It's 1970something, and I'm still in high school. My best pal, CW, and I drive down to New Orleans with her mom to see the Rolling Stones play at the Superdome. Van Halen is the opening act. I only remember a few things about this trip, mainly because it was so long ago. I remember sitting in some French Quarter restaurant eating a fried oyster po’boy and French fries, and drinking an ice tea. Of course, being a Southerner, I can tell you what I ate thirty years ago, but I can't tell you much else.
Our waitress was this waif of a woman, with an apron slung low across her hips. She was short on manners, and very matter of fact, but she got the job done quickly and efficiently.
I remember I had half the po’boy in my mouth, and Fleetwood Mac's Rhiannon played in the background. All of a sudden, the waitress bounded across the dining room and grabbed the massive wrought iron handle to the large wooden door, a relic from the last century, with wood gray from the years and the weather. She slammed the door shut and flung her body across the frame. Three guys approach and stop cold.
“What’s wrong? Wasn’t the service good?” she asks.
“Yeah,” one of the guys says.
“Then why didn’t you leave a tip?”
It was the first time I understood the word audacious, and I knew right then and there, whoever this woman was, I liked her style.
A few years later, CW and I are back in New Orleans with some college friends. We’re freshman. We’ve been inside a club, and when we come out, we realize our car has been towed or stolen. We see some policemen up the street. We walk up and realize that they have two guys with them, about our age. The guys are handcuffed. We ask one of the police officers what we should do about the car. Before he can answer, the other one answers a call on his radio.
“We gotta go,” he says to his partner. “There’s been a knifing.”
They uncuff the guys and leave us standing there with them. We look at the criminals, they look at us.
freed
“You ladies want to go have a drink?”
We did not, and begged off, using our missing car as an excuse.
Then there was the time another good friend, AC, and I drove to New Orleans from the University of Southern Mississippi, where he went to school. There was a car full of us, all hellions determined to kill some brain cells and create a night we’d never forget. Mission accomplished. At the end of a long evening, we sat in the Café Du Monde after hours of drinking and ingesting god knows what, and we ordered the house specialty, beignets. The beignets were warm and light in my hands, the powdered sugar coating the pads of my fingers. I stuck one finger in my mouth licked off a sweet glob of it and believed with every cell in my body that this was the best thing I had ever tasted.
Every evening of every road trip to New Orleans always ended up with beignets at Café Du Monde.
Later, I would travel to New Orleans with my husband for short vacations. We usually tried a different hotel each trip, but there were always a few traditions. Muffaletto at the Central Grocery, cocktails at NOLAs, burgers at the Camilla Grill, and, of course, Café Du Monde.
Sometimes we’d walk through Audubon Park or visit the zoo. The old oaks with the thick, low branches veiled with Spanish moss were, for me, the main attraction. My dream home was any one of the number of the two story clapboard houses bordering the park. I imagined professors from Tulane living there, and I thought of the wonderful things each house must have held, the great books, the wonderful, interesting, colorful art, indicative of local artists, and, typical of me, the wine, bought from Martins Cellar.
We always threatened to take the backwater cruises but never did. AC and I always talked wistfully about planning a reunion of the friends who took that road trip to New Orleans that night long ago. We never did. Every time my husband and I went to New Orleans, we always said we needed to make time to visit it at least once a year. We never did.
Everyone in that city is devastated by what’s happened. Their lives have changed. Their lives, as they knew it, have ceased to exist. The people in New Orleans tonight live worse than the poorest neighborhoods in India. That’s saying something.
It’s too soon to say what will happen to this city, that when it recovers, what it will be like? My fear is that the place we loved, the place where no one ever had a bad time, is gone. I’m not saying that the people will just move away. In fact, logically, I know that to a certain extent, life will go on as it did before. There will still be Zydeco and gumbo and beignets even. But so many of the town’s buildings are ruined, and part of New Orleans allure is its old, ragged architecture. I have images of a new town, condos, clean, track homes, taking the place of the old, beautiful, shabby ones. You can rebuild a town, but you can’t rebuild the charisma.
And as for those people, how do they start over? When everything is taken away from you, all your possessions, your home, your neighborhood, your job, where do you begin again? And what do you do in the time that it takes to rebuild New Orleans?
