Jonno, 1997

Ten years ago it became apparent that I could not live without Jonno and he could not live without me.

It was not an easy revelation. It was not simple, either.

For example: I was born and raised in the South. I had lived in New York for a time and hated it. I couldn’t cook. I had an ambivalent relationship with my small family. Jonno was my opposite in these and other matters, and it showed.

More curiously: it was not the first time I’d fallen in love with Jonno. Four years earlier, though, he hadn’t been interested. What motivated his change of heart? How could I rationalize my sudden good fortune?

I couldn’t. And yet there it was, plain as day.

As I left him on that crisp New York morning in 1997, having already changed my flight twice, I turned and saw Jonno waving to me from the corner of 9th and 23rd, waving every time I turned around, waving until I was blocks away, probably waving until my plane left the ground. And with some music that he gave me playing softly on my headphones–music that can still make me cry a little when I’m alone–I began quietly making plans for his move to New Orleans. I think he did the same.

Seriously, honestly, people: how does this stuff happen? And so quickly?

And so, although we haven’t had a ceremony, and in the eyes of most people we’re just a couple of guys who live together and have a house together and walk dogs together (on good days) and nap together (on bad days), this is when we celebrate our anniversary. In our own small way.

Happy anniversary, Jonno.

“The woman is lonely. Her vagina is cold.” Which sounds like Eve Ensler, but it’s way, way better. Yo, check it.

Thank you, Tyler. Dear goddess, thank you. And thank you Lee + Chris for helping me find it again after YouTube went all stupid.

In the early mid-90s, I owned a video called Denise Austin’s Rock-Hard Tummies. It featured Ms. Austin in spandex and sweatbands performing a routine of moderately strenuous abdominal exercises in front of a shocking blue backdrop and a half-dozen headless mannequins. The soundtrack consisted of a musak version of Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean”. Looped. For 45 minutes. I think that’s longer than most Michael Jackson concerts.

I don’t know how the video fell into my hands, and I don’t know where it’s gone. Frankly, I’d completely forgotten about it until I saw this:

Clearly, the 1980s self-help home video workout aesthetic warrants further exploitation.

Yesterday, Ed from IronKnee sent over this Google Maps search suggestion. I’m still not sure how to take it. I mean, item #23 reads like a joke, but then along comes #24, which is all like, “I’m not kidding around–get to it, bitches!”

I don’t mean to bash the Times-Pic. Really, I don’t. But when they lob an easy one in the air, somebody oughta take a swing.

Case in point: on the front page of today’s Picayune there’s a story about a report issued Friday morning by the UN’s Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change. This is major stuff, people. You know how David Rakoff’s essays can make you laugh out loud? Well, this is the opposite of that. This is holy-crap stuff–holy-crap stuff, I might add, of significant importance to New Orleanians.

Now flip over a few pages for the editorials. There are three: one on judge Martha Sassone (okay, sure, that’s local); one on NASA’s Inspector General (okay, maybe, since there is a NASA facility in the area, although the editorial has nothing to do with that); and finally, this:

The White House’s annual State Egg Display ought to be above controversy: The Easter tradition, sponsored by the American Egg Board, is an occasion for state pride as well as product promotion.

But this year, a scandal has hatched. Each egg is supposed to be decorated by an artist from the state it represents. The Wyoming egg, however, turns out to be the work of a college student from Illinois.

The blow to state pride is bad enough, but the egg in question does nothing to further the cause of egg artistry. It features a clumsily rendered egg on skis. Maybe that’s because the creator wasn’t chosen for artistic ability but for family connections. His mother works for the American Egg Board.

— Times-Picayune

I’m sorry, what was that? An egg-decorating contest? With a teeny-tiny scandal attached to it? In WYOMING?

Why would anyone at the Picayune write/care about that crap? And perhaps more importantly, what kind of obscure, offbeat, ovo-centric news feeds do the editors subscribe to that would alert them to such a story? I mean, it’s not even a story in the first place. That shit doesn’t rate a press release, and it certainly doesn’t deserve to be picked up, even on the slowest news day.

My theory is that the Picayune is secretly run by a cabal of egg industry lobbyists. That, or they’re all just a bunch of fucktards.

“The strangest thing I’ve tried to snort? My father. I snorted my father,” [Keith] Richards was quoted as saying by British music magazine NME.

“He was cremated and I couldn’t resist grinding him up with a little bit of blow. My dad wouldn’t have cared,” he said. “… It went down pretty well, and I’m still alive.”

—ABC News, courtesy of The Bent One

1. So Google Maps is outdated, huh? It’s showing pre-storm images? Wow. That’s some serious investigative reporting, Times-Pic. I mean, it’s not like anyone at the New Orleans Metroblog clocked that shit, like, a year ago or anything.

2. Here’s an interesting idea from our flood-focused friends in the land of mayonnaise and french fries:

MAASBOMMEL, the Netherlands, March 29 — Anne van der Molen lives on the edge of the River Maas, by definition an insecure spot in a country constantly trying to keep water at bay. But she is ready for the next flood.

Excited, even. “We haven’t floated,” she said of her house, “but we’re looking forward to floating.”

Her two-bedroom, two-story house, which cost about $420,000, is not a houseboat, and not a floating house of the sort common across the world. It is amphibious: resting on land but built to rise with the water level. It sits on a hollow concrete foundation and is attached to six iron posts sunk into the lake bottom. Should the river swell, as it often does in the rain, the house will float up as much as 18 feet, held in place by two horizontal mooring posts that connect it to the neighboring house, and then float back down as the water subsides….

