A new clip from the lovely and talented and vaguely demented Christeene (aka closepersonalfriend Paul). He's like Mary J. Blige meets Varla Jean Merman meets that junkie lady I stepped over on my way to work:
Clearly, someone has overcome his aversion to his own innate bearishness:
About damn time I say.
FYI: you'll likely see this photo again -- perhaps in conjunction with an event taking place in New Orleans at One Eyed Jacks on Saturday, October 24. (Mark your calendars.) But hey, what do I know?
Erotica rediscovered: "Quebecois Groundhogs and Other Delights"
Something you may not know: ages ago -- ages -- a publisher asked me to write a book of erotica. And I did.
Unfortunately, it took a few months longer than I'd hoped to finish the damn thing. By the time I submitted the manuscript, the publisher had changed directions, and I didn't fit the bill anymore. His focus had shifted to erotica anthologies -- "best of" stuff -- so a full-length work by a single author wasn't really his thing.
Fine. These things happen.
For the past ten years, I've had 60,000 words just laying around on my laptop, doing nothing. Frankly, I hadn't even thought about the novel until last week, when I got on a kick uploading my work to Google Docs for backup. I was rifling through one folder after another, making my way methodically down the line, and there it was: rediscovered.
Of course I had fun flipping through it again. My writing style has changed over the years, becoming become less florid, more to-the-point, so certain sections made me cringe. But oddly, I'm still pleased with much of it. (Personal fave: an orgy scene involving James Baldwin, Tony Kushner, Mark Leyner, Federico Garcia Lorca, David Sedaris, and Edmund White. YES.)
Also weird -- and I can't believe I forgot this -- but I'd entitled the work Flood. I used a fairly simple framing device: a hurricane was heading for New Orleans, so a bunch of friends hunkered down and rode it out together. While they were waiting for the storm to pass and life to return to normal, they told stories. Thankfully, Jonno and I didn't take that approach to Katrina.
Anyway, I thought I'd share a PG-rated bit from one of the stories -- one called "Quebecois Groundhogs and Other Delights". I think it's kinda funny. Well, at least it makes me laugh. If any of you are publishers and/or purveyors of erotica, you know where to find me...
"Quebecois Groundhogs and Other Delights" (excerpt)
Sometimes I wonder what goes on in Bart's head. I mean, yes, I'm all for wackiness and hijinks and creative genius, but shooting a "groundhog-themed porn scene" (his own cryptic words) on Groundhog Day? For someone who doesn't drink or do drugs, Bart comes up with some doozies. As I drove to the location -- a video shop managed by our friend, Jasper -- I mulled some questions:
* What, exactly, constitutes a "groundhog-themed" porn scene? * Will there be live animals involved? * Will I be involved? * Will I need a rabies shot?
I began to fabricate excuses that might allow me to bow out of any videotaped assignations bordering loosely on bestiality (e.g. "My family has a long history of rodent-related deaths, so to avoid dredging up any unpleasant memories, I'd appreciate being left out of this altogether"). Of course, should the situation arise, I knew Bart would respond best to tried-and-true Southern morality: "Why, if my neighbors ever saw this, well, just what would they think?"
I was so absorbed in dialogue with an imaginary Bart that I nearly missed my turn into the deserted parking lot of Violet's Video Vault. V's, as I correctly assumed it was often called, was a 70s-era ranch building that clearly served as both business place and abode to the owner -- children's toys lining the flowerbeds were a dead giveaway. I glanced at the yellow flashing roadside marquee announcing V's featured rentals, including The Year of Living Dangerously, which was touted as a "new release". This was going to be interesting.
