So, funny story: last night around 2:30am, I woke up with chest pains, nausea, and a tingling sensation in my left arm.
Hilarious, right? But wait, it gets better.
Even though I know good and well what those signs rather forcefully imply, I refused to believe that Little Ol' Me could be having a heart attack. And to prove my point, I wobbled all the way to my laptop and zipped over to WebMD.com, which, unfortunately, did not support my self-diagnosis. I would've looked for another site, but by then I was getting dizzy, so I stumbled back to the bathroom, chomped a couple of aspirin, and called 911.
Five minutes later, there was an ambulance parked outside my front door. Before they could unload the gurney, I stepped out, explained the situation, and hopped into the back of the vehicle. They ran some tests, took my blood pressure, and said that they didn't think it was a heart attack, but they'd like to take me to the hospital, just to be sure. I went back in the house, woke up Jonno, gave him the short version, told him that I'd be back in a bit and not to worry. He was totally NOT interested in staying behind, but eventually I convinced him that everything was going to be fine and that he'd be much better off staying in bed with the hounds. I'm lucky I caught him when he was sleepy.
En route to the hospital, the EMT put a drip in my arm and loaded me up with nitroglycerin. My heart was racing, but that could've just been because I'd never ridden in an ambulance, and it was vaguely nerve-wracking. (On the upside, the EMT was cute.)
At the hospital, check-in was a breeze, the staff did an EKG, drew some blood, took an x-ray or two, then shot me up with morphine. A couple of minutes later, the malenurse (who was also pretty cute) came back to check on me:
Him: Hey, buddy, how you feelin'?
Me: Mmm. Feels like college.
I was in and out for the next hour or so. Eventually, malenurse came back and told me what I'd been dreading: that I was not, in fact, having a heart attack, but rather a severe case of indigestion. You hear those stories all the time -- "That fatass wasn't having a heart attack, just heartburn!" -- and you can't help but think, "Damn, what a loser". And so, I turned out to be a loser. A very, very, very happy loser, but a loser nonetheless.
As soon as I was discharged, I hailed a cab and got home at 6:00am. I was too lazy to get the stickies off, and they weren't bothering me, so I slept with them. Which was much more comfortable than ripping them off before my shower.
So, what's the sitch, you ask?
Worst case: I may have a coffee problem.
Second-worse case: I may have eaten something at Domenica that didn't agree with me. (Which would suck because I am so totally going back there every chance I get.)
Easiest case: I had leftover Chinese for breakfast yesterday, so I may have a Chinese food problem. (Which would also suck, but as long as they don't take away the rest of my Asian cuisine, I'll survive.)
I should point out that I'm kinda lighthearted about all this because (a) everything turned out fine, and (b) I have pretty good health insurance. I couldn't imagine going through that without some kind of coverage. Even though it was just indigestion, it was scary at times, with all the chest pain and swooning. I'm thankful that my concerns weren't made worse by worries about how I was going to pay for the care. Let me put that another way: SUPPORT UNIVERSAL HEALTH CARE.
Oh, one more thing: if you're in New Orleans and you find yourself possibly having a heart attack at 2:30 on a Wednesday morning, I highly recommend Touro Hospital. Had Mel Gibson ever been there, he'd want to rethink his position on Jews and all the world's problems.
Either I'm getting old, or David Vitter's getting dumber and more annoying. But most likely, both.
I try not to play politics. I like to believe that I can talk to folks on both sides of the aisle. However, I seem to be falling back into my younger, angrier, more partisan ways.
Or perhaps it's just too damn easy to make fun of David Vitter.
In his latest newsletter, Senator Vitter has posted the photo above, with the caption, "Here I am pictured with representatives of the Louisiana Green Building Council when they came by my DC office to talk about the efforts and goals of their organization." Of course, in the newsletter, there's no story about the meeting or what came of it, just the photo -- complete with Vitter looking as if he's counting the seconds until he can slam the door in these treehuggers' faces.
Also, Dave hates the gays. Not a good thing in my Little Pink Book.
Not so long ago, I'd just let all this pass. But now, I feel like I did in my 20s: angry and impatient. If I have to hear Vitter or Glenn Beck or even our governor (whose top labor official is telling everyone within earshot that Louisianans are too damned smart) spout nonsense about all the "freedoms" we're losing under Obama, I may go ballistic. Seriously, people: enough with making socialism a scapegoat. I refuse to demonize Sweden.
I'm just sort of rambling here, aren't I? I should probably quit while I'm behind.
