Katrina and her deadly, deadly waves

Dear Evacuation Monkeys:

This one is different. You officially have my permission to freak out.

Last time, as you’ll recall, we were faced with Dennis, a Category 2 who decided early on that he was gonna hit somewhere between Mobile and Pensacola, and he didn’t change his mind, not once. But Katrina (to my knowledge, the first hurricane named for my fave checkout girl at the St. Claude Robert’s) is way more shady and way more powerful. A couple of days ago, she was all like, “I just can’t get enough of that Pensacola stuff!” And then she was all, “No, baby, Panama City: that’s where all the fine men are, and where there’s fine men, Katrina will follow!” Now, apparently, she’s looking for a daiquiri and some red beans, ’cause she’s set to arrive on Bourbon Street bright and early Monday morning decked out in her Category Four finery.

So, let the evacuation freak out begin. One small suggestion, though, to my fellow New Orleanians: rather than filling up your gas tanks and fleeing for the safety of Mississippi or Texas (yes, having “safety” and “Mississippi” in the same sentence looks weird to me, too), might I suggest evacuating up? It’s slow season for hotels right now, and many of the ones downtown have rooms available at reasonable rates. Best of all, the Quarter and the Central Business District are on fairly high ground, and buildings there are far less prone to lose power because their Entergy cables run underground. And lots of ’em take pets, which is a big bonus in my book.

But wherever you go–whether it’s the Windsor Court or Vickburg or, goddess forbid, Houston–feel free to carry along a modicum of New Orleans-style hysteria. Flash those Manson lamps at the Walgreen’s when you’re buying D batteries. Have a hissy at the Chevron station while you’re filling up. Slap your children in the Home Depot parking lot. Just keep yourself below the Margaret Orr level, will ya? And for goddess’ sake, don’t start fistfights with the elderly over the last loaf of Bunny Bread. It’s unfair, it’s unseemly, and that shit’s full of carbs anyway.

See you on the other side,

Rico

So, I’m reading this book about astrophysics and shit. It’s not exactly my field, but I’ve always been kind of an amateur, pansy-ass poindexter. Well, a professional pansy-ass, an amateur poindexter. You know what I mean.

Anyway, I’m reading along, and reading and reading and reading, and I’m getting cottonmouth because the stuff is so damn dry, when suddenly I stumble across a passage that’s loaded with meaning and shockingly beautiful–which gives me pause, not because it’s deep or anything, but because it’s exactly the sort of thing that leads to Really Bad Writing. Naturally, I thought I’d share it with you, then challenge you to gross me out.

The author is talking about supernovas and how these massive explosions ultimately create heavy elements, elements beyond the usual hydrogen, helium, and other stuff you find in stars. This new matter gets blown out into the universe, where it mixes and mingles with “the detritus of countless other supernovas”:

Over the ensuing eons, these heavy elements are scooped up into new generations of stars and planets. Without the manufacture and dissemination of these elements, there could be no planets like the Earth. Life-giving carbon and oxygen, the gold in our banks, the lead sheeting on our roofs, the uranium rods of our nuclear reactors–all owe their terrestrial presence to the death throes of stars that vanished well before our sun existed. It is an arresting thought that the very stuff of our bodies is composed of the nuclear ash of long-dead stars. [Emphasis mine]

The Last Three Minutes

Yes, people, we’re all stars. How’s that for the Poetry of Everyday freaking Life?

And now for the challenge: the person who writes the most ludicrous piece of fiction–perhaps a bit of prose, some dialogue, a poignant haiku–will get a special prize from yours truly. It could be a book, it could be an ashtray. It could also be my ragged-out, stretched-out jockstrap. I don’t know yet, but you’ll get it, and of course, I’ll post your demi-oeuvre here. So, get cracking and drop me a line.

Religious broadcaster Pat Robertson suggested on-air that American operatives assassinate Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez to stop his country from becoming ”a launching pad for communist infiltration and Muslim extremism.”

”We have the ability to take him out, and I think the time has come that we exercise that ability,” Robertson said Monday on the Christian Broadcast Network’s ”The 700 Club.”

”We don’t need another $200 billion war to get rid of one, you know, strong-arm dictator,” he continued. ”It’s a whole lot easier to have some of the covert operatives do the job and then get it over with.”

