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Such an interesting day:

Laying out a postcard for people who teach Quark for a living but can’t design worth crap. (No, I’m not much better, but at least my crap’s still warm).

Having countless conversations with the contractor, the mortgage/refinancing agent, and the insurance company. The house is coming along well (knock on wood).

Downloading anything and everything from Napster dated 1950 or earlier (the karaoke versions).

Downloading 99 Red Balloons (the karaoke version), just for the halibut.

Seething, dozing, yakking, futzing, and condescending, in equal measure.

So pedestrian.

I’m just getting around to catching up on my Squishy reading. (Hey, I took Mardi Gras week off. Mostly.) Her tale of a trip to Houston sounds frighteningly like the trip Jonno and I recently took to NYC. With fewer cigarettes and more amaretto sours.

Last night I met a man whose life was exactly as he’d envisioned it as a sixth grader. He was a doctor, a former professional football player, and a well-respected, RSC-trained actor. When he worked, it was because he wanted to, not because he needed to. And for 75, he was humpalicious.

Then I woke up.

How many people’s lives have really turned out like they thought? I mean, when you daydreamt back in Mrs. Monahan’s handwriting class, what did you think you were going to be thirty years down the line? A lawyer? A baseball hero? A binge-drinking, chain-smoking whore? If you’re anything like me, the current version of You is light years away from the first draft.

Or so I thought. Then I began sifting through dim recollections of my single-digit years, and I gotta say, in some cases, my daydreams weren’t too far off the mark. Here’s a representative sample of my pre-teen visions of life after 21. They’re in chronological order, rated on a scale of 1 to 10, with 10 being the most accurate:

1.When I grow up I’ll be a girl. >>> [5]
Yeah, it’s a little-known fact, but as a young ‘un–around five or so–I really wanted to be a girl when I got older. I don’t know what I was thinking. Maybe it was all that “you can be anything you want to be”, 1970s-era, feel-good, egalitarian crap. Or maybe a case of gender dysphoria. Whatever. I pictured myself running around with the girls in my class, kissing boys and doing all the things that girls do. In my vision, I was wearing a blue and white gingham dress–which, now that I think about it, was remarkably similar to the one worn by Judy You-Know-Who in The Wizard of You-Know-What. Damn I’m gay.

Almost thirty years later, I’m happy to report that despite biological barriers, I did manage to grow up and run around in gingham dresses, doing all the things that girls do (except menstruating, treating yeast infections, and worrying about vaginal dryness). I was also employed at America’s favorite drag-themed restaurant. And I manage to kiss the occasional boy, too. Not so far off the mark after all…

2. When I grow up, I’ll be a writer. >>> [10]
The shabbily genteel elementary school I attended had an awesome librarian who fed me Newbery and Caldecott award winners until I puked. I loved to read–it was much better than trying to feign interest in football–so naturally I assumed I’d be a writer in my later years (i.e. around now).

Today, I’ve come to the realization that I’m no novelist–not by a longshot–but I can manage the 800-1000 word essay now and then. And let’s not forget those voluminous grant applications for which I’m so revered. And, well, I’m writing now, aren’t I?

3. When I grow up, I’ll be a teacher. >>> [8]
I tutored my buddy Kinney for a history exam back in fifth grade, and he aced it–he even got the bonus point. That single event proved to be the defining moment for the rest of my schooldays. From that point on, I was hooked; I was bound and determined to become a teacher.

Although I abandoned my Ph.D. program a couple of years back, I’m still an adjunct instructor at a local university, teaching kids about literature and critical reading and all that stuff. And I plan to go back to teaching full-time one day–when I can afford the cut in pay.

4. When I grow up, I’ll be a professional gymnast. >>> [0]
As a kid I loved gymnastics. I liked the grace, the skill, and somewhere in there, I liked the sight of Kurt Thomas in spandex. My parents let me enroll in a program at the Y, secretly hoping I’d become less clumsy as time wore on.

I did fairly well, but unfortunately, the cards were stacked against me: I was the only boy in the class, and as if the ribbings I got from my schoolmates and the girls in the class weren’t enough, the Y didn’t have any men’s equipment. I learned tumbling, vaulting, the balance beam (how humiliating), and trampoline (not even a real event!). Once I proved myself adept at baseball, I quickly moved on. Today, I still have my roundoff and a damn good one-handed cartweel, but that’s about it.

5. When I grow up, I’ll have a wife, two kids–a boy and a girl–and a beautiful house. >>> [9]
Today, I’ve got Jonno, our hounds–Kika (female) and Gaston (male)–and a house that will eventually be beautiful. Not bad, all-in-all.

How ’bout you?

Oh, almost forgot: someone finally authorized two photos for inclusion in the Fiend gallery (in the “pics” section to your left). Keep pestering him. Maybe he’ll approve more….

Do you ever get that feeling–it’s usually on Mondays–that you’re moving too slowly, that your coffee isn’t strong enough, that you’re smoking too much, that for once in your life you should really try eating a balanced breakfast, that you should take a dozen people to the Ginger Man for drinks, that everything’s happening at once?