As for me, as soon as the city is open for business, I plan to book a trip. I want to show this town that gave me so many good times my support. New Orleans was never just a city to me. It was an ongoing promise of decadence yet neither me nor New Orleans could live up to the expectation. At the same time, it’s a town that always gave me pleasure. And lots and lots of good memories. And hangovers. And weight gain. But that’s why I loved the place, at least, that’s one reason.
August 31, 2005
August 28, 2005
How many Bush Minions does it take to change a light bulb?
1. One to deny that a light bulb needs to be changed;
2. One to attack the patriotism of anyone who says the light bulb needs
to be changed;
3. One to blame Clinton for burning out the light bulb;
4. One to arrange the invasion of a country rumored to have a secret
stockpile of light bulbs;
5. One to give a billion dollar no-bid contract to Halliburton for the
new light bulb;
6. One to arrange a photograph of Bush, dressed as a janitor,
standing on a step ladder under the banner: Light Bulb Change Accomplished;
7. One administration insider to resign and write a book documenting
in detail how Bush was literally in the dark;
8. One to viciously smear #7;
9. One surrogate to campaign on TV and at rallies on how George Bush
has had a strong light-bulb-changing policy all along;
10. And finally one to confuse Americans about the difference between
screwing a light bulb and screwing the country.
2. One to attack the patriotism of anyone who says the light bulb needs
to be changed;
3. One to blame Clinton for burning out the light bulb;
4. One to arrange the invasion of a country rumored to have a secret
stockpile of light bulbs;
5. One to give a billion dollar no-bid contract to Halliburton for the
new light bulb;
6. One to arrange a photograph of Bush, dressed as a janitor,
standing on a step ladder under the banner: Light Bulb Change Accomplished;
7. One administration insider to resign and write a book documenting
in detail how Bush was literally in the dark;
8. One to viciously smear #7;
9. One surrogate to campaign on TV and at rallies on how George Bush
has had a strong light-bulb-changing policy all along;
10. And finally one to confuse Americans about the difference between
screwing a light bulb and screwing the country.
August 24, 2005
Good New: W Declines in Polls. Bad News: He's Still President
According to the latest Harris poll, more and more Americans are starting to figure out what Democrats knew all along. It’s easy to hate Bush.
What’s troubling is that there are still 40% of the American population, according to this poll, that like him. To those 40% I have a good-old fashioned Ann Landers-style suggestion: Wake up and smell the coffee.
Are these 40% the type of people who are die-hard fans no matter what their hero does? Are they the same people who defended Michael Jackson, OJ, and Britney when she came out with that awful show? The same people who left the rest of us scratching our heads and going, Why? Are you 40% the ones responsible for such unexplained things like the popularity of awful musicians like Toby Keith, bad TV like Fear Factor (I just don’t get its appeal), and the popularity of the “Chicken Soup” series of books? Are do you just have a hard time saying, okay, “I was wrong. I’m sorry.”
Even when Bill Clinton was running around the Oval Office playing cigar sex with Monica’s hoohoo, I had a hard time defending him. In fact, once, when I lived in San Francisco, I got so mad at something the local democratic government did (I can’t remember what it was now) that I actually reregistered as a Republican. But then, I got over my rash anger. It just so happened that a Republican pollster called me during this time. I have to admit, I took some delight in telling her that as a registered Republican I was pro-choice and felt our grand old part was too exclusionary. And you know what? The pollster hung up on me. The Republican’s get-out-of-my sandbox mentality works all the way down to the polling level.
But I digress.
Who the heck still thinks Bush is doing a good job? He’s wrecking the country. The economy is not strong (and don’t even try to argue with me that it is, that just means you are one of the die-hard 40%). We are polarized as a nation. Bad celebs like Toby Keith still have a career, which is hellish enough, but what’s worse is we are in this senseless war when we should be out hunting terrorist and trying to banish the Toby Keiths of this country to France, who embrace our bad celebs. Thank them for that, you 40%.
What’s troubling is that there are still 40% of the American population, according to this poll, that like him. To those 40% I have a good-old fashioned Ann Landers-style suggestion: Wake up and smell the coffee.