With a slight sense of trepidation, I dismounted from my trusty vehicle, paced up the cigarette-strewn sidewalk, and knocked on the ubiquitous diamond-paned front door (you know the kind I'm talking about). After half a minute of staring at a cornflower blue mailbox oddly placed at waist-height, Bart opened the door and ushered me into what was once the owner's living room but was now lined with a dozen video shelving units. Several first grade-sized chairs were curiously situated among the aisles. Near the door, a groaning, beige computer system sat perched on a counter that still smelled of cheap wood stain. The ancient, green shag carpet and the numerous family portraits that hung from cabbage-rosed walls confirmed that someone still called this place home after business hours. It was strange and magnificent, indeed. I let out a short laugh that Bart mistook for a sneeze.
"Bart, if John Waters doesn't track you down and hold a gun to your head to get the address of this place, I'll be a monkey's aunt twice removed."
"Maybe so, Queen Kong." His smile was wider and brighter than I'd seen it in months. He was very, very happy. "It is pretty good, isn't it?"
"It's beyond good, bubbulah -- it's wretched."
Bart beamed, knowing he'd pleasantly surprised me. "And didn't you say just the other day that all this kitschy shit had been bought up by New York design queens?"
"Most of it has, boo. You know those gals work their manicured fingers to the bone, trying to maintain their grip on the cutting edge of fashion." I smirked, a little jealous of the fact that I was neither a New Yorker nor on the cutting edge. I covered my insecurity with a haughty sigh. "It's so much easier down here. You know, if I made an offer to the owner, I'd pay about ten times less for that" -- pointing to a lamp made from vintage duck decoy -- "than if I tried to buy it on Avenue A." As an aside, I wondered where the aforementioned lamp had come from. Could Violet herself be the marksman? Would that increase its value if I took it on The Antiques Road Show?
"Stop being so pretentious," Bart chided, ending my reverie. His eyes narrowed to slits, his head cocked back and to the side, and his arms pulled up into an unusually femme akimbo: Bart's patented "Cut the bullshit, Mary" pose. "Violet decorated this whole thing -- not to be campy, but because it's her. And we can just thank our lucky stars that she's letting us use it this afternoon."
"Okay, but don't even try to tell me that Holly Hobby portrait doesn't get your dick hard, 'cause you'd be lying. You're here to film camp or my name isn't Sophie Tucker."
"Oh, do shut up and meet Sven, our star du jour."
Bart dragged me into the next room -- presumably the former dining room -- and led me to a low breakfast table with similarly low chairs where Sven was seated, naked as the day he was born. He stood up to greet me: a short-ish husky boy, maybe 5'8" or so, roughly 160 pounds, brown curly hair, brown eyes, a day's worth of thick growth on his cheeks, a chunky chest and belly covered in hair. If I'd been in a crowded bar and someone had asked me to find one man who was not named Sven, I'd have pointed to this guy. He was as un-Sven-like as they come.
"Hi, Sven, nice to meet you." He nodded and smiled, eagerly looking to Bart for approval. It looked as if Bart didn't speak much English.
"Sven is going to play the groundhog today," chirped Bart. "We got the suit and everything."
"I see," I replied, sporting my own patented arched-eyebrow-arms-folded "Mary, you're a freak" pose.
"Aw, stop the hemmin' and hawin'. I promise, you're gonna love it!" Bart cooed, squeezing my arm in excitement. "The premise is so brilliant! We're going to pretend that the movie Groundhog Day has just been released, and Sven's going to dress up like the groundhog, like he's doing a promotion for it. So I'm going to walk in the front door, check him out, and then we're gonna have sissy-boy sex in the middle of the aisle! Haha!" His laugh was gleeful and anxious, as if he were titillated by the concept but wanted to get it all over so he could move on to other things—like editing. Bart always says directing drives him crazy, editing drives him sane. If that's true, as a close, personal friend I can honestly say that Bart needs much more editing in his diet.
I had to admit, the groundhog tie-in may have made for an odd storyline, but it was pretty good as far as porn's considered. Even better: I was apparently just operating the camera. No lines, no walk-ons, nothing. The anxieties I felt on the drive over vanished.
"Bar-tholah-mooooo!" I heard a female voice yodel from somewhere beyond the living room/sales floor. If Elsie the Cow could call her master, that's what it would sound like.
