Yeah, that’s Tania. Again. I hate to lavish attention on just one of our three hounds, but Tania is so loving and expressive…well, she’s hard to ignore.

Monday night, Jonno and I were on the sofa, giggling through another episode of The Rachel Zoe Project (don’t hate, y’all), when I looked over at Tania, and she looked back with her big, brown eyes, and what can I say? I’m a softie for big brown eyes. I patted my chest, and she accepted the invitation immediately, crawling on top of me and conking right the hell out. Adorable. Heavy and snorey and kind of pointy with the toenails, but adorable nonetheless.

As she lay there sleeping, I remembered something I’d half-forgotten: the way Tania liked to spoon with me after the storm. (Which I suppose we should all start capitalizing as The Storm to distinguish it from the other storms that have already begun to follow.) Jonno and I hadn’t had her very long at that point — only a month or so– but Tania wasn’t one to stand on ceremony. She acted as if we’d been pals forever. Every night, I’d crawl under the covers, and within a minute or two, she’d squeeze in beside me, her back to my belly, her paws dangling over the bed’s edge. No fidgeting, no fussing, just right to sleep for the rest of the night.

At first, it was just cute — the act of a giant puppy who thought of herself as a lapdog — but soon I’d turned it into a little game. She’d sneak into position, I’d pretend not to notice, then once she’d settled in, I’d try to breathe in synch with her, so our chests rose and fell in unison. I don’t know why I thought it was funny, but game or not, it helped me relax, breathe deeply, and sleep, none of which were easy to do back then. (Evacuated, imposing on friends, guilty for being comfortable while other friends weren’t — if I knew where they were at all. Ah, memories.)

In light of last week’s unpleasantness, Tania’s behavior on Monday night also reminded me of worldfamousauthor Ken Foster and his story of the pit bulls who saved his life. (If you haven’t read The Dogs Who Found Me or any of his other works, I can’t recommend them highly enough.)

Ken had begun feeling sluggish and dizzy, but he’d written it off as exhaustion — which makes sense because, you know, handling three dogs can have that effect on a person. But one day, his dogs starting acting strangely, jumping on him, playing very aggressively, trying to get his attention, get him up off his chair. Ultimately, it was that crazy behavior that got Ken out of the house and into a doctor’s office. And it’s a good thing he went, because somehow, the dogs knew what Ken didn’t: that his heart was failing and that he was slowly dying. They were trying to save him.

I wasn’t having a heart attack last week or last night, but it’s comforting to sleep among hounds just the same.

I reference these AT&T ads all the time in my marketing class — despite the fact that most of my students are too young to remember them.

Apart from their historic appeal (seriously: dig that smokey early 90s music video vibe), the ads are great examples of brand marketing. AT&T isn’t selling anything here other than the idea of AT&T. In fact, the campaign’s very premise is that consumers can’t possibly buy or do any of these things…but thanks to AT&T, they will. Soon.

Of course, there are a bejillion other examples of brand advertising I could name. (That weird Shell campaign with the Scandinavians and the bendable drinking straws come to mind.) But for some reason, these stick out.

That’s probably because AT&T’s predictions were so spot-on. Unlike the wild-ass predictions spawned by unfettered suburban optimism in the 1950s and 1960s — robot butlers! cities on the moon! meals in a pill! — AT&T knew what it was talking about. The company saw the technology coming down the pipeline and accurately calculated where it would lead.

* See that photo up there? That is ART, y’all.

* Speaking of photos of crazy people, this has been making me laugh all week:

* Speaking of just plain craziness, the Nigerian phenomenon of missing penises is back — and this time, it’s personal. I mean, obviously.

* Speaking of personal, linebacker for the New Orleans Saints Scott Fujita is my new personal hero. Dude rules.

So, funny story: last night around 2:30am, I woke up with chest pains, nausea, and a tingling sensation in my left arm.

Hilarious, right? But wait, it gets better.

Even though I know good and well what those signs rather forcefully imply, I refused to believe that Little Ol’ Me could be having a heart attack. And to prove my point, I wobbled all the way to my laptop and zipped over to WebMD.com, which, unfortunately, did not support my self-diagnosis. I would’ve looked for another site, but by then I was getting dizzy, so I stumbled back to the bathroom, chomped a couple of aspirin, and called 911.