Are these 40% the type of people who are die-hard fans no matter what their hero does? Are they the same people who defended Michael Jackson, OJ, and Britney when she came out with that awful show? The same people who left the rest of us scratching our heads and going, Why? Are you 40% the ones responsible for such unexplained things like the popularity of awful musicians like Toby Keith, bad TV like Fear Factor (I just don’t get its appeal), and the popularity of the “Chicken Soup” series of books? Are do you just have a hard time saying, okay, “I was wrong. I’m sorry.”
Even when Bill Clinton was running around the Oval Office playing cigar sex with Monica’s hoohoo, I had a hard time defending him. In fact, once, when I lived in San Francisco, I got so mad at something the local democratic government did (I can’t remember what it was now) that I actually reregistered as a Republican. But then, I got over my rash anger. It just so happened that a Republican pollster called me during this time. I have to admit, I took some delight in telling her that as a registered Republican I was pro-choice and felt our grand old part was too exclusionary. And you know what? The pollster hung up on me. The Republican’s get-out-of-my sandbox mentality works all the way down to the polling level.
But I digress.
Who the heck still thinks Bush is doing a good job? He’s wrecking the country. The economy is not strong (and don’t even try to argue with me that it is, that just means you are one of the die-hard 40%). We are polarized as a nation. Bad celebs like Toby Keith still have a career, which is hellish enough, but what’s worse is we are in this senseless war when we should be out hunting terrorist and trying to banish the Toby Keiths of this country to France, who embrace our bad celebs. Thank them for that, you 40%.
August 22, 2005
If Cindy Can’t Ruin W’s Vacation, No One Can
I’m a personal fan of Cindy Sheehan. Hell, anyone who wants to ruin W’s five week vacation is okay by me. My only problem with her is she actually wants to meet the man. Meet him? I want to forget he even exists. Ahh, but she’s a better woman than I am, as are most women, and men, come to think of it.
Cindy writes a forceful piece for truthout.org. Perhaps the most telling part of her correspondence is when she tells this story:
“I got an email the other day and it said, ‘Cindy if you didn't use so much profanity ... there's people on the fence that get offended.’
And you know what I said? 'You know what? You know what, god damn it? How in the world is anybody still sitting on that fence?'”
How huge of a moron do you have to be to worry about the profanity coming out of this woman’s mouth? She lost her son in a senseless war. If you are offended by her little four letter words, well, sweetheart, fuck you. Grow up and grow your own belief system, not something you were told in some backwater church.
Cindy, I think what you are doing is fantastic. I think W should be hanged for treason for the way he and this gang have stolen an election, started a war on false premises, polarized this country and turned a good portion of the world against us (Thank God Poland is on our side . . . or did they change their minds?)
But honestly, what can he say to you if he meets with you? First of all, I doubt he will meet with you. It would require him to have courage and honor. If he did meet with you, if Karl Rove twisted his arm, what could he possibly say? He’ll mumble nonsense about staying the course, being full of resolve, etc., whatever, yadda, yadda, yadda, bite me.
He will twist the situation into his advantage. Nix that. Rove will do the twisting. You and W will pray. Fox News will report that you said he is a good man, an honorable man, a man full of resolve. Though you won’t feel this way, they’ll make you look like you are humbled by this great, great idiot. I mean man.
Stay in his face. We should all stay in his face. But it’s not his fault, is it? It’s really the fault of the people who voted for him. They are the ones that owe you answers.
Cindy writes a forceful piece for truthout.org. Perhaps the most telling part of her correspondence is when she tells this story:
“I got an email the other day and it said, ‘Cindy if you didn't use so much profanity ... there's people on the fence that get offended.’
And you know what I said? 'You know what? You know what, god damn it? How in the world is anybody still sitting on that fence?'”
How huge of a moron do you have to be to worry about the profanity coming out of this woman’s mouth? She lost her son in a senseless war. If you are offended by her little four letter words, well, sweetheart, fuck you. Grow up and grow your own belief system, not something you were told in some backwater church.
Cindy, I think what you are doing is fantastic. I think W should be hanged for treason for the way he and this gang have stolen an election, started a war on false premises, polarized this country and turned a good portion of the world against us (Thank God Poland is on our side . . . or did they change their minds?)
