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I’m no Confucius, but every so often I’m compelled to share a little bit of wisdom that was passed down from my paternal grandmother. (Sadly, my maternal grandmother–a half-crazy, half-German lady who always smelled like two-day-old coffee–had few words, wise or otherwise, for anyone.) On the shores of a beautiful lake on an even more beautiful fall afternoon, as she was pulling another worm from the bait bucket and shoving it onto the business end of her fish hook, my grandmama leaned over to me and said:

Richard, people are stupid.

Today, I know she was right. I see evidence of her wisdom every time I visit Walgreens, as the checkout girl takes five minutes to ring up my DC and corn nuts because she’s in rapt conversation with her third cousin two aisles over. I see it on Bourbon Street, as grown men and women drink rotgut liquor from novelty plastic cups, puke it all into the gutter, then start the process over. But most of all, I see it splashed across the pages of the Picayune, in stories about the city we call home and the people we sometimes begrudgingly call neighbors.

Take, for example, an article from yesterday’s paper, which documented a meeting held Sunday by worldfamousauthor Ken Foster and others to organize a march on City Hall in protest of the current crime wave gripping New Orleans.

To loud applause, people called for the resignations of District Attorney Eddie Jordan and New Orleans Police Department Superintendent Warren Riley. They asked where Mayor Ray Nagin was, and why he wasn’t providing the city with leadership at a time like this…. A high school teacher talked about how the drug dealers in her classroom had the lowest reading scores. A few people decried the city’s criminal justice system and the lack of cooperation between the district attorney’s office and the NOPD.

Um, does one of those sentences seem odd to you? Like it was just dropped there, without context? Like it probably merits further discussion? I mean, if we get those reading scores up, can we expect drug dealers to be more positive role models in their communities? …I’m not sure who’s at fault here–the reporter or the teacher–but for the sake of argument, let’s call ’em both stupid.

A few paragraphs later, another Mensa member speaks up:

Eric Carter, an organizer for Common Ground, said he was heartened by the big turnout but discouraged that so many faces in the crowd were white…. “We’ve got all these people here,” said Carter, who is African-American. “This isn’t a sample of the community. We make up, what, 2 or 3 percent of this audience. It’s all these white people in a room talking.”

I hope the reporter’s use of the word “discouraged” was another case of stupidity. Otherwise, we have to wonder:

  • Was Mr. Carter born dumb, or did the stinky hippies at Common Ground infect him with their idiot cooties?

  • Would Mr. Carter rather Whitey just stay home and let African Americans take care of the problem, since crime has no effect on white people at all?

  • Was Mr. Carter leveling a charge of racism at the post office, which had obviously misplaced all the engraved invitations Ken sent out to African American households but somehow managed to deliver them to white folks?

There’s more stupidity afoot, but that’s as far as I can go today and still keep myself from pummelling passersby.

[This tirade thanks in part to Tyler.]

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Dear God or Yahweh or Allah or Vishnu or Bahamut or Huitzilopochitli or Richard Dawkins or Aloysius Snuffleupagus or Mary Hartman or whatever you want to call yourself:

We get it, okay? We get it.

We’ve screwed up the planet. Royally. It’s getting hot in here, and taking off all our clothes won’t help. The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire, and metaphorically speaking, we don’t have any water to put it out. I say “metaphorically” because really, we have tons of water, and if those Arctic ice sheets keep melting, we’re gonna have plenty more.

For me personally, the parakeets were the first clue. A decade or so ago, I saw very few of them here in New Orleans. Now it seems like every palm tree is filled with dozens of the noisy little flying rats.

Then there was That Hurricane. And the Other One. And then a Third, in case we somehow managed to sleep through the first two–unlikely, since modern day wusses like myself find it impossible to sleep in 100-degree heat without the benefit of air-conditioning, which requires electricity, which the aforementioned storms eliminated.

Basically I’m saying we got it. We understand. Capisce.

