Thursday, July 31, 2008

What I Did Today

Okay, so this morning I logged a post to The Rude Pundit. This is not the sort of thing I typically post here; but it was something I needed to say, a meditation on loss, hope, and love.

Wednesday, July 30, 2008

Time to Get Back Under the Radar?

A few weeks ago, I happened to meet a charming lady at an audition I attended at Southern Rep. Her name was Janet McConnaughey (no relation to him). She was supposed to be a writer for the Associated Press. She was interested in doing a story about theatre in post-K New Orleans. At the time we were introduced, I'd been watching and listening to actors for about four hours and needed to get some food and sleep, so I begged off talking with her then. I did give her my card, though, and a few days later, she phoned me and interviewed me for a little while. Later, she spoke to me again. And again another time. We spoke fairly often, in fact; often enough that I felt a proposal might be in order. If only I had not been otherwise engaged.

Turns out she is with the Associated Press, and today, my name is unfurling like a ribbon around the world in connection with pronouncements I made because I don't know how to keep my mouth shut.

Dear God, I hope I haven't offended anybody. And, please, God, another thing ... don't let my family find out what I'm doing.

Tuesday, July 29, 2008

A Few More Pictures

Cammie West and me. Cammie was in Valhalla, and won a Marquee Award last night for her work in it. She also won a Big Easy Award for it and a Storer Boone Award, as well. The box was a gift from our publicist on that show. It contained little plastic swans (swans play a pivotal role in Valhalla) and lots of chocolate. I took the chocolate home with me. I don't remember what I did with the remaining swans.

You wouldn't know it, but I'm the Sicilian in this picture.

Aside from the old, fat man on the left in this shot, everyone else is an exalted personage in the local theatre scene. They call themselves stars.

Pictures at an Exhibition

Accepting my award.

Trying to look appropriately poised and humble, while the kid in the background steals the shot.

Shocking secrets revealed! Elder abuse!

More pictures here.

Late-Breaking News - Like, Really, Really Late

Tonight - or, rather, make that last night by now - I won a theatre award. It was actually my first-ever theatre award.

I was awarded a Marquee Award for the Best Director of a Comedy (Valhalla) Seen by the Least Number of People in the City of New Orleans in the Last Seventeen Years.

The audience reaction was raucous, warm, kind, and encouraging - considering I'd never before laid eyes on about 86% percent of the people present; and they, consequently, had never laid eyes on me.

Since the award - a plaque - was at least equivalent to the price of admission for this banquet, I will have to keep attending these award things - for a while, at least.

Oh, did I mention I'm very grateful?

Actually, I really am. In fact, I'm kind of mushy and gushy and all warm inside.

Hell, I'm a S'more.

But, really, it was a nice thing to have happen.

Pictures to follow - eventually.

Friday, July 25, 2008

Weekly Photo Challenge: Tatterdemalion

I give you ... tatterdemalion luuuv.

Over on the other side of the world, Kyklops gives us ... JapanEZBEAR!

But, down the street here in the city that care forgot, Dave, poor kid, has gone over the edge. Send prayers and happy thoughts his way, please.

Oh, never mind. It seems Bud has caught a glimpse of Ragman, the tattered tatterdemalion. (Looks familiar ...).

At 5:51 PM, while I was napping, Bryan slipped a little something in.

Here's a little lagniappe of my tattered lovers ... for all you other tatterdemalion lovers out there.

Thursday, July 24, 2008

Dear Mr. Pundit,

May I call you Rude? Thanks.

I confess when I received your email yesterday requesting that I log a guest-post one day next week on your inimitable blog along with some of the high-powered local writers around these parts, I quite naturally assumed it was a prank being played on me. And I also had a pretty good idea who could and would "punk" me in such a fashion.

For that reason, I was quite happy to readily call your bluff and agree to your terms, soiled tighty-whities notwithstanding. Imagine my consternation this afternoon to discover that you - the really real you - have announced to the world at large just such a gathering of guest bloggers lined up to cover your ass - I mean, your absence next week.

