|
[via twitter] |
6:57 PM ...at least that's what I think whenever I see Rose McGowan. Looka here and tell me I'm wrong:
7:17 AM
 I'm not sure where I found this article about New Orleans' rebuilding process -- probably via Gambit or from my pal Tyler. But no matter: it's a beautifully written piece. Here's an excerpt:
11:10 AM
6:11 AM ...except, of course, that these guys are way too young for my tastes. But, you know, someone out there might enjoy the sight of naked and half-naked teens. 'Strip hockey' players punished in Idaho
6:08 AM
I find it very hard to believe that these three hookers have vaginas: 
10:20 PM
3:05 PM Perfume is dreadful, but the ads used to sell it are worse. I thought we'd reached the bottom of the barrel in 1985, but apparently, 24 years of technological and marketing advancements haven't done a damn thing to improve the genre: [via Copyranter]
2:02 PM
 Here's the problem with New Orleans: its residents walk a lot and talk a lot (to each other, to themselves, and sometimes to no one in particular). We've been here for hundreds of years, strolling the sidewalks that buttress our narrow streets, stopping to chat with neighbors, and taking streetcars more conducive to conversation than quick commutes because they travel so damned slowly. The city is flat, movement is easy -- unlike the town where I grew up, which was small, decentralized, hilly, the sort of place where you'd get in the car to go anywhere, even to a neighbor's house for coffee. That's what keeps us here. That's why it's hard for us to move to new places, places that might be geographically and meteorologically superior. Apart from New York, San Francisco, and a handful of smaller burgs like Provincetown and Savannah, there aren't many locales that have the same convivial, walkable feel (at least not on this side of the Atlantic). And that's why we stay, or at least why I stay: not for the 24 hour bars, not for the loose liquor laws, and certainly -- certainly -- not for our efficient city government. * * * * * Over the past 16 years or so -- ever since I moved to my current neighborhood, the Faubourg Marigny -- I've seen an elderly woman walking the streets. She's a bit stooped and gray and slow, but there's something unusual about the way she carries herself; to call it "regal" would be cliched and also inaccurate, but "semi-regal" might do. I've tried to catch her eye on occasion, but never had any luck. A couple of years ago, a friend told me that she was once an animator at Walt Disney Studios. That sounded like a nice rumor, exactly the kind of story you might spread about an eccentric neighbor, but I didn't put much stock in it. For some reason -- possibly because the New Orleans Museum of Art is hosting a huge animation retrospective in conjunction with the release of the new Disney film, The Princess and the Frog -- I've been thinking about this mystery woman lately. Yesterday morning, on my way to the gym, I saw her trudging down the sidewalk, and although I'm not ordinarily the sort of person who strikes up conversations with total strangers (I'm shy that way), I did. I turned my bike around, pulled up beside her, and with all the guileless enthusiasm of a seven-year-old, I blurted out, "Excuse me, ma'am, but I've heard that you were once an animator for Disney. Is that true?" She was confused at first. She's in her mid-80s and not as sharp as she once was. But as it turns out, my friend was right: this woman, Eva Schneider, was one of a tiny handful of women who worked in the animation studios for Walt Disney in the 1950s and 60s. When I spoke to her, she insisted that she was not an animator herself, that she was simply an assistant in the animation department. She made it sound as if she might've been a secretary. But when I got home, I did a little googling, and it appears that she was just being modest, or that she didn't consider her work to be animation per se. Fact of the matter is: her presence at Disney is fairly well-documented, and she's fondly remembered by former animators. * * * * * Over the course of a rambling, hourlong chat, she shared fragments of her life. Originally from Zürich, she must've come to the states around the time of World War II, landing first in New York, then moving to Los Angeles, where she worked for nearly 20 years at Disney. As I understand from our conversation (decades later, her English is still somewhat broken, and she speaks with a pronounced German accent), her father passed away around 1970, and on the advice of her nephew who lives in New Orleans, she used her inheritance to retire here. She's never left -- not even for Katrina. That photo at top, that's from a profile run in Vanity Fair in the fall of 2005, documenting the fact that she remained in New Orleans for the storm. (She told me she stayed because she had a dog, and the authorities wouldn't let her take him.)Now, I know that not everyone deserves to publish a memoir or to be the subject of her/his own documentary. Certainly there are many that have bored the world to tears. But in my chat with Eva, she seemed very interesting, full of experiences that few living people ever had. I'm not so sure I could tell her life story -- in fact, I'm not even sure she could -- but it would hold more than my own attention.