But honestly, what can he say to you if he meets with you? First of all, I doubt he will meet with you. It would require him to have courage and honor. If he did meet with you, if Karl Rove twisted his arm, what could he possibly say? He’ll mumble nonsense about staying the course, being full of resolve, etc., whatever, yadda, yadda, yadda, bite me.
He will twist the situation into his advantage. Nix that. Rove will do the twisting. You and W will pray. Fox News will report that you said he is a good man, an honorable man, a man full of resolve. Though you won’t feel this way, they’ll make you look like you are humbled by this great, great idiot. I mean man.
Stay in his face. We should all stay in his face. But it’s not his fault, is it? It’s really the fault of the people who voted for him. They are the ones that owe you answers.
August 21, 2005
W and the Long Hot Summer
Shame on me. W has been on vacation all month and I haven’t made fun of the longest presidential vacation in history not even once. What can I say that the late night hosts haven’t already said? Except that I wish he’d take off the rest of his term and stay in Crawford. We need a vacation from him -- and his entourage.
If you haven’t already heard the jokes, La Blogda has done the work for you. Here is, in my opinion, the best of the jabs at W, as told by the late night folks.
"President Bush is on a five-week vacation. From what? President Bush, before he went on vacation, he signed a bill that will extend daylight savings another month. He said it proves we're winning the war on darkness" --David Letterman
See, now here’s proof W isn’t the brightest lipstick in the cosmetic drawer. If we’re not in a war of darkness, I don’t know who is.
"A lot of people are every critical of President Bush for taking the entire month of August off for his vacation. But his staff points out, there's nothing at the White House he can't do at the ranch because the ranch is fully equipped. It's got the treadmill, the weight room, the jogging path, the big screen TV, they get Nickelodeon. It's got everything he would do." --Jay Leno
Actually, Jay, you left out the pretzels for him to choke on.
This will be the longest presidential vacation in 36 years. This means President Bush has now been on vacation for 27% of his presidency. That means the country could be 27% more screwed up than it already is." --Jimmy Kimmel
Okay, that’s the truth, so technically, it’s not funny.
President Bush still having his five-week vacation. Today President Bush announced he is going to leave his ranch in Texas to visit Idaho for two days. However, Bush told his supporters, 'Don't worry, I won't do any work there either.'" --Conan O'Brien
President W, you have fun on your vacation, you hear? Run around in you flight suit or play “shoot ‘em up cowboy” all day long. Don’t you worry about a thing, President Cheney is still running the country, just like your daddy planned.
If you haven’t already heard the jokes, La Blogda has done the work for you. Here is, in my opinion, the best of the jabs at W, as told by the late night folks.
"President Bush is on a five-week vacation. From what? President Bush, before he went on vacation, he signed a bill that will extend daylight savings another month. He said it proves we're winning the war on darkness" --David Letterman
See, now here’s proof W isn’t the brightest lipstick in the cosmetic drawer. If we’re not in a war of darkness, I don’t know who is.
"A lot of people are every critical of President Bush for taking the entire month of August off for his vacation. But his staff points out, there's nothing at the White House he can't do at the ranch because the ranch is fully equipped. It's got the treadmill, the weight room, the jogging path, the big screen TV, they get Nickelodeon. It's got everything he would do." --Jay Leno
Actually, Jay, you left out the pretzels for him to choke on.
This will be the longest presidential vacation in 36 years. This means President Bush has now been on vacation for 27% of his presidency. That means the country could be 27% more screwed up than it already is." --Jimmy Kimmel
Okay, that’s the truth, so technically, it’s not funny.
President Bush still having his five-week vacation. Today President Bush announced he is going to leave his ranch in Texas to visit Idaho for two days. However, Bush told his supporters, 'Don't worry, I won't do any work there either.'" --Conan O'Brien
President W, you have fun on your vacation, you hear? Run around in you flight suit or play “shoot ‘em up cowboy” all day long. Don’t you worry about a thing, President Cheney is still running the country, just like your daddy planned.
August 19, 2005
The Really Annoying “Client”
The bad thing about having a day job is that every two minutes, you run up against some one who either annoys you or just pisses you completely off. I have a bevy of folks I could write about over the course of my career, but I’d like to take this opportunity to describe the most annoying “client” in the world. I will call him Ricky B. He’s cheery. He’s neurotic. He’s lonely. And when you pick up the phone and he’s on the other end, he’s is your worse nightmare.