I confess that I am floored to learn that you read me. Do you read me? I can't imagine why you would.

Don't get me wrong. I'm proud to believe that you might. But I never pictured us - you and I - as being in the same class.

Nevertheless, by golly, I intend to serve you well, sir. I'll be watching the local news, reading the local rags, and, by hook or by crook, I'll find something appalling to write about even if I have to make it up!

You can count on me.

Scorched Wood

Railroad Ties along the Riverfront Streetcar Line

Diesel Spillage on the Mississippi

I walked over to the levee this morning to catch some shots of the damage done yesterday when a freighter split a tugboat and released all this diesel fuel into the Mississippi River. The strong smell of turpentine is still in my nostrils.

There were no birds near the river, no sparrows, pigeons, or seagulls. The common sense of instinctual nature.

For Lack of Anything Else

Same blossoms at dawn, different day.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

The Word on the Street Is ...

... That police have apprehended one of the suspected killers of Robin Malta. Extradition proceedings are now taking place to return him to the city.

Update, 10:30 PM: Can this be the story? I'll keep a lookout.

Thrill Me: A First Glimpse

But not finalized. There will be a number 13. Watch and wait ...

Well, okay, I've decided that we won't be using this one. I shared it with Stephen - um, Stephen Dolginoff, the writer, composer, librettist - and he, like Bobby before him, questioned the face I used, as in, used twice(!).

Since I am not a graphic artist, I have no problem accepting criticism in this field. I am, therefore, going to take Stephen's suggestions to heart - um, that's Stephen Dolginoff, the writer, composer, librettist - and rework it.

Don't be looking for this thing on the streets any time soon, okay?

Although, as a bona fide collector's item, I'm sure I could manage to get my hands on a copy if you should want one - for a nominal, exorbitant fee, of course.

Blossoms at Dawn

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

Trying to Clear My Head

This past weekend was just weird.

Friday night, we went to see some friends of ours in a play they were producing and acting in at Southern Rep, a reputable house in the city. They had just gotten a rave review by the "only reviewer in town who can sell tickets", and tickets had been sold. The house was about 85 to 90 percent full.

It was also filled with local theatre people who seemed to have been quite piqued by the good review.

You know how a clinically-depressed guest can ruin a wedding for all attending? Well, the presence of these local theatre people in the audience was kind of like that. Everybody, including the cast, could feel the psychic daggers whooshing toward the stage.

It got worse at the party following the performance when the local theatre people went out of their way to personally insult the actors and denigrate their accomplishment. Their mothers should be ashamed of themselves - unless, of course, that was the way they intended to raise their spawn.

On Saturday, I had to go to the Gay Appreciation Awards. To Do Productions and the Marigny Theatre were nominated for the "Performing Arts Award". We lost.

I have one more of these award gigs I have to go to. Mark my words, if I don't walk out of this one with an award at least equivalent to the price of admission I ain't never going back to another one.

Sunday, we were set to attend another friend's production at a famous (well, well-known around these parts, anyway) cabaret. Unfortunately, since I'd always attended awards ceremonies here where seating was first-come/first serve, I had neglected to reserve our seats. The iron lady who runs the place seated us at an unclaimed table upstage of stage right.

Bobby became piqued, and Bobby piqued is not unlike a clinically-depressed guest at a wedding. So he walked back over to the iron lady and negotiated a deal whereby we could leave and return another day. That way, the iron lady was able to hold onto my money.

On the way home, Bobby decided he wanted me to take him out.

As he put it, "You got me showered and dressed. I want to go somewhere."

So I took him to Cowpokes, figuring it would be quiet and sparse. It was. I took a stool next to a young man who was with a bar-friend of mine, and I sat there quietly while Bobby sang the blues at the poker machines.

Eventually, the bartender decided I was too quiet for business and took it upon himself to introduce me to the young man sitting next to me.

