“I will tell you, the contrast between when I was last here and today is pretty dramatic,” Bush said. “From when I first came here to today, New Orleans is reminding me of the city I used to visit.”

….

“It’s a heck of a place to bring your family,” said Bush, seated before a colorful mural depicting jazz musicians, a river boat, masked Mardi Gras revelers and crawfish. “It’s a great place to find some of the greatest food in the world and it’s a heck of a lot of fun,” he said.

— WWLTV.com

The word “heck” has never cut it in my book. It’s wussy. It’s weak. It’s what grandmothers say when they’d rather use “hell” or “goddamn” or the good ol’ F-bomb, but they know it’ll get back to Pastor Kennedy if they do. It’s a hollow substitution for something more emphatic.

As such, “heck” is also non-committal. During that fateful first week of September, when Bush fils said, “Brownie, you’re doing one heck of a job,” the subtext went something like, “You can’t even roll up your freakin’ sleeves, can you?” And yesterday, anyone with half a brain could see that Bush was really saying, “I’m sure as hell glad I don’t have to live in all this crap. Y’all are screwed.” Perhaps W might’ve felt differently back when he “used to visit”–back when he was down with booze and dope–but now that he’s found Jeebus, he’s all Dollywood-or-Bust. (Yes, pun intended. If Ms. Parton doesn’t already have bumper stickers made, I’ve got dibs.)

It all reminds me of that Simpsons episode where Mr. Burns is running for governator and goes to dinner at the Simpson’s house and Marge serves the much-publicized Blinky the Three-Eyed Fish and Burns tries to make it seem like Blinky’s exactly the sort of fish he’d have chosen to eat anyway but then has to spit it out ’cause it tastes so revolting….

(Officious-sounding orchestral blasts accompany a fast-cut montage of high-profile news images.)

VOICEOVER: Tonight on 360… Texans in New Orleans: Has someone been messing with their DNA? Or are they just a bunch of ‘tards?

(Camera rolls in, pans across to focus on Anderson Cooper, the show’s immaculately dressed, superfoxy host.)

ANDERSON: Good evening and thank you for joining me on 360. I’m Anderson Cooper, and tonight, my guests are Bubba Ray Johnston and his wife, Peaches–both native Texans. Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Johnston.

BUBBA: (Staring blankly at Camera 1. Quietly.) …We on TV now?

ANDERSON: Yes, Mr. Johnston, you’re on TV.

PEACHES: (Lumbering up from her seat and ambling toward Camera 2) Hey, mama! I’m wearing that bra you done sent me last week! Don’t it look good? (Peaches begins to lift her muumuu. Stage manager lurches forward, wrestling Peaches back into her seat.)

ANDERSON: So, Bubba, tell me: what’s wrong with you people?

BUBBA: (Still staring at Camera 1) Huh?

ANDERSON: New Orleanians are wondering: are you all illiterate?

BUBBA: (Snapping out of it) I’ll have you know that I am a proud citizen of the US of A, and I got the farm license to prove it!

ANDERSON: (Sighing as gently as possible) I mean, can you people read?

PEACHES: Of course we can read–’till them menus down to the Dairy Queen start a-talkin’ at us, anyway! Then all bets is off!

ANDERSON: It’s just that, you’ve impressed the evacuees housed in Houston and elsewhere with your clean streets and strong public schools, but in New Orleans, you come across as a bunch of clueless, illiterate drunkards.

BUBBA: What you talkin’ ’bout, Andy?

ANDERSON: Actually, I prefer “Anderson.”

BUBBA: Well la-di-da! I bet you wear shoes in the house, too, don’t you, Mr. Snooty? Well, in Texas we don’t stand on ceremony, do we Peach-Pit?

PEACHES: No ma’am, we do not. (Moving once more toward Camera 2) Hey, mama, check out the new tattoo I done got yesterday from some little queer down in Greenwich Village! (Again the stage manager intervenes, and again Peaches is restrained, but not before flashing several million Americans and many foreigners 80% of her left breast.)

