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It is both ironic and unsettling that as you and your partner sit with your seatbelts fastened and your tray tables stored in their upright, locked positions, experiencing the single-worst plane ride either of you have ever endured–fraught with endless turbulence, ferocious blasts of horizontal wind shear, and heart-stopping drops in altitude–the cartoon on JetBlue TV with which you’re trying to distract yourself features a poor coyote plummeting headlong from a clifftop again and again, each time landing on the canyon floor below with a distant, dreadful thud.

Yes, Alanis, that’s what Webster had in mind.

Anyway, the important thing is that we made it and we’re in New York for a week. You tri-state bitches ought to drop us a line….

Ten People I’d Rather Have As Mayor Right Now

1. Julia Reed: Because New Orleans is run by horsey Uptown women anyway, so let’s just be honest about it, okay?

2. Jesse “The Body” Ventura: Because I like the idea of a big, bald, ballsy mayor, but I’d rather have one who’s learned not to mouth off in public.

3. Donatella Versace: Because not only is she crazy enough to take the job, but she’s also got the ducats to help rebuild and the design eye to do so tastefully. (And yes, I realize that Victoria Gotti also fits this particular bill, but her McMansions would swallow our narrow city streets, and her tragic, trashy brats would ruin the reasonably good crime stats we’re currently enjoying.)

4. RuPaul: Because Christian intellectuals (assuming such creatures truly exist) are arguing that Katrina was god’s way of exacting revenge on sinners, which means that homos are clearly the Chosen People since our neighborhoods came out of the storm okay. And really: if the bitch can work a corset and 6-inch heels and one of those fancy lacefront wigs all at the same time, then surely she can lead the Chosen People against Peggy Wilson.

5. That Cute Guy Who Waited on Me the Other Night at that Mexican Place: Because chocolate is fine, but right now, I could really go for some chile relleno. You know what I’m sayin’, yo.

6. The Artist Formerly and Once Again Known as Prince: Because he’d give us a chocolate erotic city.

7. Anyone Who Was Standing Behind Nagin During Monday’s Speech (except maybe Larry Bagneris): Because they deserve some kind of reward for not pummeling the man to death while the cameras were rolling.

8. Joyce DeWitt: Because she’s gotta need the work, you know?

9. Our Youngest Dog, Tania: Because (a) she’s a mongrel and so totally good at working the whole beautiful mosaic thing; (b) she’s a uniter, not a divider, unless, of course, there’s a pig ear involved; (c) she’s named after Patty Hearst‘s SLArmy alter-ego, so she’s, like, ipso facto fierce, right?

10. Basically, Anyone With a Pulse. Perhaps you?

April can’t come soon enough.

So, Brokeback….

Yeah….

On the one hand, I wish I hadn’t heard so much about the damn thing before I saw it. I was expecting something truly life-altering–like Imitation of Life would be if it were re-made with Jenna Jameson and Shirley Q. Liquor (which sounds like a fantastic idea, in case any of you Hollywood types are listening). The endless barrage of glowing reviews and grand, sweeping TV spots got my hopes impossibly high.

On the other hand, the film that I ultimately saw was pretty damn good: subtle and sublime and many other things that start with “s”.

On the other hand, I thought the ending was a tad much: borderline smarm, followed by a swell of guitar music. Now, like I said, that’s what I walked into the theater expecting, but then the director spent 132 minutes giving me nothing but understatement, so throwing in a last dash of melodrama just for the sake of turning on the waterworks seemed….well, frankly, a tad tacked-on.

On the other hand, the cinematography was so freaking stunning, I’d be surprised if the Wyoming Tourism Commission hasn’t already hired a cat burglar to break into Ang Lee’s condo and steal the B-roll from the hidden floor safe beneath the antique Berber rug in his dining room.

