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Places Mayor C. Ray Nagin may be hiding

Likely:

  • In Chicago, writing speeches for Obama’s erstwhile pastor.
  • In Cuba, because he needs his annual physical, and his local doctor can’t see him for another six months.
  • At Chris Rose’s house, because that’s where the crazies live.
  • At the Broadway South offices, because he’s sure to run into absolutely no one.

Less likely:

Hopefully:

  • Resting upon the fragrant bosom of a hooker/actress/songwriter.
  • Pinned beneath a burning 1979 Ford Pinto on top of an abandoned petroleum tank hundreds of miles from where anyone can hear him scream (or 300 yards from the nearest fire hydrant).
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I love pets, but I’ve never owned a bird. Frankly, I’ve never understood the allure. Maybe I get parrots and their ilk–birds that can climb on your shoulders and show a little affection–but canaries in a cage? That just seems cruel. Plus, I don’t care what kind of bird you own, you can’t snuggle up with it when the weather’s chilly. And then there’s all that Tippi Hedren stuff to worry about. (Not that dogs don’t have their evil counterparts.)

For the past five months, however, I’ve been given another reason to dislike birds:

They’re, uh, kinda dumb. This one in particular.

Since late fall, this cardinal has been hurling himself against the windows on the west side of our house, presumably in an effort to oust his reflection from the territory. Jonno taped some photos of Tyra Banks to the window in the bedroom, so he kinda avoids that one now, but he shows no sign of giving up on the others.

The fun starts around 7:30am and goes ’till about 11am, which is probably when the sun gets high enough in the sky to change the bird’s reflection in the window. You’d think he might get the picture by now, but no dice.

Any suggestions? We’ve run out of Tyra photos and patience.

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Easter / Evil

I’m not a fan of Easter. If you ask me, the very premise seems flimsy. So, what–Jeebus celebrates his birthday on the same day every year, but the date of his death is a little fuzzy? Not convincing, even to a ten year old.

Then there’s the church service–which I no longer attend, but as a kid, it was pure torture: a long sermon endured in very dressy clothes, followed by an awkward formal dinner. My brothers and I were allegedly compensated for this discomfort by an abundance of candy treats, but since I don’t have much of a sweet tooth, and I care even less for chocolate, I always felt pretty cheated.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, Jonno and I met Sunday, who told us about Papas and the impossibly delectable chocolate Easter eggs they make. When she returned home, she sent a care package, sure that I would see things her way. Even if I continued to loathe Easter, I could enjoy the metaphorical fruits of the holiday.

Well, she was right. The eggs are very good. However, let’s check the photo and do some math:

  • There are 24 servings in each box of eggs; and,
  • there are 6 eggs per box; therefore,
  • each egg represents 4 servings; and therefore,
  • each egg contains 560 calories, not to mention 300 bejillion grams of sugar, fat, and other crap.

And on top of everything, one of the six eggs contains something called “Opera Cream”. Hello, I’m gay? How can I not eat that? How can I not lust for such evil, tasty, goopy goodness? And most importantly, how can I fit into a one-piece in just a few weeks?

That said, you gotta admit the bunny mascot’s totally hot.

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In case you missed it (because I sure did): Garfield Minus Garfield

Who would have guessed that when you remove Garfield from the Garfield comic strips, the result is an even better comic about schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, and the empty desperation of modern life? Friends, meet Jon Arbuckle. Let’s laugh and learn with him on a journey deep into the tortured mind of an isolated young everyman as he fights a losing battle against loneliness in a quiet American suburb.

Garfield Minus Garfield

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A Jefferson Parish man tried to commit suicide Thursday morning by jumping off the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway but was rescued by the Coast Guard, authorities said….

The man, whose name was not released, apparently parked his car in the first crossover on the northbound bridge about 8:10 a.m., got out and jumped over the side, Causeway Police Lt. Curt Franz said. A maintenance worker saw the man jump off the crossover, which is about 15 to 20 feet above the water, and called police….

Police tried to rescue the man by throwing him a life ring, but he twice evaded the flotation device and swam about 300 yards away from the bridge through 2-foot chop, Franz said.

NOLA.com

Dear Unnamed Suicidal Person:

As an environmentally conscious citizen, I appreciate your desire to reduce the world’s population. Clearly, overcrowding is an area of eco-concern in which one person really can make a difference.

However, in reviewing your case, I think I have identified several issues you ought to resolve before taking one for the Gipper again. Trust me: I’m a consultant. I know what I’m talking about.

1. Choose a different time of day: The sun is a cruel and mercurial mistress. In California, she provides solar power for homes, but in Florida she causes skin cancer. Here in Louisiana, she provides light to see, but in doing so, she also encourages complete strangers to get all up in your business–and by “strangers” I mean pesky Causeway maintenance workers. I’d recommend carrying out your plan at 2am. Just to be on the safe side, do it on a night with no moon. April 5 and 6 look great, fyi.

2. Choose a higher jumping-off point: I mean, let’s face it: 15 or 20 feet is basically the high dive at most swimming pools. Increasing the distance between you and the water will increase your chances for success–and as an added bonus, you’ll have a far more scenic view of the world you’re leaving behind. Consider using the Crescent City Connection, or the Huey P. Long, or even the Luling bridge in St. Charles Parish. South Louisiana has a longstanding love affair with bridges and is chock-full of possibilities! However, if those options seem daunting, you could also just look around your house for items to lift you higher off the Causeway deck. That 12-foot ladder gathering dust in the garage will nearly double your odds!

