Okay, I don’t wanna hear any more bitching and moaning about “Oh, what’s going on down in New Orleans? Why don’t they have a plan for rebuilding yet?”, because four-and-a-half years after the fact, New York is just now getting around to rebuilding Ground Zero. And, yeah, I know that September 11 and Hurricane Katrina were vastly different events affecting vastly different cities, and I don’t wanna get into a Battle of the National Tradgedies or anything, but c’mon: don’t give New Orleans grief about rebuilding dozens of square miles when New York hasn’t even pulled together a plan for a couple of city blocks.
Having endured two nights of insomnia and now truly unable to think straight (ahem), today I’m enlisting the aid of a guest poster: a wacky, lovable Close Personal Friend whose caffiene addiction is almost as gnarly as my own (note the internal dialogues). He wrote this the other day in response to my Big Easy/Big Apple bits, and I’d been meaning to post it anyway, so, well, here ’tis.
Meanwhile, I’m gonna try to catch some disco winks in advance of tonight’s Radical Faerie/St. Brigid Ball. See you there–and save a chicken dance for me….
Having read your NY vs. NO sturtles, I wanna throw in my ten cents:
1. I’d like more people coming to New Orleans to remake themselves into something beautiful and new. These people often need artwork from people like me.
2. If the weather can’t be replaced with something breezy and maritime, then I’d like marijuana to be available MUCH more reliably than it currently is, or has been.
3. More rush! Stop this slow shit! No, life is NOT to be taken easily! It’s a serious, savage business, and it is to be gotten on with
before it turns on us and tears us to pieces! Faster, faster, faster! Vite! Vite! Let Hell sort out the slow!4. More long convoluted conversations between people in cafes and bars, on topics dealing with art, politics, philosophy, familial relationships, psychology, and…um…smart people stuff. I want the city Woody-Allenized by 40%. I’m Wallace Shawn, and I want every night to be a dinner with Andre!
5 Enough with the celebration of Ignatius Reilly! Confederacy of Dunces is colorful and amusing for maybe the first four chapters.
Then the principal characters’ behavior becomes redundant and aggravating! I’m sick of that book and the misplaced affection New Orleans has for it!
“Well, yes, but that’s rather the point. They’re dunces, you see. There’s a bunch of them. In one city. A confederacy, the author calls it.”
“SHUT UP!!!”
“But the author was a gay guy.”
“He was? I…. Oh! Um…alright. Never mind….”
6. More delis! Run by Jewish people! And not those flyin’-under-the-radar southern Jewish people! I want Jewitty-Jew-Jew-Jewish, yarmulke-sportin’, frequent-interrogative-using, exasperatedly-appealing-to-a-sort-of-universal-common-sense Jewish people of a Judaical nature! You know–the funny kind.
7. More Chinese food!
8. Prettier parks! Like the kind designed by Frederick Law Olmsted!
“But he’s dead. He belonged to an era that shall never come again. And those parks were created to change and develop subtly over long spans of years. They’re works in perpetual progress. You can’t just plant one and be done with it!”
“But I…um…. SHUT UP!!!”
9. Pick up the goddamn trash.
10. Stop it with the jazz, already. No one listens to it anymore. Have the entire city based on power pop and arena rock.
We interrupt your normal whiny, bitchy, queentastic weblog for a bit of good old-fashioned star-buggery: Former New Orleanian Wash West has made a double-play at the Sundance Film Festival, winning both the Grand Jury Prize and the Audience Award in the Dramatic category for Quinceañera, a film he co-wrote and co-directed with his boyfriend, Richard Glatzer! Though born across the pond in Leeds, Wash got his professional start here in the Marigny/Bywater, conceiving, writing, and filming the cult classic Squishy Does Porno, which had a terrifically insane and insanely glamorous premiere in 1995 at the Cine Royale, Canal Street’s last full-on porn theater. (Sadly, the world may never see that combination of sequins, glitter, and M. C. Tracheotomy in a centaur costume again.) The video is out of print, but I’ve got copies, in case you’re interested…
Which is not to say that there aren’t several things New York can learn from us…
Iced coffee: Yo: if I see one more idiot New York waiter step up to the drink station, fill a glass with ice, and pour in still-piping-hot coffee…well, I dunno what I’ll do, but it won’t be pretty, and it might involve paprika. Hot coffee on ice isn’t just nasty, people; it’s a sacrilege on par with serving oysters en brochette to a rabbi during a Passover Seder, or bringing sushi into my dad’s living room. Iced coffee is made with a goddamn coffee toddy. Somebody please give Dean & Deluca $30 so they can save the city’s apparently clueless tastebuds.