ANDERSON: So, you’re saying that you can read one-way signs?

BUBBA: Sure as hell can! You think I’d go both ways? (Laughs heartily at his own joke) The Peach may swing, but I’m all man! Ain’t that right, Peachy?

PEACH: You said it, Bubba-licious! (Places her hand on Bubba’s crotch.)

ANDERSON: So you understand, then, that on many streets in New Orleans, traffic can only go in one direction?

BUBBA: …Aw, go on! You’re just pullin’ my leg…. You almost had me there!

ANDERSON: And after weeks of driving through the French Quarter, you understand that you don’t actually have to stop at every intersection, because some intersections only have stop signs for the opposing traffic?

PEACHES: I never heard of such in all my born days!

ANDERSON: And of course you’re well aware that many of those living in New Orleans now are full-time residents with full-time jobs, and that by driving slowly and gawking at homeless people and making lewd overtures to secretaries on the sidewalk, you’re preventing hard-working locals from arriving at their places of employment in a timely manner?

BUBBA: Hell, Andy, now I know you’re puttin’ me on! Ain’t nobody works in New Orleans ‘cept them strippers on Bourbon Street and that there Hispanic who cleans our room down to the hotel–what’s her name, hon?

PEACHES: I think it’s Qwang-Li.

BUBBA: Well, that don’t sound Mexican, now does it? Maybe she’s one a them octoroons we done heard so much about….

ANDERSON: And there you have it, America: the ever-shrinking gene pool of Texas. (Muttering) Explains a lot about the commander-in-chief, doesn’t it?

BUBBA: I heard that–

ANDERSON: Well, that’s all the time we have for this segment of 360. Join me after the break for an hourlong special investigative report on New Orleans bloggers: how they stay so sexy amid the mold and debris, and how I selected one by the name of Richard to screw me into the middle of next week.

(Officious-sounding orchestral blasts again, accompanied by the same fast-cut montage of high-profile news images. Fade to commercial in 3, 2, 1….)

Taken Thursday, January 5, 2006

For the poor souls that don’t recognize it (or can’t tell what it is thanks to my craptacular camera phone), this, ladies and gentlemen, is the first sign of Mardi Gras. The pile of metal at the bottom of the photo? That’s scaffolding for the reviewing stands about to be erected in front of Gallier Hall, which is where the Mayor watches each parade and toasts its king. I can’t imagine what all the FEMA workers eating lunch at the pan-Asian restaurant on the corner thought when they saw me do a little butt-dance in the middle of St. Charles Avenue, but I just couldn’t help myself.

Four Things Currently on My Mind

1. You know you’re jaded when you stumble across this so totally not-safe-for-work pic and the first thing you notice is that the guy owns not one, but two Thomas Pynchon novels, a judicial potboiler by John Grisham, Paul Krugman‘s latest cultural/political conversation-starter, and Bill Clinton’s autobiography, and you start to think, “Well, okay, this guy’s clearly a leftie, possibly an intellectual, possibly even a trial lawyer–I mean, you can’t afford that many hardcover editions on a teacher’s salary–and given the subtly tasteful carpeting and the solid-wood Queen Anne sidechair on which he’s sitting, he might even be gay” instead of addressing the more obvious issue: what the hell happened in this guy’s childhood?

2. That carrot-topped model on Project Runway? The one with the cheekbones and eyes of my friend Lesley? The one who I kinda loathe when she’s in bangs ’cause it looks like she’s wearing a fright wig straight from the Wal-Mart Halloween leftover aisle? The one who, at first sight, reminded me Aeon Flux’s red-haired counterpart in the short feature “War”? Well, it turns out, she’s from here. Odd and totally random, I know.

3. While this article on JT Leroy is certainly interesting and intriguing, it’s still not enough to get me to finish one of his novels. There, I’ve said it. Does that make me a bad person?

4. When did I become so goddamn boring?

WORDS TO LIVE BY

Very few people possess true artistic ability. It is therefore both unseemly and unproductive to irritate the situation by making an effort. If you have a burning, restless urge to write or paint, simply eat something sweet and the feeling will pass.

