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Friday, July 28, 2006
I've always had problems with NOLA.com. Its layout is ugly, its javascript is buggy, and its template was clearly designed by someone who's never even thought of reading a newspaper--online or otherwise.
Today, I found another reason to loathe the site: its editors are lazy bastards.
In NOLA.com's "Visitor" section--one of the site's eight prominently featured information areas--there's a "New Orleans FAQ", which purports to answer questions from potential visitors. When should we visit? What should we see? That kind of thing.
There's no mention of Hurricane Katrina anywhere on the page. So in addition to lists of restaurants and shops and cultural attractions that don't exist anymore or haven't yet re-opened, we get this little ditty:
Q. What about hurricanes and tropical weather?
A. Tropical weather is a definite concern to residents and visitors to New Orleans. While not at the top of the list of danger zones for hurricanes, New Orleans is high on that list, and even tropical depressions can bring dangerous flooding. Even regular storms can produce extremely heavy rainfall, and street flooding is a continual issue in the New Orleans area. Massive pumps work to alleviate this flooding, and generally, knee-deep flooding from an afternoon storm is drained away quickly after the storm eases.
-- NOLA.com
But then again, when your site is just one in a large, ungainly family of sites--most of which have nothing to do with one another--I guess you can't expect much attention to detail.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
It is very dangerous to be here, 2273.2 miles away from New Orleans. San Francisco is enticing and alluring. And seductive. It is seductive to be in an environment where:
80 degrees is considered hot. Primary and secondary school systems appear not only to function, but to fuction well. People regard traffic signals as though they were words of widsom from elder relatives, not always obeying them, but usually. People live without the stress of hurricanes, preparing as best they can for the earthquake that will one day cleave the city from the California mainland and just hoping it doesn't hit while they're on the subway. The abundance of cute boys is distracting.
But of course, the city is not without its flaws--namely:
Its sense of humor, which is tainted by lingering, pungent whiffs of political correctness. Its draconian drinking laws and the fact that no one seems to have heard of Pernod. The tendency for residents to overuse needy, whiny, ready-to-die-at-any-moment camelias in their landscaping endeavors. The aforementioned cute boys don't talk to strangers.
Not to worry (as if you would): I'm not abandoning New Orleans like certain others we could name. I'll be back on Sunday for good. After nearly a year in the trenches, though, it's unusual and refreshing to be in a city where things work as intended. We could learn something from these people--people who rebuilt a uniquely American city in the wake of a major natural disaster, relying on stubborn willpower, community involvement, and a healthy dose of patience.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
So, eight hours after I was scheduled to touch down in San Francisco, I arrived at the temporary home of the boyfriend. (Note to self: How an airline so thoroughly rude and cavalier and self-centered can have the word "American" in its name...oh, right.)
So far, the best part of the alleged vacation (I brought my laptop, and you know how that goes) has been listening to all the hippies whine about how unbearably hot it is. All of which makes me wanna say, (a) "Bitch, come to New Orleans, and I'll show you hot", and (b) "Bitch, spend a hundred bucks on a window unit and shut the hell up." You'll be happy to know, however, that I've bitten my tongue. Mostly. Mom would be proud.
In addition to rolling my eyes, I've shopped a bit, caught up with friends, met new folks in Jonno's ever-expanding social circle. Yesterday, we went for the full-on Carrie Bradshaw Experience, complete with manicures (1st time in my life), pedicures (2nd time in my life), and, thanks in part to a suggestion from my friend Drury, an afternoon spa extravaganza (1st of many times, I hope). I now feel guilty and dirty and ashamed, but my neck feels totally better, so there.
The big letdown? Dinner last night at Chez Panisse. The restaurant was beautiful and I couldn't have asked for more charming, sparkling company, and I'm sure Alice Waters is, like, really nice and everything, but her food left me mostly underwhelmed. And since she's all about natural, seasonal simple-ish food, maybe that was the point, but if I wanted to be underwhelmed I could visit the de Young Museum again. Of course, everyone else at the table was really happy with everything, so maybe it was just me. It's always just me....