The young man, who had seemed unknown to me, turned out to be one of the two actors I had cast in our next production of Thrill Me. That's right. I hadn't recognized my own Richard Loeb. Not smart.

In fairness to myself, I'd only really met him once before, and that was at his audition, when he was standing (he's taller than I) and had longer hair without any product in it. On this evening, he was seated and his hair was shorter and all styled and pomaded up to a point down the middle like the Gerber baby.

Nevertheless, carve another notch for senility.

Then, to round it all off, yesterday, I just woke up out of sorts and spent Monday on a tear.

You don't want to go there.

Saturday, July 19, 2008

Friday, July 18, 2008

This Just In

I just got an email from one of my big brothers:
This is not a belated Happy Birthday. I called the night before your birthday, but you were not available. So now I'm wishing you a very Happy 58th Birthday. I still love you like a little pig loves the mud :-).

Your loving bigger brother,
His name is really Russell, but our Sicilian great-grandmother, who never learned English, used to call him that.

And he should have called me on my mobile phone.

A Note to My Readers

A very special thank you to all of the few of you who took advantage of the too-few seconds it took to wish me a happy birthday yesterday.

My day was lovely, as close to perfection as anyone can attain on this earthly plane. (I did squat all day long!) But then having the good fortune of turning 48 again for the tenth time is close to perfection, isn't it? I am humbled, truly, and truly, deeply grateful to all of you for your well-wishes and to God, of course, for His patronage and His personal regard in granting me this privilege.

I look forward to spending many more 48th birthdays with all of you. Thank you again.

It's good to be the bear.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Music

Somehow or other, my brain's synapses considered Dave's Photo Challenge post of last week and changed "Music" into "Water". So, earlier this week, I gleefully snapped this shot, thinking, This will be so cool. "Water" without using water, can you dig it?

It was just today I realized my mistake.

So, just consider that the frog is ... Singin' in the Rain.

True to form, Kyklops is first up with his interpretation.

Dave has finally clocked in with a sweet tribute to his big brother Ron. And Bud is not to be outdone.

Meanwhile, darling Christy rounds out the day with a shot of the ubiquitous Hot 8 Brass Band.

Thursday, July 17, 2008

Not a Minute Too Soon

Send a JibJab Sendables® eCard Today!

Let Us All Pause for a Moment of Silence ...

... In memory of what once occurred on this day.

Okay, that's enough, that's fine. Keep it moving. There's nothing to see here.

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

Fairies in the Garden of my Bottom*

* "I should love to perform There Are Fairies in the Bottom of My Garden (Bea Lillie's signature song), but I don't dare. It might come out There Are Fairies in the Garden of My Bottom.
- Noel Coward

I Once Was Lost, But Now I'm Found

A funny thing about blogging, people find out things about you, usually things you don't talk about over drinks with your friends. People also find you, period. The past can come washing over you like a big wave on a seashore.

Twice, within the past twelve months, people from my past have rediscovered me here. David Thibodeaux, from college, found me first, several months ago. Now, this week, David Reske, from my hidden years in the Cincinnati seminary, has tracked me down.

So far, so good. These are people I cared and care about, people who can shed some light on who I was back then during two periods in my life I'm not always clear about. College David remembered, and reminded me of being, dark and moody, brooding over my craft, I like that. Now seminary David has posted a comment remembering a "rose-cheeked boy ... bayou bred."

Say what? My first reaction was not knowing what the hell he was talking about. But then I remembered it was his memory, not mine. Why not settle back and enjoy it?

Rose-cheeked and bayou-bred. Nice. And so long ago.

Monday, July 14, 2008

The Final Word

For what it's worth, Gambit Weekly has published it's review of Gertrude Stein and a Companion. Dalt Wonk (sic) writes (finally):
To Do Productions' Gertrude Stein and a Companion entertains and fascinates. It's well worth the look at the private life behind the legendary writer.