3. Lose your ability to swim: That way, even if you survive the drop, you’re still in good shape. It may seem difficult, but people unlearn how to swim all the time. Try watching another person drown; in the movies, that always causes some kind of mental block that does the trick. At the very least you should stop being such a strong swimmer. Swimming 300 feet in a two-foot chop kinda puts you in Aquaman territory. Ease up on that.

4. Consider other options: If you’re unable to carry out my first three suggestions but remain committed to the idea of jumping, try landing on your stomach; a good, hard belly-flop always stunned us when we were kids. Or eat a very large meal before jumping–possibly an anvil, or several pounds of cement. And although you’re clearly attracted to the water, don’t overlook the appeal of office towers and the sidewalks below them. Believe it or not, they have a far better track record of population reduction than bridges and water.

Anyway, I hope you’ve enjoyed this food for thought. I wish you all the best for the future. And if your first attempt was just a vain cry for help, and if it effects some kind of longed-for reconciliation between you and your teenage bride, don’t worry: you can always come back to this project later, after she runs off with the bouncer at the strip club she’s working. It’s never too late!

Warmly,

Richard

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Wisdom from the Stars

[Judy] Greer [of ABC’s new sitcom, Miss Guided] said people are starting to recognize her on the street, and although she likes the attention, there’s a downside.

“I guess I get why you have to wear makeup a lot, like when you leave your house,” she said.

CNN

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Wait, wait, wait: New York’s hot new governor has been in office for less than a day, and he’s already admitting to extramarital affairs? And his wife is, too? And they’re both, like, “Whatever, bitches, get the hell out of our bedroom!”?

All I have to say is…hell, yes. Props to David and Michelle for keeping it real. Maybe others will follow their example and drop the ridiculous “Elected officials are perfect” front.

Are you getting nervous, Ken Starr? Probably not, but it’s a nice thought.

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Dear Irish People in the Parade That Is Passing by My House:

You are very loud. WHY ARE YOU SO LOUD?

What’s up with this music blasting from your green go-karts? I mean, yes, “You Shook Me All Night Long” is a good party tune, and AC/DC’s home turf of Australia is a land of outcasts, kinda like Ireland, but tell me: who, exactly, shook you all night long? Was it St. Patrick? ‘Cause dude, St. Patrick’s a dude! Which makes you sorta gay. Which means that your refusal to let me march in your parade is more than a little ironical, gaymo.

And now “Eight Days a Week”? Need I remind you that the Beatles are from Liverpool? That’s in ENGLAND. In case you forgot, England is, like, your sworn enemy or something. And isn’t that song about working hard and stuff? I thought you all were supposed to be lazy. Swing and a miss, ladies.

Okay, you’ve redeemed yourselves: I can hear strains of “Oh, Mickey” from down the block. I’d love to think you planned that–“owning the racial slur” and all–but I’m guessing someone just thought it was good parade music. Or maybe Toni Basil is really revered over there, like la Hasselhoff.

Hold up. “Car Wash”? Now you’ve totally lost me. You make the baby Bono cry.

Seriously: pipe down.

xo/Richard

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It’s official: my sister is now a professional director, and to celebrate, she’s released a kickin’ new video. Unlike her other stuff, this one isn’t really a music video, but more of an historical piece. There’s a story and a moral and everything. Think of it as Schoolhouse Rock, updated for today’s aggro teens.

To quote from Tiff:

I am so very proud to present my new work: The Black Fairy. This project means more to me than any other thus far, as it is the story of my ancestor whose name literally translated into “Black Fairy”. His name was Dubsith Shaw, pronounced Dushay (don’t ask me, it’s Gaelic)….

My mother is a professional genealogist…and she has our family traced back to the 1500s. Back in the 1980s she went to Jura to meet some distant cousins, and it was there she discovered the story of the first known Dubsith Shaw who was called the Black Fairy. He was involved in a very famous highland battle called the Battle of Traigh Ghruineard in 1598.

Once I heard this story I was so excited. I always felt a bit witchy, so to know I am descended from a black fairy, well it made sense! It’s one of those stories I would retell after a few drinks at dinner parties, and for over 20 years I have toyed with the idea of how to make it come to life.

I don’t want to give too much away, but it involves dwarfs, devils, witchcraft and Queen Elizabeth the first!

WATCH THE BLACK FAIRY

Which is of course to say that I am descended from the Black Fairy, too. (Hold the wisecracks, smartass.) This adoption story gets weirder and weirder, n’est-ce pas?

In other news: yes, that’s a redesign you see. Apparently I have too much time on my hands.

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37 Things I Am Not

a mind reader

your mother

one of your fans, mother

your slave

your personal chauffeur

your one-man tech support staff

your therapist

Woman

The Way

curious yellow

an island

chopped liver

an animal

a crook

an alcoholic

ein Berliner

the cheese

legend

Sam

a doctor

someone who plays a doctor on TV

a model

a graduate of the Barbizon School

thin and gorgeous

too rich or too thin

a door

a window

well-rested

Superman

Ed McMahon

Rue McClanahan

a drama queen

a drama magnet

someone who spends time around drama queen magnets

the center of the universe

Marie of Roumania

the boss of you