"Er, Bart, who's that?" I asked for obvious reasons.
"Oh, that's Violet. She's taking the day off since it's her birthday and all. She won't bother us. She and Jasper are going to be in the next room watching their stories."
At that moment, Violet came waltzing around the corner, presumably from a door in the back of the room nearly hidden by an over-laden coat rack. Wearing a birthday hat of green foil and a one-piece bathing suit in Pucci print, I'd have to say that the most surprising thing about her appearance—aside from her well-stacked brunette beehive—was the fact that she measured about three feet in height (including the hair). Well, that explained the miniscule chairs and the half-height mailbox....
"Hey, y'all! Aren't you gonna wish me a happy birthday?" She ashed a Virginia Slims Menthol 100 on the carpet.
"Happy birthday, Violet!" Bart said, speaking for us all. "Violet, I'd like you to meet my friends Richard and Sven."
"Hi, Richard, I've heard so much about you!" she said cordially. Did I imagine her leering at me as she shook my hand? "Hi, Sven, what a big boy you are," she purred as she brazenly looked him up and down. "You can come play with me after you're done here."
Sven looked at Bart for translation. I'd assumed correctly: English was neither Sven's first, second, or third tongue. "She likes you," Bart half-shouted, using semi-vulgar hand signals to convey his meaning. Sven nodded and smiled wanly at the short woman, making a marginally successful attempt to hide his meat-and-potatoes, which were dangling at Violet's eye-level.
"Oh, Bart, you're so bad!" Violet screeched. "You're makin' me out to be some wanton woman when you know I'm the most chaste thing this side of the Mason-Dixon. Really!"
"Oh, I know, Lady V. Jasper was saying just the other day how he was trying to get in your culottes, but that you firmly rebuffed him!" Bart sounded as if he were joking, but knowing him, I couldn't be sure.
"Baby, you know I only do it with hairdressers -- they fix me up after we're done!" Her cackle was nearly absorbed by the thick carpet and the flocked wallpaper. She looked directly at me. "Now y'all don't worry about a thing. I just came in to tell you if you need me, we're gonna be in the next room -- but don't come disturbing me ‘till the stories are over at 4:00! I've got some Co-Colas over in the fridge, help yourself if you like. Enjoy! And don't forget, Bart, I want a copy of this! Jasper and your mama both have been telling me about your stuff and I wanna see it firsthand!" Her laugh rang out one more time as she exhaled a long smoky breath, spun on her shoeless heel, wheeled past the coat rack into the back room, and shut the door. After a moment or two of staring at one another, we burst into uncontrolled fits of girly giggles, covering our mouths so as not to be too disrespectful to our diminutive elder.
Bart was the first to recover. "Ok, Sven, go put on your costume," he pantomimed. Sven waddled over to a heap of fur lying next to the breakfast table and began suiting up.
"You know how to pick 'em, Bart."
"Which do you mean: Sven or Violet?"
"Both. Where'd you find 'em?"
"Well, I didn't know it, but Violet's an old friend of my mama's. It's just coincidence that Jasper happens to work for her. One night I came to pick him up and he introduced us and the pieces fell into place. As for Sven," he said, smirking over his shoulder, "he was out wandering the streets night before last, looking for a party. I stopped him and chatted him up, and voila."
"Where's he from?"
"Quebec. He's here for some hairdresser convention. But don't tell Violet," he grinned. She'll eat him alive!"
* * *
Moments later, I had a camera perched on my shoulder, Bart was standing outside the front door, running through the scene in his head, and Sven was hopping from foot to foot, dancing as he imagined groundhogs must do when no one's watching. I wondered if they even have groundhogs in Quebec, and if they do, what do they call them?
Before I could ask Sven about the fauna of the Great White North, Bart called "Action!" and strode through the door, looking about in mock wide-eyed amazement. Apparently, he'd chosen to play his character as that much-maligned archetype, the Video Store Ingenue. He ambled slowly through the living room to the dining room, awestruck with the analog wonder of it all. When he started fondling the wallpaper, I began to think someone might've put acid in Bart's Diet Coke (that "someone" being Bart). Upon reaching Sven, he straightened up a bit, mesmerized by the buoyant rodent before him.