Friday, July 21, 2006
If you're wondering why I've been so quiet this week, (a) you're a total sweetheart, and (b) you really ought to get out more. But just so you know, I've spent the last seven days trying to clean off my desk and tie up loose ends so I can enjoy a whirlwind, week-long vacation in Sam Clam's Disco with the boyfriend.
It hasn't been easy.
At work, nearly everyone else is already on vacation, meaning that I've been fielding phone calls and emails and attending meetings meant for them. I've drafted extensive update, memos, and flowcharts in the hopes that my co-workers won't be completely lost when they return on Monday, but of course there'll be calls. Of course there'll be.
But that's not all. There's also been assloads of freelance work to polish off, a theatrical production to plan, a house to clean and organize so the house-sitter won't get lost among the kitty litter and bank statements, and, most importantly, hounds to schlep to the kennel. And on top of all that, there's my nascent fear of flying, which seems to have its roots in the terrifying, roller-coaster ride that Jonno and I endured back in January. Every teensy-weensy bump of turbulence on the first leg of today's flight left my stomach in knots. I'm now 3.5 hours into my alleged vacation, and I'm a complete wreck.
I need a drink. Or better yet, a rolfing. Can anyone hook me up with a masseur in SF--the real kind? I'm too cheap and too vain to spend cash on the other kind. Yet.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Ladies and gentlemen, you may never see such words again in print:
Acting on the advice of her appointed state poet laureate, Gov. Kathleen Blanco announced Tuesday she has rejected a Prairieville poet's literary offering as the state's official poem....
more at NOLA.com
So, not only has a work of literature been quite literally vetoed, but an elected official has actually conversed with a poet laureate. Those of you in hell might wanna grab a sweater and some snow boots.
In case you missed it, here's the poem in question, which was approved by this slim volume of legislation put forward by Republican Mert Smiley of St. Amant:
I love my Louisiana
She's so colorful in her history
so majestic in her pride
with beauty unsurpassed
like any other of its kind.
She seems to be like a soulful mate
that stands here by my side.
This brings me special confidence
to know that she is mine.
I love my Louisiana
with all her charms and queenly ways,
yet she blushes when in bloom.
God's sunshine surely kissed her
for He blessed her cup so full.
You can even feel her radiance
on her rainy gloomy days
for you know that on the morrow
the sun will clear the haze.
I love my Louisiana.
I propose this toast toward her
with my meager pen in hand.
I somehow feel so primitive
to her majesty so grand.
--James Ellis Richardson
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
I almost forgot: I wrote another thoroughly disjointed, non-porn piece for a gay porn website...
In the great battle of good and evil that makes our tiny, rapidly warming world go round, there have been a handful of truly remarkable rivalries: Moses vs. Pharaoh, Bette vs. Joan. Me vs. a restraining order from Jason Statham’s lawyer.
But my favorite battle royal at the moment is the one quietly taking place between Julia Roberts and Parker Posey....
more after the NSFW jump to Nightcharm.com
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Vodou priestess Sallie Ann Glassman is at it again with her annual hurricane ceremony. And as long as her gris-gris keeps that Category 5 at bay, more power to her.
Maybe you should consider attending this year--after all, if you'd taken my advice last year, not only would you have been witness to a rather nifty historical event, but you might also have ended up in the indie film/documentary Hexing a Hurricane, which is set for screenings in New Orleans this Thursday and in Los Angeles next week. Don't say I didn't tell you so.
HURRICANE CEREMONY IX
What: A public prayer ceremony dedicated to Our Lady of Prompt Succor (who has intervened historically on New Orleans'
behalf when a hurricane has threatened) and Ezili Danto (also associated with Mater Salvatoris and Mount Carmel) to ask for protection from hurricanes
When: Saturday, July 15th, 7:00pm
Where: Achade Meadows Peristyle, 3319 Rosalie Alley (off of Rampart, between Piety and Desire)
What to bring in offering:
For Our Lady: flowers, statues, candles, religious pictures, jewelry For Danto: Barbancourt Rum, Florida Water, candles, daggers, dolls dressed in red and blue with gold trim or calico prints, spicy black beans, peasant cakes, unfiltered cigarettes, fried pork, white creme de menthe
What to wear: Please dress in white (the color of purity), with red head scarves, or all red (the color of Petwo rites)
Monday, July 10, 2006
Found floating face-down in a mud puddle in the parking lot of a Baton Rouge hospital:
Which begs several questions--some intriguing, some not:
1. How did this end up on the ground? Did the hospital orderly who registered the inmate use Brand X elastic to attach the badge? Was there a struggle in the parking lot that sent bystanders scurrying for cover amongst the azaleas? Or was it lost in a quick change by the inmate, who escaped his captors via the time-honored route of the laundry chute?
2. Who's the guy in the photo? According to the badge, it looks like Jefferson is the guy's last name, but on the card held up in the photo, it's Tate. And people wonder how folks get lost in the system. Word to the wise: when being arrested in Louisiana, be in possession of only one last name.
3. Who's holding the sign? I thought criminals held up their own nameplates, but this one's clearly being held by the photographer/deputy. Was there no one else around to help the poor schmuck with the camera? With the photog's own hand in the shot, it simply reeks of spring break shenanigans on the beach--all that's missing is a Sharpie, some cheap shaving cream, and a bowl of warm water.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Vladimir Putin's decision to stop a small boy as he walked through the Kremlin and kiss his stomach was prompted by a desire to "touch him like a kitten," the Russian president said on Thursday....
"People came up and I began talking to them, among them this little boy. He seemed to me very independent, sure of himself and at the same time defenseless so to speak, an innocent boy and a very nice little boy," Putin told the Web cast.
"I tell you honestly, I just wanted to touch him like a kitten and that desire of mine ended in that act."
-- CNN
Monday, July 03, 2006
Saturday before last, I was sitting in my living room, checking email and watching TV because I have no social life to speak of. And I looked up from my computer to glimpse Lisa Ling introducing a National Geographic Explorer special called "Drowning New Orleans". And outside I could hear thunder rumbling and I could see from my window that dark storm clouds were rolling in and the wind was picking up, which meant, of course, that there was a pretty good chance of losing power at any second, which always sets me a bit on edge and scares the crap out of my dogs (sometimes literally). So I changed the channel. I figure, I don't need another skinnypretty newsbitch telling me about the damage New Orleans suffered, since I'm clearly living with it every goddamn day.
I picked up the remote and start flipping through the pre-sets My Gay Lover entered ages ago, and when I hit the Fine Living Channel (I did mention that my lover is gay, right?), the Goddess of Irony reared her curious head, for there before me was a shot of Baronne Street, at the corner of Julia, and the narrator of the program in progress was talking about the Materne's and their dream of opening up a swanky new Vespa dealership in downtown New Orleans. And of course, I knew that the dealership opened after Katrina, so I thought, "Finally: a positive story about the perseverance of New Orleanians in the face of storm damage and federal neglect and a bald-ass do-nothing in city hall (the one building, FYI, I would've loved to see destroyed by the storm, but no dice)."
Then, during a break, they announced the next show that evening would feature Chris Isaak giving a guided tour of JazzFest. He was looking right at the camera, talking very earnestly about the importance of New Orleans and the will of its citizens to survive, and I thought, "Dammit, we should send the editorial staff of National Geographic a year's supply of Prozac. Or pot. Yeah, pot for the tree-hugging hippies...."
Now, in the end, neither program was as satisfying as I wanted it to be. The post-Katrina summary in the Vespa story felt especially tacked-on: basically, while the end credits were rolling, the narrator said, "Oh, by the way, the dealership opened in New Orleans in March."
Still, it was nice to see some positive news about New Orleans in the national media. I mean, I don't know about the rest of you who live here, but from where I sit, things are picking up steam. I'm seeing renovations and repairs in almost every quarter of the city, I see more and more FEMA trailers parked outside homes, businesses are re-opening (including the home of the best ice cream anywhere in the known world). Stella and the rest of us are slowly getting our groove back. So why doesn't the goddamn New York Times do something on that? Or CNN? I hate to agree with the Commander-in-Chief, but sometimes it seems like the media has an aversion to good news.
Andy Cooper: the ball's in your court....
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