In other news: I played tennis for the first time in two years last Sunday. My backhand, she still sucks.
Love microscopy, but lack the time/energy/financial resources to install your own electron microscope? No problem! ASPEX will scan your samples for free (no kidding):
To send a sample, you need to download and fill out this form from the ASPEX website. Then mail it along with the sample to:
ASPEX Corporation Free Sample Submissions 175 Sheffield Dr. Delmont, PA 15626
Once ASPEX has completed the scan, the images and report will be posted on their website on this page. It should take about two weeks for the results to post to the ASPEX website, and they will also notify submitters via email. Samples scanned for free will not be returned.
"Red Hot" grandfather (not in the Mackenzie Phillips kind of way)
It's funny how the pieces come together. The little stuff you've forgotten, or the big stuff you've never really thought about. I'm not sure which this is.
Until my sophomore year in college, I spent a lot of time onstage, and much of that time was spent singing. I performed in community theater musicals and in the church choir and even managed to squeeze my way into my high school's semi-elite show choir. I'm pretty sure that last one happened because I'm a decent dancer and I was moderately strong, and the director was always in need of male dancers who could throw girls around. Every time I see photos from that era, I'm reminded of the lyrics to that Smiths song, "Shakespeare's Sister": "I can smile about it now, but at the time it was terrible". Except in my case, it's the reverse: back then, it was kind of awesome. Now, I grimace.
Anyway.
In those days, I was given solos fairly regularly, mostly because there was an unwritten rule that every child in any choir had to have a solo now and then. The other kids loved singing alone, but it made me nauseated: I didn't have a soloist's voice, and I hated performing by myself because -- believe it or not -- I never enjoyed being the center of attention. I still don't. Apart from my obvious lack of talent, that's why I stopped singing long ago. Acting, too.
But despite my fears and my shortage of star quality, I did all that musical stuff, and I was the only one in my family to do so. My adoptive family never showed a lick of interest in anything musical (and it's just as well they didn't, because none of them can sing a note).
When I met my biological family -- at least my mom's side -- the theatre stuff was an obvious match, but there's a musical side to that family, too, that I don't think I ever fully processed.* I was reminded of that today when my sister posted a scan of my biological grandfather's business card. He was a New Orleans jazz musician named Stuart Bergen, though it looks as if he preferred to be called "Red Hott". The card features a little devil -- presumably my grandfather -- floating over a lake of fire and wailing on a trumpet. It encourages the recipient to "BE DIFFERENT" at her/his next event and book my grandfather's band.
Now, even if I wanted to have a musical career, I know I don't have enough talent for it -- not nearly as much as my grandfather or my sister or my other bio-relatives. But I have a little, which is far more than anyone in my adoptive family can say. And in a correspondingly little way, my grandfather's business card is one more instance of my biological family putting me in context, making me less of a black sheep, explaining things from my adolescence that, looking back, seem kind of weird and out of place.
I guess what I'm trying to say is: I continue to be amazed by it all.
* For non-performing arts folks, the worlds of theatre and music may seem similar, but they are light years apart. You'll have to trust me.
When I received an invite to interview Jack Mackenroth during his trip to New Orleans for the NO/AIDS Task Force's 20th anniversary walk, I was more than a little confused. I mean, (a) that's not the sort of thing I normally do, and (b) if Jack's PR company wanted media outlets to cover his "Living Positive by Design" HIV education campaign, I would seem like awfully small potatoes -- especially compared to the traffic that Andy, Joe, and other LGBT bloggers could bring him. But whatever. I have a habit of saying "yes" a lot, and it seems to work out pretty well, so why mess with a good thing?
I tried to prepare a little before the interview, but even so, I wasn't entirely sure what to expect from the guy. I watched Jack on Project Runway, of course, but he left so early in the season that I didn't get a feel for his personality. All I knew for sure was that he seemed a little over the top, a little dramatic -- but then, that comes with the territory. The last thing you'd want on reality television is a zhlub of a contestant like me.
We met at a coffee shop on a busy corner in the Marigny. I thought the skies might be cloudy, but they weren't -- not at all. Still, Jack and the PR pros who accompanied him didn't seem to mind the broiling sun. Jack plopped down with a bottle of water and proceeded to tell me about the "Living Positive by Design" campaign (which is sponsored by Merck), plus a little about his work in fashion. And of course, I had to ask about Dale. Who wouldn't ask about Dale?
Anyway, enjoy the clip, for what it's worth. And thanks to everyone -- including Jack -- who got their asses out of bed and went to the NO/AIDS walk this morning. Obviously, you rule.