I'd Nail Him

No One Should Be So Young

Sunday, July 13, 2008

Goodnight, Ladies

Oh, Well

She may be the talk of the town, but Gertrude Stein isn't making any money. She never did, did she? I just got a call from the producer, telling me he's lowered all ticket prices for today's final performance to $15.00. The only reservations on the books so far are two comps.

Man, I'm feeling weary.

I think I'll drink myself into a stupor.

After the show, I mean ...

Blood's a-Boilin'

I have this absolutely incredible photograph I'd love to share with the world at large, but Blogger isn't working right. Every time I try to upload my picture, which is in landscape mode, Blogger rotates it. I thought I'd outsmart him by rotating the image myself, but then he uploads it in portrait mode as is.

'Sup wi' dat?

Saturday, July 12, 2008

Aqua Globe

A Radical Temporal Mind-Shift

When I was a kid, my June Cleaver mother would send me toddling off ...

Wait. That's wrong. Let me start again.

When I was a kid ... my sainted Sicilian mother would grab me by the scruff of my neck and tell me that I had to go to school. Why, if I didn't go to school, then the police would come and break into our house, take her away in chains and send her somewhere far away from home and me, and I'd never see her again, and then I'd end up someday as a lonely, broken old man who'd never had a mother, then I'd die.

This usually managed to get me off to Saint Michael's every Monday morning where the sweet sisters would prepare me and the rest of my schoolmates for early martyrdoms at the hands of the Chinese Communists who would rip off our fingernails with bamboo shoots before they nailed us to crosses on that not-so-far-away day when they would conquer America and try to destroy our Catholic Church.

At six years old, it was amazing how many options for extinction were made available to our burgeoning little brains. But then that was back in the 'fifties when we were all so innocent and naive. I mean, back then we all figured you could survive an atom bomb attack from the Russians by scampering under your desk and praying the rosary. By the time you finished the last "Our Father", it would all be over, and you could crawl back out and finish your geography lesson.

Thank God, our educational system has advanced and is so much more enlightened now, what with dinosaurs having been discovered to have coexisted with our ancestors in the Garden of Eden and the theory of evolution having been proven to have been just that, an old outmoded "theory".

But I'm losing sight of what I intended to write about here. I'm concerned this morning with the concept of the calendar week and its insistence on the so-called concrete reality of seven days.

Why this hard-nosed urgency, this demand that there be seven days? My personal experience has been radically different from what it is the powers-that-be demand that I believe.

For example, when I was a toddler, I knew only three days. There was Mon-Tue-Wed-Thu-Friday. Then there was Saturday which had a whole morning of cartoons on TV, and Sunday which had what seemed to be a whole morning of Church. And I loved Church.

My sainted Sicilian mother would carry me off to Saint Michael's for High Mass, and I would revel in the music and the statues. St. Michael's had such beautiful statues. There was the Blessed Mother, of course. She looked a lot like my mother, if my mother had ever been 19, slender, and blond. There was a really hot statue of Saint Michael shoving his spear down the throat of Lucifer, looking for all the world like a really fierce, mad drag queen, getting all righteous with her shit. But the best, the coolest, hottest statue of them all was the one of Jesus hanging from the cross that was hanging over the altar. That Jesus looked good. That Jesus made you want to grow up to be him if you were a boy toddler, and it made you want to grow up to marry him if you were a girl. On the other hand, if you were like me, you wanted to both be and have him. Back then the Catholic Church really knew how to shake its moneymaker to sell a product.

But to get back to my main point, the calendar week. That early concept of the week was wonderful to me. It was everything a child could hope for and demand. Sadly, every Eden story has its ending in expulsion, and the Cherubim sent to guard the gates with his seven swords soon revealed himself to me like some werewolf peering round the chinaberry tree in our front yard. His name was "School".

I remember the day like it was yesterday when my sainted Sicilian mother abandoned me on the steps of St. Michael's Elementary School. Nothing was ever to be the same. Instantly, my glorious three-day week transformed itself into a six-day week of Sun-Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. What a jarring metamorphosis for a child to make sense of. So harsh and cruel. Such is life.