—Fran Lebowitz

BE IT RESOLVED

So, believe it or not, I did make some New Year’s resolutions–and waddaya know, we’re three days into 2006, and I’ve managed to keep all of them so far:

• I resolve to stop saying “I told you so,” even though I did and I was right.

• I resolve to continue belittling people from New Orleans who talk about “being wounded” and “needing to heal.” Did the goddamn pilgrims need aromatherapy? Did Robert Scott? Did the Donner Party? Get to work, ya pussies….

• I resolve to play more videogames and spend less time lamenting the fact that I’m never going to finish that novel.

But enough about me. Following the example of the very wise and pleasantly bitchy Bob Morris, I’ve also come up with a list of resolutions just for you. They may not all be easy to follow, but adherence will make you healthier, wealthier, more attractive, and an all-around better person:

• You resolve to stop calling me and saying, “Hey, I see from my caller ID that you rang. What’s up?” If it wasn’t important enough for me to leave a voicemail, it’s not important enough for you to call me back.

• You resolve to stop being so needy. All you anti-caffeine, anti-nicotine, anti-alcohol motherfuckers have got to lighten up.

• You resolve to stop sending me ecards. It’s 2006, people. There’s no excuse.

• If you’re in New Orleans, you resolve to be doubly wacky and eccentric. Until everyone gets back to town, you and I are going to have to make up for the lunatic fringe that’s missing. You may even have to wear a tutu to work on alternate Fridays–I’m working hard to avoid that, but I thought you ought to know it’s a possibility.

• If you’re not from New Orleans, you will come soon and see things for yourself and spend some cash and have a better time here than you’ve had before, mostly ’cause the crowds are smaller and you can enjoy yourself. You will then tell two people, who will then tell two people, and so on, and so on, and so on.

• If you’re a contractor from out-of-state making moolah off of the rebuilding of New Orleans, you resolve to (a) tip better and (b) drive the right way down our numerous one-way streets. I don’t care what language you speak: there’s an arrow on the sign, bitch. Surely even you can follow an arrow.

• If you’re a newscaster, you resolve never again to refer to New Orleans as the Big Easy or–worst of all–N’awlins. Refusal to adhere to this particular resolution can result in serious injury or death.

Balls and All

So, this morning I got my first ball invitation of the 2006 Carnival season. That’s not really surprising in itself: my partner and I have been on this particular krewe’s list for a while, and the krewe captain is generally good about sending invites early. And of course, Carnival does start in less than a week….

No, what’s striking is that the invitation came by email, which has never happened before. I’m sure some people will turn up their noses at the innovation–and I’ll admit, there is something rather sweet and charming about receiving invitations through the US Postal Service–but given the fact that New Orleans’ mail carriers are still delivering stuff from August, it’s probably a smart idea. I just thank goddess that the invitation came in the form of a jpeg version of the card, which made it look kinda like the real thing. Sending out an Evite to a Carnival ball would’ve crossed some kinda line.

Regardless of how the invitation was sent, the important part is that New Orleans will be celebrating Carnival in 2006. Yeah, it’s been said countless times in the news and on the street, but it didn’t really hit home with me until I saw the evidence first-hand. It’s happening–it’s really, really happening, Sally Field. Anyone wanna go corset shopping?

So, I’m back. From outer space. Well, insofar as Mississippi counts as outer space. (It has its moments, believe me.)

Alas, nothing terribly exciting to report. Jonno attended his first-ever Christmas dinner with my family. He did remarkably well, considering that Jonno was raised Catholic, my family is hardcore Southern Baptist (though they’re thorougly accepting of us), and, as fate would have it, he’d just begun reading Sam Harris’ scathing indictment of religion, The End of Faith. Luckily, he was outside having a smoke when dad rounded everybody up, instructed us to hold hands, and said grace for nearly five minutes. Seriously, it was, like, almost Pentacostal.

