night. The only thing that keeps me going is the certainty that come June 2008, the cherries will be back, along with the melons. Hope. It's what makes life worth living.

This only works if you have fresh summer tomatoes -- like out of your garden or from the farmers market. It's a raw "sauce" that gets heated a little by the cooked pasta. A very summery flavor.

1) Chop some fresh summer tomatoes into a bowl (mix in some heirlooms, if you have them). 
2) Chop in some fresh basil.
3) Mince a few garlic cloves and throw them in the bowl.
4) Add a splash of balsamic vinegar.
5) Drizzle generously with good olive oil.
7) Add salt and black pepper (I use sea salt and freshly ground pepper).
7) Add some pine nuts if you choose.
8) Mix everything together and let is sit while you boil water and cook  penne pasta.
9) Drain the pasta and add it to the bowl.
10) Top with reg-parm (I use the cheaper, less-aged wedges).\
11) Mix it all together.

Quick and good.