6:12 AM
7:08 AM
9:51 AM
[via BoingBoing]
6:59 AM A couple of days ago, I mentioned that Louisiana's governor, über-Republican Bobby Jindal, and his nemesis, Democratic U.S. Senator Mary Landrieu, had both unequivocally condemned Keith Bardwell, the justice of the peace in Tangipahoa Parish who refused to marry an interracial couple last week. I also mentioned that Louisiana's other U.S. Senator, noted whoremonger David Vitter, had remained positively silent. Well, Vitter has finally spoken out. In this clip shot by the worst interviewer ever to purchase a low-end video camera, the senator admits that he's not the only racist elected to public office in Louisiana. TERRIBLE INTERVIEWER: "...elected from Louisiana not to have commented on the judge that refused to marry the interracial couple. Do you --" [via BlogOfNewOrleans]
5:54 AM ...you might also know that today is his birthday. Perhaps you should drop him a line -- or come to Bearracuda this weekend and offer well-wishes to the poster boy in person. 
11:23 AM
 Nicolas Cage's homes in the French Quarter and Garden District are listed for sale at auction Nov. 12 as a local lender foreclosed on the properties for unpaid mortgage debts, according to the Orleans Parish Civil Sheriff's office.
6:52 AM
8:29 AM This may or may not be a photo of Christian activist and senior-level douchebag Randall Terry, using one of them newfangled CB-type megaphonical devices to shout nasty things at homosexualists:  But whomever it is that's being ignored by gay cowboys and polar bears alike, that is almost certainly NOT a boner in his poorly pleated trousers*. Still, it's a funny thought, right? * We, The Gays, are a tolerant people, except in matters sartorial. Perhaps we'd be inclined to listen to people like Mr. Terry if they would take our anti-pleat message to heart.** Remember: hate the pants, love the man inside 'em. ** Just kidding. There's no way in hell we're listening to that fuckface. [via AwkwardBoners]
7:58 AM ...it appears that something's gone wrong with the world. I mean, okay, things have been going wrong (and occasionally right) for a really long time -- like, since ever -- but today, Planet Earth seems particularly off-course. As evidence, please note:
I don't know what the people of the world have done, but karma, as The Gays say, is a beeyotch. [h/t Tyler, Gambit, Copyranter]
1:24 PM
 I am not a religious person and I never have been. As a kid, I hated going to church (although bible drills brought out my competitive side), and I haven't really been to a service since high school. For the last two decades, I've only set foot inside cathedrals and basilicas and synagogues to take photographs -- and pretty lousy ones at that. However, I do have a sort of moral code or a guiding principle -- whatever you want to call it. Not to get too hippie-fied, but basically, I think that the best that anyone can do is to be kind. Like Dorian Corey said, life is rough. It's an ordeal just to get through it. In my opinion, our responsibility is to make the trip easier, happier, more comfortable for others. And remarkably, that is what Where the Wild Things Are is all about. And that is nearly all it's about, with one notable exception, which also happens to be one of my core concerns: how are we supposed to make life easier for friends and strangers when everyone keeps moving? Someone's always dying, changing, shifting locales. It's heartbreaking. There's no fixing it. Sometimes, I just want to shout, "Be still!", but that's silly. And I don't shout much anyway. One last thing worth noting about the film: screenwriter Dave Eggers' ability to think like a child. The way kids speak emotionally; the way their rationale is grounded in feelings and not what we ordinarily think of as logic; the way children keep everying right on the surface; their utter lack of guile: he captured it, and beautifully. I shouldn't have expected less, but Eggers and Jonze and everyone else and everything else have created another world -- albeit one that'll look very familiar to anyone who's ever been six. So, I guess what I'm trying to say is that Where the Wild Things Are is profound, moving, and I wouldn't take anyone under the age of 18 anywhere near it. It's terribly depressing. I did have some complaints about the lighting, and the twee soundtrack occasionally made it feel like I was watching the world's longest Toyota ad, and James Gandolfini's voice took a bit of getting used to. But still: go. Go.
9:41 AM It's time for our little theatre company's not-so-little annual fundraiser:  If you're in New Orleans next Tuesday night and you've got nothing better to do, I expect to see you there. On second thought, what could you possibly have to do that's better than this? I expect to see you Tuesday, period.
7:24 AM
A Louisiana justice of the peace said he refused to issue a marriage license to an interracial couple out of concern for any children the couple might have.