So, tomorrow I'm interviewing Jack Mackenroth, who's bringing his "Living Positive by Design" HIV/AIDS education campaign to New Orleans in conjunction with the annual NO/AIDS Task Force Walk. I know, it seems a little random to me, too -- the interview, not his campaign or his visit to New Orleans -- but his PR team reached out to me, and I thought, "Hey, what else have I got to do on a Saturday morning?" Plus it's an excellent excuse to skip the gym. And also, he's a cutie. Who doesn't like cuties, right?
Only problem is, I haven't followed his career as closely as perhaps I should've, nor am I what anyone would call a fashion expert. I mean, sure, I have my opinions, but left in a room full of Hagar slacks and Thom Browne chinos, there's only a 50/50 chance I'm gonna know the difference.
So...any questions I ought to ask of the designer/model/activist/former Project Runway contestant? Well, apart from "How was Dale Levitski in the sack?", which is obviously going to be the first thing out of my mouth. Drop me an email or leave me a comment, yo.
All in all, they're a pretty innocuous bunch: quiet, soft-spoken, conservative. (Very conservative.) Thrifty, though most have good jobs and could afford to spend a little. (And live a little.) In other times, they might've been the sort to iron their jeans. Today, the boys stay in to watch NASCAR and football, while the girls go out shopping. They're a lot like the family on that Reba McEntire show, but without all the shouting and Reba McEntire.
Despite that -- despite their low energy, despite their fear of conflict, despite their worries about expressing an opinion that might differ from the other people at the dinner table (that's "dinner" in Southern vernacular, meaning "lunch") -- I love them in my own way. I'm particularly fond of my father, who's a completely different person now than the man I knew as a kid, which is a very good thing. My father used to be angry, bitter, exceptionally narrow-minded. I'm guessing that's because he was married to my mother who was and is enough to drive Baptist deacons to drink. (Even my father, who is, as it turns out, a Baptist deacon.) Since their divorce, dad's gotten better, and with his new wife -- his third -- he's best of all. She's smart, gainfully employed, a great cook, good company, and a great partner for dad during his golden years.
However, I think I've reached the end of my rope.
Somehow, this weekend was different. My family and I, we didn't do anything out of the ordinary, but at supper on Saturday night, I had a lightbulb moment, and I saw my family the way that a stranger might see them. They were not terribly attractive.
Some backstory: all my life, I've been around people of color. For the first 12 years or so, most of those people were hired help, like my babysitter, or the farmhands with whom I fed the cows and hoed around trees in the pecan orchard. Even so, most of them treated me more humanely than my family -- at least they really talked to me -- and I respected them in return. In fact, I loved my babysitter, Marshalene Ducksworth (I kid you not), as much as my own mother.
When I got older and enrolled at the public junior high, my circle of peers became far more diverse. (The student body at my elementary school was as white as Sean Hannity's teeth. Which is perhaps the most appropriate similie I've ever written.) At the same time, I started noticing that at dinner, much of my family's conversation revolved around racial issues, and the "N word" was a frequent guest at the table.
Of course, I've never been especially shy about speaking my mind, and I took my family to the mat on those occasions. I pointed out to my father that he depended on people of color for his help, his clients, his livelihood. He resented being called out, but I think he knew I was right, even though he didn't change his habits. The subject continued to come up, but being the forgiving type, I wrote off dad's chatter as the product of nervousness -- nervousness about a changing world that was vastly different from the Mississippi of the 1950s in which he was raised.
Twenty years later, dad may have become more sensitive to race issues, but the dinner-table talk remains. The "N word" isn't tossed around much -- or as much -- but still, many conversations revolve around what's "black", what's "going black", and what's "still good". The curious and unsettling thing is, it's not my father who's doing the talking anymore; it's my brothers and even younger people. It's my friends who stayed behind in Mississippi. I used to want to write off such casual racism, I used to think everything would change in time, I had faith that future generations would see that this was wrong and they would fix it. That hasn't happened.
For some reason -- really, I don't know why -- all the talk this weekend struck a chord with me, leaving me frustrated, angry, and unsure of what to do. I don't enjoy being caught up in that oppressive atmosphere, and I certainly don't enjoy making Jonno endure it. But at the same time, I feel like I've done all I can to convince my family that their attitudes need adjusting. And I know I've done all I can to ignore it.
I'm sure I'll still see my family, I'm sure I'll still go home, just maybe not as much.
I'm heading to the beach today -- Fort Morgan, Alabama. It's no Navarre, but it beats what we've got in Louisiana.