“Hello?”
“Biiiiiinnnnnxxxxx! How are YOUUUUUUUUU!”
Every time I pick up the phone, I fear this is what I’ll hear. Ricky is a “client” because he orders the minimum amount of product that he can from us once a year, and then goes into arrears over the small amount he owes. The Powers That Be won’t refuse to do business with him. The Powers that Be also don’t get calls from him.
Never has any client been so dedicated to our company though. We don’t know why. He barely uses our product.
We think he’s lonely. He has a wife. He has kids. Instead of focusing on them, he wants to help us be a success. He wanted to take one of VIPs to a Far East country to introduce him to our clients there. Problem is, we know our clients. For months he called me about the trip, and not just me, but about 5 or 6 people. We all kept saying, “they are our clients, we don’t need an introduction.” I guess he didn’t listen. Finally, one day, he did hear me and said, “you have clients there?”
We’ve unionized, however, all us workers on Ricky’s radar. One of my coworkers, whom I’ll call Bernice, had a conversation with him yesterday that went like this.
“Hello.”
“BERNIIIIIICE!”
“No, this is not Bernice. Can I transfer you?”
“Yes, thank you. It’s urgeeeeeeeent.”
Bernice has a very distinct Boston accent. The fact that he does not know it’s her is a testimony to his brilliance.
Everyone knows that when Ricky calls, they tell him I’m out. They don’t know where. They don’t know when I’ll be back. And no, I don’t have a cell phone. It’s never about business, so I’m not missing anything. Usually, he wants to ask us questions that are confidential and proprietary information that we can’t answer. Or he wants me to write a press release on how he’s offered to help us grow his business.
“I can’t write a press release on that, Ricky.”
“You caaaaaan’t? Why noooooot?”
“Because it’s not news. And because we aren’t in a partnership together.”
“But I’ve seen press releases on stuff like that.”
“Well, we can’t do that.”
“Why noooot?”
“Gee, Ricky, business is booming, we really don’t need your help. We have people here that we pay who do that.”
“But I care so much about your company. I really want to see you suceeed.”
“We are succeeding.”
“But I can heeeeeelp.”
Ricky, I want to say, you can’t even pay your measly bills.
Here’s another conversation with Ricky.
“Hello?”
“BIIINNNNX! How are YOUUUUUU?”
“Oh. Ricky. Hi.”
“HOW ARE YOUUUUUUUUUUUUU?”
“Okay. What can I do for you?”
“Just fine? You are not GREAAAAT?”
“I’m rather swamped, Ricky. I have a meeting to go to in just a minute. What can I do for you?”
“WHAT’s WROOOONG?”
“I’m busy. How can I help you?”
“I can’t reach Bernice. Can you find her for me?”
“She’s not here.”
“HOW ARE YOUUUUU?”
Twenty minutes later, after he’s asked why I sound tense and why can’t I issue a press release on how he’s trying to help us grow our business, we hang up. Then I vow I’ll never answer the phone again. Then my line rings. I don’t answer it. I check my voice mail. It was a legitimate, important call. Because Ricky B terrorizes my line, I miss the calls I need.
What can you do with someone who is technically a client, and your boss insists that you have to be professional with them? When you ask your boss to deal with him, he won’t. That’s cruel. It’s worth calling the Department of Labor over. Maybe the judge in the BTK case could use Ricky as a special punishment since there can be no death sentence.
“Hello?”
“Biiiiiinnnnnxxxxx! How are YOUUUUUUUUU!”
Every time I pick up the phone, I fear this is what I’ll hear. Ricky is a “client” because he orders the minimum amount of product that he can from us once a year, and then goes into arrears over the small amount he owes. The Powers That Be won’t refuse to do business with him. The Powers that Be also don’t get calls from him.
Never has any client been so dedicated to our company though. We don’t know why. He barely uses our product.
We think he’s lonely. He has a wife. He has kids. Instead of focusing on them, he wants to help us be a success. He wanted to take one of VIPs to a Far East country to introduce him to our clients there. Problem is, we know our clients. For months he called me about the trip, and not just me, but about 5 or 6 people. We all kept saying, “they are our clients, we don’t need an introduction.” I guess he didn’t listen. Finally, one day, he did hear me and said, “you have clients there?”