— New York Times and CNN

Maybe Pat’s finally gone off the deep end. Maybe Pat’s trying to spend his meager “political capital” before it hits the expiration mark (roughly November 2). But there ain’t no maybe about Pat’s god-fearing, god-forsaken Sansabelt britches: bitch has clearly gotten too big for ’em. I can think of someone other than Chavez who ought to be taken out…

Although, I have to admit, installing Pat as the director of the CIA would certainly make things more interesting, n’est-ce pas?

Last night, I saw some really bad theatre. I mean, like, really, really, bad. How bad, you ask? Here’s my five-word review:

For god’s sake, just die.

It wasn’t the actors’ fault–not really. Well, except for this one girl who had no idea what she was saying. From lights-up to the far-too-late blackout at the end of the show, words came spilling out of her mouth, unadorned with inflection or rhythm or phrasing or anything to help me understand what the fuck she was talking about. The two other actors, though, did just fine.

No, the problem was the play. It doesn’t need to be performed anymore. Note to art-theatre types: French existentialism belongs in high school classrooms where angsty teens can appreciate it. Don’t put that shit on stage and expect me to sit through an hour and a half of clunky, pretentious translation. I did it last night, but only because there was no intermission. I’ve left mid-show before, though, and I’m willing to do it again.

I only wish I’d been watching The Diary of Anne Frank so I could’ve enacted the apocryphal story of one theatregoer’s rage during an inept production. Having reached his breaking point, so the story goes, the audience member at last stood up and screamed, “She’s in the attic!”

WORDS OF ADVICE FROM JOHN WATERS

from Crackpot: The Obsessions of John Waters

How to Become Famous, Lesson #1

Exaggerate yourself. It’s much easier to get a reaction from the public. If you are overweight, go eat ten pies. If you are sickly and would get sand kicked in your face on any beach, start taking diet pills. Complexion problem? No big deal–rub a bag of potato chips on your face and change your name to “Pimples.” Nothing matters as long as you have too much or too little of something. Anything.

Got a rotten disposition? Well, get meaner. Ryan O’Neal is not famous for his films so much as he is for punching out his son’s two front teeth and being an all-around sourpuss. If you’re an aspiring politician, make racist comments the press can overhear; the outrage may lose you your first election, but it will get you lots of ink and make you a household word, and then you can make a successful “comeback” in the near future.

Change your name and kill off the old self who was just an average nobody. Would Merle Johnson (Troy Donahue) or Herbert Khaury (Tiny Tim) ever have made it with those embarrassing monikers? Aren’t Halston and Meat Loaf really in the same boat? Think of that obscene stage name, Peter O’Toole. What could be filthier, Muff O’Clit? Whatever your image in your old life, change it without warning, do the opposite of what people expect. If you’re the high-school football star, throw out your jock and make a rock debut dressed in nothing but a woman’s girdle and underarm perspiration shields. If you were the class nell, beaten up by the guys for risking expulsion rather than attending gym class, get back at those creeps by writing a scientific article about the high rate of impotency among high-school athletes. If you were the girl with the flattest chest and ugliest face, shock your entire class by starring in a porno movie that gets busted at its campus premiere. If you had the lowest grade average in your class and were nicknamed “Knucklehead,” plagiarize an out-of-print potboiler, publish it as your own, get caught and hype your next book at the trial. In other words, get them talking, even if it’s all negative word of mouth. What do you care as long as they spell your name right?

Ladies and gentlemen, you are cordially invited to the nerdiest birthday party ever:

LEOPALOOZA6

a videogame blowout featuring Richard, Flynn, Michael, Joey, Ryan, Marcy, Jay,

an Xbox, a Gamecube, and all your friends from Soul Calibur

Sunday, August 21 at 10:00pm

One Eyed Jacks, 615 Toulouse Street

You’re welcome to bring friends, enemies, and/or complete strangers–though none of them are likely to forgive you.