Really? I don’t.

I am alive.

I am busy. Startlingly busy.

The weather is beautiful. Startlingly beautiful.

Many things are coming together in spectacular ways.

Side note: the show at the CAC was good, even though, in ways, it felt like many other shows I’ve seen there. The shotgun approach to contemporary art–“best new work” sort of events–never manages to convey enough context. And being a good Marxist, I really like context. Still, we got to see these and a couple of these. It could have been considerably worse.

Okay JB, I’m sure your pool’s, like, pretty and all, but I seriously doubt that it’s “full of intrigue“. Unless, of course, there’s a speakeasy located in an air pocket somewhere near the deep end, with a bar run by the ghosts of Mata Hari and Ethyl Rosenberg…. If that’s the case, I wholeheartedly apoologize [sic].

“Full of intrigue.” Another English major turned web designer, apparently.

Truisms for a Friday

1. Writing is fun. Writing for others is less fun. Writing for others under stringent deadlines is the least fun imaginable.

2. Cold, day-old coffee is still coffee.

3. Experimenting with fonts is a great way to waste time when the report’s due in an hour.

4. Despite implications to the contrary, editors of English-language magazines are not always fluent in English.

5. There is never enough time to call everyone back in for another photo shoot.

6. Aging actresses have issues. Ignore them.

7. Fax machines lend a cachet of professionalism to the incompetent (e.g. “I can’t find that press release you sent me. Can you fax over another?”).

8. There comes a point when the artistic and moral satisfaction you receive from a job are outweighed by the realization that it pays shit.

9. Kit-Kat clocks are endlessly entertaining.

10. Postal employees have become nicer now that everyone’s pointing the finger at 10th graders.

11. You are in a constant state of dicking over someone. Get over it.

12. Jokes about Suzanne Somers are almost never funny. Jokes about Suzanne Pleshette are typically hilarious.

Tuesday Recap
Unfortunately, I’ve lost too many brain cells to make it interesting.

A great Fat Tuesday, yesterday–even though it was a little short for me. There was very little costume trauma in the house, and we were all ready to join the Society of St. Anne walking parade when it came by the house at 11:00am.

Things started off cloudy, but by the time we’d gotten just a few blocks down the street, the sun was out, and it stayed out all day. I’ve got the sunburn to prove it. Good thing I worked that Suzie Wong parasol into my outfit–although next year, I gotta manage the accessories a little better. As it was, I felt like a three-dollar whore juggling parasol, handbag, cocktail, and lit cigarette.

After the parade, we wandered over to Josephine‘s house for a little refreshment. She had a huge king cake on hand, cut into slices. Of course, I landed the baby on my first piece. I slipped it discreetly into my bag, and no one was the wiser.

Around 4:00pm I went home to take a little nap and wound up sleeping ’till 11:00pm. Oops. I’d wanted to join my friends for dinner. Oh well.

Going back out wasn’t an option–by that time of night, the energy in Quarter tends to be a little weird. With a full day of drinking and doing drugs, most people cross over by sundown. Folks in bars are simultaneously sloppy and frantic. Not fun. So instead, I read 50 more pages of Cousin Bette and intermittently watched the broadcast of the meeting of Rex and Comus–a sure sign that the end was drawing near.

Unfortunately, none of us brought cameras yesterday. No one wanted to carry one, and none of us had pockets. Our outfits were a little, um, skimpy. Even my purse was skimpy. I had room for a couple of packs of American Spirit, a lighter, cash, and my id. I had to shove the phone down my speedo. (Yes, I set it to “vibrate.”)

Luckily, there were a few people who managed to bust out the Nikons.

Yes, Keith, Mardi Gras is a little difficult to understand if you’re not here. Even some of the newer transplants have trouble getting their heads around its dynamics. But what you see on TV is just the front side of a very complex, very important social event that would require a weeklong miniseries to accurately convey to the rest of the country.

As I’ve said before, New Orleans’ politics are determined by the krewes–which are, in a way, kinda like dozens of individual country clubs, minus the swimming pools and par-fives. Or maybe the fraternity/sorority analogy works better. In any case, I think this article does a pretty good job of explaining it:

Until the late 1960s, there were separate parade routes for whites and blacks. Those no longer exist, although [the Krewe of] Zulu still winds through some traditionally black neighborhoods not visited by many other krewes.

“There are parallel parties going on, but it’s not something where the intent is no whites are welcome or no blacks are welcome,” says Ed Muniz, a captain of the Krewe of Endymion, which was formed 36 years ago and is considered one of the more racially progressive parade clubs.

Edwin Lombard, who became one of the first black members of Endymion when he joined 25 years ago, said the separation may have little to do with skin color. Older clubs consist of blue bloods who have little in common with the middle-class or nouveau riche, he said.

“I have nothing to talk about with anyone in Rex,” Lombard says. “What would we talk about? The cotton market?”