So I ask you: was it really necessary to whip out the goddamn killer bees? That just seems gratuitous. Sadistic. In the PR world, we’d probably call it overkill. Leave yourself some room to grow for chrissakes! I mean, how are you gonna top killer freakin’ bees? Pythons in City Park? Ebola in La Place? I don’t wanna give you any ideas, so I’ll stop there, but you know what I’m saying.

Sheesh. And I thought I was drama queen….

Bottom line: back off. We’re working on it. Go unravel the threads of mortality or whatever you usually do after reading the pull-out section of the Sunday paper. We’ll get back to you.

Less-than-faithfully,
Richard

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Dear General Shakira Souvlaki Shalikashvili:

My name is Richard and I’m from New Orleans and I called your office 13 years ago to complain about the “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy you were peddling back then. Perhaps you remember me? I was the idealistic young faggotini who told your receptionist, “‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’ is hurtful and discriminatory! Just who does the general he think he is?!” I hope you’ve gotten some better help these days, because at the time, the dullard just mumbled, “Um, uh, he’s the General…?”

Anyway, whether you remember me or not, I just wanted to write a little note to let you know I still think you’re a douchebag. And what’s more, time has proven you wrong. I hate to say I told you so, but I totally told you so, motherfucker.

I mean, look: I appreciate your op-ed piece in yesterday’s New York Times, where you talk about having a change of heart after chatting with today’s troops and realizing, “OMG, like, fudgepacking is so not a BFD.” However, if you’d bothered to pick up a newspaper or turn on a television in 1993 you might’ve noticed that gays were everywhere, that they’d already gone mainstream, that the kind of rhetoric you were spouting was as outdated and doomed as George goddamn Wallace screaming “segregation forever”. But then, I suppose we shouldn’t expect the nation’s top military commanders to strategize or read the writing on the wall–which is why those who’ve followed in your footsteps are doing such a bang-up job of democratizing the Middle East.

See, back then you thought that acknowledging the rights of gays to enlist and expecting straight servicemen to be mature adults would result in a lot of:

But if you’d grown up homo yourself, you would’ve known that nothing could’ve been further from the truth. If anything, in traditional, heterosexual environments, homos do their best to blend in, often going the extra mile to out-straight our straight colleagues. Also you’d have known that we do a much better job with the face paint.

What you should’ve considered is that even if a little discreet cockgobbling action were to break out in the latrines at 02:00 hours, that’s not necessarily a bad thing. As a student of history, perhaps you remember another army that not only allowed, but encouraged such canoodling?

I’m not saying that’s a great thing or that it’s entirely appropriate. Though you have to admit, it’s kinda hot.

One other thing you never considered: lesbians. All your talk about morale and crap centered around the offensiveness of turdburgling, when in fact–and maybe I’m stereotyping here–I’m gonna guess that lesbians are far more likely to enlist in the service than gay men. Did you, as a straight man, forget about girl-on-girl action? That’s curious. I know you can’t see it, but my eyebrow is totally arched.

In conclusion, I’d like to point out that despite your superficial recantation of homophobia, it’s probably all for naught. I mean, no one’s been listening to official reports from active generals for ages, so a Times op-ed from a retired general…well, that carries about as much weight in the current administration as another phone call from little ol’ me. If enrollment numbers were down, maybe you’d get some play, but apparently, that’s not much of a problem anymore. Too little, too late. Now you know how the rest of us felt. And feel.

Your less-than-humble peer,

Richard

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The problem with reading is that there is good stuff and bad stuff and in-between stuff. Correction: the in-between stuff is not so much a problem because you tend to forget about it. The bad stuff is more of a problem because it makes you angry; bad stuff makes you never want to read again and only watch movies for the rest of your life because movies may be bad, too, but at least they’re only a couple of hours long.