But while I got plenty of face-time with dad and my brothers, unfortunately I didn’t get to see my biological mother and my sister. I’d planned to drive over and see them in Columbus, but stuff got in the way–notably my job, which doesn’t seem to let up, even when our offices are closed…. I did, however, have lunch with my adoptive mother and her sister and a first cousin I haven’t seen in 25 years. And lemme just say, I’m glad I didn’t have the chance to inherit their genes: the men in that family have a tendency to go all Manson-y after 30.

That’s not to say I have no news. I do, indeed:

1. For starters, the Catholic church looks like it’s going to put the kibosh on Limbo. As a heathen Protestant, that doesn’t mean much to me, of course, but it does make it perfectly clear that Pope Whathisname and all the members of his little Red Hat Club can, in fact, change doctrine if they damn well please. When they’re going to come to their senses and allow priests to marry and such, however, is another matter altogether….

2. There was an article on CNN.com about disaster tourism–which had nothing whatsoever to do with the coming bus tours of New Orleans’ levee breaches–but there was a good quote in it nonetheless. In defending his company’s mining practices in Appalachia–practices which many locals dislike because they’re destructive to the environment and negatively impact the mountainous skyline–a spokesman said, “To imply that we’re flattening Appalachia is so untrue…. We’re creating level land for Appalachia.” I’m so stealing that line for my next show: To the Devil, a Coal Miner’s Daughter, starring the cast of Snuffy Smith.

3. Sitting in front of the TV last night, lamenting the fact that Project Runway is on hiatus ’till next week (though Diana’s blog is kinda fun), we saw a commercial for this DVD, which we thought was surely a joke. Alas, a joke it ain’t. Apparently John Walsh has gone off the deep end. If anyone has clips, send ’em my way–I’ve got a party coming up, and it looks like the perfect background eyecandy.

4. Speaking of Pentecostals, apparently Bernice and her bob are surefire signs that Judgement Day is just around the corner. Better get your shopping done now, before it’s too late!

LIMERICKS FOR CHRISTMAS
New Orleans, 2005

The Ladies of 70118

have been politically minded of late,

petitioning holiday hordes

for one levee board

as we buy gifts for relatives we hate.

Arnaud’s has reopened its doors–

So have Lilette, Dick and Jenny’s, and more–

but Commander’s remains clad

in locks, which is sad,

’cause that bread pudding shit is to die for.

Our postman is walking his beat,

and garbage trucks now roam the streets,

the power stays on,

and the curfew is gone…

a new mayor, and life would be complete.

Dear Daniel Franco:

We hardly knew ye. Again.

Your appearance on the premiere season of Project Runway was so brief, I can’t even remember it. You were the first designer cut, but you redeemed yourself during the reunion episode when you called Tim Gunn a “hot bitch.” Truer words were never spoken.

Then, lo and behold, you showed up for season two. Whether your return was due to moxie on your part or shrewd underdog casting by the show’s producers, we all loved it, and we were rooting for you.

Until the lingerie challenge.

True, that Santino guy is a total schmuck, and his stuff looked unfinished, but you…I mean, seriously, what were you thinking? Did you go rummaging through Rue McClanahan’s armoire for inspiration? Those three pieces weren’t lingerie, they were foundation garments.

But never mind that momentary lapse in judgement. Design concepts aside, you’ll be happy to know that a room full of fags and one sassy lady screamed in horrified unison when Heidi Klum called your name hier soir. You looked so sad, so disappointed–but you pulled it together (not like that stupid, annoying Andraé) and walked away with your head held high. That’s gotta count for something. Not, like, a job or a fashion spread in Elle magazine, but something, surely….

Anyway, the gang and I want you to know that if you ever need a change of scenery, there’s a room down here with your name on it. New Orleans may be a bit small right now, but we’re growing–and we’re certainly in the national spotlight. Plus, Carnival’s just around the corner: you could probably score some ducats making last-minute ball gowns and such….

Wherever life takes you, Daniel, just know that, like Sandy Bernhard once said, as long as I have a face, your chubby little ass will always have a place to sit.

All our love from the New Atlantis,

Richard