I have made peace with Paris Hilton. I now appreciate her selfless, Florence Nightingalesque efforts to drag little Nicole Richie up from the bowels of obscurity into the duodenum of semi-obscurity. As of today, I applaud this benevolent, well-dressed creature that walks among us–well, among some of us. Rock on, gold dust woman! (Call me, Par, if you need help on that last allusion–it’s a tad before your time.)
Long before Amelie wondered it aloud to the world, I often asked myself: “How many people in my neighborhood are having orgasms right now? Is the frequency such that you could say that I’m never more than a block or two from someone in ecstasy? How big a geographic area would I have to include to make such a statement? Uptown and downtown? Orleans parish? The Greater New Orleans Metro area? How far do I have to go to make sure that someone in my vicinity is always going over the edge?” I like the thought of one continuous, sexy, sometimes-awkward, sometimes-painful, sometimes-onanistic, screaming orgasm. I like thinking that, if I had the ears of Superman or Spiderman or whichever one could hear shit, I could always tune in to someone yelling “Ohmygodohmygodhereitcomes!” I’m less gleeful at the thought of applying the same idea to people dying (one continuous, final exhale) or automobile wrecks (like a 24/7 Mel Gibson movie with real blood).
Yo, it’s official: the New Orleans Metroblog has officially launched, featuring yours truly and ten folks he’s never met. Of possibly interest: my first and perhaps only comments about Southern Decadence 2004 and the curiously coincidental Southern Baptist convention.
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