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Monday, January 30, 2012
Otherwise, there's no telling how much more graffiti there would be.
I think I kind of miss the days when people were allowed to post fliers of upcoming events. There was some better artistry in those.
But, of course, they're illegal now, too.
Come to think of it, what is legally left for us to do here in the Quarter?
Besides making nice with the tourists, I mean?
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Someone I did not know sent me a script to read. When I hesitantly wrote him back and asked who he might be, he told me he was someone who had visited New Orleans in the past and had actually seen some theatre piece I had done and liked it. Liked it well enough to entrust one of his works to me for my consideration.
A few days later, someone I did know wrote me to ask if I might be interested in working on a production he was scheduling for this summer.
Then, to prove that these things come in threes, a third person contacted me to ask if I would read a few scripts for an upcoming one-man show he was thinking of doing and help him decide which would be the best script for him to produce. He sent one over and then wondered if another project might be better-suited to his talent and physicality. We batted the two possibilities back and forth between us.
Imagine my surprise when I discovered on the local Social Medias that I had agreed to direct him in the soon-to-be-announced production - an acknowledgment I don't recall making ... yet.
I should be tickled by such alacrity.
What really tickles me is that I understand his backer plans to pay me a scrumptious sum of money to work with him, and being paid to mount a show sure beats going into debt to do one.
It just goes to show, you can never guess the places from whence healing kindnesses may spring. I'm very grateful to these folks.
Friday, January 20, 2012
The world is too much with me, and it's not a pretty world.
Ed What's-his-name, that old snake-oil conjurer who came down here after Hurricane Katrina and czared it over the recovery, has written a memoir to commemorate his contributions to the city's rebirth. It turns out to be fiction. No one in the local media, all of whom are pointing out the book's shortcomings, has ever even mentioned the name of the book. I looked it up. It's called My Storm. Not your storm, not ours, his. Now, just cause I told you the title doesn't mean I think you ought to go out and by the book. Don't. Hold onto your money—or spend it on food. Something important. Don't invest in somebody's lies.
And hey, what about those crazy Republicans, huh? They are presenting us with a glorious, greasy smorgasbord of all the available deadly sins—and then some. Liars, hypocrites, bigots, and devoutly Catholic whore-mongers ... Makes you proud to be an American!
I turn back closer to home and try to reach for a firm, steady hand, and what do I encounter but the occasional blogger who sees himself as Messiah to the young? He elaborates that, if you are indeed, young and pretty and willing to follow his lessons as to how to live your life and craft your works, he will lead you to the promised land. He doesn't say just where that promised land is, but what messiah ever did?
I want to scream!
But what's the point? Everybody is just following a dream, doing what they can to make their lives a little tolerable in this vale of tears even if it means destroying the souls of everybody else. The Big I is the ultimate reality. If what I see is with my own two eyes, if what I do is with my own two hands, if where I go is with my own two feet, the world is mine as I perceive it. And is there any other?
The archetypes have risen to the surface of our consciousness and run rampant 'cross the land.
Why fight it?
Mr Natural. Henceforth, the world will be as I decide it to be.
You don't like it?
Snap! You've been evaporated.
You wish to question my dictates?
Snap! You've been evaporated.
You have a differing opinion?
Snap! Snap! Snap!
From now on, the grass is greener on my side of the fence, not yours.
It will only rain when the plants need watering or the car needs a wash.
The sun will shine until it gets in my eyes, then it will shade itself from me till I am ready to resume my tanning.
People will let me pass on the sidewalks, and drivers will brake when I start to cross the street.
Street musicians will only play show tunes from now on and graciously decline my offers of tips.
I am the Sage, the Magus, the Holder of All Knowledge. I am the Wizard and the Seer.
And, yes, I take big steps, so you'd better catch me while you can.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Who was the person paid to decorate this doctor's examining room?
A topless skull and an illustrated textbook called Cutaneous Malignancy of the Head and Neck are not conducive to a feeling of well-being in the patient.
* * *
So you think you're funny, and you've decided to write a humor blog.
You've already failed.
* * *
Ted Haggard and Gary Busey swapping "wives" on television is neither newsworthy nor entertaining. It's gross. Like opening a door and catching your parents making out or watching the carnival side-show geek bite the head off a chicken.
Why would you even advertise any of that?
* * *
Why did the news media treat the Iowa Caucus like it was, well, news? The only news there was whose faces it managed to wipe off the five-thirty newscasts.
Okay, partial fail.
* * *
Speaking of the news media, just who are they, anyway? Who are these people who decide what is or isn't news?
You look skeptical.
I have two words for you: Donald Trump.
In whose world does this man matter?
Fail, fail, fail.
* * *
Why are so many of your social network "friends" people you either don't know or wouldn't want to know or wouldn't want to be known to know in the real world?
And why do the most boring people post the most?
* * *
Why are all crime victims attractive blond females?
And why hasn't this revelation caused a spike in the sale of darker hair coloring?
* * *
Continuing along this vein of crime and victimology, if New Orleans crime victims are all criminals themselves, what does that say about the cop who recently got knifed by that twelve-year-old girl?