Katrina: a year later

New Orleans has been in my thoughts today. As a kid, it was more than the closest big town to home. It was the place to go to when I grew up, the place where dreams would happen. New Orleans was the cultural oasis, the city to go to for cool. My favorite memories are two road trips from college. On one trip, my friend CW and I walk up to two officers in the French Quarter after we learned her car had been towed. The officers were talking to two men. The men, as it turned out, were handcuffed. Just as we approached the cops, they got a call on their radio that another crime was taking place. For some odd reason, they uncuffed the two men and took off. CW and I stood next to the would-be criminals; they leered at us. CW and I took one look at each other and took off behind the cops.

Another time, a slew of friends drove down in my 1979 Dodge Charger. Too much alcohol and other substances were consumed and I remember all of us sitting in Cafe Du Monde at some ungodly hour, devouring beignets and trying not to pass out. On the drive back to Jackson, the car windows were rolled down and Bruce Springsteen blasted from the tape player. I remember looking out the windows, and up at the dark sky overhead and then seeing the glow of New Orleans behind us.

That's how I think of NOLA, as this town that just glows, and I don't mean from industrial waste.

So tonight, as I sit many miles from the place I have always thought of as my second home, I'd like to suggest two songs for those of you who miss New Orleans the way I do. The first one is "Louisiana 1927." Aaron Neville sings it, but I think Randy Newman wrote it. The second is that classic sung by Louis Armstrong, "Do You Know What it Means To Miss New Orleans." Download them from iTunes, listen, remember the good times you had in New Orlean, and if you are like me, the songs will make you a little misty-eyed and give you a powerful yearning for a town worth loving.

Katrina's Poster Boy: Master of Disaster

With the one year anniversary of Katrina approaching us, there has been much talk in the media about the problems that still linger in New Orleans. Having family in NOLA, this is one topic that has personal meaning to me. So for today's post, I've uploaded a photo to Lablogda that represents two icons of people behaving badly. A baby (especially when they are on planes or in restaurants) and George W. Bush, the posterboy of the Katrina disaster. To be fair, babies have nothing to do with the Katrina disaster, except of course those that were affected by the flooding and resulting chaotic aftermath.

Bush, while not solely responsible, sure didn't help matters. Remember the image of him strumming guitar in San Diego during that time? Remember Heckofajob Brownie? Those were just the minor infractions. His approval rating took a plunge and a year later is still hovering around the 30% mark. He wasn't alone in his folly: the flood devastated the city and unrooted local, state and federal governments flaws. The only person who came out of Katrina a winner was Anderson Cooper.

The Feline Version of a Lap Dance

Sammy Davis, Jr. and Liza Minnelli are great examples of people behaving badly toward each other. I’m talking about my two cats, not the entertainers, by the way. I’ve discussed Sammy and Liza on this site before. They are Korats, sleek oriental cats with short gray fur and the kind of green eyes that launch acting careers.

Liza is a bit like her namesake. She’s old, overly dramatic, and squawks way too much. Likewise, Sammy is like his namesake. He’s entertaining, lovable and prone to excess. While one did drugs, the other eats too much and throws up. My cat is the latter of the two.

Sammy and Liza, the cats, hate each other, where to hear Liza the celeb dish, she and her Uncle Sammy adored one another.

Mostly Sammy and Liza the felines co-exist without incident. During the day, Sammy is upstairs, hiding under the night-table, sleeping the sleep only the very rich and house pets get to have, and worthless teens, and my sister’s ex-boyfriends.

Liza can be found downstairs, in the far corner of our office, huddled up between two bookcases, her butt facing the door so that if someone should walk in, she doesn’t have to look at them.

At night, if Hubby and I are sitting on the couch watching TV, the cats like to sit on someone’s lap. Usually, it’s the same person’s lap. This is where the trouble comes in. If Liza is sitting on Hubby’s lap, Sammy will walk up to her, pretend like he is about to happily lick her head, then chomp down on her ears with his teeth. She hisses and runs or fights back, and she’s even been known to completely ignore him. On those occasions, I notice, he backs down. She is victorious most at those times.

Liza doesn’t bite Sammy. He is the alpha cat. She usurps his territory quietly. He may get up from my lap to go take a sip of water, and she sneaks onto my legs so covertly that I don’t even notice the cat switch till I seem Sammy at my feet looking up, his face forlorn.

I know someone wrote a book about everything they learned they learned from their cat. I believe it was a huge best seller. I can see why. There’s something to be said for my cats and they way they best each other. Sammy may be the dominate of the two, but Liza is more often the silent winner in their battles. Of course, you could say that is just like any woman – or any crazy old lady.

Part II: the Snitty Slacker and Big Bones Bore

They won't leave me alone. They can't let bygones be bygones. They must torment me. Xanax. I need Xanax. Where's my bottle? Oh, there it is. Can I have a Stoli's on the rocks with that, please?