Five minutes later, there was an ambulance parked outside my front door. Before they could unload the gurney, I stepped out, explained the situation, and hopped into the back of the vehicle. They ran some tests, took my blood pressure, and said that they didn’t think it was a heart attack, but they’d like to take me to the hospital, just to be sure. I went back in the house, woke up Jonno, gave him the short version, told him that I’d be back in a bit and not to worry. He was totally NOT interested in staying behind, but eventually I convinced him that everything was going to be fine and that he’d be much better off staying in bed with the hounds. I’m lucky I caught him when he was sleepy.

En route to the hospital, the EMT put a drip in my arm and loaded me up with nitroglycerin. My heart was racing, but that could’ve just been because I’d never ridden in an ambulance, and it was vaguely nerve-wracking. (On the upside, the EMT was cute.)

At the hospital, check-in was a breeze, the staff did an EKG, drew some blood, took an x-ray or two, then shot me up with morphine. A couple of minutes later, the malenurse (who was also pretty cute) came back to check on me:

Him: Hey, buddy, how you feelin’?

Me: Mmm. Feels like college.

I was in and out for the next hour or so. Eventually, malenurse came back and told me what I’d been dreading: that I was not, in fact, having a heart attack, but rather a severe case of indigestion. You hear those stories all the time — “That fatass wasn’t having a heart attack, just heartburn!” — and you can’t help but think, “Damn, what a loser”. And so, I turned out to be a loser. A very, very, very happy loser, but a loser nonetheless.

As soon as I was discharged, I hailed a cab and got home at 6:00am. I was too lazy to get the stickies off, and they weren’t bothering me, so I slept with them. Which was much more comfortable than ripping them off before my shower.

So, what’s the sitch, you ask?

Worst case: I may have a coffee problem.

Second-worse case: I may have eaten something at Domenica that didn’t agree with me. (Which would suck because I am so totally going back there every chance I get.)

Easiest case: I had leftover Chinese for breakfast yesterday, so I may have a Chinese food problem. (Which would also suck, but as long as they don’t take away the rest of my Asian cuisine, I’ll survive.)

I should point out that I’m kinda lighthearted about all this because (a) everything turned out fine, and (b) I have pretty good health insurance. I couldn’t imagine going through that without some kind of coverage. Even though it was just indigestion, it was scary at times, with all the chest pain and swooning. I’m thankful that my concerns weren’t made worse by worries about how I was going to pay for the care. Let me put that another way: SUPPORT UNIVERSAL HEALTH CARE.

Oh, one more thing: if you’re in New Orleans and you find yourself possibly having a heart attack at 2:30 on a Wednesday morning, I highly recommend Touro Hospital. Had Mel Gibson ever been there, he’d want to rethink his position on Jews and all the world’s problems.

I try not to play politics. I like to believe that I can talk to folks on both sides of the aisle. However, I seem to be falling back into my younger, angrier, more partisan ways.

Or perhaps it’s just too damn easy to make fun of David Vitter.

In his latest newsletter, Senator Vitter has posted the photo above, with the caption, “Here I am pictured with representatives of the Louisiana Green Building Council when they came by my DC office to talk about the efforts and goals of their organization.” Of course, in the newsletter, there’s no story about the meeting or what came of it, just the photo — complete with Vitter looking as if he’s counting the seconds until he can slam the door in these treehuggers’ faces.

Below the image and caption, there are stories about Vitter’s attempts to prevent federal dollars from going to ACORN and the importance of drilling for oil on the Outer Continental Shelf (which even the conservative Washington Post considers a bad idea). On Vitter’s thoroughly delightful website (which, yet again, fails to match up with the teaser links in the newsletter, which, yet again, leads me to believe that the site is designed by Vitter himself), much of the other news has to do with remembering Hurricane Rita, Vitter’s disappointment that no one — not even his cronies — liked his “anti-czar” amendment, and his efforts to prevent housing support from reaching, you know, people in public housing. Stay classy, Dave.

Also, Dave hates the gays. Not a good thing in my Little Pink Book.

Not so long ago, I’d just let all this pass. But now, I feel like I did in my 20s: angry and impatient. If I have to hear Vitter or Glenn Beck or even our governor (whose top labor official is telling everyone within earshot that Louisianans are too damned smart) spout nonsense about all the “freedoms” we’re losing under Obama, I may go ballistic. Seriously, people: enough with making socialism a scapegoat. I refuse to demonize Sweden.

I’m just sort of rambling here, aren’t I? I should probably quit while I’m behind.