YESTERDAY MORNING, 11:00AM, AT THE RAINBOW ROOM
(or this one, take your pick)

(Lights up on a private dining room with a magnificent view of the city. At the far end of table set for 12, a man and a woman slouch toward one another across empty place settings, their chargers, cutlery, and glassware swept carelessly to the side. Between the two sit a small bowl of lime wedges, two shotglasses emblazoned with the “I HEART NY” logo [hastily culled from a street-level souvenir shop], and a very large bottle of expensive tequila. The woman picks up one of the shotglasses, pours a hearty serving of tequila, covers the top of the glass with a napkin, slams it hard onto the tabletop, licks the side of her hand, downs the shot, and rips into a large piece of lime–in the process, rubbing off the last bit of Bonnie Bell gloss covering her thin, goyische lips.)

WOMAN: (Chewing) Jesus H. Christ, that fucking stings! What the hell were you thinking, getting goddamn sea salt?

MAN: What do you mean? What else was I going to get?

WOMAN: Regular Morton’s table salt, you dumbass motherfucker.

MAN: (Downing his own shot) What?

WOMAN: That stuff in the blue can or jar or whatever? With that picture of the salt girl and her umbrella? “When it rains, it pours?” (The man shrugs his shoulder) …You pussy.

MAN: Seriously, Katie, I don’t know what you’re talking about.

WOMAN: Shit, how the fuck did you end up here?

MAN: Where?

WOMAN: Here, with me. Did the turnip truck let you off at the freaking service elevator? (Downs shot)

MAN: I worked my way up from the very bottom.

WOMAN: Yeah, that’s what I hear, Matt…. Or should I say, Mathilde?

MAN: What do you mean by that?

WOMAN: Nothing, nothing…. (Patting his hand and smiling) Let’s just say that you and I have a lot in common.

MAN: Okay, you’ve lost me again.

WOMAN: Look, we’ve been working together for, what, seven years? Eight? You don’t have to play stupid with me. (Leaning over until her face is mere inches from his and whispering) When opportunity knocks, who cares if it’s at the front door or the back? (Smiles, sits again) Hell, the truth of the matter is that I respect you. You did what you had to do, and no one can blame you for that…. Besides, back then, Brokaw wasn’t so bad–all that salt-and-pepper hair, those big, watery eyes looking down at you…. Well, ’til he turned you over and went to town with that ginormous horsecock of his. I felt like the fucking Holland Tunnel for three goddamn weeks.

MAN: Katie, I don’t know what you’re implying here, but if you think that I–

(There’s a knock at the door, which we now see is barricaded with a stack of banquet chairs ten feet high. From the other side, we hear two voices, very muffled.)

WOMAN #2: Guys? Guys, are you in there? It’s us….

WOMAN: Shit! How did they–

MAN #2: We brought some “refreshments”…. Hey, guys? The door won’t open. There seems to be something blocking it.

(Suddenly, there’s a very loud pounding at the door, at though it’s being hit by a battering ram. Katie grabs the tequila, salt, and limes and ducks beneath the table. Matt follows. Soon we see the heel of an eight-inch platform boot crack through the door, making a small hole. Hands thrust through, enlarging the hole and tossing chairs aside. Eventually, the two newcomers enter the room: a large, African American man in a seersucker suit and a startlingly short woman who, though wearing the aforementioned platform heels, still measures only 5’2″.)

WOMAN #2: Katie? Matt? Come out, come out wherever you are….

MAN #2: We know you’re in here, you little scamps….

WOMAN#2: (Creeping toward the table and giving a knowing wink to MAN #2) Well, I guess they’re not here after all.

MAN #2: (Winking back) Maybe they went back downstairs….

(MAN #2 and WOMAN #2 simultaneously lift the tablecloth, revealing MAN and WOMAN.)

MAN #2: There you are!

WOMAN #2: Shame on you! Hiding from your best friends!

WOMAN: (Coming out from beneath the table) That does it, you cocksucking munchkin beaner!

WOMAN #2: Now, Katie, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times: my mother was Japanese.

WOMAN: Fine. Then consider this my personal response to Pearl goddamn Harbor!

(WOMAN hurls a fist toward WOMAN #2, who uses the springs hidden in her platform heels to jump up on the table. Kicking, slapping, and considerable amounts of screaming follow.)

MAN #2: Come on out of there, Matt.

MAN: Uh, I don’t want to.

MAN #2: Oh, Matt, no one’s going to hurt you.

MAN: (Slowly standing) You’re sure?

MAN #2: Aw, come here and give your Uncle Al a big hug….