(NB: there is nothing sadder/funnier than seeing tourists who've come to New Orleans expecting beaches and are told the nearest ones are an hour to the east -- and the good ones are two hours further. Grand Isle is a little closer than that, but...well, we don't send people to Grand Isle for the beaches.)
I'll be spending the weekend with my family (most of whom I dearly love) in a beach house owned by my dad's best friend. In true Southern Baptist fashion, the men will stay at the house, while the women (including wives) will stay at a condo about a mile down the beach. Because the thought of potentially sexy co-ed vacationing is just too much to bear.
In the meantime, and on a thoroughly unrelated note, here are some links I've enjoyed the past few days and that I've been meaning to share. Enjoy 'em or ignore 'em: the ball's in your court.
2. The Internet Manifesto contains many intriguing truisms, including "The Internet changes improves journalism" and "Links reward, citations adorn". Discuss.
Dock Board approves moving New Orleans Cold Storage Uptown
The Dock Board that governs the Port of New Orleans this morning approved moving New Orleans Cold Storage to Uptown cargo docks, abandoning longheld plans to relocate the poultry exporter from the Industrial Canal to docks near the French Quarter.
A cadre of Louisiana politicians -- including Lieutenant Gov. Mitch Landrieu, New Orleans City Councilwoman Jackie Clarkson and Rep. Juan LaFonta -- hailed the decision at a news conference after the board's monthly meeting.
"This is a day we should all celebrate with a lot of joy," said Landrieu, praising the port for listening to neighborhood groups that opposed initial plans to put NOCS at the foot of the French Market.
Residents of the Faubourg Marigny, French Quarter and Bywater launched a grassroots campaign against the project, saying the blast-freezing facility and trucking operation would harm the environment, cause traffic and threaten historic neighborhoods. The campaign grew stronger with the involvement of local politicians, including those present at Wednesday's news conference and Sen. Mary Landrieu, D-La.
[Port CEO Gary] LaGrange said opposition from so many New Orleans residents played a key role in Wednesday's decision to put the new NOCS headquarters on riverfront docks at the foot of Henry Clay and Nashville avenues. Existing terminal operator Ports America agreed to give up some of its space to make room for NOCS, which will get a new lease for the site.
"Certainly we listened to the neighborhoods," LaGrange said. "We're sensitive people."
I am looking for someone to dress up like a Clown and hang out with me. I would cook you diner - or we could BBQ something. I’m interested in making my neighbor lady wonder. I have already had a man in a panda costume last month - and also had a heard of sheep come in for the day to cut the grass. (sheep do a good job by the way). A clown would be something.
Maybe you could bring some balloons - or make balloon animals to hang in my tree. I’d like to have this done some evening between 6pm and dark. The longer you can stay the better (like if you could stay for the whole 3 hours). Do you have any tricks you could do?
Like I said - I could cook diner and get you drunk - I’d even be willing to pay your cab fare to and from. I don’t have much to offer - and my neighbor lady is driving me nuts - so I want to drive her nuts. If you had a Mime friend - it would be cool to see you two chase each other around the yard or do relay races while I time you.
Let me know your thoughts - open to Men and Women Clowns.
Location: Mendota Heights it’s NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
The home of tomorrow will feature electric ranges, water stains, and lopsided venetian blinds. Do not fear: there will be salt in abundance! And possibly naked personal chefs, but the spirits are unclear on that point. See for yourselves:
Yes, that timestamp could just be from a camera with Euro date coding. But where's the fun in that? Let's just assume it's from the future and call it a day.
It should go without saying that I am thoroughly retarded. I am also a misanthrope, a liar, and an all-talk-no-actioner. I am just this side of being a total douchebag. I will tell you why.
This is a big weekend in New Orleans: Southern Decadence, a four-day homo pow-wow that rivals Mardi Gras for parties and special events and generally interesting street fare, including quite a lot of eye candy. Admittedly, I'm not the sort of person who really digs getting slung up in a big ol' crowd of gay men, but Decadence is pretty fun. And besides, I like to think that I'm a vaguely social guy.
I am fully delusional.
On Friday night, Jonno and I went out to eat with friends -- a social act, and a nice way to kick off the weekend. Yay for me. But afterward, I purposely dodged a house party because I knew it'd be crowded and full of fellow homosexualists and the just sort of thing to drive me crazy. Instead, I popped into the Golden Lantern for a bad drag show, which was no better, because as you might expect, several hundred other people had the same idea. I lasted ten minutes. Then I headed to the annual block party at the Phoenix, which I knew would also be crowded, but it's outside, so my homoagoraphobia isn't so goddamn crippling. (Plus, like I said: the eye candy. Oh, the eye candy.) And yet, half an hour later, I was ready to go.