On the other hand, the special effects hair was atrocious. I mean, where did Mary-Lou Green-Benvenuti (whose last film was Dawn of the Dead, and it showed) buy that crap? At Wig World on Canal Street? Can’t Jake Gyllenhaal grow a moustache on his own? Can’t Heath Ledger crank out a simple set of sideburns?

On the other hand, if Heath Ledger were standing in front of me right now, in all of his naked, tight-lipped glory, I wouldn’t concern myself too much with his sideburns.

“I will tell you, the contrast between when I was last here and today is pretty dramatic,” Bush said. “From when I first came here to today, New Orleans is reminding me of the city I used to visit.”

….

“It’s a heck of a place to bring your family,” said Bush, seated before a colorful mural depicting jazz musicians, a river boat, masked Mardi Gras revelers and crawfish. “It’s a great place to find some of the greatest food in the world and it’s a heck of a lot of fun,” he said.

— WWLTV.com

The word “heck” has never cut it in my book. It’s wussy. It’s weak. It’s what grandmothers say when they’d rather use “hell” or “goddamn” or the good ol’ F-bomb, but they know it’ll get back to Pastor Kennedy if they do. It’s a hollow substitution for something more emphatic.

As such, “heck” is also non-committal. During that fateful first week of September, when Bush fils said, “Brownie, you’re doing one heck of a job,” the subtext went something like, “You can’t even roll up your freakin’ sleeves, can you?” And yesterday, anyone with half a brain could see that Bush was really saying, “I’m sure as hell glad I don’t have to live in all this crap. Y’all are screwed.” Perhaps W might’ve felt differently back when he “used to visit”–back when he was down with booze and dope–but now that he’s found Jeebus, he’s all Dollywood-or-Bust. (Yes, pun intended. If Ms. Parton doesn’t already have bumper stickers made, I’ve got dibs.)

It all reminds me of that Simpsons episode where Mr. Burns is running for governator and goes to dinner at the Simpson’s house and Marge serves the much-publicized Blinky the Three-Eyed Fish and Burns tries to make it seem like Blinky’s exactly the sort of fish he’d have chosen to eat anyway but then has to spit it out ’cause it tastes so revolting….

(Officious-sounding orchestral blasts accompany a fast-cut montage of high-profile news images.)

VOICEOVER: Tonight on 360… Texans in New Orleans: Has someone been messing with their DNA? Or are they just a bunch of ‘tards?

(Camera rolls in, pans across to focus on Anderson Cooper, the show’s immaculately dressed, superfoxy host.)

ANDERSON: Good evening and thank you for joining me on 360. I’m Anderson Cooper, and tonight, my guests are Bubba Ray Johnston and his wife, Peaches–both native Texans. Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Johnston.

BUBBA: (Staring blankly at Camera 1. Quietly.) …We on TV now?

ANDERSON: Yes, Mr. Johnston, you’re on TV.

PEACHES: (Lumbering up from her seat and ambling toward Camera 2) Hey, mama! I’m wearing that bra you done sent me last week! Don’t it look good? (Peaches begins to lift her muumuu. Stage manager lurches forward, wrestling Peaches back into her seat.)

ANDERSON: So, Bubba, tell me: what’s wrong with you people?

BUBBA: (Still staring at Camera 1) Huh?

ANDERSON: New Orleanians are wondering: are you all illiterate?

BUBBA: (Snapping out of it) I’ll have you know that I am a proud citizen of the US of A, and I got the farm license to prove it!

ANDERSON: (Sighing as gently as possible) I mean, can you people read?

PEACHES: Of course we can read–’till them menus down to the Dairy Queen start a-talkin’ at us, anyway! Then all bets is off!

ANDERSON: It’s just that, you’ve impressed the evacuees housed in Houston and elsewhere with your clean streets and strong public schools, but in New Orleans, you come across as a bunch of clueless, illiterate drunkards.

BUBBA: What you talkin’ ’bout, Andy?

ANDERSON: Actually, I prefer “Anderson.”