After the Snitty Slacker hung up on me as I was demanding respect, he actually did the work I had wanted him to do, then proceeded to email telling me that I was a client he was happy to let go as I was disrespectful to his admin and to him. Of course I was, they are twenty-something arrogant, terse twits who need a spanking. Mama never whipped them. Mamma didn't give them enough time-outs. Mama is a bad Mama and should have never been allowed to breed.

Then, I realized I had a deadline due with Big Bones Bore so I emailed her and asked her when it is due. She wrote back, "Today."

What? Today? I never got any notice that the deadline was even approaching. I emailed her and told her this. I then called her to see if we could work it out. I pitched an idea to her, but tell her I need more time.

"Not gonna happen," she said. She really isn't attractive enough to say "Not gonna happen." I've given it some thought. Super skinny tall models with tiny noses and Liv Tyler lips can pull off "Not gonna happen." Fat, ancient hags with haircuts they gave themselves by putting a bowl over their heads cannot. I am proud to say that I am not a fat, ancient hag and I have a darn good haircut, just ask my stylist, but I cannot pull off "Not gonna happen." You have to be screeching beautiful, okay?

I asked for an editorial schedule. She acted like I was a moron, and should know that there wasn't one -- after all, what decent magazine would have one of those pesky things? I tried to explain that her deadlines always caught me off guard and I was then forced to turn in dull, uninteresting articles.

She then lectured me on plagiarism. Long story on how we got there, but it involved some in-house copy that was given to another magazine for an article. She is an expert on plagiarism laws. I know, she told me in detail. I filed my nails while she droned on and on. I tried to picture her eyes, which are too close together, and how they would look if she would only get a new haircut. Maybe she could wear a head band and push those bangs back. Maybe my gay stylist could layer her head so the ends weren't as blunt as her demeanor.

She finally paused and I jumped in, saying, "look, all I'm saying is that I don't want to dial in the stories. It's like I'm just lying there in the mission position." I laughed. I got nothing from her. "That's a joke," I said. She doesn't speak. I don't speak. I'm offended yet at the same time curious. How long before one of us would speak? I couldn't stand the silence so I continued on, pleading that I was just concerned about the quality of the content I submit and needed more time.

"I sent you and email two weeks ago reminding you," she said.

"I didn't get it. Or maybe I did. I'll confess to senility."

"I would agree with that," she said.

Oh Big Bones. You are an awful person. You've made me believe in Heaven and Hell, just because I want you, after you die, to wake up in the middle of a bunch of terrorists and toxic bosses, all of you roasting in a large fiery pit. I hope the first thing you think about it is all the co-workers you offended, Big Bones, all the friends you could have made. The people who could have loved you if only you were a person worthy of love. But you weren't and you aren't. And at your age, you never will be.

The Snitty Slacker, the “Not-Responsible” Muslim, and the Big Boned Bore

Now today was what I’d call a bad day. To sum it up, I threatened to choke a Muslim, I had a slacker hang-up on me after I demanded respect, and the gal we call the Big Bones Bore told me I need to move past my anger, and that my problem was that I am short, and she didn’t have this issue because she was tall. She’s 5’5 – do you know how short I would have to be for her to think she’s tall. I'm short but she's delusional. And she doesn’t merely have big bones, she’s fat. But tell her that. Actually, don’t try to tell her anything. She knows it all. She knows more than God, she knows more than that all time winner on Jeopardy. Evidently what she doesn’t know is that you do NOT put a bowl on your head to cut your bangs.

Let me start at the beginning . . .

Our website is down, at least part of it – the part where you log on and get free info. Our programmer and our hosting guy have been duking it out for days blaming each other on the problem. Both are outside contractors. Both got their degrees evidently from some online school.

So after an exchange of emails where each blamed the other for the umpteenth time, I called the programmer. I got his annoying admin on the line who told me he was not available. We were on speaker as there were numerous people in my office who wanted to speak to him. The marketing group and the IT person. The Admin insisted on having my name, though I kept telling her to tell the programmer to call the IT guy. We hung up, we called the hosting guy, the Muslim. He started blaming the programmer. He said the programmer loaded something to the site that screwed it up. I know the programmer didn’t load anything. I lost it.

“I am so tired of you blaming him and him blaming you. Honestly, I’ve never worked anywhere where the site goes down so often,” I said, rather, almost screamed. Okay, screeched.

More words were shared and I said, “here’s what I want to do. I want to board a plane to California and go out there and choke you.”

Oddly, he got really contrite.

The programmer then returned my call and started screaming at me. He’s a little turd in his late twenties, and is under the impression that he is above reproach. I hope his peeppe falls off when he turns 30, you know, many years from now. He actually said, “the web problems have never been my mistake. Ever.” And I said, “Oh, you have never made a mistake.” He said, “That’s right.” Then he started yelling at me, saying, “you are too small of a client for me to take this kind of behavior. I’m happy to let you go,” to which I said, “yes, finish this job and have no fear, this relationship is terminated.” Then I said the line about how I didn’t care how small a client I was, I demanded respect and the bastard hung up on me.