"Hello!" Bart said, louder and more articulately than necessary. "Could you recommend a movie for me to watch?"
The groundhog nodded violently and held out a copy of Groundhog Day. Bart took the tape from the groundhog's bouncing hand (he was still dancing) and read the boxcover blurbs.
"Oh, I don't know. I don't think I like groundhogs." The groundhog hid his face in mock shame beneath his poly-cotton paws. "Well, I didn't mean it like that, Mr. Groundhog. I'm sure you're very nice." The groundhog looked up at him and resumed his dance even more vigorously than before. "Wow, you can really dance!"
The groundhog became more excited, adding a little bump and grind to his completely silent routine. We were hurtling toward David Lynch territory.
"Do groundhogs eat roots?" Bart queried. The groundhog nodded several times in response to the egregious non sequitur. "Would you like to taste a special root, Mr. Groundhog?" Bart asked, grabbing the front of his khakis and showing off the bulge he was sporting -- miraculous, under the surreal circumstances. The groundhog gleefully jumped up and down several times, nearly hitting the drop-ceiling. He quickly fell to his knees and began licking Bart's crotch with exaggerated movements of his faux-fur head. I was terrified.
Russian hairdresser turns robber into sex slave with torn genitals, Viagra hangover
An attempted armed robbery of a hairdresser in the Russian town of Meshchovsk became a three-day sex ordeal for a would-be thief, leaving him with torn genitals and a Viagra hangover.
The man, known as Viktor, tried to rob 28-year-old hairdresser, called Olga.
She agreed to hand over the takings, but as she was giving him the money, she used her karate skills to knock him to the ground and tie him up with a hairdryer cord.
She then locked him in the storeroom and told colleagues she’d call the police, reports the Register.
However, she instead stripped him and cuffed him to a heater with a pair of fluffy pink handcuffs. She then fed him Viagra and raped him several times over the next four days.
When finally released, Viktor went first to hospital for treatment for his torn frenulum, and then reported Olga to the police. When she was arrested, Olga reported him for robbery.
“What a bastard. Yes, we had sex a couple of times. But I’ve bought him new jeans, gave him food and even gave him 1,000 roubles when he left,” Olga said.
It's possible that the New Orleans Fire Department needs a better publicist, but more likely, I haven't been paying attention. If I had, I might've noticed the 2009 New Orleans Firefighters Look Hot Calendar, which includes:
Hello, March!
Who am I kidding? I cast a very wide net: HELLO JANUARY THROUGH DECEMBER!
I can only assume that they'll send me a review copy of the 2010 version.
Apparently, New Orleans City Business covered this Cold Storage story last week, although they've just posted an update on their WordPress (freebie WordPress!?!) blog. Keeping up with the Joneses, the Picayune has now pubbed an article of its own:
Facing mounting opposition to the construction of a poultry exporting operation at the foot of the French Market, the Port of New Orleans is looking for a new home for New Orleans Cold Storage.
Port administrators are asking tenants along the Mississippi River if they could make room on their property for the company, which the port fears will leave New Orleans without a new headquarters. New Orleans Cold Storage is the port's second-largest customer.
"They've made it very clear that they're going to continue to oppose this, and we're going to see what the other alternatives are," port spokesman Chris Bonura said of residents in the French Quarter, Marigny and Bywater. Signs emblazoned with the message 'Poison Port' can be seen posted throughout the neighborhoods.
There are no guarantees that the port will find another home for New Orleans Cold Storage, Bonura said, and the company may very well end up on the Gov. Nicholls Street and Esplanade Avenue wharves as planned.
But the fact that the port is even considering a new home for the company represents an aboutface for the agency, which just a few months ago said that the wharves near the French Quarter were the only option for New Orleans Cold Storage.
