DC Cajun

Dada Exhibit

2006-03-13T09:57:00.000-05:00

Mona Lisa with moustache

The National Gallery of Art is currently showing a fierce Dada exhibit.

Dada as a movement began in reaction to World War I, when many young artists were appaled by the failure of society to allow war and the senseless deaths that came of it. In reaction they waged a counterstrike on the pompous and the conventional, and with it the rational mindset that had led to war.

Often called "anti-art", even by dadaists themselves, Dada was intensely opposed by those with rigid ideas about what art can be. I find the stories of public outrage amusing, particularly since typical dadaist elements such as abstraction, chance and irreverence are also essential emlements of life, and thus art. My favorite story was about a particular Man Ray piece--simple in design (a piece of wood with doornobs attached and string looped around the knobs), that was siezed by a mob of protesters and brought outside the museum where it was promptly shot 3 times with a pistol. You can still see the 3 small bullet holes in the piece.

The exhibit is separated by the cities in which the movement flourished, beginning with Zurich and moving on to Berlin, Hanover, Cologne, New York, and Paris. While intriguing regardless of place, I'm most taken by New York and the artists Marcel Duchamp and Man Ray. Their sense of humor and the emotion envoked by their work engages me in a way that I rarely experience with art.

Mardi Gras in New Orleans

2006-03-09T14:10:00.000-05:00

My roommate and I spent Mardi Gras in New Orleans. This was my first post-hurricane trip back to the playground of my libation soaked youth and so for the purposes of a 5-day party in the middle of a graveyard. We stayed at my friend Isaiah's house in Uptown (Garden District) and kept our movements betweeen there and the French Quarter, which are the most tourist heavy areas of the city and nearly the only part to to side-step the death blow from Katrina.

We arrived late friday night. We didn't want to hit the Quarter so we visited a couple of bars on Magazine Street that catered to locals and the Tulane crowd. We then grabbed a couple of "go" cups and took a midnight walk through the neighborhood, filling ourselves with intoxicants, both the alcoholic kind and the lustful--gorgeous homes with their massive porches and wrought iron fences sprinkled with beads all along oak lined streets inspiring envy.

Each street corner in Uptown has the names of that intersection printed in tile on the concrete below, and the sidewalks there are often sloped, cracked, or impeded by the roots of massive oaks, so walking through the "naybahood" can be an adventure as you gawk at 200 year-old homes while trying to keep your drunk ass from falling down. We stayed on Magazine Street, famous for its shopping while not forsaking the architecture and leafy acoutrement that the city is known for. Jules and I spent the majority of our time here, forsaking the tourist-packed French Quarter for a more family oriented/local crowd. We were only a few blocks from St. Charles, where the parade route was, so we made several trips going back and forth, collecting beads and the depositing them back home. The people along the route and walking the streets were laid back and life for them seemed normal enough, but we saw many tarp covered "blue roofs" and several homes damaged by fire and wind. To envision this and much more on a massive scale--what now makes up 80% of New Orleans, is unimaginable, and after my trip home for Thanksgiving when I spent an entire day going from town to town, street to street surveying the damage from Rita, I had no desire to go out of my way to see more of it.

Me and the waitress from DuMonde...we bonded. She let me take her picture as long as I promised not to steal her soul.

Saturday we walked for about 6 hours. We walked to the art district, went down to the river to see the cruise ships where they house the relief workers (we were stopped by security because it is a federally protected area), and watched the tuxedo clad folks in horse drawn carriages as they made their way to mardi gras balls. We also spent some time by the river near the infamous convention center, tucked away from the tourist heavy areas, watching float riders and marching bands as they dismounted their floats after the end of a long day and boarded the ferry to go home, across the river to Algiers. We watched the river for a while, sat with a high school marching band while watching a train pass, got beignets and coffee at cafe du monde, bought some pralines, picked up some souvenirs at the outdoor French Market, watched a brass band, and got drunk in a strip bar in the middle of the afternoon. Below is a picture I took of Isaiah and Jules. I just realized that you can see one of the strippers behind them:

Cabbies in New Orleans are a different breed. In DC a conversation with your cabbie is an unexpected occurence. In New Orleans it is predestined, and usually memorable. By the same token, I've never hated a District cabbie based on a conversation we've had. In New Orleans, one way or the other, you're going to leave the cab with an opinion of them.

Most Notable about festivities is that the usual ignorant, pushy, fight-prone tourist behavior that so often compels the locals to leave during carnival was conspicuously absent. Everyone was on their best behavior and a sense of goodwill hung through the air. One night we took a cab from Isaiah's to the Quarter, but we only went a few blocks before coming to a dead stop due to traffic. We decided to pay the fare and walk the rest of the way, which proved to be the right decision due to intractable congestion. After walking for some time we came across a truck with its front end smashed in, stopped in the middle of the road near the outer rim of the Quarter. Seated in this truck were two men, either dead or passed out. We stared at them for a while before my roommate Jules walked into the street and around to the driver's side and beat on the window until one of the men startled....then went back to sleep. Luckily, about 10 seconds later he again woke and proceeded to drive off. Most compelling about this strange occurence is that a mile-long snake of traffic was lined up behind them, waiting patiently. We weren't sure how long they had been there or what part they played in our original traffic hold-up, but what was amazing is that there was not one person yelling or one car leaning on their horn. That, is special.

Saturday night my best friend and partner in crime, Chris Abrams, came into town to bring me joy. I'm afraid I can't print all the things I did that night due to self-incrimination and possible incarceration, but needless to say we didn't leave the bars until the morning hours.

Sunday and Monday were big parade days. Jules and I caught a little over 60lbs of beads and several dozen cups from the Krewes of Thoth, Proteus, Mid-City, Hermes, Endymion, Bacchus, Orpheus, and others. One of the best parts of the parade experience (other than the jungle juice we marinated in an ice chest for 3-days: Everclear, Diesel 180 proof, pineapple flavored rum, vodka, fruit punch, and chopped fruit for vitamins) were the children, who we threw into the punch as well (kidding). Having them running through your feet and seeing them perched up in the ladder high-chairs is something you won't see in the Quarter. Being around families and walking through the streets all day as friends and neighbors cook gumbo and etouffee and enjoy each other's company is very special to me, and brings back many warm memories of my own friends and family and that mardi gras experience of meeting new people on the street and having them invite you in to their yards for hamburgers and barbecue. Living here in DC, that kind of energy is in short supply.

Monday we had a party that started at 3 and extended to about 3am. It began at Isaiah's, where many people from my university (UL-Lafayette...geaux cajuns!)showed up. After parades, Jambalaya, drunkedness, king cake, jello shots,and even more drunkedness our krewe of cajuns, queers, and marines (ample representatives of all 3 groups present, some fitting in to all 3 categories) moved to a straight bar in the Quarter called the Goldmine, where we had flaming Dr. Pepper shots and danced to hip-hop music, followed by gay bars, then mercifully, bed.

I was hung-over for two days after returning, and still have a lingering cough that I can't quite kick, but it was worth it. Since the ratio of drunk/sober waking hours fell decidedly on the former, I didn't take many pictures and I have also forgotten a great many details, but hopefully this missive satisfies the curiosity of those who have inquired.

Happy Birthday to Me

2006-03-08T11:53:00.000-05:00

My Sister posted this baby picture of me on our family website.

Birthdays are always fun in that the people that care about you the most generally call you and make you feel pretty good about being alive. This one is no exception.

My friends Tiko and Andi took me out for dinner and beer then Tiko and I went to the 9:30 club to see "Clap Your Hands Say Yeah" perform. I think "Enunciate because I can't understand a word coming out of your mouth" might be a better name, but that might be too long,even for an indie rock band.

After the show I had an altercation with a woman who's yard I pissed in, mainly because I wasn't apologetic about it. She tried to block me and my friend from driving off but I threatened to have my friend run her ass over, so she moved. I did try to reason with her first, even offering to have her come over and join me for a piss in my own yard, but apparently she doesn't share my idea of a good time. Once again I find that my value system makes it difficult for me to go out in public.

Yay! Thirty. Life is Good.

