Ladies and gentlemen, you may never see such words again in print:

Acting on the advice of her appointed state poet laureate, Gov. Kathleen Blanco announced Tuesday she has rejected a Prairieville poet’s literary offering as the state’s official poem….

more at NOLA.com

So, not only has a work of literature been quite literally vetoed, but an elected official has actually conversed with a poet laureate. Those of you in hell might wanna grab a sweater and some snow boots.

In case you missed it, here’s the poem in question, which was approved by this slim volume of legislation put forward by Republican Mert Smiley of St. Amant:

I love my Louisiana

She’s so colorful in her history

so majestic in her pride

with beauty unsurpassed

like any other of its kind.

She seems to be like a soulful mate

that stands here by my side.

This brings me special confidence

to know that she is mine.

I love my Louisiana

with all her charms and queenly ways,

yet she blushes when in bloom.

God’s sunshine surely kissed her

for He blessed her cup so full.

You can even feel her radiance

on her rainy gloomy days

for you know that on the morrow

the sun will clear the haze.

I love my Louisiana.

I propose this toast toward her

with my meager pen in hand.

I somehow feel so primitive

to her majesty so grand.

—James Ellis Richardson

I almost forgot: I wrote another thoroughly disjointed, non-porn piece for a gay porn website…

In the great battle of good and evil that makes our tiny, rapidly warming world go round, there have been a handful of truly remarkable rivalries: Moses vs. Pharaoh, Bette vs. Joan. Me vs. a restraining order from Jason Statham’s lawyer.

But my favorite battle royal at the moment is the one quietly taking place between Julia Roberts and Parker Posey….

more after the NSFW jump to Nightcharm.com

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Vodou priestess Sallie Ann Glassman is at it again with her annual hurricane ceremony. And as long as her gris-gris keeps that Category 5 at bay, more power to her.

Maybe you should consider attending this year–after all, if you’d taken my advice last year, not only would you have been witness to a rather nifty historical event, but you might also have ended up in the indie film/documentary Hexing a Hurricane, which is set for screenings in New Orleans this Thursday and in Los Angeles next week. Don’t say I didn’t tell you so.

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HURRICANE CEREMONY IX

What: A public prayer ceremony dedicated to Our Lady of Prompt Succor (who has intervened historically on New Orleans’
behalf when a hurricane has threatened) and Ezili Danto (also associated with Mater Salvatoris and Mount Carmel) to ask for protection from hurricanes

When: Saturday, July 15th, 7:00pm

Where: Achade Meadows Peristyle, 3319 Rosalie Alley (off of Rampart, between Piety and Desire)

What to bring in offering:

• For Our Lady: flowers, statues, candles, religious pictures, jewelry

• For Danto: Barbancourt Rum, Florida Water, candles, daggers, dolls dressed in red and blue with gold trim or calico prints, spicy black beans, peasant cakes, unfiltered cigarettes, fried pork, white creme de menthe

What to wear: Please dress in white (the color of purity), with red head scarves, or all red (the color of Petwo rites)

Found floating face-down in a mud puddle in the parking lot of a Baton Rouge hospital:

Which begs several questions–some intriguing, some not:

1. How did this end up on the ground? Did the hospital orderly who registered the inmate use Brand X elastic to attach the badge? Was there a struggle in the parking lot that sent bystanders scurrying for cover amongst the azaleas? Or was it lost in a quick change by the inmate, who escaped his captors via the time-honored route of the laundry chute?

2. Who’s the guy in the photo? According to the badge, it looks like Jefferson is the guy’s last name, but on the card held up in the photo, it’s Tate. And people wonder how folks get lost in the system. Word to the wise: when being arrested in Louisiana, be in possession of only one last name.

3. Who’s holding the sign? I thought criminals held up their own nameplates, but this one’s clearly being held by the photographer/deputy. Was there no one else around to help the poor schmuck with the camera? With the photog’s own hand in the shot, it simply reeks of spring break shenanigans on the beach–all that’s missing is a Sharpie, some cheap shaving cream, and a bowl of warm water.

Vladimir Putin’s decision to stop a small boy as he walked through the Kremlin and kiss his stomach was prompted by a desire to “touch him like a kitten,” the Russian president said on Thursday….

“People came up and I began talking to them, among them this little boy. He seemed to me very independent, sure of himself and at the same time defenseless so to speak, an innocent boy and a very nice little boy,” Putin told the Web cast.

“I tell you honestly, I just wanted to touch him like a kitten and that desire of mine ended in that act.”

— CNN

Saturday before last, I was sitting in my living room, checking email and watching TV because I have no social life to speak of. And I looked up from my computer to glimpse Lisa Ling introducing a National Geographic Explorer special called “Drowning New Orleans”. And outside I could hear thunder rumbling and I could see from my window that dark storm clouds were rolling in and the wind was picking up, which meant, of course, that there was a pretty good chance of losing power at any second, which always sets me a bit on edge and scares the crap out of my dogs (sometimes literally). So I changed the channel. I figure, I don’t need another skinnypretty newsbitch telling me about the damage New Orleans suffered, since I’m clearly living with it every goddamn day.