We’ve unionized, however, all us workers on Ricky’s radar. One of my coworkers, whom I’ll call Bernice, had a conversation with him yesterday that went like this.
“Hello.”
“BERNIIIIIICE!”
“No, this is not Bernice. Can I transfer you?”
“Yes, thank you. It’s urgeeeeeeeent.”
Bernice has a very distinct Boston accent. The fact that he does not know it’s her is a testimony to his brilliance.
Everyone knows that when Ricky calls, they tell him I’m out. They don’t know where. They don’t know when I’ll be back. And no, I don’t have a cell phone. It’s never about business, so I’m not missing anything. Usually, he wants to ask us questions that are confidential and proprietary information that we can’t answer. Or he wants me to write a press release on how he’s offered to help us grow his business.
“I can’t write a press release on that, Ricky.”
“You caaaaaan’t? Why noooooot?”
“Because it’s not news. And because we aren’t in a partnership together.”
“But I’ve seen press releases on stuff like that.”
“Well, we can’t do that.”
“Why noooot?”
“Gee, Ricky, business is booming, we really don’t need your help. We have people here that we pay who do that.”
“But I care so much about your company. I really want to see you suceeed.”
“We are succeeding.”
“But I can heeeeeelp.”
Ricky, I want to say, you can’t even pay your measly bills.
Here’s another conversation with Ricky.
“Hello?”
“BIIINNNNX! How are YOUUUUUU?”
“Oh. Ricky. Hi.”
“HOW ARE YOUUUUUUUUUUUUU?”
“Okay. What can I do for you?”
“Just fine? You are not GREAAAAT?”
“I’m rather swamped, Ricky. I have a meeting to go to in just a minute. What can I do for you?”
“WHAT’s WROOOONG?”
“I’m busy. How can I help you?”
“I can’t reach Bernice. Can you find her for me?”
“She’s not here.”
“HOW ARE YOUUUUU?”
Twenty minutes later, after he’s asked why I sound tense and why can’t I issue a press release on how he’s trying to help us grow our business, we hang up. Then I vow I’ll never answer the phone again. Then my line rings. I don’t answer it. I check my voice mail. It was a legitimate, important call. Because Ricky B terrorizes my line, I miss the calls I need.
What can you do with someone who is technically a client, and your boss insists that you have to be professional with them? When you ask your boss to deal with him, he won’t. That’s cruel. It’s worth calling the Department of Labor over. Maybe the judge in the BTK case could use Ricky as a special punishment since there can be no death sentence.
August 18, 2005
BTK Strangler Deserves Much Worse
Normally, I make futile attempts at humor when I write this blog. This time, it’s straight up because I want to write about a subject that is devoid of anything funny. The BTK Strangler is getting 10 life sentences, because the killings took place before Kansas reinstated the death penalty. This case has made me realize that I’m actually all for the death penalty. I’ve always been a bit neutral on the topic in the past, which is odd since it’s a passionate subject, and when it comes to passionate subjects, I usually have an opinion. With this case, I’ve actually stopped and thought about capital punishment for two seconds, and I’ve realized that I don’t care if someone was tortured as a child and is now mentally unstable. Crazy is no excuse for the sick things this twisted F#!k did.
I can’t think of a death sentence appropriate enough for this sick motherf&#$*, unfortunately. He’d love anything twisted or perverted. Is there such a thing as a boring death sentence? I guess the chemicals they inject could be considered boring, though I’ve read that they actually do cause pain. Fine. Shoot him up, but make sure to inject a little Borax into the cocktail.
This will not happen. We can only hope that when he goes to jail, the other badasses will make him wish he was never born. That’s a good start.
I can’t think of a death sentence appropriate enough for this sick motherf&#$*, unfortunately. He’d love anything twisted or perverted. Is there such a thing as a boring death sentence? I guess the chemicals they inject could be considered boring, though I’ve read that they actually do cause pain. Fine. Shoot him up, but make sure to inject a little Borax into the cocktail.
This will not happen. We can only hope that when he goes to jail, the other badasses will make him wish he was never born. That’s a good start.
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