Interesting. In America, we know Clinton to be not only very intelligent, but also not very funny. In fact: not funny at all. Well, except in photos (check the volume, kids):
Then again, maybe the guy was doing his best Mickey Rooney/Krusty the Clown, Asian Guy impersonation: "She velly funny lady." Live the stereotype, dude.
Perhaps you remember me? We talk all the time? Sometimes I pay attention to you, sometimes I don't. A lot of people say I should listen to you more often, but I say that's dull and boring. Also: it's the sort of thing that lands people in trouble. Robert Oppenheimer did nothing but listen to his Brain, and look where it got him. Not to mention us. You know: humanity and stuff.
Anyway, I'm not here to talk about that. I'm here to talk about your playlists.
I don't know if you've glanced at my iTunes collection recently, or any of my Pandora streams, but if you have, you might've noticed a curious lack of Whitney Houston songs. On closer inspection, however, you'll see that the absence isn't curious at all. Her music isn't there because I hate her.
Really, truly hate her.
I don't care that Whitney's had it rough. I don't care that she's got a stellar voice. I don't care that she's a belter. All I care about is that her music is the music of awful things and awful people (with the exception of Opal Vanderhurst's drag performance to "I'm Every Woman", during which she'd drop her top and parade her silicone tits -- backalley injections, not surgical implants -- around the dining room of Lucky Cheng's for the benefit of sheltered tourists from Nebraska). Whitney is the music of sorority girls and mixers and forced merriment and people who probably would've had a lot to say, if only they weren't so busy artfully ripping their jeans.
To be fair, "diva" music isn't my thing. In fact, I find it pretty loathsome. Annie, Aretha, Celine, Mariah: this is the music I dodge like Ebola. And out of all those divas -- self-proclaimed and otherwise -- Whitney is the Queen. Off with the bitch's head, I say.
Anyway, if I hear one more chorus of "Saving All My Love For You", you're getting a big fat dose of Tylenol PM. Or a lobotomy. Whichever is easier.
You've been warned.
xoxoxo Richard
P.S. In place of Whitney, please substitute calculus. I would like to know calculus now. Thanks.
Brazilian jujitsu doesn’t just look like gay sex, it feels an awful lot like it too. Sam starts on his back with his knees up. He instructs me to sit on his lap, so I straddle him. He tells me to sit right down, putting all my weight on him, so I do. I know right away that I’m going to be in trouble. He looks so sexy lying on the mat under me and I can’t stop thinking about the tiny amount of fabric separating us. The position is called “the mount” for a reason.
This is a letter from the future you. Your name is Justin now -don't ask, but if you think of a better one feel free to jump on it. Maybe something like "Beverage". Everyone likes a Beverage and you know how much you enjoy alliteration. Beverage Bond... well, it's up to you. Just be glad you're not some old fag named "Chip"!
I was thinking that since we've been given this to opportunity to communicate through time I should maybe give you some helpful tips:
First, do me a favor, stay out of the sun. You don't like the sun anyway so just skip it. All those bitches that keep saying you're so pale and that you look like a spook are going to end up looking like wrinkled brown paper bags and will probably have lots of chunks missing from their skin -I say fuck 'em. Stick to the shade or stay inside and listen to music, dance around naked and feel free to jack off as much as you like....
Would you like some gayness to get you through your weekend encounter with the treadmill/elliptical machine/in-laws? I find Roisin Murphy's multiple remixes of "You Know Me Better" to be just the thing. The very gay thing, that is.
What: 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 Moumt Carmel) to ask for protection from hurricanes
When: Saturday, July 18th at 7:00 pm
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, Clarin, Florida Water, candles, daggers, dolls dressed in red and blue with gold trim or calico prints, spicy black beans, peasant cakes, unfiltered cigarettes, pan fried cornbread with peppers, fried pork, white crème 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).
I don't know that I've ever seen videos used to promote a novel before. Sure, I've seen TV ads for books--rarely--but viral clips? Whole new world. To me, anyway.