Then I went to visit a friend and vent my woes, when his pal, Big Boned Bore walks in and plops her big boned, yet well-cushioned, tush down. She’s listening and she says, “you need to move on past this anger.” I said, “Life is short, I’m short, and I just got to get it all out. Besides it makes me feel better.” She said, “ahhh, I see. I know why I am never phased by anything.” Beat. “I’m tall.”

I then asked her did she really want to rumble with me given my morning and that I wouldn’t mind putting her in therapy. She assured me I could not insult her, she was above insulting. I should have said, “because you’ve heard it all,” but instead I said, “well you are insulting me.” She said, “no I’m not.” I ignored her. She repeated it three times and I continued talking to my friend. Finally, when we finished, I said, “well I better go make someone else miserable now.” To which she said, “if you tried to make me miserable, you have failed horribly.” I said, “I promise I will keep trying.”

Of course, there is a reason I can’t make her miserable. She’s already there. She is a mean-spirited, humorless, wretch with a bad haircut and an enormous ego. The question I have is why are there people like her in the world, or the haughty programmer who thinks he is above reproach, or the Muslim who can’t take responsibility. All these suicide bombing Muslims and I get the one who doesn’t want to be responsible for anything.

Lesson learned: not all men are created equal. Those are just pretty words designed to give marginalized school kids hope. D. H. Lawrence said that we are not equal, we differ in our spirit. I must be at the bottom of the heap, because those bastards today have sucked my spirit bone dry. My ass may have dimples, but my spirit, it’s downright anorexic.

Now where is my Xanax?

Let's Get to the Point

Dear Israelis and the Middle-Easterners they fight:

Leave fighting over religion to the experts: Christian fanatics.

Leave fighting over land to the experts: lawyers.

Thanks,
Binx

P.S. Neither of your cultures have very good food. Anyway, just thought I'd throw that in.

Rude at Red Rock

There is a new hotel/casino in Vegas called Red Rock Station. It was much hyped prior to its opening as the most luxurious casino off the Strip -- and it is. It is also the rudest off the Strip, which is why it gets special mention in my blog.

They cater to locals, and all the locals I've spoken with about it have at least one bad experience with rudeness either in the bars or the restaurants. As far as the gambling tables go, the service isn't much better. The other night, a pal went there, sat at the black jack table, started playing, ordered a glass of wine and got wine served in a water glass. When she complained, the waitress shrugged and said, "that's how we do it here."

Let me tell you how else they do it there.

This morning, hubby and I ate breakfast at the Grand Cafe, which should be renamed Grand Screw Up Cafe. There was a child inside screaming aimlessly, with white trash parents who were incapable of even thinking of disciplining the child. I complained to a waiter as he passed by, and asked him to talk to management. He did. I'll give him that. Then the waiter, and two managers stood there and stared at the child, sometimes glancing at me to see if I left yet. They did nothing but stand there and stare. It was a classic case of "do nothing and maybe the problem will go away." The child kept screaming, customers kept shaking their head, and the white trash parents sat there ignorant as can be. The two manager, never even offered me an apology, not even an apology laced in truth: "I'm sorry, lady, but the happiness of the ignorant white trash parents and their horrid, screaming child is way more important to us than you repeat businesss."

Earlier, when we had ordered, my husband asked for the "egg skillet with bacon." The waiter said, "the egg skillet with bacon. Right?"

"Yes."

Many, many moons later, he brought out the egg skillet, sans bacon.

"I asked for bacon," Hubby said.

"But you ordered the egg skillet. That doesn't come with bacon."

"But I ordered bacon."

The waiter said, "then you should have ordered the bacon skillet." The waiter never heard the maxim that the customer is always right, especially when they are wrong.

Hubby got his bacon, but afterwards, when the bill came, the waiter felt he needed to educate us. He brought out a menu. "See, next time you want to order the bacon skillet," he said.

"That's okay," I said. "You don't have to do this." That was my attempt at being nice. "This isn't college, dumbass," is what I wanted to say. "Don't lecture us you sniveling moron," is what I should have said. Instead, I got up and walked out, leaving Hubby to fend for himself. Besides, I really couldn't hear as that horrid child was still screaming aimlessly.

We will never go back, as this is our 2nd bad encounter at the Grand Screw Up. We may gamble at Red Rock in the future, and we may even drink at the Onyx Bar (because they treat us right), but I will not drink wine from a water glass, no matter "how they do things."

I have many more stories about this casino, like how they gave away my pal's charge card at the Lucky Bar to the wrong customer and didn't even apologize - this was after he had run up a tab of $1,000 bucks. If this were Iran, I'd say that was fine behavior, but for the swankiest hotel/casino off the Strip? That is just jackass rudeness.

They say God is in the details. I say Good Service is in the details. Red Rock Casino in Las Vegas, you may look glamorous, but you lack the needed details.