(MAN steps into MAN #2’s open arms. Shortly thereafter, MAN #2 begins fondling MAN, then groping. MAN #2 grows more aggressive, turning MAN to face window and committing sodomy upon him. WOMAN and WOMAN #2 race toward each other, heads down, and collide like bighorn sheep. They both fall to the floor, seriously wounded, collapsing into one another’s arms. The lights slowly begin to fade, leaving only the two copulating silhouettes in view.)

MAN: Al! Oh, Al!

MAN #2: Yes, Matt? I mean, yeah, bitch?

MAN: Al…I can see my house from here.

(Blackout)

Given the numerous and often conflicting angles that have been worked on that whole gay Iranian rape teen thing, I was thrilled when Tyler bounced me a link to this article in The Nation, which offers a thoughtful, reasoned overview of the less-than-thoughtful, sometimes irrational reportage surrounding the story. No, it doesn’t get to the heart of the matter–what really happened in Iran?–concluding instead, like that guy in the Tootsie Pop commercial or so many grad school papers in the morally relative, Foucault-loving 1990s, that the world may never know. Still, it’s a good play-by-play as far as following the press releases goes.

The one thing that the author misses, though–or at least fails to point out–is the wacko language that some folks are/were using in reponding to the story. The most egregious examples come from–quel surprise— Andrew Sullivan and the Log Cabin Republicans, both of whom cite the hangings in Iran as further justification for the War on Terror.

Huh?

I mean, no, it’s not terribly shocking that Republicans–gay or not–would follow in the former footsteps of our Vacationer-in-Chief by conflating terrorism, the Iraq war, and the struggle to quell Islamic fundamentalism, but that doesn’t make the conflation any more valid. Seriously, how does the War on Terror (begun in the wake of September 11, 2001 to rout out terrorists) have anything to do with Iraq (invaded on phony claims of WMDs and later recast as a war of “liberation”) or with the hangings of two kids (who may or may not have been gay and/or rapists)? Hell, even G.W. learned his lesson on that one, having launched his own failed attempt at consolidating and rebranding.

Now, don’t get me wrong: I’m no apologist for terrorism, extremism, or intolerance. Having grown up in Mississippi, I’m particularly familiar with the last two, and I’m well aware that all three are related. That relationship, though, is a complex one that needs to be countered in a thoughtful, intelligent, nuanced way. That doesn’t preclude using military metaphors–or military action for that matter–but there ain’t much nuance in a bullet.

So, I was driving to the bank yesterday afternoon–thankyouverymuch Bank One/Chase for making your facilities so handy to 9th Warders–when I saw this truck parked on the neutral ground. There was no one near it, no displays of merchandise, nothing: just “Hot Plates”.

Since the sign was hanging on a truck, I thought it might be the work of some enterprising young artiste who’s staked his future on the manufacture of trendy decorative license plates–the kind displayed on front bumpers with phrases like “Rhonda ‘n’ Rudy” hovering above airbrushed beach scenes.

Then I thought, well, no, it’s back-to-school season, so I’m sure the sign was put up by some similarly enterprising retailer who’s imported dozens of electric cooking devices in the hopes of selling them to the dormitory-bound.

Then, of course, I remembered I was on stretch of Franklin Avenue that’s more than a little thugged-out (as the kids say nowadays). “Hot Plates” is most likely the work of some ballsy mofo who’s selling state-issued license plates of dubious provenance.

Which only goes to show that being provocatively vague in your marketing materials can get you remembered.

It was probably about 10 years ago that I first noticed parakeets roaming the skies of New Orleans. I was driving Uptown, around the intersection of Claiborne and Napoleon Avenues, and there they were, flitting across the neutral ground in small, family-sized flocks.

Today, I can’t step outside my house deep in the Marigny without seeing half a dozen of the garish little things. They’re everywhere. And even if I don’t see them, I can hear their brittle trills. I mean, yeah, they’re better than the crows that used to inhabit my backyard, but still: what’s the deal?

Am I the only person who’s noticed this? Or is this happening around the city? Has global warming put New Orleans firmly in the “tropical” category as far as birds are concerned? Or did the Wildlife and Fisheries folk release beaucoup budgies to kill off the city’s crows? Or was it simply a case of yet another traveling aviary overturning on the tracks behind the Superdome?

Just wondering, that’s all. Otherwise, it’s a pretty damn dull day….