I'm not sure Tomas is the sort of thing I'll read, but the images are nice:
Michael Jackson genitals reincarnated into a lemon
Photos posted on eBay show what can be viewed as a lemon that is claimed to look like a male genital.
The seller claims that the disfigure lemon fell off the his lemon tree the same day Michael Jackson died. He believes that it also looks like the penis of Michael Jackson. Images were posted to prove that the lemon had not been altered in any way, shape or form.
"When there's no underbrush, the tree looks taller"
[via my pal, George]
Of course I frown on manscaping--especially in the armpit/chestal area--and ordinarily, I'd pass right by this clip. However, you gotta admit it's a pretty weird thing when Gillette spends a wad of cash on an animated spot to convince impressionable young guys that they ought to trim their pubes just so their 'nads will look bigger. Not a weird and wonderful thing, mind you. Just weird.
Personally, I blame Vin Diesel and Brazilian waxes for all this anti-hair sentiment. How long will it be until my worst fear is realized and I awake to a world of Zac Efron clones?
Sorry. That was mean. However, I'm pretty sure you were 34 last year, too. Don't you think I can count? Just let it go. MILFs are hot right now. Ride the wave.
Anyway, I was planning to write and wish you a happy birthday, but then I stumbled across this photo. Please take a look at it:
I hope you're as concerned as I am. Because when I saw it, I gasped. Seriously: gasped. I was all, like, honeychild, what's up with all this fakeness, this body mod? You look like a press-on nail.
For starters, you've straightened your hair and bleached it to chicken-fat yellow. Or maybe you're sporting a weave, which means you're wearing (a) someone else's hair or (b) a petroleum byproduct. Either way: if you're trying to impersonate the checkout girl at my local Walgreens, mission accomplished. Classy.
In the eye area, I see that some ketamine-friendly drag queen has gone tweezer-happy on your brows. Those ginormous artificial lashes are millimeters away from Liza territory, and...are you sporting blue contacts? Lady, please, what is this, 1997? Just because someone still makes them doesn't mean you should still wear them.
Moving on.
The lips. Lordy, those lips. Need I remind you of the plastic surgery disaster known as Mickey Rourke? Let me refresh your memory: old Mickey. New Mickey. Old Mickey. New Mickey. Old. New. Now, side-by-side. The slope you are on is slippery, and you are slathering it with bacon grease every time you visit the dermatologist.
The boobs. Okay, I've seen worse, but yours are still kinda like two grapefruits in dress socks. Which is making me hungry for breakfast, even though I hate breakfast. (Although I dig the special serrated spoons they give you at restaurants. That almost makes up for the fact that grapefruit tastes like a bowl of lizard shit, with a hint of citrus.)
As for the abs: look, I know that you did 366 days in the slammer, and I know you probably butched out and did a lot of weight-training so you could keep your bitches in line, but that was years ago. If I'm wrong, and it you're still maintaining that gym routine, props to you, but from where I'm sitting, it looks like someone got an airbrush for xmas.
Finally, your skin. Most people aren't genetically inclined to sparkle, sweetcheeks. Yes, you could be wearing body makeup, but I wouldn't be surprised to hear that you'd had your DNA adjusted so your pores ooze glitter instead of sweat. I'm sorry to think that way, but I have no choice.
I can't see your teeth, but I'm guessing they're real--I mean, you've lived a long life, but you're still a little young for dentures. As for your vagina, reports vary, but whatever. Live your life.
One final suggestion before I go: in addition to the epidermal warfare you've got brewing from the waist up, I also have a problem with your name. Specifically, the "Lil'" part. Don't you think it's time you became just "Kim"? Or possibly "Mid'l-Aged Kim"? Or, if you're into alliteration, "Cougar Kim"? There are a lot of possibilities. Pick one. Because your boobs may only be ten years old, but you're 34. At least.