Now I had to learn to deal with the awful anxiety of Sun-Monday. Sun-Monday consisted of a twenty-four hour pre-dawn darkness that gradually lightened to a dull leaden gray as I prepared myself for the terrors of that first weekday back in school. That was when I'd have to confront Susan Gardner with her saddle oxfords and her hand that always went up before mine could and who always knew all the answers, even more of them than I did. That was also when I'd have to confront that mean pudgy little butch girl, whose name I still cannot recall, who would blackmail me of my twenty-five cents and my peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches by threatening to tell Sister Valery what I had done. I had no idea what it was that I had done or if, in fact, I'd really done it; but I was so terrified of Sister Valery finding out that I had no recourse but to surrender what was mine.

And so my week would begin, a Sisyphean mountain climb of beginning, enduring, and ending ignominiously before beginning all over again. The only goal to be desired was Saturday with its whole morning of cartoons. But Saturday was only twelve - or less! - hours long. Then Sun-Monday would dawn and begin to drain me of my soul.

That was to be the way it would be for what seemed to me at the time would become the rest of my life. Susan Gardner's name would change many times over, along with her wardrobe, her race, and her sex. That mean pudgy little butch girl would always be there waiting for me around one or another corner with her stale but still potent threats. My calendar week would continue its inexorable grind.

If I can offer any consolation, it is that one does endure, one copes and learns to live with the binding strictures of this six-day week. Most of you will walk that path until the day you die, lonely, broken old men and women.

Some others of you, though, some blessed few, will feel the crumbling of your shackles from around your wrists and ankles, will feel the exhilarating wind against your dampened faces as you make your escape from this soul-sucking chain gang of life-as-we-know-it.

I did.

And it was just this morning that I discovered that my six-day week had shifted and resolved itself back into a three-day week. My calendar week now consists of Sunday, Mon-Tue-Wed-Thursday, and Fri-Saturday. Mon-Tue-Wed-Thursdays are set aside now for my play dates. Fri-Saturday is happy hour followed by a whole morning of cartoons on TV. And Sunday ... Sunday I haven't figured out yet.

Not long ago I went into Saint Louis Cathedral for High Mass. It was okay. The music, of course, is different now, bland, and everybody sings with the choir. How ridiculous is that? The whole point of having a choir is to get hold of the people who can carry a tune and stick them up in the loft. Why then are you going to let every Joe and Josephine lift up their wobbly voices to give Jesus earache? Doesn't he deserve better than that?

And the statues. There is no Virgin Mary there who looks like my mother would have looked had she ever been 19, slender, and blond. The Saint Michael, like any other fierce, mad drag queen has not aged well. And the Jesus up there on his cross over the altar is dusty now, really dusty. You can see it from the floor, it's that dusty. But such is life, I suppose.

Other than Sunday, I can honestly say I wish you all a future filled with the joys of a three-day week. May you all live so long.

Friday, July 11, 2008

The New Toy

No, not this thing. This has been hanging in the back for years. The new thing is a new camera Bobby bought, which is really saying it's my new thing since I have to learn it and then teach Bobby how to use it.

I'm letting him think it's really complicated, although it's highly intuitive and just like the last point-and-shoot I bought for myself. I like it. It's fun.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Mundane

It looks like this week may not be a bust like last's.

Kyklops has returned to the fold. And Dave's come up for air. Christy takes her life in her hands with her contribution.

Break a Leg!

To Keith, Liz, and Leon: Stay vertical - and keep moving! Have a great opening tonight.

And ditto to the crazies who run with scissors.

Thursday, July 10, 2008

Wild People, Outlaws, Pirates, and Hooligans

Today I finally met the mysterious Loki, he of Humid City infamy. We'd never met face to face before, only communicated by phone or email since we became internet associates. So I expected a voluble kid, a vibrant youngster afire with the possibilities of what can become of the world we know by what we do. I wasn't wrong.