BUBBA: Well la-di-da! I bet you wear shoes in the house, too, don’t you, Mr. Snooty? Well, in Texas we don’t stand on ceremony, do we Peach-Pit?

PEACHES: No ma’am, we do not. (Moving once more toward Camera 2) Hey, mama, check out the new tattoo I done got yesterday from some little queer down in Greenwich Village! (Again the stage manager intervenes, and again Peaches is restrained, but not before flashing several million Americans and many foreigners 80% of her left breast.)

ANDERSON: So, you’re saying that you can read one-way signs?

BUBBA: Sure as hell can! You think I’d go both ways? (Laughs heartily at his own joke) The Peach may swing, but I’m all man! Ain’t that right, Peachy?

PEACH: You said it, Bubba-licious! (Places her hand on Bubba’s crotch.)

ANDERSON: So you understand, then, that on many streets in New Orleans, traffic can only go in one direction?

BUBBA: …Aw, go on! You’re just pullin’ my leg…. You almost had me there!

ANDERSON: And after weeks of driving through the French Quarter, you understand that you don’t actually have to stop at every intersection, because some intersections only have stop signs for the opposing traffic?

PEACHES: I never heard of such in all my born days!

ANDERSON: And of course you’re well aware that many of those living in New Orleans now are full-time residents with full-time jobs, and that by driving slowly and gawking at homeless people and making lewd overtures to secretaries on the sidewalk, you’re preventing hard-working locals from arriving at their places of employment in a timely manner?

BUBBA: Hell, Andy, now I know you’re puttin’ me on! Ain’t nobody works in New Orleans ‘cept them strippers on Bourbon Street and that there Hispanic who cleans our room down to the hotel–what’s her name, hon?

PEACHES: I think it’s Qwang-Li.

BUBBA: Well, that don’t sound Mexican, now does it? Maybe she’s one a them octoroons we done heard so much about….

ANDERSON: And there you have it, America: the ever-shrinking gene pool of Texas. (Muttering) Explains a lot about the commander-in-chief, doesn’t it?

BUBBA: I heard that–

ANDERSON: Well, that’s all the time we have for this segment of 360. Join me after the break for an hourlong special investigative report on New Orleans bloggers: how they stay so sexy amid the mold and debris, and how I selected one by the name of Richard to screw me into the middle of next week.

(Officious-sounding orchestral blasts again, accompanied by the same fast-cut montage of high-profile news images. Fade to commercial in 3, 2, 1….)

Taken Thursday, January 5, 2006

For the poor souls that don’t recognize it (or can’t tell what it is thanks to my craptacular camera phone), this, ladies and gentlemen, is the first sign of Mardi Gras. The pile of metal at the bottom of the photo? That’s scaffolding for the reviewing stands about to be erected in front of Gallier Hall, which is where the Mayor watches each parade and toasts its king. I can’t imagine what all the FEMA workers eating lunch at the pan-Asian restaurant on the corner thought when they saw me do a little butt-dance in the middle of St. Charles Avenue, but I just couldn’t help myself.

Four Things Currently on My Mind

1. You know you’re jaded when you stumble across this so totally not-safe-for-work pic and the first thing you notice is that the guy owns not one, but two Thomas Pynchon novels, a judicial potboiler by John Grisham, Paul Krugman‘s latest cultural/political conversation-starter, and Bill Clinton’s autobiography, and you start to think, “Well, okay, this guy’s clearly a leftie, possibly an intellectual, possibly even a trial lawyer–I mean, you can’t afford that many hardcover editions on a teacher’s salary–and given the subtly tasteful carpeting and the solid-wood Queen Anne sidechair on which he’s sitting, he might even be gay” instead of addressing the more obvious issue: what the hell happened in this guy’s childhood?