—New York Times

Of course, given the limited abilities of New Orleans’ contractors, we’d probably be better off just using water wings and twist-ties, but it’s a nice idea.

UPDATE: Apparently, someone’s listening.

So there it was in the Sunday paper: Ralph Lupin–doctor, philanthropist, and chairman of the Vieux Carre Commission–called New Orleans’ Sanitation Director Veronica White “a bitch”.

Was it kind? No. Did it demonstrate Dr. Lupin’s media savvy? No. Was it called for? Well, I wasn’t there, but based on every other interaction I’ve had with those people, yes, it was most definitely called for. If you’ve ever tunnelled through the warren of offices in America’s ugliest city hall and felt like Josef K, you know what I’m sayin’.

Of course, now Rainbow PUSH New Orleans–Jesse Jackson’s local PC militia–is complaining that the comment was sexist and that Dr. Lupin ought to be removed as chair of the VCC. And yeah, I guess I think an apology is in order, but come on. “Appalling?” I’ve gotten into arguments with meter maids that have ended in much, much worse.

I suppose that in the future Dr. Lupin should stick to gender-neutral insults like “asshole”, “fuckface”, and my preferred slur of the moment “fucktard” (though that last one does potentially insult the mentally handicapped, especially the ones who can’t fuck). And as long as Reverend JJ & Co. are around, Ralph might wanna hurl his four-letters at white folks, since Jesse doesn’t seem to care what happens to them.

So there’s this commercial. It’s about Hidden Valley Ranch salad dressing. Allegedly. But it’s so sad and weird and the salad dressing seems so inconsequential that I’m convinced the commercial is actually about something else. I should say we’re convinced, because Jonno and I have extensive debates on the matter. “The matter” being the narrative of the commercial: the story of the people who consume salad dressing.

There are at least two versions of this commercial–one with a guy, one with a girl. But apart from the genitals, they’re basically the same: Guy/girl sits in an apartment full of moving boxes. He/she is eating salad. He/she squirts some salad dressing upon said salad. Then the visions begin. The gloomy background fades out to reveal a bright, sunny meadow, and the guy/girl is at a table with his/her family. They’re all eating salad. They don’t interact, they just eat salad. Then the moment passes and we’re back in the dingy apartment and the guy/girl is smiling at the memory of the imaginary salad he/she just shared with his/her imaginary family. The end.

To pass the time, Jonno and I write internal monologues for the guy and girl. We tap into their streams of consciousness. We hope in vain that one of these is the true story of the commercial, because they are far funnier and more interesting than mere salad dressing. In fact, they make the commercials bearable:

HIDDEN VALLEY GUY/GIRL: “They deserved it. They totally deserved it…. Dad used to be so cool, but lately, he’d gotten all high and mighty. Mom wasn’t any better, sneaking into my room at night and trying to touch my no-fly zone. And Betty. Jesus! Betty…with her dolls and her frilly dresses and her Down Syndrome…. I warned them all, didn’t I? Well, now who’s a lazy slob? Now who’s a failure? Now who’s carved into teeny tiny pieces and packed in dry ice in these handy-sized moving boxes? WHO!?!? …Hey! What’s this bone doing in my salad? Oh, right….”

HIDDEN VALLEY GUY: “Gee, I wish the Hidden Valley Death Squad hadn’t slaughtered my family. But then, I suppose mom shouldn’t have blabbed so much about finding the Hidden Valley in the first place. And posting the ranch’s location on her MySpace page probably wasn’t such a good idea, either. Lucky for me, I was nailing a prostitute here in the attic at the time…. Hey, I wonder if this salad dressing I found in grandma’s hope chest is still good…”

HIDDEN VALLEY GIRL: “Like omigod! Vinnie totally said this shit was gonna be, like, killer and stuff, but omigod! O! MI! GOD! This shit is, like, 100% pure! Like, freakin-a pure! …Like, check out the colors! Awesome! I can totally see the music! I am the lizard queen, fer sure! …Oh, wait! Now it’s gone. Now it’s just salad! Just radicchio and butterleaf and arugula… Bummer….”

<![CDATA[ 

Hello! I am Nurse Clock-a-bitch! I am here to clock bitches! For you!

I was at the store! I was not expecting to clock bitches! But I did. Clock bitches!

 

I saw this bitch sitting behind a counter! She thought she was a professional kitchen bitch. I saw through her! She was a fake! And I clocked it! I am Nurse Clock-a-bitch!

 

In the frozen foods section, Nurse Clock-a-bitch was looking for ice cream. In sandwich form! Nurse Clock-a-bitch needs food on the go. Clocking bitches is hard work! I opened the freezer door and clocked this bitch! Without even trying! Bitch is playing dress up. But not in her bedroom! On a box! My box! Of ice cream sandwiches! I clocked her good!

On the way out to my car, Nurse Clock-a-bitch saw three hos on the sidewalk. They looked like skags. They talked like skags. But they were not skags! They were not hos! They had wee-wees! They were not bitches at all! But Nurse Clock-a-bitch is! And she clocked them like they were! Bitches! (This is not actual footage. This is a dramatization! But it captures their attempted skagginess!)

 

I am Nurse Clock-a-bitch, and I am all about clocking bitches. That is what I do! I clock! The bitches!