Do you ever get that feeling–it’s usually on Mondays–that you’re moving too slowly, that your coffee isn’t strong enough, that you’re smoking too much, that for once in your life you should really try eating a balanced breakfast, that you should take a dozen people to the Ginger Man for drinks, that everything’s happening at once?

Really? I don’t.

I am alive.

I am busy. Startlingly busy.

The weather is beautiful. Startlingly beautiful.

Many things are coming together in spectacular ways.

Side note: the show at the CAC was good, even though, in ways, it felt like many other shows I’ve seen there. The shotgun approach to contemporary art–“best new work” sort of events–never manages to convey enough context. And being a good Marxist, I really like context. Still, we got to see these and a couple of these. It could have been considerably worse.

Okay JB, I’m sure your pool’s, like, pretty and all, but I seriously doubt that it’s “full of intrigue“. Unless, of course, there’s a speakeasy located in an air pocket somewhere near the deep end, with a bar run by the ghosts of Mata Hari and Ethyl Rosenberg…. If that’s the case, I wholeheartedly apoologize [sic].

“Full of intrigue.” Another English major turned web designer, apparently.

Truisms for a Friday

1. Writing is fun. Writing for others is less fun. Writing for others under stringent deadlines is the least fun imaginable.

2. Cold, day-old coffee is still coffee.

3. Experimenting with fonts is a great way to waste time when the report’s due in an hour.

4. Despite implications to the contrary, editors of English-language magazines are not always fluent in English.

5. There is never enough time to call everyone back in for another photo shoot.

6. Aging actresses have issues. Ignore them.

7. Fax machines lend a cachet of professionalism to the incompetent (e.g. “I can’t find that press release you sent me. Can you fax over another?”).

8. There comes a point when the artistic and moral satisfaction you receive from a job are outweighed by the realization that it pays shit.

9. Kit-Kat clocks are endlessly entertaining.

10. Postal employees have become nicer now that everyone’s pointing the finger at 10th graders.

11. You are in a constant state of dicking over someone. Get over it.

12. Jokes about Suzanne Somers are almost never funny. Jokes about Suzanne Pleshette are typically hilarious.

Tuesday Recap
Unfortunately, I’ve lost too many brain cells to make it interesting.

A great Fat Tuesday, yesterday–even though it was a little short for me. There was very little costume trauma in the house, and we were all ready to join the Society of St. Anne walking parade when it came by the house at 11:00am.

Things started off cloudy, but by the time we’d gotten just a few blocks down the street, the sun was out, and it stayed out all day. I’ve got the sunburn to prove it. Good thing I worked that Suzie Wong parasol into my outfit–although next year, I gotta manage the accessories a little better. As it was, I felt like a three-dollar whore juggling parasol, handbag, cocktail, and lit cigarette.

After the parade, we wandered over to Josephine‘s house for a little refreshment. She had a huge king cake on hand, cut into slices. Of course, I landed the baby on my first piece. I slipped it discreetly into my bag, and no one was the wiser.

Around 4:00pm I went home to take a little nap and wound up sleeping ’till 11:00pm. Oops. I’d wanted to join my friends for dinner. Oh well.

Going back out wasn’t an option–by that time of night, the energy in Quarter tends to be a little weird. With a full day of drinking and doing drugs, most people cross over by sundown. Folks in bars are simultaneously sloppy and frantic. Not fun. So instead, I read 50 more pages of Cousin Bette and intermittently watched the broadcast of the meeting of Rex and Comus–a sure sign that the end was drawing near.

Unfortunately, none of us brought cameras yesterday. No one wanted to carry one, and none of us had pockets. Our outfits were a little, um, skimpy. Even my purse was skimpy. I had room for a couple of packs of American Spirit, a lighter, cash, and my id. I had to shove the phone down my speedo. (Yes, I set it to “vibrate.”)

Luckily, there were a few people who managed to bust out the Nikons.

Yes, Keith, Mardi Gras is a little difficult to understand if you’re not here. Even some of the newer transplants have trouble getting their heads around its dynamics. But what you see on TV is just the front side of a very complex, very important social event that would require a weeklong miniseries to accurately convey to the rest of the country.