Public restrooms: The sun is shining and the air is crisp as you step onto the sidewalk, ready for a full day of shopping. You grab a coffee from the place on the corner (hot, not iced, ’cause you know how that’ll go) and head to midtown. Then, after about 30 minutes in H&M, you start to feel it. Another 15 minutes, and you’re leaving clumps of potential goodies in the dressing room because your bladder has swollen to the size of an 18-month-old child. You ask the sales clerk if the store has a restroom. No. Instead of getting sassy and asking whether she and her fellow employees have to do their dirty work in shoe boxes in the basement, you rush down the street to Starbucks, only to learn that their restroom is for customers only, so you buy another coffee (bad idea, as you’ll later realize) and ask for the key, but you’re told that the toilet is out of order. Repeat this scenario at McDonald’s, Macy’s, and Toys R Us. Finally, after 20 blocks, you find a hotel, bluff your way into the lobby (“I lost my key”), dash up an escalator to the banquet rooms, and find an open restroom. Of course, by the time you schlep back to H&M, the process starts over again.
Neighborhood bars: As much as I hated Cheers (having featured not only the loathsome Ted Danson but my personal nemesis, Kirstie Alley), there was something comforting about the notion of a corner bar where you could go for a quick after-work cocktail or to meet friends at the start of a long evening out. Someplace kinda fun and cute, without the attitude of a club or the skeeze of a dive bar. New Orleans’ neighborhood bars excel at walking this fine line–and as an added benefit, they also have public restrooms (see above).
Charming homeless people: The Bead Lady, Ruthie the Duck Lady, the Disco Preacher, the Woolworth’s Preacher: say what you will about our homeless people, but at least they know how to market themselves to an often-indifferent public. We may avoid giving them handouts, we may try to look the other way, but who can truly ignore a guy in a rainbow-striped umbrella hat high-stepping to music only he can hear and singing gospel songs to a flowering pear tree?
I kinda have this love-hate thing going on with New York. On the one hand, I’ve got a lot of friends in the city: some left over from my time at NYU, some acquired through my boyfriend, who grew up there. Then too, it’s an energetic place, which I like. There’s lots of stuff to do, see, and buy. And, well, of course, there are salt bagels….
On the other hand, the quality of life in New York is pretty harsh. Finding an apartment that’s both comfortable and affordable is essentially impossible–unless you’re the sort who enjoys sleeping upside-down in a closet. (When I lived in the city, I spent as much time away from my place as possible; hanging out there too much made me all emo/suicidal and crap.) The winters are miserable, and radiators were clearly invented by some asshole who’d never heard the words “sinus infection.”
That said, being back in the city for a week was kinda nifty. (Then again, these days, being anyplace where I can get fresh cheesecake at 3:00am is nifty.) This being my first visit to New York since “The Incident,” I saw the city in a different, less smoggy light, and frankly, I noticed several things New York does way better than New Orleans–things that we could, you know, basically steal and transplant here in the subtropics. I mean, just because we’re rebuilding doesn’t mean we have to reinvent the wheel….
Street food: When I was a poverty-level grad student (is there any other kind?), I lived on food from steet vendors. A quick stroll around Washington Square, and I could score a cup of crazy Mongolian soup, some cucumber salad, a man-sized gyro, soft-serv ice cream, and the requisite Diet Coke (which, of course, cancelled out all the calories I’d just consumed), and still have enough change to catch the F train back to my squalid apartment above a 24-bodega in nowheresville. In contrast, a quick stroll around Jackson Square will get me a Lucky Dog and…well, a Lucky Dog. And you know, some people, that’s all they need, but me, I’ve never been a hot dog kinda guy. I mean, I’m not asking for cafe brulot here, but New Orleans is a food town: is it completely irrational to expect some curbside jambalaya? Maybe a po-boy? Where are the ladies with the callas? And would it kill Angelo Brocato’s to sell some spumoni (once they’re up and running again)? Beer and hot dogs may cut it in the heartland, but here in the groin of America, we need more, more, more.
Customer service: I’m not saying that New Orleans can’t do customer service; in the right environment–say, at the Windsor Court or Belladona Day Spa–we can out-pamper the best of ’em. But how many times have you been in line at the K&B (or RiteAid or CVS or whatever they’re calling themselves these days) and had to endure a five-minute conversation between the cashier and her friend Betty–who’s restocking the Good ‘n Plentys three aisles over–without even being acknowledged? Sure, the cashiers in New York chat amongst themselves, but they’ve evolved to the point that they can work a register while they’re flapping their gums.
Gymnatoriums: Getting a gym membership in New York is a lot like getting your driver’s license anywhere else, ’cause honey, you’re not gonna go very far without it. In fact, as far as basic life needs go, the gym contract outranks power, phone, cable, and internet, and is only marginally edged out by a rent-controlled lease…. In New Orleans, though, not so much. Except for patches of Uptown and Metairie, gyms are a novelty akin to oxygen bars and speed dating. Don’t get me wrong: I’m totally down with the easy-living, good-eating, go-cup-carrying lifestyle that we cultivate here, but honestly, who doesn’t look at mock-turtlenecked Junior Rodriguez on CNN and wince? They’re called treadmills, people, and they’re not just for gerbils anymore.