Proust Questionaire

2006-03-01T22:12:00.000-05:00

Marcel Proust, the great French writer, is considered to have created the greatest questionaire of all time. I copied it many years ago with the idea that I would memorize it in case I ever had a reticent date unable to engage in simple conversation. The idea is that if all else fails, I could bust some Barbara Walters on their ass. Of course, I never memorized it and its potential has languished in a folder on my computer. Maybe someone else will find it useful.

On another note, nearly every picture I found of Proust shows him in the pose you see here, devoid of emotion with his hand to his face, finger pointing upward. I can't tell if he's intently listening or bored out of his mind, finger slowly gravitating to an orifice he can plug in order to redirect the pain.

WHAT IS YOUR GREATEST FEAR?

WHAT IS YOUR CURRENT STATE OF MIND?
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE OCCUPATION?(WAY OF SPENDING TIME)
WHAT HISTORICAL FIGURE DO YOU MOST IDENTIFY WITH?
WHICH LIVING PERSON DO YOU MOST ADMIRE?
WHO IS YOUR FAVORITE FICTIONAL HERO?
WHO ARE YOUR REAL-LIFE HEROES?
WHAT IS YOUR MOST TREASURED POSSESSION?
WHEN AND WHERE WERE YOU HAPPIEST?
WHAT IS YOUR MOST OBVIOUS CHARACTERISTIC?
WHAT IS THE TRAIT YOU MOST DEPLORE (HATE) IN YOURSELF?
WHAT IS THE TRAIT YOU MOST DEPLORE IN OTHERS?
WHAT IS YOUR GREATEST EXTRAVAGANCE?
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE JOURNEY?
WHAT DO YOU MOST DISLIKE ABOUT YOUR APPEARANCE?
WHAT DO YOU CONSIDER THE MOST OVER-RATED VIRTUE?
ON WHAT OCCASION DO YOU LIE?
WHICH WORDS OR PHRASES DO YOU MOST OVER-USE?
IF YOU COULD CHANGE ONE THING ABOUT YOURSELF, WHAT WOULD IT BE?
WHAT DO YOU CONSIDER YOUR GREATEST ACHIEVEMENT?
WHERE WOULD YOU LIKE TO LIVE?
WHAT IS THE QUALITY YOU MOST ADMIRE IN A MAN?
WHAT IS THE QUALITY YOU MOST ADMIRE IN A WOMAN?
WHAT IS IT YOU MOST DISLIKE?
WHAT DO YOU VALUE MOST IN YOUR FRIENDS?

Who's that Guy??

2006-02-20T19:39:00.000-05:00

Valentine's Day.

Again single after 3 years of married life, I had the opportunity to again divert my attention from the ass aftertaste of this spiteful rejoinder to single life. With the exception of a Batman themed valentine's Day Card from my cracked-out office mate Alex, it went by quietly.....with one notable exception.

You see, there's a guy. Here's the rub:

4 years ago this guy stopped by the restaurant I worked at in Dupont Circle. In a city with the 3rd largest gay population in the country on a street considered to be ground zero for imbedded homosexuality, he made an impression that in the great neural combine of my mind which reaps from the fertile field that is my sex drive, separated the proverbial wheat from the chaff. I was smitten.

Advance 3 years without a glimpse of his fine ass, and he now works as a shop boy at the Sisley next door to my office. Over the course of a year I walked by his store every day on the way to work, never missing an opportunity to see if fella was working that day, and always pleased in that safe, unhappily married guy way that I managed to take sight of him. I even walked in one day (for a good reason...kinda) and got to share a few words regarding the pair of slacks I burnt a hole through with my iron and sincerely wished to replace. He seemed a nervous and similarly attracted, and my mind fixated on the concept of "what if".

Advance to a year later where I break up with my boyfriend, he quits Sisley without a trace, and I'm left wondering if my window has closed forever. I walked in one day and asked what happened to "that guy" but all I get is a collection of names that may or may not be him.

Advance to about two months ago, still single and still celibate (as I am now) and I'm looking at a website I never thought I would be entertaining...M4M.com, an infamous gay hook-up site. That kind of thing isn't my style, but I was curious. Wouldn't you know it, fella is looking for company. His profile is straightforward, personable, and mentions he's "looking for prince charming and probably won't find him here", which is entirely dissimilar from just about every other "beef on a hook" profile I viewed. I entertained the notion of reaching for the crown, mounting my white horse and plunking down a charming 30 bucks for a subscription just for the opportunity to contact him and lay out for him the psychotic story I'm writing at this moment. My better judgment took hold and I decided that writing this guy via an online sex site might not be the best way to introduce myself. I would wait, and hope that my luck would hold.

So where am I on Valentine's Day but walking down 16th street on my way home from work, looking forward to a quiet night alone when I see a guy walking ahead of me who for some reason draws a stronger than usual reaction from me than most people encapsulated in winter gear that walk ahead of me. I'm in fast-walk mode with my IPOD cranking out this old tune "143" by Musiq, and he turns to look at me just as I pass by. It's HIM.

Am I crazy for losing my sense of the universal order of things by thinking that this might be fate? Surely there can be no such creature. However, it was Valentine's Day.

Of course, I froze. I don't know why. I walked a ways before stopping, looking at his form in the distance and thinking that maybe I should turn back, but I didn't.

Was this luck's last chance? If Lady Luck gives me another shot at this, I won't waste it. Stay tuned.

Male Figure Skating

2006-02-16T21:48:00.000-05:00

So who wants to nail a figure skater? Me I guess.

I’ve developed a taste for it. I’ll go ahead and make this my new sexual fantasy. Figure skating, or “Ice Cheerleading”, is the gayest and hottest thing ever, and it only comes around once every 4 years. This is also the amount of time it takes to sew the sequins necessary for the kind of frock Jonny Weir wore during the Olympic short-program last night. The queen even wears one red glove that he calls “Camile”. It’s men like this that I tend to fall in love with, but only because they’re even weirder than me. Naturally, these relationships end badly.

Yvgeny Yushenko won the gold, and he completely dominated. He obviously has to work harder than others because in Russia if you don’t medal they don’t allow you to reproduce. I just made that up. Not that Yvgeny will ever reproduce, because anyone who spends that much time ice dancing is gonna get turned. Playing with dolls won’t make you gay, but figure-skating sure as hell will.

My boyfriend, Brion Joubert, the French whore that he is, performed near the end of the night dressed up as James Bond. He had “007” rhinestoned on his back and did a lot of shooting into the crowd and pretending to throw bombs. They should have lined him up in front of the judges booth so they could take turns slapping him, but he still came in 4th (call me).

There was this little blonde mary that fell on his ass twice, but he really gave it a good shot and displayed real dash. It was so sad to see him crying stone-faced when the judges released the scoring numbers. Still, it’s better to cry over a technical mistake than a stylistic mistake. Even I started to cry when I saw that Belgian guy start flipping around to Motzart’s “Ode to Joy”. I instantly felt that the stadium speaker system might cause the roof to collapse on him in retaliation.

Who dresses these people? And the music! It’s as though the ritual of skating on a rink of ice while wearing lycra and feathers opens a portal to another dimension. A pink dimension. A homo vortex forms and everything that springs from it is raw, unformed faggotry pulsating with light and quadruple-lutzes. Drawn yet recoiled then drawn again, I can’t help but watch.

There’s more Thursday night!

Champagne Room

2006-02-11T19:23:00.000-05:00

In an attempt to turn our office handicapped restroom into the pleasure pit that I know it can be, I've recently dubbed it "The Champagne Room", and affixed the above graphic to the door. To put it mildy, this effort has been a success.

For a while I kept the key to myself, pimping the suite out to those employees who came to me to personally ask for the keys. This was for no other reason than to personally confirm with them that they knew the first rule, which is of course, "There's no sex in the champagne room". Now, even the building janitorial staff refers to it by its proper name. I have plans to add some scented candles and reading material, but that might tip people off about how truly bored I've been at work lately.

My next project is to make a pink sequined keychain for the key and give it out as a prize for one month exclusive access to the winner of "Jackass bowling", which consists of taping pictures of my boss to the sides of used 2-liter diet coke bottles that will be used as bowling pins during office happy hour on Friday.

FEMA Trailer

2006-02-06T19:16:00.000-05:00

Ever wonder what the inside of a FEMA trailer looks like? Wonder no more. Mom sent me some pics, showing off their swingin' new pad.