8:42 PM
 Yesterday afternoon, I was standing in line at the only grocery store in my neighborhood. (I use the term "grocery store" loosely. Yeah, technically the place sells groceries, but it feels like everything on the shelves fell off a truck from Slovenia. Translation: shady.) Anyway, I was standing there, watching the steampunks ahead of me pay for their ramen with pennies, when Diana Ross' 198o hit, "I'm Coming Out" started blaring from the boombox behind the counter. I can remember exactly where I was when I heard that song for the first time: the Sunshine Skate Center, halfway between the Asteroids machine and the carpeted half-wall that wrapped around the skate flooor. My friend, Robin, was singing along and seemed to know all the words -- but then, she seemed to know a lot I didn't. Now, I'm not a huge Diana Ross fan (snatch my gay card if you must), and frankly, I've never liked that song, but I have to admit, it's sort of a time capsule. To me, it's about the evolving Civil Rights movement, and particularly about gays and lesbians, who by 1980 had finally begun to appear in film, on TV, and on the news -- not as monsters or outcasts or circus freaks, but as fairly normal people who just had a thing for cashmere sweaters and pleated pants. "I'm Coming Out" was celebratory, a moment of jubilation -- an all-too-brief moment that ended a year later when people began dying and we became vilified overnight. But really, what was striking during that moment in the grocery store had nothing to do with me. What was more interesting was the cashier's reaction to the song. He looks to be about my age, or maybe a little older, and he's generally brusque. I'm pretty sure he's a Russian ex-pat Jew -- mostly because I think he's related to the owners, who are all Israeli, and he tried to chat me up about Passover this one time when I was buying matzo. (I'm not Jewish; they were just out of rice cakes.) Also: he speaks with a thick, eastern European accent, and I'm 99% certain I once overheard him speaking in Russian on a cell phone. Regardless of his religion, nationality, or creed (as if I'd know the man's creed), what's important was his expression when "I'm Coming Out" came on: this beefy guy who's been around the block, this man who's ordinarily gruff and distant, he was beaming. Literally beaming -- like that creepy baby/sun thingamajig on Teletubbies. He started singing along, smiling, clearly happy to be alive. And here's what I want to know: where was HE when he first heard that song?
8:51 AM
Boise, ID -- A local high school math teacher has been arrested for obscene conduct in a public place.I will tell you what it meant: DUDE WAS MAKING VIDEOS FOR XTUBE. I mean, duh.
5:54 AM Seriously, I don't know what to think. [via CTRL+W33D]
9:09 PM
In prepping this week's posts (for the work blog, not this one), I learned many exciting things, including: 1. Katie Holmes has put Tom Cruise on a "sex diet" to help him lose weight. In a nutshell (har), she thinks Tom's turning chubby (har har), and she wants him to get more exercise. By having sex. Presumably with her. Which is, I suppose, one way of going about it. 2. Project Runway is going to be a videogame. Normally I'd say "feh", but the game's going to roll out on the Wii platform, which could be kinda fun: As with the show, players will compete to create different designs, but they will also have the opportunity to become the model and showcase their creations on the runway, using the Wii Balance Board.Sounds like a very short runway, but hey, they didn't ask me. 3. Speaking of iffy fashion projects, I believe it's time to dig out the shoulderpads (you know you've been storing them in the back of the sock drawer like everyone else): Dynasty star Joan Collins is fronting a new TV special as part of her personal mission to revive style in Britain.Werque, bitchez. 4. Have you ever wondered what the most beautiful object in the world might be? As it happens, I can tell you. It is this fireplace:  [via BoingBoing] And yes, it's beautiful. But it's no Jil Sander velveteen trenchcoat, that's for damn sure.
6:14 AM
 Good news: the Faubourg Marigny has been named one of the "10 Great American Neighborhoods" by the American Planning Association. But what makes a great neighborhood, by APA standards? "They are enjoyable, safe and desirable. They are places where people want to be — not only to visit, but to live and work every day. America's truly great streets, neighborhoods and public spaces are defined by many criteria, including architectural features, accessibility, functionality and community involvement."Frankly, I think the Marigny fits that bill to a tee. My friends from out of town often comment on the neighborhood vibe, how it's walkable, relatable, manageable. How we speak to one another, say hello on the street (usually). We've got a good mix of inhabitants, rich and poor; straight and gay; black and white; steampunk, hipster, and square. If only we had a grocery store, we'd be freakin' Mayberry. You know, just like Lincoln, Nebraska, Fargo, North Dakota, and everyone else on the APA list. Bad news: St. Louis Cemetery No. 2 and Phillis Wheatley Elementary School are among 93 sites from 47 countries named to the World Monument Fund's 2010 "Watch List" for endangered architecture. That list focuses on "cultural heritage sites worldwide that are endangered by neglect, overdevelopment, vandalism or disaster." Funny thing is, many people come to New Orleans precisely because of the decay -- and its etymological cousin, decadence. But I suppose there are limits to the romance of all that.
