District Judge Monty L. Doggett issued arrest warrants when he was too drunk to read them, was sometimes so intoxicated that court had to be canceled, and once had to be carried out of his courtroom by deputies, the Louisiana Supreme Court said in its unanimous ruling Tuesday….

Doggett claimed that since he was re-elected after his alcoholism was made public, his constituents were aware of his problem and did not care.

— New Orleans Business.com

Okay, how much do you love my sister and her funky DIY Flash animation skills?

Dear goddess,

Let me begin by thanking you for the many things you have given me–including, but not limited to, a healthy level of melanin, a staunchly medium frame, and eyes that elicit comments like, “Well, those are interesting.” You done real good.

That said, I’d like to ask you to demonstrate your kindness once again by preventing this hideous campaign from ever catching on in middle America. Please use your supernatural powers to make the citizens of this great nation understand that these ads are dated, derivative, and very, very unfunny. (It may help to remind them of Right Said Fred.) Please also use those same powers to remaind a certain creative director about a campaign for a very short-lived sandwich called the McLean, which taught us that ads which demean or belittle a product are bad for business–unless, of course, you’re in the business of losing clients. In sum, we (meaning “I”) want to see this campaign crashing, burning, drawn, quartered, and spat upon by 99 Croatian war widows.

Warmly,

Richard

P.S. Has anyone told you that your hair’s looking especially good these days? It’s true. Very flattering…

Teaching Alanis a lesson in irony

Okay, so not only has this vaguely hagged-out Sandi Patti-in-waiting officially, ludicrously expressed her sympathy for the unfathomably successful/wealthy/surgically enhanced Ms. Spears and her natural urges (my, but those grapes are sour), but CNN didn’t even bother to use her photo. It must suck to have a publicist who (a) makes you come off as a bitter prude and then (b) can’t even get your damn photo on the news…

Ooh, I’m sounding a little bitter myself, n’est-ce pas? Perhaps I’ll level out when I’m able to catch up on sleep next week. Until then, do us both a favor and stay outta my way.

Things I Found

I’m still busy, and I’ll continue to be so through the 20th. It’s that time of year, I guess: between work and theatre and houseguests, it’s nonstop.

In the meantime:

• Order yourself a copy of the George W. Bush Coloring Book.
• Learn more about an eBay conflamma involving a persistent New Orleanian and 480 drill team uniforms [courtesy of tyler].
• Make plans to come see our one-night-only galafundraisereventspectacular a week from Tuesday.

AN UPDATE

• I’m alive.
• I’m crazy busy.
• I haven’t called either of my mothers or planned Mother’s Day gifts.
• I still like neckties, but I hate wearing them.
• I’ve been eating absurd amounts of ice cream.
• My garden looks great for now, but we’ll see how things go when it gets hot.
• I’ve overcome my fear of hydrangeas (so snaky) and my aversion to roses (so needy), but I still loathe annuals (what’s the point?).
• I’m taking my first-ever tai chi lesson tomorrow, and I’m really excited.
• I’m fascinated by this gay hockey story, but it really confuses me.
• I seriously misunderstood the title of this article.
• The boyfriend and I recently celebrated seven years together.
• Some of you thought I was joking about the Hello Kitty Vibrator. I wasn’t. [Thanks for the back-up, pk.]
• As Catherine Deneuve once said, “I love you. I love you all.”

On the whole, I’d have to say I’m proud to tell folks I’m from Louisiana. No, it’s not all peaches and cream, and sure, we have our share of problems, but life can be so good here sometimes…

Then some idiot up in Baton Rouge has to go and propose a ludicrous bit of legislation that makes us all look like morons. I mean, does he understand what the enactment of such a law would do to Coyote Ugly‘s bottom line? (ba-bum-bump)

Obviously, somebody fell asleep at the wheel here, ’cause we all know what should be at the top of that list…

Now, as we stand at the threshold of millennia suffused with jaw-dropping communications technologies, we need to establish a language of cell phones comparable to the lost language of fans. Such a system of somatics could provide clever, discreet ways of arranging booty calls across crowded bars or telling assholes to take a hike. Chewing pensively on the phone’s antenna, for example, quickly flipping it closed, and slipping it into one’s left front pocket could be the equivalent of saying “You disgust me. I’m going to Starbucks for a decaf latte, and I’m not going to tip very well. Steer clear of that powerbottom in the cashmere sweater–she reeks of Issey Miyake.”

Perhaps had such a code already been instituted, Miss Spacey might have avoided la scandale, la publicite.

Yes, folks, it’s The Real Jerri Blank. [Courtesy of the man who’s always got something to saaaaay.]