Random Stuff

2006-02-02T18:00:00.000-05:00

Jesus Christ singing a rendition of Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive".
I Will Survive

Every wanted to blow up a whaling ship?
Whale's Revenge

"Ashes and Snow" is a remarkable installation that reveals the poetic nature of animals and the their symbiotic relationship with humans. Great Flash work.
Ashes and Snow

Calling all writers! Submit your Louisiana minute:
Louisiana Minute

Pandora: enter a song or artist and it will begin to tailor a continuous radio station that plays that song and that artist and artists and songs that are musically similar. You can thumbs up or thumbs down their suggestions and it will refine station based on super nerdy musical attributes like tonal harmonies and dominate use of riffs. You can keep adding songs and artists to further refine your station.

My prediction: Apple will buy this within a couple of months.
Pandora Personal DJ

Catch Flies with Chopsticks. Addictive, but f****** hard.
Karate Kid bullshit

Chuck Norris is a Bad Man

2006-01-25T21:53:00.000-05:00

Chuck Norris is a bad man: Chuck Norris is God

My favorites:
Chuck Norris doesn't eat. Rather he kicks ass until he's full.

There are no disabled people in the world. Only those people who
have felt the wrath of Chuck Norris.

Ice isn't cold water; it's water that is scared still by Chuck Norris.

When Chuck Norris was a teenager, he once impregnated every nun in a
convent tucked away in the Himalaya mountains. 9 months later, the
nuns all gave birth to the 1972 Miami Dolphins, the only undefeated
and untied team in NFL history.

Macgyver can build an airplane out of gum and paper clips, but
Chuck Norris can kill him and take it.

Chuck Norris doesn't read books. He stares them down until he gets
the information he wants.

Chuck Norris does not have AIDS but he gives it to people anyway.

Crop circles are Chuck Norris's way of telling the world that
sometimes corn needs to lie the f*** down.

There is no theory of evolution, just a list of creatures Chuck
Norris allows to live.

D'angelo gets to the root of things, y'all

2006-01-23T23:25:00.000-05:00

I'm just sitting at my computer checking email and listening to D'angelo's "Voodoo" album and getting taken in by it. This one of "those" albums, wherein which the playing of it necessitates sexual expression and great cardiovascular exercise. If you walk into a crowded room when this song is playing, you suffer the likelihood of somebody's panties hitting you in the face.

The beats on the album are all wrong on first listen but inevitably win you over with a complexity that expects you to work a little bit. It's playful and sensual, but dark and intellectual as well. The tune I'm digging right now is called "The Root". It wasn't the popular track on the album, but it's always been my favorite. What I find interesting is that in the years I've had the album I've been struck by the strong groove of this track, but I never really understood what the song was about, and even felt that there was something missing from it.

D'angelo has a satin voice, not a booming one nor a blustery one. It's easy in the strain to follow him over the beat to forget about the beat itself. After a sharp listen I realized that under the first few bars there was a voice saying, with the beat, "1,2,3..1,2,3...). It suddenly became clear that the resolved drum beat underscored by the muffled boom of a subwoofer that previously felt out of balance, was in fact the beat (1,2,3...1,2,3) accompanied by a complex jazz guitar that balances with D'angelo vocals that similarly accompany. Neither accompaniment is meant to usurp the mighty "Root", from which the most basic rhythmns are derived. This is where the problem was for me. I've become so accustomed to artists who try to dominate a song with the might of their voice, leading me to forget about the beat and follow the tongue gymnastics that I failed to grasp that the song WAS the beat, and everything else coalesced around it in encomiastic deference. I was missing the song but the pureness of the beat kept its grasp until it finally pulled me back and had me. The more I think about the unmistakeable sensuality and the goodwill and vision tied to this tune the more I heart D'angelo.

It's too bad he got messed up in that car wreck a few months ago. I hope he gets well and starts cranking out some beats. I have a feeling this country is going to want to do a lot more fucking soon.

Travel

2006-01-19T20:40:00.000-05:00

Travel, or the idea of travel, invigorates me. My roommate and I were daydreaming about Vegas recently. I've never been there, but If I were to go, I'd want to drive. I can visualize the experience: The two of us joined by an unknown 3rd and still with room to pick up a stranger, all in a cadillac convertible (very "Fear and Loathing") on a trek across the country. The whole point being the transitionary experience of driving for days across barren desert, beaten and drunk by the sun with our minds shifting in and out of a dream trance brought on by the haunting sameness of stark vista and arid wind. I can only imagine that the experience of transitioning from the desert dream to the bright decadence of Vegas would be the perfect intersection of spiritual and carnal experience. Like Moses out of the wilderness, we would meet our Caanan with raised, empty cups, and we would tear that little town straight up.

Me and my roommate are instead going to New Orleans. I'm pleased by this, because Julia possesses the quality that I look for in a travel partner, particularly for this trip. She has a regal, charming presence in a Katherine Hepburn/Joan Allen kind of way but is low-maintenance, good humored, and ready for the unexpected, even if the whole affair ends as a sordid, drunken mess.

This will be our second Mardi Gras together, and I am anxiously awaiting our visit. I have apprehension about going back, to say the least. I fear the shock of finding something there that does not resemble the friend I love and know so well. There are places and activities that I enjoy, and many memories of learning to be a man that I left in her streets. If these are gone when I go to meet them, the sting of impermanence will be painful. I guess these are things you can never quite prepare for. I do hope for a positive experience.

MLK Holiday

2006-01-18T21:21:00.000-05:00

MLK day isn't a holiday that most people take seriously. My entire building was shut down for the holiday but my company's corporate office still considered it a work day, so we all showed up and froze our asses off in a building with no heat. Being that our entire building staff is black, It seems a fitting judgement and punishment on we who blindly dismiss the sacred and reflective benefit of common ritual.

I think MLK might be my favorite holiday. It's the only one with a significance I can take seriously. With Christmas, Halloween or Easter, the significance is understandably overshadowed by commerce and mythology. With MLK, its just a man and a message stripped of unnecessary theatre. I suppose the moral is that if you can't incorporate consumerism or entertaining mythology into a holiday, it just gets ignored, marginalized or ridiculed.

One more reason we're all doomed.

Poem for the New Year

2006-01-10T12:17:00.000-05:00

A friend of mine is the "nephew" of Maya Angelou. He sent me this poem of hers yesterday. I was moved by it.

Arial
By Dr. Maya Angelou

Arial

Thunder rumbles in the mountain passes
And lightning rattles the eaves of our houses.
Flood waters await us in our avenues.
Snow falls upon snow, falls upon snow to avalanche
Over unprotected villages.
The sky slips low and grey and threatening.
We question ourselves.
What have we done to so affront nature?
We worry God.
Are you there? Are you there really?
Does the covenant you made with us still hold?
Into this climate of fear and apprehension, Christmas enters,
Streaming lights of joy, ringing bells of hope
And singing carols of forgiveness high up in the bright air.
The world is encouraged to come away from rancor,
Come the way of friendship.
It is the Glad Season.
Thunder ebbs to silence and lightning sleeps quietly in the corner.
Flood waters recede into memory.
Snow becomes a yielding cushion to aid us
As we make our way to higher ground.
Hope is born again in the faces of children
It rides on the shoulders of our aged as they walk into their sunsets.
Hope spreads around the earth. Brightening all things,
Even hate which crouches breeding in dark corridors.
In our joy, we think we hear a whisper.
At first it is too soft. Then only half heard.
We listen carefully as it gathers strength.
We hear a sweetness.
The word is Peace.
It is loud now. It is louder.
Louder than the explosion of bombs.
We tremble at the sound. We are thrilled by its presence.
It is what we have hungered for.
Not just the absence of war. But, true Peace.
A harmony of spirit, a comfort of courtesies.
Security for our beloveds and their beloveds.
We clap hands and welcome the Peace of Christmas.
We beckon this good season to wait a while with us.
We, Baptist and Buddhist, Methodist and Muslim, say come.

Peace.

Come and fill us and our world with your majesty.
We, the Jew and the Jainist, the Catholic and the Confucian,
Implore you, to stay a while with us.
So we may learn by your shimmering light
How to look beyond complexion and see community.
It is Christmas time, a halting of hate time.
On this platform of peace, we can create a language
To translate ourselves to ourselves and to each other.
At this Holy Instant, we celebrate the Birth of Jesus Christ
Into the great religions of the world.
We jubilate the precious advent of trust.
We shout with glorious tongues at the coming of hope.
All the earth's tribes loosen their voices
To celebrate the promise of Peace.
We, Angels and Mortal's, Believers and Non-Believers,
Look heavenward and speak the word aloud.
Peace. We look at our world and speak the word aloud.
Peace. We look at each other, then into ourselves
And we say without shyness or apology or hesitation.

Peace, My Brother.

Peace, My Sister.

Peace, My Soul.

New Orleans Nicknames

2006-01-05T23:18:00.000-05:00

I found this on Kottke. It's bizarre yet quaint, which sums up NOLA/South Louisiana.

Didn't He Ramble

Yes, I've got a nickname. No, I'm not telling.

Happy New Year!

2006-01-03T23:05:00.000-05:00

I enjoyed the 4-day reprieve and spent much of it socializing, smoking cigarettes and metabolizing various distilled liquors.

My buddy Michael was visiting from Berkley this week, so I got to spend some QT with DC's own Alt-Queer Jesus (He started the party known as "Feint", which is the grandpa of several current parties that attempt to mobilize DC alterna-queers). We even got to attend "Taint", which is something of a grandson to him, and I'm sure makes him proud (I think he even tried to burp a few of the boys in attendance).

For New Year's eve my friends and I hit the hotel Helix about a half-hour before the ball dropped--more than enough time to purchase a couple of $9 cocktails, nibble on smoked cheese, get ignored by pretentious queens and contemplate the irony of how the painfully straight party in the next room had music people could actually dance to, but didn't, while the gay party had music you wouldn't, but people still tried. If only Margaret Mead were alive to explain it to us.

The party moved over to Halo, the non-smoking bar on P Street. This is where I became even more drunk (dropped the same drink twice) but still less drunk than my confederates. I know this because it was the point my friend Dave stopped remembering his evening. We left HALO in search of an after-party but found only an empty hotel room, from which our drunk asses promptly stole two bottles of wine before lurching out in to the street in search of...well, who knows. It was at this point that the unit lost cohesion and splintered without much notice or conversation, leaving everyone to fend for themselves. It was an ugly ending, but as they say, it's all about the journey.

On Monday I saw a movie called "Breakfast on Pluto", starring young Cillian Murphy as the prettiest thing I've ever seen in a dress. I can't say I fully understand it, but I'm man enough to admit that sitting there watching him I realized that there's something about a really hot guy in a dress that kind of turns me on.

I'm jealous of my straight bretheren in that my sexual orientation has not been conducive to consumating that most sacred of male sexual fantasies: fucking a bad girl. Just ask a straight guy, any straight guy, and he can explain it to you. The sordid specifics might vary, but crucial elements such as a vigorously hiked dress, ripped underwear, heels in the air and the ever present threat of the vice squad kicking down the bathroom door are usually present in some form. Now, if I actually saw a vagina I would probably scream and pass out, and honestly If I really was having aggressive sex with a guy in a dress, the dress would only stay on long enough to rip it off of him. The more that I contemplate my "Basic Instinct" fantasy in light of these facts the more I realize that the attraction isn't even about sex. I just enjoy good theatre.

Today was my first day back at work. One of my co-workers decided to help me begin my day by sharing with me a website of this guy named Mitch who likes to stand naked in his bathtub and smear himself from head to toe with his own shit (yes, Mitch is from Germany). Now, I think this is foul in so many ways that I want to hold my nose and vomit from my ears, but for some reason I kept clicking the slide show until he smeared it on his face. Sufficed to say I think I may have wounded my subconscious with a permanent memory. While I won't link to Mitch's tird treatment on this blog, I will link to a page of christ-centered product reviews that my office mate's friend (he sent the shit link) posts on Amazon.com. Enjoy:

As a Christian....

Finally, my resolution in the new year: Clean living. That's right folks, I will once again attempt to put down the cigarettes and embrace a strategy of whole foods, moderate drinking, exercise and smoke-free breathing. In other words, the same resolution as last year.

Cigarettes Are Bad

2005-12-29T11:43:00.000-05:00

This is only day 3 of my latest attempt to quit my boyfriend, nicotine. Our relationship has been on again/off again for several years now, but the inspiration to actually end our love affair for good hasn't blossomed to the point of action until this past year. I managed to quit for 3 1/2 months after the election, then two weeks, and now 3 days. I'm counting on the third time being a charm.

For me, withdrawl is like being a slab of beef mounted on a hook and stretched into jerky. I've been spending 2-hours a day in the gym for the last 3 days in a valiant effort to do everything I can to get through the tough part. However, I'm not feeling confident, as each of the last 2 nights I've gone to my back porch, hoping against hope that my roommate left a single stray cigarette on the coffee table. It's kind of sad, but that's addiction.

I need to find a graphic for this blog that doesn't involve me holding a dangler from my lower lip.

“Smoke-Free” Nazis

2005-12-27T00:18:00.000-05:00

“I really love that bitch, but she’s trying to kill me”
-Brad Pitt, on cigarettes

I’m quitting smoking. Really.

The last few months of personal drama (hurricanes, bad breakup, work, death) are now behind me and my last major hurdle (organizing the company Christmas party) went forward without a hitch, so now its time to take care of myself. In the last couple of months I’ve lost muscle mass, gained weight, tripled my stress and reclaimed nicotine as my bride. My body has broken down and reminds me daily in aches and pains that I need take my health seriously, and hitting the gym and ending the love/hate relationship I have with Camel Lights is the place to start.

Today is day 1, and it isn’t cute. The muscle fibers in my arms and chest are stretched like taffy, straining for a fix and my body feels upside down and firmly in the hands of the Marlboro man, shaking me by the shins trying to empty my pockets of loose change and bic lighters. This isn’t going to be fun.

I accept that smoking is killing me. I accept that it makes me feel like shit, ages me, and presents me with a financial burden. However, in light of the smoke-free movement sweeping through DC and my intention to quit, I still believe carrying these burdens is preferable to being a smoke-free Nazi.

Smoke-free Nazis (SFN) are an interest group on the rise, and appear to be on the verge of scoring a major victory here in the District of Columbia. Their goal is to ban smoking in all restaurants and bars, and preferably on the street if they can get away with it (give them time). In their arguments they refer to secondary smoke, air pollution, and the general health of our populace. Simply put, they are fascist assholes who want to sacrifice my freedom in favor of their prejudices, and it appears that they can’t be stopped.

SFN seem to be under the impression that smokers are trying to kill them. Not true. We’re just extending the opportunity for them to hang with us and die by proxy. The only time we might actually try to kill them is when they resort to passive-aggressive whining. If you’re a smoker and have been to a bar where non-smokers gather, you understand this. SFN don’t seem to understand that their intentionally indirect bitching only heightens the likelihood of me blowing smoke in their face or accidentally burning a hole through their clothing. It’s not that I’m a mean-spirited person. Just the opposite, actually, but all that talk you hear about “identifying triggers” in relation to effective smoking cessation also applies to violence cessation. My triggers just so happen to be Republicans, Chinese take-out joints that use onions as filler, Republicans, and “smoke-free” Nazis.

I don’t want to sound insensitive or loutish. I certainly understand that each of us must accept responsibility for our actions, not only in how they affect our person, but how they negatively impact others. However, I feel that the smug talking points parroted by posturing SFNs are severely lacking in both substance and perspective.

