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Tuesday, January 31, 2006
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?
Monday, January 30, 2006
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.
Saturday, January 28, 2006
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...
Friday, January 27, 2006
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
Thursday, January 26, 2006
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...
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
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?"
Monday, January 23, 2006
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?
Thursday, January 19, 2006
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....
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
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.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
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.
Friday, January 13, 2006
"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."
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"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....
Thursday, January 12, 2006
(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....)
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
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.
Monday, January 09, 2006
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?
Thursday, January 05, 2006
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
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
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.
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