He's a dreamer, a schemer, a post-K hippy entrepreneur out to change the landscape of this damp sloppy mess of a city we've all inherited.

We met at my local corner coffee house and eventually settled outside at a small table cause we both needed to light up and lean back. Loki spoke to everyone who passed us by, which is something I would never do. I have to know a person for months, then be introduced before I can so much as look him in the eye.

He spoke about our cohorts on the Humid City site, none of whom I've met yet. I think they must be a lot like him, a posse of wild people, outlaws, pirates, and hooligans, the kind of people who first populated and shaped the crescent on the river we call home today.

Personally, in this bunch, I feel like Miss Kitty.

Judy's Place

Wednesday, July 9, 2008

The Way of the World

Say you're involved in a little theatrical venture that's seeing a bit of success. Say someone out of the blue comes to see your show on a Saturday night and likes it. Say he likes it so much he approaches you and your producer and invites you to mount your production at an arts festival in a couple of months.

"Don't decide now, talk to your actors and crew and we'll discuss it next week," he says.

You and the producer are excited, and you meet to determine what it would cost to regroup the actors and crew, restage the play for a new venue, hang and set lights, and, of course, cover the royalties for the script. You come up with a bare-bones figure that will cover all expenses.

Next week rolls along, and your sudden fan calls to firm the invitation. When the producer quotes the price, the "organizer" in your new friend balks and expresses surprise.

"Why, I thought you'd donate your services," he says.

"But ... but we'd have to hire someone to move our set, we'd have to devote time to restaging and relighting. Besides, the new theatre will have its own people to man their light and sound boards ..."

"Well, of course, we're going to pay those people."

"But not us?"

"We have to pay them."

"Then you'll have to pay us."

"Out of the question."

This is so common as to be no longer unexpected down here. Why pay the artists? They're going to do it because they love it, aren't they, the little dears? They're so cute, in all their dress-up and all.

There's no need to treat them like the craftspeople they really are, to treat them like adults with a product to exhibit and sell. There wasn't even a question of barter - like, say, you do the show, and we'll give you this in return. No, it was a donation they wanted.

You want a donation?

Sit on the street and beg.

Easter Eggs

If you're running Firefox 3, type about:robots into the address bar.

Go ahead, you know you want to. Nobody's looking. Do it.

A Dangling Conversation

Xenophobe: What's your nationality?

Pakistani: Kurt Russell.

Tuesday, July 8, 2008

It Pays to Be Nice

Remember about a year ago, I directed a little play called Nighthawks for the Saints and Sinners Literary Festival over at the Marigny Theatre? Yeah, I know. Very few people saw it or even heard of it. The reviews were pretty decent, but they didn't help the box office.

Well, I just heard today that the script is to be published in a reader's edition by a small outfit out of Texas called neoNuma Arts. Evan Guilford-Blake, the playwright, has graciously asked me to submit some of my thoughts for use as a blurb for the back cover; and the publisher has asked to see some of my photographs of the production for possible inclusion as illustrations.

All of this has come about because of my respect for Mr. Guilford-Blake's artistry, my kindness towards him, and my appreciation for his beautiful script.

So all you mother-fuckers who ignored us when we were running and were way to good to bother to come and see something really beautiful and worthwhile, just go on out, eat shit, and die.

And next time, be nice.

Cause karma's gonna get you one way or the other.

Monday, July 7, 2008

Running on Fumes

Maybe it's the heat or I'm just getting old, but I don't have the energy to do the things I have to do; and there seem to be so many things, these thises and thats, these things that demand my attention.

I wake up tired, then I'm listless till it's time to go to bed.

I had figured things would be different and my life would be more esaygoing once Gertrude Stein was up and running - but since I'm working the lights for the show, I have to be there - and not just there but really there - for every performance. That wouldn't be so bad, I guess, except for the boredom factor and except for the additional fact that I'm working on the poster for our next show, Thrill Me, which won't open until the last weekend in August. So my theatre mind is whirring.