Here is my attempt to be an apologist for the smoker’s perspective. I will address SFNs directly:

1)"Smokers keep us from enjoying bars/Smokers don't respect our rights"

Most smokers don’t want to make you suffer the unpleasant smell of our cigarettes. When most of us see kids coming, we walk away from them so they don’t smell our smoke. We gladly keep our cigarettes away from the workplace, out of businesses, and even out of most restaurants. However, bars are different. Bars are places where people go to smoke and drink. It’s what we do, and its where we go to do it. Bars rely on smokers for profits, and are institutions in no small part because they provide a space for smoking activities. We don’t mind if non-smokers want to join us, because it’s a free country. We also don’t mind if you want to open your own bar so you don’t need to deal with our smoke. You are free to do that as well. What we mind is when you walk in to a private enterprise that is in no small part based on the culture of smoking (and drinking) and try to (a) criminalize a business for being itself and (b) criminalize its patrons because you don’t personally approve of their activities. The federal government doesn’t censor or shut-down the Ku Klux Klan, but smoky bars and the people who keep them in business are fair game? And for the record, stop using that phony argument about creating a healthier workplace. You want to create a healthy workplace, lobby your congressperson to provide Universal healthcare. I've worked in many bars and restaurants and I've never met a single employee that complained about smokers, except when they didn't tip, which wasn't often because unlike non-smokers, they tend to be much better customers.

2)“But Ben”, you say, “What about second-hand smoke? I’m not asking for your cancer!”. For you folks, check out these fine sources:

The American Lung Association
The New England Journal of Medicine
The National Institute of Health
The World Health Organization

Guess what they have in common, other than that they are all distinguished in their opinions? That’s right, they all say, after years of heavily funded research, that there is no proof linking second-hand smoke to cancer. In spite of the parade of lies trotted out by the government and the organizations funded by companies that stand to make a killing off of smoking-cessation products, there is no scientific proof stating that second-hand smoke presents a health hazard. In fact, smoking rates have gone down precipitously while childhood disease and cancer rates have increased, which makes me think that maybe we should be focusing less on a convenient scapegoat and more on the real enemies to our health and well being: Republicans (kidding…sort of). Why don’t you just be honest and say that you don’t like the smell of my cigarette, or it bothers your sinuses, or it makes your clothes stink. Those are all valid points that you can think about as you rightfully leave my bar and walk to HALO on P street, instead of trying to kick me out of my bar and run it out of business.

3)"But Ben, what about air pollution! We’ve got to breathe this air too!”

Dear lord, listen to yourself. Those 4,000 chemicals they put in cigarettes are just too much for you to handle, hun? Well folks, there are on average 10,000 chemicals in the plate of food you had for supper. The arsenic that is so often cited as causing cancer is also found in your glass of drinking water in a much higher rate that what is found in a cigarette. In fact, while you are complaining about second hand smoke in a restaurant, you may also wish to turn your attention to the air pollution index of the urban area you are living in, because the polluting qualities of my cigarette have been proven to be effectively neutralized by regulated restaurant air-filtration systems and are miniscule compared to the air pollution present in urban areas, produced by your SUV and your general product consumption, which you breathe every day and every night and you can never escape from.

By the way, I use public transport, I recycle everything, and I practice home energy conservation. Do you? How about I picket your house and pass laws that force you to ride your bicycle to work? Maybe make it a crime if you don’t recycle every last empty container of tuna or properly dispose of your cleaning supplies? How about a law against excessive home energy consumption or chimney usage? I mean, this is MY HEALTH that we’re talking about. How dare you.

You can piss off now, please.

In closing, I want to point out that the majority of the people I’ve met who support a “smoke-free DC” are liberals, like me. I think it’s interesting that we liberals criticize Republicans for their mean-spirited, blowhard rhetoric, the ease in which they manipulate the public with blatant lies and cherry-picked (if not completely false) “science”, and for the ease in which they champion individual rights only to continually undercut them. Yet how can liberals honestly judge them when their own actions are no better? Something to think about.

Damn I want a cigarette.

Happy Birthday, MOM!

2005-12-24T17:41:00.000-05:00

I love the cigarette and bottle of whiskey. Nice one.

Circa South Louisiana, 1960?

Sexual Her-assment

2005-12-21T17:48:00.000-05:00

I recently had to take an online "Sexual Harassment" seminar that my company is required by law to make us sit through. It was supposed to take an hour, but I managed to get through it in 12 minutes. I suppose I could have waited longer, but I was running out of lotion and my co-workers were becoming suspicious.

About the only thing I got out of it were the photo depictions of workplace harrassment. Being that most sexual harrassment claims are probably just misunderstood advances made by socially awkward people, I've decided to add my own captions to these in order to illustrate how certain behaviors can be misinterpreted.

1...See, the hairs are fine, not coarse like on my back.

2. Are you prepared to recieve the Pon-Far? My breath, to your breath....

3. Do you always wear a parachute to work? Miss thing, are we running fever?

1. Heeh..heh heh...heh............heh.

2. Have you seen TransAmerica yet?

3. I know you took my chocolate pudding. You look like someone who likes chocolate pudding. You want my pudding, don't you.

1. Yeah, I did time.

2. You can call me Sally. Big Sally.

3. Tell you what, if you can get past me, you can have all the chocolate pudding you want.

1. Wedgie!!!

2. Ok, I'm going to put the quarter here, but look, its really in my LEFT hand!

3. Is this where Data had the on/off switch?

4. How much of this is baby fat?

1. It's probably just a cyst.

2. Look, you've got to tell Jean-Paul, TEXTURIZE. Otherwise, he'll just layer that shit!

3. Well....Tai Chi isn't for everyone.

4. Maybe it's a tick!

Homeless or Jesus?

2005-12-15T16:53:00.000-05:00

For those of you have difficulty discerning between homeless people and the son of God.

Homeless or Jesus?

Tom Kills Oprah!

2005-12-11T16:57:00.000-05:00

I've watched this half a dozen times, and I've belly-laughed every time.

Tom Kills Oprah!

The Morning After

2005-12-09T23:10:00.000-05:00

I had my office holiday party last night. Everyone seemed to have a good time, and other than being inappropriately and repeatedly fondled by a visiting member of management, I would call the evening a success. What can I say, I throw a great party.

This morning only half the office made it in and none of them look so hot. My head feels heavy and I want to crawl off someplace quiet and die.

The highlight of my day thus far is this new hire, a kid from Zimbabwe, who apparently has never met any gay people. He asked me about an employee whose last day on the job was today, inquiring about what the guy was going to do. I told him that he might be going into business with his boyfriend, to which he replied “did you say boyfriend….but he is a guy?”

I then told him that there were many gay people in the office, which came as a great shock. He then asked me, as innocently as possible, what would he do if he had “to share the restroom with one of them”. No options came to mind, so I just looked at him sort of curious and stunned, as though the answer was forthcoming but not from a place I often feel the need to visit.

My workplace environment is very liberal, so I suppose I naively expect everyone to be vetted for things like this, but I recovered quickly in spite of my headache and the conversation it was having with my intestines regarding future plans to disperse the contents of my stomach. I told him about the make-up of Dupont Circle and the ratio of hair dressers/construction workers per square mile, and this seemed to surprise him even more, but I couldn’t tell if it was distressing or merely disorienting.

He shared with me a scary story about walking in to the gay bookstore on Connecticut and feeling instantly out of place, and then went on to tell me about how in Zimbabwe, if someone is thought to be gay, they are stoned in the street. No one thinks twice about killing a homosexual. This was the life he had known, but to his credit, he told me that he does not want to have a problem with homosexuals, but that this new bubble of tolerance that he finds himself in is difficult for him to process. I felt it best not to take this moment to reveal to him that I’m gay.

I’m looking forward to watching him and seeing how he continues to negotiate his fabulous new world.

Hurricane Survival Kit

2005-12-01T14:24:00.000-05:00

Toilet Paper........................................ check

Bud Light........................................... check

Keystone Ice........................................ check

Budweiser........................................... check

Red Dog............................................. check

Misc. other bottles of alcohol...................... check

Piece of plywood to float your old lady and booze on...check

Next time let's all be more prepared.

Hurricane Rita Road Trip

2005-11-30T17:17:00.000-05:00

Sign on main street in New Iberia, LA. It has been there since 9/11, 2001:

Friday was my last day in Louisiana to really do anything, so my friend Schorlen and I decided to spend it surveying the Hurricane damage in Vermillion and Cameron Parishes. The plan was to start off with breakfast in New Iberia, move to Delcambre, which is on the border of Iberia and Vermillion parishes (where my parents live), and then to Forked Island, Pecan Island, and finally the completely destroyed Cameron Parish.

Delcambre is a small fishing village 2 miles south of my parent’s home. It was devastated by Hurricane Rita, with nearly every home flooded by the storm surge. Here are a few of the photos I took. In many of them, you will see the same tell-tale signs: spray-painted ID numbers and contact information crudely marked on the sides of houses, mounds of uncollected trash by the street, and personal messages from the victims left homeless. The first few are of the river that flows through Delcambre. The rest are of damaged homes. The pictures on this post in no way captures the extent of the damage we saw, as we drove street to street, town to town. My friend Schorlen said it best: “this is a new world”. To experience it for myself was an emotional journey I won’t soon forget.
.......Why Indeed. This was one of my first photos, and it struck me most profoundly. This is no doubt because I wasn't yet numb from what I would spend the rest of the day viewing.

This family was living in tents, behind their damaged home.

The window says, "Rita you left 5 people homeless".

The most commonly seen sentiment....

The road to Forked Island (Fore-Ked) showed more of the same.

This one really struck me. The little Jesus in the front yard really stood out.

The marsh was swept clean of tall grasses that usually occupy it, giving us a clear view that we otherwise would not have had. The trees, stripped of their leaves and confused by the storm were once again green and full, instead of barren, as is usual this time of year. We stopped by the side of the road next to a small dock. These are common along this stretch of road.

We couldn't figure out what this machine was doing. It intermittently spit black liquid, then white liquid. It might have been cleaning the coulee, but I can't be certain.

Sign says: "Alligator Crossing"

Pecan Island had the worst damage I’ve seen. Entire houses washed away, others ripped apart. It was heartbreaking to see families in their yards beginning the long process of recovery and repair.

This one is interesting. We were driving by and I didn't get a chance to focus on what I was taking a picture of. All that is left of this house is the lattice entrance. Everything else is gone.

A cemetery by the road....

This beautiful oak by the road caught my eye. I also have a shot of me sitting in it.

We never made it to Cameron Parish. We encountered guards on the road leading in to the parish who told us that no one was allowed in, due to the extent of the damage. Not seeing this parish is my biggest regret during my trip home. Being that Rita is a forgotten storm, “Katrina’s little sister” as my nephew called it, the only way to see the apocalypse for myself was to go there. There has been next to no media presence in our part of the state, not even NPR. Instead the coverage has been on Katrina, even though Rita has technically caused more damage.

We turned around and made our way to Lake Arthur, which was something of a homecoming for me. My father, his father, and his father before him came from this part of the state. Unfortunately, the advent of interstate ten redirected the flow of business, leaving this town a quiet reflection of what it once was, although I wonder if it was ever all that vibrant to begin with. Signs of damage were evident here as well, as you can see in this photo of what appears to be a local bar.

An advertisement for disater repair services...

I had not been to Lake Arthur since I was a pre-teen, yet my recollections of it are some of the sharpest in memory. While my mother’s family is huge and typical of most Cajun families in that it extends to 2nd and 3rd cousins and allows you to feel that you always have an army behind you, my father was something of a recluse, like me, so I never had the benefit of knowing the extended family on my father’s side. My thoughts in driving through this town lingered on my unknown history, and how much of my blood still ran through this town. While paused at an intersection, I saw a teenage boy on a bicycle who fixed my gaze for a full 5 seconds as he pedaled past my vehicle. He had the same facial features as I did: hair, eyes, skintone, jawline and eyebrows staring back at me. He could have been me, and I wonder now as then how many more of me there might be.

My grandfather, a tall jovial man with a major talent for the accordion who inspired crowds to gather from afar to hear him play, lived in a big white house in Lake Arthur that as a child I thought of as a mansion. I’m certain now that it was anything but. When I went there to visit him I was often treated with a visit to Lake Arthur Park, a place home to some of the sharpest and warmest memories of my childhood. Visiting this park was my main reason for returning.

The park as I remember it was a forest of massive oaks imbued with a supernatural quality due to hanging fields of spanish moss and the greatest playground a kid could ever hope for, hidden behind the protective wall of majestic trees. As a child no place was more magical than this one. I remember running through this park, filled with excitement and the anticipation of finding my hidden world. Seeing it now as an adult brought back strong emotion in me, but shock as well. The fortress of trees was less dense now, and the playground, still intact, had fallen into disrepair.

This place likely does not draw the crowds it once did, but I was heartened to see that children still play here. I was able to take a few pictures of them, and later watch them shoot basketball while I once again took advantage of the swingsets that even now don’t fail to please.

The park is also a lakeside property with a swimming area enclosed by a pier. In the center of this pier was a diving tower that my cousins would jump from down into the brown soup at the bottom of a mile of humid air. I remember being a kid and the both of them coaxing me to jump, but even the act of looking over the ledge down into that abyss inspired more fear than I was able to overcome. I still remember meekly taking the walk of shame back down the pier, looking back as my cousin took flight for a moment before crashing into the oblivion below.

The diving tower, from the base:

On a side note, in my life there are a few seminal moments that have stuck with me where I refused to take the same risks as everyone else. Refusing to jump from this platform is one of them. My tendency is to imbue these moments with more symbolic and critical meaning than they probably warrant, but I do so nevertheless. The big irony is that most people seem to be under the impression that I’m a risk taker.

Revisiting the pier and the diving platform brought the same disbelief I felt when I surveyed the park—everything was miniaturized and I wondered whether I was in the right place. The tower was much smaller and less threatening than I remembered, although a part of me still resisted the idea of taking the leap. It's funny how fear, like life is so predictable in that time and perspective can reduce it to a laughable notion. Even with this understanding, it is still frustrates me how we continue to create mountains from it instead of (cliche alert) molehills.

Sadly, the pier was in disrepair as well, the tower long since closed to the public and the stairs removed from the high platform. The redirection of traffic due to Interstate 10 had likely hit this place hard, leaving little city money for repairs and upkeep. In spite of the beauty here, this town is dying.

We drove around a bit more to appreciate the old homes that, in spite of being hidden from the rest of the world, were still fabulous. Here are a couple of shots of an old trawler in a canal that showed signs of once being a central point for shrimpers to sell their catch. These boats look like they haven’t moved in a long time.

My final destination was the village of morse, where I was concieved, born and raised. For some reason, the blackbirds flying over the rice fields are always more beautiful here.

This is the house that I was raised in. My brother and nephews currently live here.

The neighbors across the street. The roof ripped off the trailer with them still in it. They hauled off the trailer, obviously.

Louisiana Saturday Night

2005-11-29T19:11:00.000-05:00

Saturday night Chris picked me up and took me in to Lafayette to see the new housing development called, "River Ranch". This is one of those nouveau riche communities that pop-up once a middle-class town acquires a critical mass of individuals with the capital and sense of entitlement necessary to create a class barrier. The development has mammoth houses, themed streets, an open market, and its own banks, shops, and community events. It even has uplighting for its trees. Chris and I toured one such structure located behind the "new orleans" theme park neighborhood, which surrounded a man-made lake and has garage parking for 4 cars, easily. It made me sick to see that worst of Americanism has officially infested the entire country.

I went out for a night out with two of my very best friends, Chris and Courtney. They recently returned to the state and are currently both unemployed and having difficulty dealing with the reality of living in present day Louisiana, but seem to maintain their sunny joie de vivre in spite of this. We bought a bottle of Stoli V and a container of ginger ale to chase, and hit the clubs.

Accompanying the requisite drinking, dancing and Jefferson Street stroll, I saw some old faces, most notably former lovers, and it felt good to reconnect and share good feeling with them.

The night took a turn, as is usual when anyone mentions “after party” in South Louisiana. I ended up at the trailer park home of some random queen, and I met some nice folks, several of which were completely out of their fucking mind. Wanting to get out of there sooner rather than later, I accepted a ride back to Courtney’s with this cute actor who is apparently in every recent movie filmed in Louisiana. I was told we had to first take a pit-stop at the home of batshit crazy freak (Alias), which in hindsight I probably should have reconsidered, but at the time I couldn’t see past my own desire to leave.