I picked up the remote and start flipping through the pre-sets My Gay Lover entered ages ago, and when I hit the Fine Living Channel (I did mention that my lover is gay, right?), the Goddess of Irony reared her curious head, for there before me was a shot of Baronne Street, at the corner of Julia, and the narrator of the program in progress was talking about the Materne’s and their dream of opening up a swanky new Vespa dealership in downtown New Orleans. And of course, I knew that the dealership opened after Katrina, so I thought, “Finally: a positive story about the perseverance of New Orleanians in the face of storm damage and federal neglect and a bald-ass do-nothing in city hall (the one building, FYI, I would’ve loved to see destroyed by the storm, but no dice).”

Then, during a break, they announced the next show that evening would feature Chris Isaak giving a guided tour of JazzFest. He was looking right at the camera, talking very earnestly about the importance of New Orleans and the will of its citizens to survive, and I thought, “Dammit, we should send the editorial staff of National Geographic a year’s supply of Prozac. Or pot. Yeah, pot for the tree-hugging hippies….”

Now, in the end, neither program was as satisfying as I wanted it to be. The post-Katrina summary in the Vespa story felt especially tacked-on: basically, while the end credits were rolling, the narrator said, “Oh, by the way, the dealership opened in New Orleans in March.”

Still, it was nice to see some positive news about New Orleans in the national media. I mean, I don’t know about the rest of you who live here, but from where I sit, things are picking up steam. I’m seeing renovations and repairs in almost every quarter of the city, I see more and more FEMA trailers parked outside homes, businesses are re-opening (including the home of the best ice cream anywhere in the known world). Stella and the rest of us are slowly getting our groove back. So why doesn’t the goddamn New York Times do something on that? Or CNN? I hate to agree with the Commander-in-Chief, but sometimes it seems like the media has an aversion to good news.

Andy Cooper: the ball’s in your court….

Either I’ve been very good or very bad. Or the moon is in the seventh house. Or something.

I say that because in the past 24 hours, I have been offered or invited to apply for three–count ’em, three–different positions. Which is odd because no one’s ever coming knocking at my door like that. Ever.

I have officially been headhunted.

How this happened, I don’t know. I mean, yeah, I understand there’s a labor shortage, but honestly, I can think of a dozen people in New Orleans who would feel right at home in these jobs–people who, unlike me, lost their jobs in the wake of the storm. Not that I’m complaining, mind you–hell, I’m flattered–but it seems more than a little weird. Did someone replace the “KICK ME” sign that’s usually on my back with one that reads “READY TO MOVE ON”?

In the wake of today’s flooding, part of me wants to express sympathy for the citizens of Washington, DC. I mean, apart from the politicians, they’re not a terribly well-to-do bunch.

Another part of me wants to call up FEMA headquarters and scream, “How’s it feel NOW, bitch? Oh, you’re wet? Oh, your building’s flooded? Oh, your life’s work is ruined? Well, sugar, you just sit tight–I’m sure someone from the Federal Emergency Management Agency is gonna be right there to make things all better…”

I know it looks like I’ve been slacking off this week, but in fact, I’ve been working my wee fingers to the bone, penning ingratiating speeches for colleagues and spirited semi-defenses of trashy pop tartlettes for gay porn websites. See?

I’m taking tonight off, though. My friends over at Press Street have just published a book featuring the work of many additional friends–and a couple of noteworthy enemies–and tonight, they’re gonna party like it’s $19.99. (Though actually it’s only $15, with proceeds to benefit the group’s literacy project.) Join us in the heart of the Upper 9th Ward for food, beer, sangria, and, of course, readings. And cheapskates, you’ll be happy to know it’s all free.

Last September, Andrei Codrescu made some pronouncements in the New York Times–dire, short-sighted, self-pitying pronouncements that I found to be in poor taste. Offensive, even. In fact, change “in poor taste” to “grounds for a public ass-whipping in front of St. Louis Cathedral,” and you’ll come close to knowing how I felt about the whole thing.

Nine months later, Andrei seems to have changed his tune. No more gloom and doom, no more despair. Maybe he’s a little wistful, but that’s about all. It’s not a complete retraction of his previous statements, but clearly the man understands that the New Orleans he loved and cherished before the storm is alive and kicking today–though it’s admittedly a little bruised, and the kicks aren’t quite so high.

Well, lemme tell ya: that pisses me off. I mean, I may be a theatre fag, but if there’s one thing I hate, it’s a drama queen–especially a drama queen with an audience. I mean, to give an interview to the Times in which he basically says “It’s all over,” and now suddenly he’s all, like, “Oh, we’re gonna be okay after all”? I’m sorry, but at the very least, that’s irresponsible, and at worst…well, I already mentioned the bit about smacking him around, didn’t I?

Ironically, Andrei’s from Romania, the country that gave the world Transylvania and Vlad the Impaler. Frankly, I’d expect him to be a bit more sanguine.