(NB: it rained off and on Friday night, and every time a little wave of precipitation came through, the queens at the Phoenix would run for cover. Which would make sense if they were all West Hollywood-ized with shaggy hair and inch-thick foundation, but the people at that party are always bears and leather men. They wear jeans and, occasionally, harnesses. They are not known for elaborate hairstyles, at least above the neckline. So what's the big deal getting wet, ladies?)
Anyway. Last night, Saturday night, I decided I was going to head out on the town and enjoy myself -- not necessarily with The Gayz, but still in the Quarter, to see a rock show at One Eyed Jacks. Instead, I got sidetracked. Not by another party, not by friends dragging me to some fabulous thing, but by fonts. FONTS. I'm doing a website redesign, and I got obsessed with tweaking the typeface. Before I knew it, it was 1:00am. I packed it in and went to bed.
But enough of that: I'm turning over a new leaf. Today, I'm heading out to document the shenanigans come hell or high water (a phrase we don't take lightly in New Orleans). For those who've never been to Southern Decadence, Sunday is the big day -- the day of the parade. It's a seething, sibilant mass of homosexuality, thousands upon thousands of boy-kissers drinking and flirting and throwing glitter on anything that moves. It alone is worth the trip. If I can't drag my ass out of the house for that shit, somebody ought to book me into a retirement community in Boca.
UPDATE: Dudes really WERE peeing on each other and stuff
So, yesterday I mentioned that the rough-and-tumble types employed by ArmorGroup North America in Kabul, Afghanistan were accused of engaging in frat-style hazing hijinks. (The thought of men eating potato chips from each other's asscracks is one that will haunt me for some time. Not necessarily in a bad way.)
Alas, although the Mother Jones article claimed there were photos documenting these "atrocities", I couldn't find any myself. I am thrilled to report that other people were more fortunate in their Googling:
Those shots came from Gawker; I was pointed to others via our very own Gambit Weekly. (FYI, I'm liking the direction in which the new editor is taking things. Imagine the coverage on this five years ago. Go ahead, I dare you.)
Also there is also a video report, if you want the Nora Newsbag treatment:
My personal opinion: this grab-assery looks no worse than the shenanigans my Kappa Sig friends stirred up back at Millsaps. Okay, yes, I'm sure there were darker moments not captured on film, but have we really reached the point that hazing, horseplay, and other Barbara Kruger-esque, man-touching-man antics have no place in our lives? Where's the fun in that? Sheesh.
Turkish oil wrestling is now a Hollywood thing, maybe
One of the blogs I write for requires that I review loads of celebrity photos. Usually they're just shots of Lauren Conrad eating a bagel or Britney Spears emotionally scarring her children or, nine times out of ten, Jon Gosselin being fat. (Kill me now.) However, amid yesterday's snaps of Rumer Willis, Ben Affleck, and Miley freakin' Cyrus came this little number:
Now, unless that's a still of Christian Bale performing yet another body-tranformative role, I'm pretty sure the guy in the photo has just won a title in traditional Turkish oil wrestling. Which is weirdness on two levels:
(a) Turkish oil wrestling competitions generally take place in Turkey or Amsterdam or other places that are not Hollywood. Unless Kevin Spacey is in the audience (he knows why), the matches doesn't typically draw the attention of the paparazzi.
Please note, however: I am not complaining about the weirdness. At all.
UPDATE: As it turns out, it's not oil wrestling, but gravy wrestling. Dude's creepy Valentino-orange skintone should've tipped me off, but I guess the kisbet threw me. Whatever. Someone could still sop that up with a biscuit.
Guards and supervisors are "peeing on people, eating potato chips out of [buttock] cracks"
On the raunchy living conditions at the headquarters of ArmorGroup North America, "private security contractors guarding Camp Sullivan, otherwise known as the US Embassy in Kabul":
Numerous emails, photographs, and videos portray a Lord of the Flies environment. One email from a current guard describes scenes in which guards and supervisors are "peeing on people, eating potato chips out of [buttock] cracks, vodka shots out of [buttock] cracks (there is video of that one), broken doors after drnken [sic] brawls, threats and intimidation from those leaders participating in this activity…." Photograph after photograph shows guards—including supervisors—at parties in various stages of nudity, sometimes fondling each other. These parties take place just a few yards from the housing of other supervisors.