10 minutes later I’m sitting on a sofa across from an intense kid (kinda cute) with a deep voice who looks like he just stepped off an oil rig. He had the look of a small town country boy whose mind was as repressed as his conversational skills and sense of humor. The actor is on the computer behind the sofa doing something apparently critical yet time-consuming and I’m sitting right next to said batshit party-freak, who is coked out of his mind and feeling the need to show me the photo album of the home renovations he’s accomplished over the last several years, with commentary. He then transitions to a screaming rant about his former boyfriend (Married 10 years, hasen’t had sex in 9) whom he recently threw out of the house. I get to hear this story in its entirety from the moment he woke up that morning until the final screaming climax that evening (later he mentions how his lover liked to extinguish his cigarettes on the kitchen counter, which solved a big riddle for me as to why every surface in the kitchen was covered in black marks). At this point I realized that all three of my confederates were exploring the limits of one or several recreational drugs. To make things interesting, I have an asthmatic dog sitting on the floor between my legs, staring at my while he coughs up his lung, a fat pug humping my left arm while trying to make-out with me, and a peckinese on my right shoulder staring at me like I don’t belong there. It did occur to me that this pickenese might be the most intuitive among us.

I want to mention that party freak tried to convince me of the arm humper’s superior breed by referencing the ‘beauty” typical of its kind. He said this without the slightest trace of irony. Strangely enough, I wasn’t bothered so much by the dogs (I appreciate absurdity) as I was by men who noticed neither my unease or the humor inherent in my arm humping, throat-wheezing predicament.

The party freak, still ranting about his former boyfriend, then shifted the conversation to a one-sided discussion about his newfound commitment to unfettered promiscuity, inspiring the laconic kid across from me to break from his silence and comment in an intimidating manner that seemed more directive than suggestive, “I don’t mess with that shit..I just want to fuck!”

For those of you that don’t know me, I typically go with the flow in whatever situation I find myself. However, considering that it was 4am and I was stuck in the middle of "Brokeback Swamp" on my first night back in town surrounded by drugged-out freaks I didn’t know and 3 suicidal dogs while party freak’s tape of Friday’s episode of “The Young & the Restless” blared from the tv next to my ear and the tone of the room seemed to be lurching toward a potential sex-party, I figured that it might be a good time to go to the restroom for a breather, so that I could plan my escape. Once I returned, the actor was laying on top of the dock worker and party freak was chain-smoking unfiltered cigarettes, looking at me as if he’s waiting for the dawn of the next phase in dysfunction. This is when I decided to assert my will, and asked to leave before forced to share a post-coital cigarette with arm-humper.

We track back to the party, and get this....we get lost. The middle of nowhere and here I am with 3 tweaked out messes riding in Chris's car at 5am, without Chris. It’s at this point that I start to laugh, because I realize that I’m home, and everything is right with the world.

Chillin' in the Berry

2005-11-23T21:36:00.000-05:00

On Tuesday, I hung out with my old friend Anne Laughlin, who’s dad invented the “Mist-On Tan” machine. Here she is, right after we parked in front of Clementine’s, a restaurant on main street in New Iberia:

I met Anne back when she was the head of the college republicans (people change…kind of), when she dated my former roommate. She is a bit of a celebrity in her own right, being a former host of a political debate program on which yours truly once made appearances as a liberal political commentator. Anne has great energy and charm, and it was beaucoup fun to talk local politics with her and hear about all the trouble she inadvertently helps stir up among the local democratic and republican parties.

On Wednesday I went across the lake from my parents to the Rip Van Winkle Gardens, named after Joseph Jefferson, once the most famous actor in America. He built a house on this property, and later a lush English garden was added. This is a 5 minute drive from my parent’s house, and walking these gardens always puts me in peaceful frame. Me, Chris and Courtney went out on the pier and watched birds dive for food for about an hour and soaked up some sun. The wind was strong but not overwhelming, and created a nice effect on the water. Here are some pictures that I took:

This is a 350 year old oak tree. It isn’t uncommon for oaks in this area to be a hundred or more years old.

My friends, Chris and Courtney:

Going Home

2005-11-19T23:29:00.000-05:00

I took off from National at 9:00 Saturday morning, connected in Newark, and flew the rest of the way direct to Baton Rouge. On the way to the BR I sat next to a 20 year old black kid from Shreveport who is a track athelete and the class president for West Point Military academy. We made chat about the war, his plans to run for office, economics (which is his major), and our respective poor upbringings with single mothers and how they’ve influenced our lives to this point. He told me how his mom consistently embarrasses him by singing his praises to anyone who might listen. I understand this, as I was proud of the kid and I barely know him. As we descended on Baton Rouge with air pressure throttling our ears, we could see the wide swath of cancer manufacturing chemical plants behind the state capitol and stretching out along the Mississippi, and I thought about how much my state will need kids like this if we hope to write a legacy that doesn’t end due to corporate control, political corruption and two vicious sisters that came from the sea.

As soon as I stepped off the plane I felt as though 100 lbs. of stress had lifted from my shoulders—pressure built in such gradual increments over the last 2 months that I didn’t realize how much of it I was carrying until I no longer felt the need to do so. I arrived in BR around 3 and my mom and step-father were there, directly from church. They looked better than I expected, but the signs of advancing age were soon evident. I had to scream in order for Dudley to hear me, which makes it difficult to engage him in conversation. This is unfortunate, as his charm and sharp wit all too often fail to gain him the appreciative response others are eager to provide. Mom has trouble breathing, and ragged breaths follow even the most minor physical exertions. The first time I heard her wheeze I thought she was going to pass out in front of me. I was shocked and am concerned for her health.

Driving over the 26-mile bridge over the Atchafalaya Basin was something I’ve been looking forward to for the last couple of weeks. In my mind there’s nothing that tells me I’m home like crossing that swamp and seeing the stumps of dead oaks scattered throughout the water. Completing my recurring daydream of my first day back, we stopped off at Landry’s seafood restaurant outside of Henderson where I had crabmeat mushrooms in cream sauce, a bowl of shrimp gumbo, and a seafood-stuffed baked flounder in creole butter sauce. I could have turned around and got right back on the plane and still felt that the trip was worth it.

Upon crossing in to Lafayette Parish, huge billboards advertising “Cracklin and Boudin” and small businesses with French names affected me as there own type of meditation. My breathing seems to slow and I don’t feel the need to remind myself to relax the muscles in my neck, shoulders and back. It felt good to be home.

My parents live in an isolated corner of Lake Peigneur, just beyond the Iberia Parish line. Their home was severely damaged in Hurricane Rita, and it sits back on their property, gutted so severely that as I walked through what remained tonight, my memories seemed strained and unwelcome. The stifling smell and mudcake were now gone and most of the plant material from Rip Van Winkle Gardens across the lake had been hauled away, yet there was still plenty of evidence that something bad had happened here. My folks are now living in an old trailer closer to the road that was recently abandoned by its tenants—friends of my parents who were renting a trailer lot from them. They gave the trailer (this trailer is on higher ground, and avoided flooding by only 2 inches) to my folks and took off for Missouri to be with their daughter. While my folks were sorry to see them go, It got them out of the small camper that my sister and her husband had provided for them to live in while they were without a home. This camper is parked behind my parents trailer, and is where I will stay during my weeklong trip.

The night air out here bears no trace of the city, the only sound being the radio of the family that lives at the mouth of Bourque road, which my parents live at the end of. Mom says that they party every weekend, in the typical bon temps rouler Cajun manner. Tonight they are playing French music, breaking only for a little Merle Haggard. As I was walking back and forth between my parents and the camper, trying to get it ready for my stay, Hag was crooning one of his hits, “Sing me back home”. I paused in the doorway to the camper and listened a bit, appreciative of the timeliness of the tune, and I stared in to the sky to observe the stars that only reveal themselves far beyond the DC skyline.

The fields of sugar cane that surrounds my parents property give off a sweet odor, as is usual this time of year. In the following weeks this smell will become more prominent as these sweet stalks will be harvested and the remains burned so that the fields are fertilized for the following year. It felt good to see the massive cane trucks on the highway, littering the roads with scraps of cane and annoying everyone due to their slow, road-clogging trawl. At the moment, I feel like DC is a place that only exists in my imagination.

All Hail the Queen Bee

2005-11-07T22:25:00.000-05:00

Here is the link to Governor Kathleen Blanco's historic address to the Louisiana State Legislature and the nation in the wake of Hurricanes Katrina and Rita. I wish I could have seen it instead of just read it.

