So–OUCH!

quiet, please. quiet….

man, that was so loud. everything is fucking loud this morning: the air conditioner rattling in the window. the hounds walking on the hardwood floor with their glamour-length nails. the cat licking her belly two rooms away.

the stereolab concert, as you’ve probably guessed, was good.

of course, it was vaguely disappointing, too–in the way that most concerts are. perhaps it’s just me, but i always seem to walk away from concerts thinking, “well, they sounded good, but it was kind of a lot like the album, so maybe i would have had more fun hanging out with some friends in my living room listening to the shit on cd.” you know, if they were like metallica and shit and put on a show it’d be different, but these guys sort of just stood there and sang and said maybe ten words altogether (which i think was them repeating “sank you”–they’re french, ya’ know) so the audience-interaction quotient was pitfully low. left with nothing else to do, i chose to entertain myself by drinking copious amounts of alcohol. i’m such a good southerner.

in the end, though, i don’t think it was the volume of drinking that kicked my ass. it was probably the fact that i mixed my two fave summertime beverages (pernod/rocks/water and absolut/rocks/dirty)–something i was forced to do because the howling wolf doesn’t care to stock pernod with any regularity. oh, and i had a beer, too. and a wee bit of e. (p.s. joe, i never felt shit. but i’m feeling it now. my spine, my poor, poor spine….).

but anyway, i’m alert enough to be typing, no? kiss my butt and call me a trooper. besides, chad arrives today. i can’t let one little bitty b-grade hangover get me down. i gotta make room for the next one….

This is my life. Fetch the gun and put the needle on that Carpenters album–unless, of course, someone else wants to explain our organization and its gajillion programs for me. In 1,000 words or less. With three (non-forged) letters of support. By June 1st.

Begging isn’t pretty.

Omigodomigodomigod: someone please get this motherfucking song (track4) out of my head before i go pigfuckingnuts. No shit, it’s been on repeat play for, like, four weeks and it’s gettin’ old.

P.S. It’s finally here. And like every other pseudo-intellectual faggotini, I’m stoked. Anyone wanna send an early b’day prezzie my way…?

wow. No one–I mean no one–writes quite like this girl. I’m at work and I’m bawling and the people in the office think something awful has happened to my family and I have her to thank. A bad journal entry is worse than chewing broken glass, but a good one, well…. Glad you’re back, Pamie.

Guess what I was doing at 3am. Jukin’? As If. Smokin’ up? Sadly, no. Hey! Get your mind outta the gutter! No, I was making a mental inventory of every single solitary piece of work that’s gotta be done on the house before we can move in. Waa.

So, it’s about 7:30 now, and I’m still going strong. Anyone got a cure for insomnia–other than reading everyone else’s opinion on the matter? Maybe this‘ll get my mind off things…

It being Sunday morning and all–time for the bevy of political roundtable/week-in-review TV shows–how’s about a little commentary to get your day going? For those too lazy to click through, it’s an article by James Gill for the Times-Picayune (our local paper here in NO) that amounts to a sort of “I told you so” dance. See, Harrah’s, the company that owns the only land-based casino in Louisiana, is complaining that their tax rate is too high (after they leapt at the proposal put together by the State Gaming Commission two years ago), and now they want our mean ol’ legislators to give ’em a break. Funny, they don’t seem familiar with the concept of laissez-faire economics.

Of course, like many, many of the New Orleanaise, I’m waiting for the casino’s demise. (Have any of you seen the crappy building they put up at the foot of Canal Street to house the damn thing?) With Harrah’s out of the way, maybe we can finally get some faggoty furniture stores and shit. I think I’ll run say a novena to the spirits of the marketplace, just to speed things along.

Oh, and for anyone who cares, the headache’s gone. Maybe those cocktails helped. Then again, maybe I need something stronger….

Um, OUCH! I’ve got this headache that WILL not go away. It started around the time I went over to the new house for a festive afternoon of sanding and painting, so I thought it might just be from the heat, but lo and behold, I’m back at the crib and the AC’s cranked and my medulla oblongata’s still hammering away at a rate that’d make the Jungle Master shout out props. Perhaps it’s from the lead paint particles I’ve been sending into the air. Whatever it is, it’s starting to make me a little nervous. My freshman year, see, one of my fraternity brothers (yes, Mary, I was a frat rat for a full four years) complained of a headache that wouldn’t go away, and it turned out to be an aneurism. Of course, they only figured that out after he died in the emergency room. }:>(

Which reminds me: if I kick off anytime soon, Jonno gets everything–except, perhaps, my happy meal toy collection, which can probably only be appreciated by one person.

Side note: as I did my domestic chores today, I tuned in to public radio–no, not ’cause I’m snotty, but ’cause Iike All Things Considered and I ain’t got no radio in my truck anymore so I don’t get to hear it much. (Jeez, am I defensive or what?). So anyway, Prairie Home Companion was on (not my first choice), and on the show, for no good reason, was this Eastern European folk-singing group. It had been forever since I’d heard that kinda music, and in that big empty house, I got one of those stupid little chills. Ordinarily, it wouldn’t be so bad, but, like, getting weepy over Garrison Keillor? Ugh…

Woo hoo! (to quote John). The Empire State’s future is looking brighter by the second!

…Although, Lazio‘s a little hottie. Ya’ know, I’m a sucker for those swarthy Mediterranean types….

No update yesterday: I was trapped in a grant review meeting up in Baton Rouge (say: BAH-tonk ruhj) where nine cretins–and I don’t use that term loosely–perused applications written by .orgs from all over this great state. During last year’s panel they slaughtered us–purely for political reasons, I’m sure–so I was expecting more of the same yesterday, but to paraphrase the late, great Sally Field, “They liked us! They really liked us!” The app (i.e. grant, technoboy/girl) written by yours truly placed second, which means we’re guaranteed funding. No, please. Sit down. No applause necessary.

Ed. note: Sally Field, though grating, is not technically dead. Yet.

In truth, the only disturbing part of the entire affair was the makeup of the committee. To their credit, it appeared that several of the folks looked as though they’d actually participated in grant review committees before. These same people made a number of insightful comments about the various apps under consideration. There were, however, a number of committee members who might have been brought up from ‘Ti Mamou (no offense, Martin) or Grosse Tete just for the occasion–people whose idea of art is, say, zydeco and two-stepping, and who think Alvin Ailey’s one of them there cute lil’ rascally chimpunks.

Sorry if that sounds really snotty–and I know it does–but I’m more than a little frustrated by the arts mentality ’round these parts. There are some really talented individuals here doing some great things, but unfortunately our economy’s based largely on tourism, which means that folk art and other traditional forms get the most attention and money. Just once, I’d like to see a modern dance company get more recognition than one of our ubiquitous jazz bands. Harumph! Snarl! Gnashing of teeth!

Thankfully, my frustration with Louisiana’s fascination with “indigenous” art forms was balanced somewhat by the site at which the review hearings were held yesterday. Typically, you see, the meetings convene at the old capitol–truly, one of the most bizarre state capitol buildings to be found anywhere. In fact, when it was undergoing restoration after parital damage sustained during the Civil War (which my grandmother genteelly referred to simply as “The War”), Mark Twain made this comment:

Pathetic enough that a whitewashed castle, with turrets and things… should ever have been built in this otherwise honorable place; but it is much more pathetic to see this architectural falsehood undergoing restoration and perpetuation in our day, when it would have been so easy to let dynamite finish what a charitable fire began….

But anyway, as I was saying, the meeting wasn’t held there. It was held, instead, at the Louisiana State Police Training Center. No, I didn’t get to wander around the showers, but, well, let’s just say I got a sugar buzz from all the eye candy.

And speaking of da cops, I’ve gotten a couple of links recently that have piqued my curiosity about life among the reform school girls. It seems there’s sort of two sides to the story. On the one hand, you’ve got seemingly nice guys trying to hook up with folks for fun (and presumably profit), and on the other, you’ve got semi-nightmarish/semi-erotic stories of unsolicited booty slams in tha slamma. How could those same nice boys from option one be participating in the allegedly rampant activities behind door #2? A conundrum, verily.

Because Jonno has been asking so often why, exactly, I love him, I’ve composed the following tune entitled I Love My Fiend. Well, perhaps “tune” is a little overstated. But if you sing it to “Viens, Malika” from Delibes’ Lakme–you know, the ultimate lesbian aria–at least it sounds kinda funny….

Jonno is my fiend.

He is rarely mean–

Except on those extremely rare occasions when he’s needing much more sleep.

He bakes for me,

Tiny cakes for me

(Though I wish he would someday maybe take the time to mop the floor).

He is so cute.

I like his snoot,

And his little foot.

Leather boot!

He’s a hoot!

O! fie-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-nd!

Fie-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-nd!

It is so true that he

Loves me,

Shoves me,

Drugs me,

Snubs me….

Sooooooo,

I’m getting sick.

Tummy like a brick.

Might have som-a-thing to do with all the saccharine that I’ve just spewn.

It’s true–

I’m through….

Blech. Believe me now fiend? };>)

And as for the rest of you: how does that make you feel?