In addition to that, my Bobby mind is spinning, too.

Bobby still wants frequent attention. Sometime each morning he will ask me to fry him an egg, and I get up and do it.

Whenever I'm away from home and getting ready to return, I will call and ask if he needs anything, and he will always need something, some little this or that that he could get for himself by stepping out the gate of our building and walking up or down our block a few doors either way.

Maybe I shouldn't call, but then I'd simply have to leave again once I get home.

Saying "No" to Bobby is an invitation to a litany of misdeeds past and imagined, of letdowns and disregards.

Then there's his gardening. He insists on going out at noontime to tend to that. But he can't lift heavy things, so I have to go out and do that for him. Potted plants often need moving about, you know. We both end up exhausted, but Bobby's exhaustion can be life-threatening.

The city, too, is wearing me down. There is so much work to do, and the people and the agencies that should be doing it are not. It's all about money and how much you can grab and keep with the least amount of effort or accomplishment.

When I was a child, I was a lazy kid, and my father used to get exasperated with me and say, "You'll shovel shit before you die."

Did he know back then there'd be so much of it and that there'd be so many other people not shoveling their own?

It would all be such a nicer world if everybody just unwrapped their shovels and started digging in.

Early in the day - before it gets to be too hot to be outside.

Saturday, July 5, 2008

Recovering on the 5th of July

I spent the Fourth doing good deeds. I visited the local old farts' home out on Bayou St. John where I helped care for a large gathering of geriatrics. It was an exhausting day.

Ah, the crotchety Mr. Crotty. Don't let the rosy cheeks and the grandpa smile fool you. This one's a slapper.

Mr. James in the mistaken belief that he is remembering a past event.

Old man Bernard and Mr. James again. Confusion begins to reign.

Mr. Bernard and one of the orderlies, Ernst. He's not reaching for my camera.

Friday, July 4, 2008

Almost Forgot

Happy Fourth!

Weekly Photo Challenge: Purely Decorative

It's a little late, I know, to be posting a challenge and the resulting picture; but it was Dave's turn this week, and he was otherwise engaged. (Listen, I saw the two of them Wednesday night. They gave me a sugar rush.)

Next week's challenge: Mundane.

Wednesday, July 2, 2008

We Now Return You to Our Regularly Scheduled Programming

We've been without a telephonic land line since the weekend; and, in the interim, I discovered I was incapable of blogging on my laptop while sitting in a coffee shop or a wi-fi'ed bar. I need my nasty-smelling, sloppy, messy, overcrowded little office space to think clearly - if I can ever say my thinking is ever clear.

But this morning, a nice A T & T man came over and made some adjustments, replaced some wires, and crawled around the floor a bit. Is it any wonder, my attraction to those of the blue collar persuasion?

Let me tell you what's been going on these past few days.

Not much.

First, let me address the notable news. The little boy in the governor's mansion did not impress me much with his veto of the legislative pay raise. Oh, he's trying to spin it as the righteous act of a strong man of conviction; but it's obviously the leap of a deer out of the way of a speeding semi. Now if only the citizens of Louisiana can remember that they have some clout and can get things done for themselves, we'll all be the better for it.

The Marigny Theatre is dark until Friday night, so I've been doing normal-people stuff. Last night I watched a television show called America's Got Talent. Let me just say, "No, it doesn't." What a train wreck, a two-hour train wreck. I couldn't take my eyes off it.

Speaking of the Marigny, Gertrude Stein is beginning to mushroom. Ambush Magazine published a review on Tuesday which was generally favorable, albeit wrong-headed about Stein herself. The reviewer seemed to want Tony Soprano in a dress instead of a real, live woman. But then, this morning, I received a congratulatory email from a friend pointing me to an online review from David Cuthbert (there - I've finally typed and printed the name) in the Times Picayune.

Life is okay. And okay is ... okay. For now.
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