The good stuff is worst of all because it makes people gooey and stirred, not unlike cocoa. Good stuff inspires people to write things of alleged beauty themselves–occasionally haiku, but more often epic poems, short stories, and novels. For example, someone writing during or prior to the middle of the 20th century is to blame for Anne Rice’s exercises in free association, which certain people insist on calling literature. Personally, I’d point fingers at Mikhail Bulgakov and especially Charles Brockden Brown. They’re both dead, but I’m sure someone somewhere is tormenting them for what they unleashed.

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Dear Non-Denominational Pagan Gift Man (aka Santa):

Thank you so much for the lovely sweater you brought last week. The paisley pattern is very colorful, and the wool adds an exotic element to my wardrobe. When New Orleans is eventually picked up and moved whole-hog to its new, hurricane-proof location outside Indianapolis, I’ll be sure to wear it proudly. (Just out of curiosity, did you know I have an Amazon wishlist?)

I saw on the evening news that you made it safely back to your industrial complex at the North Pole. I assume it’s still on firm-ish ground–though given the recent environmental troubles in your neck o’ the woods, I can’t be sure. Global warming’s a bitch, isn’t it?

Anyway, the real reason I’m writing today is to chat about your Naughty/Nice List for 2007. You see, as a non-resident of Our Fair City, there are a number of things of which you’re probably unaware–nuances and other small details which could prove crucial to your gift-bringing endeavors 51 weeks from now. Some might call it tattling, and others might call it poisoning the well, but I prefer to think of the following tidbits as morsels of heartfelt, unsolicited advice. For instance…

Ray Nagin doesn’t actually live here. We think he’s got a little place in Jamaica, but that’s only conjecture. However, the smoky fragrances wafting from beneath his office door lend credence to the idea.

In 12 months, Entergy probably won’t live here either. That’s okay by us–they only provide half-assed service to half the city anyway. I tell you what: why don’t you take the money you would’ve spent making new golf clubs for Dan Packer and buy everyone in Orleans Parish a solar panel kit and a wind turbine? We’ll take it from there.

Nagin’s publicist, Ceeon Quiett, may be a fictional character. I mean, c’mon, Santa: I know we’ve got some weird names around here, but that’s beyond the pale. Plus, a drag queen with whom I used to work at Lucky Cheng’s told me that the letters in Ceeon’s name can be rearranged to spell “Screw y’all, I’m goin’ to Vegas” in Tagalog. Maybe Nagin’s trying to tell us something.

Given their impressive list of accomplishments in 2006, the Saints deserve a “Nice List” pass for 2007. In fact, Drew Brees and Reggie Bush been so superlatively good, I think you should give them a little bit of me next December 25. It will be a sacrifice on my part, true, but for you, Santa, I’ll do it. I will not, however, offer the same service to Tom Benson. Yes, I cast a very wide net, as they say, but I’ve got to draw the line somewhere. People talk, you know.

The Times-Picayune, which looked as though it might become a bona fide newspaper after the storm, is backtracking. The hard-hitting items they began running on August 29, 2005, have turned into so many whimpy, smarmy editorials. I suppose after all those years of Uptown inbreeding, they’ve lost the ability to grow a permanent spine. You should probably skip Audubon Place entirely and deliver their lumps of coal directly to the cephalopod tank at the aquarium.

There are surely other people and entities I could mention here–but of course, I’m not the judgemental type. A word to the wise, though: keep your eyes on Kathleen Blanco, Eddie Jordan, David Vitter, and those math-challenged charlatans running the alleged Road Home Program. I’m not sayin’, I’m just sayin’, you know?

Looking forward to future correspondence and thanking you in advance for your generous consideration of all I’ve said here, I remain,

Sincerely yours,

Ricardo

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Things never uttered at my family’s dinner table:

  • Who made the calamari?

  • Hey, Manny, pass the anchovies.

  • Where’d grandma get this capicola?

  • When’s the lasagna coming out?