Historic Address to the Louisiana State Legislature

Being a fan of Kathleen Babineaux Blanco, AKA "The Queen Bee" isn't exactly a popular pasttime these days, but you can still count me among her biggest fans. While I can't take on all her critics, here's my 3 cents on the Katrina-related dissensions I percieve to be the most popular:

1) She didn't react to the storm quickly enough or effectively enough

This charge came mostly from Republican talking heads trying to divert blame from President Bush and those with too much emotion and too little facts.

Fact: She safely and quickly pulled off an unprecedented 90% evacuation from an area with only two real avenues of escape.

Fact: Contrary to the administration's claims (which were reported as fact by big media) that she didn't ask for help until after the storm hit, she in fact issued an official state of emergency THREE DAYS before the storm, going on to say "the incident is of such severity and magnitude that effective response is beyond the capabilities of the State and affected local governments and that supplementary Federal assistance is necessary to save lives, protect property, public health, and safety, or to lessen or avert the threat of disaster". She also told the president himself to send "everything he's got" and "40,000 troops". Note that the president did not end his vacation until 2 days after the storm hit.

FACT: An official "State of Emergency" clearly holds that once issued, the office of Homeland Security bears responsibility for disaster response, but don't take my word for it, this is listed on the Homeland Security website:

"In the event of a terrorist attack, natural disaster or other large-scale emergency, the Department of Homeland Security will assume primary responsibility on March 1st for ensuring that emergency response professionals are prepared for any situation."

Fact: On September 13th, the non-partisan CRS (Congressional Research Service) cleared Blanco, saying that she took the necessary and timely steps needed to secure disaster relief from the federal government.

2) She didn't mobilize transport to move the victims

Fact: FEMA, then "in charge" of the disaster response, gave notice to the state that it was sending buses. In typical FEMA fashion, they did not come. Instead of continuing to bank on FEMA's promises, she gave the order to her Chief of Staff to "Get those buses". Eventually they did arrive to transfer evacuees, but it wasn't FEMA that got them there. (Time Magazine)

3) She did'nt give the President the power to command the National Guard, thereby stunting the government's response

This is complete White House spin. By the time the president made this offer to Gov. Blanco on Air Force One, Lt. General Russell Honore was on the ground and had the situation in hand, making the gesture completely unnecessary. The Bush administration then revealed Gov. Blanco's decision as their only comment on the meeting. This was clearly an attempt to divert more blame to the state by framing her decision as a roadblock to an effective government response, when it was in actuality a sound choice that kept the federal government from declaring martial law (an act without precedent) and denied the administration what they really wanted-- to make the democratic Governor look weak and unable to effectively command the state's armed forces.

4) She looked overwhelmed

People want Rudy Giuliani. I understand that. Well, they didn't get Rudy Giuliani, but they didn't get Rudy Giuliani problems, either. They got Katrina problems.

Katrina problems don't limit themselves to several square blocks, they cover an area the size of Great Britan.

Katrina problems don't have the benefit of having the emergency response and communication resources of NYC, they have the resources of one of the poorest states in the union which has only a portion of the resources that the city of New York can claim and no ability to coordinate more than a rudimentary response due to the destruction of Louisiana's communications infrastructure.

Katrina problems don't have the benefit of an effective government response or a Republican mayor willing to bend over backwards to help his party and himself politically by positioning the President as a hero, in spite of a certain "my pet goat" problem. No, Katrina problems involve a total government failure, the most liberal city in America, a savvy democratic governor ripe for the taking in an increasingly red state, and a President who doesn't know when to end his fucking vacation.

Hurricane Porn aside, there are many reasons I heart Blanco. She has continually defied expectations her entire life. Instead of coming from money and buying her way to power like so many others, she climbed the political ladder the old fashioned way, going door to door speaking her values. She now has the nickname "Queen Bee" due to her surprising command over the levers of power. She has methodically brought sound fiscal management to the state in spite of Louisiana's legendary corruption and the eccentric flair of her politicians. When I was a student, her husband, Coach Blanco (a VP at my University), worked with me as the VP of the Gay and Lesbian Alliance in order to combat the rise of anti-gay violence on campus and implement safety measures for gay students(The Bee is fan of the gay). Last but not least, she looks and talks like my mom, also from New Iberia and just as much a Queen Bee in her own right.

So there you have it. All hail the Queen.

RIP, James

2005-11-01T14:38:00.000-05:00

Today, my friend James died of AIDS.

I met him about 5 years ago, shortly after moving to DC. I took a job as an Office Manager for a gay escort service, and James was one of the lost boys I pimped out. He was typical of most escorts in that he was manipulative and a good friend to the worst the street had to offer, and atypical in his intelligence, good humor and creative talent. Looking back on my experience of him, my thoughts are typical flip-book memories, the kind you strain for in order to embrace a sense of the person as you attempt to quantify a loss.

James liked to sing. He was trained, even had some college for it. I've heard him warble through a few karaoke performances at the DIK bar on 17th Street. The tune that sticks out is "Georgia On My Mind", which is also where he died, his family by his side, after spending a week in an ICU hospital bed. His voice wavered and his tone spiked, but he sang with enough conviction to make me remember.

He was good with numbers. I don't know why, of all the time we spent together that this particular trivia stands out. Maybe because I'm not so good with them, and I never quite understood how someone with mathematical ability could end up turning tricks and smoking meth.

Sometimes James would answers phones for me on the weekend. More than once he fell asleep or failed to show up at the office until hours later, but in spite of his unpredictability, I can't say I ever got mad at him. It was hard to be mad at James. It's the southern charm that disarms and subtly convinces you that whatever your gripe, it isn't bad enough to interrupt your own good mood. When I think of James, I always think of him smiling. And Laughing. Big, belly-poking laughs.

My favorite James memory is from Christmas. Being that I grew up in a religous cult that approved of neither fat men negotiating chimneys or messiahs immaculately concieved in the dead of winter, I had never celebrated the holiday in any meaningful fashion, until James decided to take pity and rectify the matter. On Christmas morning I took the metro down to his new apartment in Silver Spring, where he cooked a massive feast of gravy soaked delights that two boys from far south of the Mason-Dixon line would doubtlessly entertain with great pleasure. Another thing about James--he was a great cook. I still remember savoring that food, just the two of us, laughing through mouthfuls, both incredulous in regards to how much of it found its way in to our bodies. We then smoked a joint and laughed all afternoon. It was a good day.

Not long after that James moved to Florida. His drug use got worse. He became involved in hardcore S&M, mostly in the Key West and Lauderdale areas, as is typical. He dropped off the map for a while, but he eventually found his way back to DC. I lost touch with him in the last couple of years, but as I understand it, he cleaned up, got a job, and seemed to be on track, but his sickness started to become more pronounced. He eventually returned home to Georgia and was embraced by loving parents that stood by him as he prepared to die.

Writing this reminds me of other adventures I've had with James, some sad, some outrageous, and one in particular that makes me laugh every time I think of it, but as entertaining as all those stories are, for various reasons I don't feel comfortable sharing them. I suppose some stories should remain between a boy and his pimp.

RIP, my friend.

Obituary:

James Walter Sorrells, 27, of Columbus, Georgia died Monday October 31st, at the Columbus Medical Center Hospital. Funeral services will be held 2:00pm Thursday, November 3rd in the Striffler-Hamby Mortuary, Macon Road Chapel, with Reverend Mitchell Smith officiating. Burial to follow in Parkhill Cemetery. The family will receive friends Wednesday from 6:00pm to 8:00pm at the funeral home. Mr. Sorrells was born September 12, 1978 at Ft. Benning, GA, and was preceded in death by his maternal grandmother, Ninetta Hines. He was a 1996 graduate of the Columbus High School Magnet Program graduating with honors and was involved in chorus. He was All State in Voice for 6 years and received Governors Honors in Voice and had performed in musical theatre in Palm Beach, FL. Mr. Sorrells also had attended Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore, MD. Survivors include his parents, First Sergeant retired Arlo and Annett Sorrells of Columbus, his paternal grandmother, Iva Mothershed of Ukiah, CA, several aunts and uncles in the United States and Russia, several nieces and nephews, and his loyal Basset Hound running buddy, Monty. He is greatly loved and will be missed.