2. That carrot-topped model on Project Runway? The one with the cheekbones and eyes of my friend Lesley? The one who I kinda loathe when she’s in bangs ’cause it looks like she’s wearing a fright wig straight from the Wal-Mart Halloween leftover aisle? The one who, at first sight, reminded me Aeon Flux’s red-haired counterpart in the short feature “War”? Well, it turns out, she’s from here. Odd and totally random, I know.

3. While this article on JT Leroy is certainly interesting and intriguing, it’s still not enough to get me to finish one of his novels. There, I’ve said it. Does that make me a bad person?

4. When did I become so goddamn boring?

WORDS TO LIVE BY

Very few people possess true artistic ability. It is therefore both unseemly and unproductive to irritate the situation by making an effort. If you have a burning, restless urge to write or paint, simply eat something sweet and the feeling will pass.

—Fran Lebowitz

BE IT RESOLVED

So, believe it or not, I did make some New Year’s resolutions–and waddaya know, we’re three days into 2006, and I’ve managed to keep all of them so far:

• I resolve to stop saying “I told you so,” even though I did and I was right.

• I resolve to continue belittling people from New Orleans who talk about “being wounded” and “needing to heal.” Did the goddamn pilgrims need aromatherapy? Did Robert Scott? Did the Donner Party? Get to work, ya pussies….

• I resolve to play more videogames and spend less time lamenting the fact that I’m never going to finish that novel.

But enough about me. Following the example of the very wise and pleasantly bitchy Bob Morris, I’ve also come up with a list of resolutions just for you. They may not all be easy to follow, but adherence will make you healthier, wealthier, more attractive, and an all-around better person:

• You resolve to stop calling me and saying, “Hey, I see from my caller ID that you rang. What’s up?” If it wasn’t important enough for me to leave a voicemail, it’s not important enough for you to call me back.

• You resolve to stop being so needy. All you anti-caffeine, anti-nicotine, anti-alcohol motherfuckers have got to lighten up.

• You resolve to stop sending me ecards. It’s 2006, people. There’s no excuse.

• If you’re in New Orleans, you resolve to be doubly wacky and eccentric. Until everyone gets back to town, you and I are going to have to make up for the lunatic fringe that’s missing. You may even have to wear a tutu to work on alternate Fridays–I’m working hard to avoid that, but I thought you ought to know it’s a possibility.

• If you’re not from New Orleans, you will come soon and see things for yourself and spend some cash and have a better time here than you’ve had before, mostly ’cause the crowds are smaller and you can enjoy yourself. You will then tell two people, who will then tell two people, and so on, and so on, and so on.

• If you’re a contractor from out-of-state making moolah off of the rebuilding of New Orleans, you resolve to (a) tip better and (b) drive the right way down our numerous one-way streets. I don’t care what language you speak: there’s an arrow on the sign, bitch. Surely even you can follow an arrow.

• If you’re a newscaster, you resolve never again to refer to New Orleans as the Big Easy or–worst of all–N’awlins. Refusal to adhere to this particular resolution can result in serious injury or death.

Balls and All

So, this morning I got my first ball invitation of the 2006 Carnival season. That’s not really surprising in itself: my partner and I have been on this particular krewe’s list for a while, and the krewe captain is generally good about sending invites early. And of course, Carnival does start in less than a week….

No, what’s striking is that the invitation came by email, which has never happened before. I’m sure some people will turn up their noses at the innovation–and I’ll admit, there is something rather sweet and charming about receiving invitations through the US Postal Service–but given the fact that New Orleans’ mail carriers are still delivering stuff from August, it’s probably a smart idea. I just thank goddess that the invitation came in the form of a jpeg version of the card, which made it look kinda like the real thing. Sending out an Evite to a Carnival ball would’ve crossed some kinda line.

Regardless of how the invitation was sent, the important part is that New Orleans will be celebrating Carnival in 2006. Yeah, it’s been said countless times in the news and on the street, but it didn’t really hit home with me until I saw the evidence first-hand. It’s happening–it’s really, really happening, Sally Field. Anyone wanna go corset shopping?