Things Jonno’s family will never say at holiday gatherings:

  • You tell Vera that blackberry cobbler was just pure-d good.

  • Hank, pick out a couple of drumsticks for little Earl to chew on.

  • What did sister put up in her butterbean casserole this year?

  • Mama, save me some of that ambrosia for after my nap.

There are similarities, too, I suppose, but I can’t help feeling like I’ve got two passports up my sleeve.

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You know on the evening news when they start talking about America’s Big Fat Problem and they run hidden camera footage of overweight people–shot from the neck down, to be polite–wearing ill-fitting clothes and typically in the process of doing the very things that have made them fat in the first place, like smoking or chugging beer or wolfing down a couple dozen krullers? I sometimes wonder if those people ever come home and flip on the news and see those reports and get all, like, “Hey, I was wearing a tie-dyed muumuu just like that today! And I had a Dolly Madison apple pie at lunch, too! What in the world is going on… Omigod. Omigod. Herb, are you in there? Herb, come look at this… Never mind, it’s over now… Well, I…I was on the news. And I looked so fat! Am I really that fat? Herb, tell me, honestly: am I fat? …Omigod, how did I get so fat?!”

That, ladies and gentlemen, is one of my greatest fears–and one that will almost certainly come to pass before I die. I won’t be targeted because I’m super-overweight (though decades of beignet consumption have taken their toll, believe me), but because I’m gay. Like, obviously gay. As in, half-blind grandmothers from Des Moines can tell I’m a homo just by hearing Nina Totenberg read a description of me. That gay.

The story will go like this:

In the news today: scientists at Johns Hopkins University have determined that gay men are the leading cause of global warming.

CUT TO FOOTAGE OF A 20-SOMETHING LABEL WHORE IN SANDALS, LEATHER PANTS, AND A VERSACE TOP FLOUNCING DOWN CASTRO, HIS BANGLE-BOUND HAND REACHING UP TO PULL A TANGLE OF FROSTED LOCKS FROM HIS ARTFULLY KOHL-RIMMED EYES.

According to preliminary results from the study, gay men cause greater damage to the environment than coal emissions and cow flatulence combined.

CUT TO FOOTAGE OF SOME OLD QUEEN ADDING NON-FAT LOW-CARB SOY TO HIS TRIPLE DECAF VEGETARIAN MOCHALATTAFONDUCINO, GRABBING HIS OVERSIZED SEPHORA SHOPPING BAG, AND STUMBLING OUT OF STARBUCKS INTO A TASTEFULLY AND INDIRECTLY LIT SUNSET ON 8TH AVENUE.

In a news conference broadcast live at 12:00pm Eastern time, President Bush said that he was pleased with the study’s findings, and suggested that a quick and easy solution to the problem was at hand.

CUT TO FOOTAGE OF ME ON FAT TUESDAY AFTERNOON, IN STACKED HEELS, A CORSET, LAYER UPON LAYER OF FAUX PRINCESS CUT DIAMONDS, AND VERY LITTLE ELSE, CARRYING A SAFARI UMBRELLA IN ONE HAND AND TWO PBR’S IN THE OTHER, SNAGGING MY FOOT ON AN ABANDONED CHICKEN FEATHER BOA, AND STUMBLING HEADLONG INTO A GUTTER ON ST. ANNE STREET, TRYING IN VAIN TO HIDE MY SUN-RAVAGED FACE FROM THE NEWS CAMERA WITH A SWEAT-SOAKED RAINBOW-TONED MANTILLA.

In an unrelated story, later this afternoon Bush announced the first-ever government-sanctioned celebration of gay pride. All gay men and lesbians should proceed immediately to the docks in Washington, DC, to board a series of navy vessels that have been procured for a complimentary Antarctic cruise. Adolph Nuremberg, chairman of the host committee, said that the party is come-as-you-are and will feature Kool-Aid socials, oven-roasted cuisine, and communal showers… And now over to Betty for a look at your weekend weather.