Um, okay: am I the only person on the planet who thinks the whole James Frey/Million Little Pieces conflamma has gone on long enough? Am I the only person who thinks the poor guy ought to be given a break? Am I the only person who’s bothered to consider that the word “memoir” is the linguistic sibling of the word “memory“, and, I mean, how’s your memory these days, you know? The point being that a memoir isn’t a documentary: it’s ipso facto chock full of errors, and anyone who’d read it thinking, “Oh, this is exactly the way it happened lo those 30 years ago” is seriously thick in the head.
Lighten up, Oprah. You’re starting to sound like Pat Robertson and all those literal-interpretation-of-the-bible assholes. Sheesh…
Dear Abby:
I know you’re, like, dead and all, but I’ve got this problem, and I don’t know who else to turn to, but I know for a fact that I don’t like the looks of that lady who replaced you, so there’s no way I’m writing to her. I mean, her photo’s airbrushed to within an inch of its life, and really, who can trust a marshmallow with eye sockets? Could you? I never trusted that Doris “Vaseline-on-the-lens-is-in-my-contract” Day, and I’m not about to change my personal policies now.
Anyway, like I said, I’ve got this problem. I’ve been seeing a guy recently–kinda nice, but he could stand to have his ears pinned back. And I think he might be married. But that’s not important. See, about five months ago, there was this thing that happened, and I was in trouble, and the guy rode in on this white horse–a week late, but what the hey?–and rolled up his sleeves and stood in this really flattering light, and with a touch of something bordering on honesty, he said he’d see me through this rough patch. To be honest, I’d known the guy by reputation for years and I’d never really cared for him, but he’s got money and stuff, and I needed money and stuff, so I fell for it.
From the start, our relationship has been rocky. I may not be from Venus, but he’s totally from Mars. We’ve been trying to stay civil, to make it work, but now I’m getting completely mixed signals. One day he tells me he wants to make plans for a future together, so I take him at his word–I map out where I think things should go, I put it all down in writing and hand it over. Then he has the nerve to tell somebody else that I never got back to him with a plan. Um, hello? I called him, I wrote to him, I left messages with his secretary. Does he want me to tattoo it on my forehead? ‘Cause I don’t think I’m willing to go that far….
Then the other day, I was at this thing, and I met this other guy who turned out to be a friend of the guy I’m seeing, and I started talking about our relationship and when I was done, the guy was all, like, “That’s funny. He’s never mentioned you to me.” You could have knocked me over with a swizzle stick. Unbelievable.
So, it’s beginning to feel like the old fear-of-committment routine to me, but what do you think? Should I stick it out until one night Miss Beatrice down the hall hears shouting at my place, and the police show up and break down the door and find me dead, lying in a pool of my own blood, having been shot in the back of the head and partially cannibalized? Or should just I forget the guy and move on?
Sincerely,
Found, Fucked, and Forgotten on the Flood Plain
All I’ll say is this: it’s damn refreshing to see the national media take Bush fils to task every once in a while. If only they’d done that five years ago, back when press conferences were de facto softball matches…
Five Things I Wish I Had Right Now
1. More valium, just in case the flight home is as nasty as the one that got us here.
2. Something else to read on the plane, because what I got ain’t cutting the moutarde.
3. The words to describe some of the more atrocious performances I’ve been forced to endure this weekend, including–I kid you not–“Almost Heaven: Songs and Stories of John Denver,” which featured “sparkling new arrangements of his best-known ballads and some surprising discoveries. A 14-member ensemble explores the work of the internationally acclaimed songwriter.” Forget about artistic merit: exploring John Denver is like offering a thoughful critique of marshmallows.
4. The words to describe some of the more sublime performance I’ve been fortunate enough to witness, including–I kid you not–dance that brought half a tear to my normally dry, jaundiced eye.
5. A sliver of ham to hurl from our window on the 27th floor of the Hilton before we check out, because I’d like to see it smack a secretary on the head, then watch her look around wildly, screaming, “Who threw that? Who threw that ham at me?”
Life’s too short to watch fat, unattractive dancers perform listlessly to the sort of music that makes sane men want to strangle puppies.
I know that’s not nice or considerate or demonstrative of that ever-popular A-for-effort attitude toward fledgling artists, but whatever: I’ve had enough.
Now, I’m not saying you can’t be a fat dancer. You can. You can be fat or unattractive or listless if you like, but you’ll have to take your pick, ’cause you only get one. Just please don’t choose listless–that’s by far the worst.
Anyway, that’s the grand lesson I’ve learned over the past few days. Well, that and that the noodles in NYC deli-style chicken noodle soup just aren’t to my liking, but really, who wants to hear about that?
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