In other news: I played tennis for the first time in two years last Sunday. My backhand, she still sucks.

Love microscopy, but lack the time/energy/financial resources to install your own electron microscope? No problem! ASPEX will scan your samples for free (no kidding):

To send a sample, you need to download and fill out this form from the ASPEX website. Then mail it along with the sample to:

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Once ASPEX has completed the scan, the images and report will be posted on their website on this page. It should take about two weeks for the results to post to the ASPEX website, and they will also notify submitters via email. Samples scanned for free will not be returned.

[ASPEXcorp via DRB]

It’s funny how the pieces come together. The little stuff you’ve forgotten, or the big stuff you’ve never really thought about. I’m not sure which this is.

Until my sophomore year in college, I spent a lot of time onstage, and much of that time was spent singing. I performed in community theater musicals and in the church choir and even managed to squeeze my way into my high school’s semi-elite show choir. I’m pretty sure that last one happened because I’m a decent dancer and I was moderately strong, and the director was always in need of male dancers who could throw girls around. Every time I see photos from that era, I’m reminded of the lyrics to that Smiths song, “Shakespeare’s Sister”: “I can smile about it now, but at the time it was terrible”. Except in my case, it’s the reverse: back then, it was kind of awesome. Now, I grimace.

Anyway.

In those days, I was given solos fairly regularly, mostly because there was an unwritten rule that every child in any choir had to have a solo now and then. The other kids loved singing alone, but it made me nauseated: I didn’t have a soloist’s voice, and I hated performing by myself because — believe it or not — I never enjoyed being the center of attention. I still don’t. Apart from my obvious lack of talent, that’s why I stopped singing long ago. Acting, too.

But despite my fears and my shortage of star quality, I did all that musical stuff, and I was the only one in my family to do so. My adoptive family never showed a lick of interest in anything musical (and it’s just as well they didn’t, because none of them can sing a note).

When I met my biological family — at least my mom’s side — the theatre stuff was an obvious match, but there’s a musical side to that family, too, that I don’t think I ever fully processed.* I was reminded of that today when my sister posted a scan of my biological grandfather’s business card. He was a New Orleans jazz musician named Stuart Bergen, though it looks as if he preferred to be called “Red Hott”. The card features a little devil — presumably my grandfather — floating over a lake of fire and wailing on a trumpet. It encourages the recipient to “BE DIFFERENT” at her/his next event and book my grandfather’s band.

Now, even if I wanted to have a musical career, I know I don’t have enough talent for it — not nearly as much as my grandfather or my sister or my other bio-relatives. But I have a little, which is far more than anyone in my adoptive family can say. And in a correspondingly little way, my grandfather’s business card is one more instance of my biological family putting me in context, making me less of a black sheep, explaining things from my adolescence that, looking back, seem kind of weird and out of place.

I guess what I’m trying to say is: I continue to be amazed by it all.

* For non-performing arts folks, the worlds of theatre and music may seem similar, but they are light years apart. You’ll have to trust me.

When I received an invite to interview Jack Mackenroth during his trip to New Orleans for the NO/AIDS Task Force‘s 20th anniversary walk, I was more than a little confused. I mean, (a) that’s not the sort of thing I normally do, and (b) if Jack’s PR company wanted media outlets to cover his “Living Positive by Design” HIV education campaign, I would seem like awfully small potatoes — especially compared to the traffic that Andy, Joe, and other LGBT bloggers could bring him. But whatever. I have a habit of saying “yes” a lot, and it seems to work out pretty well, so why mess with a good thing?

I tried to prepare a little before the interview, but even so, I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect from the guy. I watched Jack on Project Runway, of course, but he left so early in the season that I didn’t get a feel for his personality. All I knew for sure was that he seemed a little over the top, a little dramatic — but then, that comes with the territory. The last thing you’d want on reality television is a zhlub of a contestant like me.

We met at a coffee shop on a busy corner in the Marigny. I thought the skies might be cloudy, but they weren’t — not at all. Still, Jack and the PR pros who accompanied him didn’t seem to mind the broiling sun. Jack plopped down with a bottle of water and proceeded to tell me about the “Living Positive by Design” campaign (which is sponsored by Merck), plus a little about his work in fashion. And of course, I had to ask about Dale. Who wouldn’t ask about Dale?

Anyway, enjoy the clip, for what it’s worth. And thanks to everyone — including Jack — who got their asses out of bed and went to the NO/AIDS walk this morning. Obviously, you rule.