11:07 AM
10:15 AM Yet more proof that life isn't fair. And that the world may be ending. Like, TOMORROW and shit:
8:10 AM
5:42 AM
6:26 AM
 Yeah, that's Tania. Again. I hate to lavish attention on just one of our three hounds, but Tania is so loving and expressive...well, she's hard to ignore. Monday night, Jonno and I were on the sofa, giggling through another episode of The Rachel Zoe Project (don't hate, y'all), when I looked over at Tania, and she looked back with her big, brown eyes, and what can I say? I'm a softie for big brown eyes. I patted my chest, and she accepted the invitation immediately, crawling on top of me and conking right the hell out. Adorable. Heavy and snorey and kind of pointy with the toenails, but adorable nonetheless. As she lay there sleeping, I remembered something I'd half-forgotten: the way Tania liked to spoon with me after the storm. (Which I suppose we should all start capitalizing as The Storm to distinguish it from the other storms that have already begun to follow.) Jonno and I hadn't had her very long at that point -- only a month or so-- but Tania wasn't one to stand on ceremony. She acted as if we'd been pals forever. Every night, I'd crawl under the covers, and within a minute or two, she'd squeeze in beside me, her back to my belly, her paws dangling over the bed's edge. No fidgeting, no fussing, just right to sleep for the rest of the night. At first, it was just cute -- the act of a giant puppy who thought of herself as a lapdog -- but soon I'd turned it into a little game. She'd sneak into position, I'd pretend not to notice, then once she'd settled in, I'd try to breathe in synch with her, so our chests rose and fell in unison. I don't know why I thought it was funny, but game or not, it helped me relax, breathe deeply, and sleep, none of which were easy to do back then. (Evacuated, imposing on friends, guilty for being comfortable while other friends weren't -- if I knew where they were at all. Ah, memories.) In light of last week's unpleasantness, Tania's behavior on Monday night also reminded me of worldfamousauthor Ken Foster and his story of the pit bulls who saved his life. (If you haven't read The Dogs Who Found Me or any of his other works, I can't recommend them highly enough.) Ken had begun feeling sluggish and dizzy, but he'd written it off as exhaustion -- which makes sense because, you know, handling three dogs can have that effect on a person. But one day, his dogs starting acting strangely, jumping on him, playing very aggressively, trying to get his attention, get him up off his chair. Ultimately, it was that crazy behavior that got Ken out of the house and into a doctor's office. And it's a good thing he went, because somehow, the dogs knew what Ken didn't: that his heart was failing and that he was slowly dying. They were trying to save him. I wasn't having a heart attack last week or last night, but it's comforting to sleep among hounds just the same.
6:23 AM
I reference these AT&T ads all the time in my marketing class -- despite the fact that most of my students are too young to remember them. Apart from their historic appeal (seriously: dig that smokey early 90s music video vibe), the ads are great examples of brand marketing. AT&T isn't selling anything here other than the idea of AT&T. In fact, the campaign's very premise is that consumers can't possibly buy or do any of these things...but thanks to AT&T, they will. Soon. Of course, there are a bejillion other examples of brand advertising I could name. (That weird Shell campaign with the Scandinavians and the bendable drinking straws come to mind.) But for some reason, these stick out. That's probably because AT&T's predictions were so spot-on. Unlike the wild-ass predictions spawned by unfettered suburban optimism in the 1950s and 1960s -- robot butlers! cities on the moon! meals in a pill! -- AT&T knew what it was talking about. The company saw the technology coming down the pipeline and accurately calculated where it would lead.
4:44 PM
 * See that photo up there? That is ART, y'all. * Speaking of photos of crazy people, this has been making me laugh all week:  * Speaking of just plain craziness, the Nigerian phenomenon of missing penises is back -- and this time, it's personal. I mean, obviously. * Speaking of personal, linebacker for the New Orleans Saints Scott Fujita is my new personal hero. Dude rules.
11:21 AM
|