As I’ve said before, New Orleans’ politics are determined by the krewes–which are, in a way, kinda like dozens of individual country clubs, minus the swimming pools and par-fives. Or maybe the fraternity/sorority analogy works better. In any case, I think this article does a pretty good job of explaining it:

Until the late 1960s, there were separate parade routes for whites and blacks. Those no longer exist, although [the Krewe of] Zulu still winds through some traditionally black neighborhoods not visited by many other krewes.

“There are parallel parties going on, but it’s not something where the intent is no whites are welcome or no blacks are welcome,” says Ed Muniz, a captain of the Krewe of Endymion, which was formed 36 years ago and is considered one of the more racially progressive parade clubs.

Edwin Lombard, who became one of the first black members of Endymion when he joined 25 years ago, said the separation may have little to do with skin color. Older clubs consist of blue bloods who have little in common with the middle-class or nouveau riche, he said.

“I have nothing to talk about with anyone in Rex,” Lombard says. “What would we talk about? The cotton market?”

Happy Mardi Gras!

(Pics to follow. Eventually.)

It’s nice to know that, despite the esoteric crap I typically post, some people are dropping by for baser stuff. Case in point: someone just did a Google search for “prison rimjobs” and found me on the first page.

Life is good.

From the coronation of Louis XIV until the time of la Grande Revolution a century and a half later, wit was the comedic form de rigeur in France. In fact, the French–who, to my mind, are typically less anal than many of their European neighbors–were very meticulous when it came to defining types of humor. Wit, for example, was very different from punning, satire, sarcasm, and irony. (The film Ridicule tackles the topic quite well–with the aid of the always-entertaining Fanny Ardant.) What’s most interesting, though, is that the rise in popularity of wit wasn’t a random social trend–it had everything to do with fashion and politics.

Thanks to Louis XIV’s reinvention of Versailles as the center of aristocratic life, noblemen and noblewomen from across the empire suddenly found themselves crammed together into one palace. Whereas before they were free to carry out their political posturing from a distance, now they had to do so face-to-face. Appearance was everything. Not surprisingly, folks–especially court women–went to greater and greater lengths to get noticed by the king.

Wit helped maintain a courtier’s facade of sophistication. On one level, “getting the joke” proved your intellectual prowess. But more importantly, it kept your teeth out of view. While other forms of humor could result in an outright belly-laugh, witticisms evoked little more than a smile. That’s important at a time when toothbrushes were unknown. I mean, really, how can you impress le roi with a checkerboard grin?

Wit’s popularity has come and gone since then. Oscar Wilde had it. So did Dorothy Parker. But with the increased popularity of mass entertainment (e.g. Hollywood) that aims to entertain the lowest common denominator, wit has been on the wane for some time. In fact, these days wit is often suspect; it implies bitterness, world-weariness, effeteness, and debauchery. In films, it’s usually the villains who are witty (e.g. “Scar” in The Lion King and nearly any of James Bond’s nemeses).

So it’s nice to know that despite all that, some people are keeping wit alive.

And So It Begins

(To the tune of “I’m Super” from the South Park: Bigger, Longer, & Uncut Soundtrack)

Verse 1

Streets are closing,

Drunks are dozing,

Porters are hosing down the sidewalks and the loos.

Phi Mus are flashing,

Floats are crashing,

Merchants are cashing in on schlock–now wouldn’t youse?

Chorus

It’s a party–

A Mardi Party!

Our neighbors packed and headed out the door!

Five more nights,

And four more days–

Then things will be just like they were before.

Verse 2

Maskers are throwing,

Tow trucks are towing,

Guys are blowing guys right out there on the street!

Beads are flying,

Drug fiends are buying,

And their pals are trying to get back on their feet.

Final Chorus

It’s a party–

A Mardi Party!

Even the squarest nerd can be a whore!

Five more nights,

And four more days–

Then things will be just like they were before

This awful glut

Of messy queens

And billy-bobs!

Big Splashy Finish

Ooh!

It’s a party–

A Mardi Party!

The Marys down their crank and GHB!

Five more nights,

And four more days–

Then they’ll all be back en route to old DC–back to DC!

<jazz hands>Yeah!</jazz hands>