I do not care if Bruno is good for the gays. You know what is good for the gays? A nice dinner at a very expensive restaurant with exceptional service and a dessert on the house, followed by, most likely at a different location, some good old-fashioned ass-fucking.
I'm not sure how I missed this. I'm not sure what it means. Although I'm pretty sure it doesn't mean anything, other than that dude eats lunch standing up, and he keeps a really clean kitchen. But maybe there's a subplot I'm missing?
Officials say ammonia leaks don’t cause deaths or evacuations THAT often. Um, yay?
Dear Port of New Orleans:
As much as we love you, we feel obligated to point out that articles like this one from the Times-Picayune probably aren't the best way to inspire confidence in the public--especially when that public is already skeptical of your plan to sandwich an ammonia-filled industrial wonderland between two of Louisiana's most important historic neighborhoods, the French Quarter and the Faubourg Marigny. Skim the first couple of paragraphs, and let us know if you can see the problem here:
Faubourg Marigny and French Quarter residents are concerned that the ammonia used to refrigerate a proposed cold-storage warehouse on the Gov. Nicholls Street Wharf will pose a public health risk, but experts say the chance of a chemical leak is slim if proper safety measures are in place.
"You can stop most of these incidents before they have a chance to be a major challengeifyou have the right equipment and personnel," said Gary Smith, president and founder of the Ammonia Safety Training Institute in Washington, D.C. "If it's just cold storage, the ammonia stays in the refrigeration if good prevention habits are in place." [Emphasis totally mine]
--plenty more ifs, ands, and buts in the full article at NOLA.com
Statements like that are kinda like saying, "No, hurricanes aren't a problem for New Orleans, if the levees hold, and if federal, state, and city governments are prepared, and if the city's evacuation strategy works like a charm. You know, if all that's good, then we should be fine. Probably." Do you see what I'm doing there? Right.
And a quick reminder: those of us who live here aren't opposed to your project, just its location. Heck, your puppetminion buddy Jindal just shaved bejillions of bucks from higher ed, mental hospitals, and the like--surely he can throw a few at the Cold Storage project so it can move downriver just a tad? That would be the right thing to do, karmically speaking. (NB: Confused by karma? Ask Bobby.)
Anyway, thanks for listening. You were listening, weren't you? ...Hello?
R.I.P.: Budget Woes Spell Doom for Roadside Rest Stops
As millions of Americans take to the road for the holiday weekend, a humble highway fixture is under attack.
Later this month, cash-strapped Virginia plans to barricade entrances and switch off the plumbing and electricity at nearly half its highway rest areas. Other states also are lowering budgetary axes on the public pit stops that have lined the interstate highway system since its creation in 1956.
But rest stops aren’t going quietly.
Truckers, blind merchants and a dogged historian are fighting to preserve them. If the battle is lost, every long-distance motorist will need “a strong rear end and a strong bladder” to hit the road, warns John Townsend, an official with the American Automobile Association in Washington....
New Orleans Mayor Ray Nagin today hurled criticism at technology experts who claim that City Hall's missing e-mail was intentionally removed by someone with top-drawer access to the computer system.
Assigning blame "is not their charge," Nagin said Thursday, a day after two computer experts hired by the city said that an unknown tech-savvy person apparently removed the mayor's e-mail inbox from the server.
In a WWL-TV interview, Nagin dismissively described the unknown individual as "some phantom employee."
Nagin also implied that the Louisiana Technology Council, the company hired to find the data, not only was eager for "15 minutes of fame" but also was in over its head.
"I just hope that this is not a case where . . . we did not get the company with the expertise that we needed," he said.
In case you hadn't heard--and why would you, since no one but NPR seems to be covering it?--the US launched a major offensive against the Taliban and their poppy fields in Afghanistan today. Which brought to mind the opening scene from Cleopatra Jones:
FYI, you only need to watch the first three minutes, but ZZOOOOOMGGG DO NOT MISS THE SHELLEY WINTERS FREAKOUT.
is the sort of thing I'll read, but the images are nice:
