Back to New Orleans

So, it's been a year nearly that I've been without a home. A long year.
My birthday having just passed, I felt an even more pressing need to move....
a mania, even.

I've been looking for months, only to be repeatedly thwarted by outrageous prices or bad luck, but I've finally found a place to live.

Of course, it's not really where I wanted to live...it's even further north than my old place (which I hated about it), further away from everything. It's 175 dollars more a month than what I was paying before. It's a bit smaller.
The water pressure is nearly non-existent and the water, when it does show up, is full of rust.
And it has the two most hideous vintage 1970's Sears Window units I've ever seen.
How does one mask that??

But it is in a nice neighborhood (my friend Velinda lives nearby) and it's upstairs (no flooding?)....and it is a place to live.

It's near Bayou St. John, not far from City Park. So I've managed to barely scrape up the obscene (to me) amount money the landlord demanded, and should move in next month or so.

Of course, I'm insane....I have no job or anything, but well, let's deal with one problem at a time.

The birthday

So, the mother of all birthdays has passed.
Ugh.
For lunch on the big day, I went with my mother at a Vietnamese place....I had a fortune cookie. It read:
"Get another fortune cookie"
Just what a need, a smart-aleck fortune cookie.

So, I end up at dinner at a Chinese place. I eagerly open my fortune cookie...
only to find it empty.

You can't say God doesn't have a sick sense of humor, can you?

Ai yai yai

I remember reading once, that the world (at least the European world) could be divided up into two parts, those who say "ouch" instinctively upon being hurt and those who say "ai yai yai".
The former is Anglo, the later is Latin.

Despite my father's family, the Latin in me, it seems, is dominant.
Minutes ago, I instinctively let out an "Ai yai yai!!!!!" that would make any Frenchman proud.

An hour or so ago, after a weekend of merciless abuse by me, my feet decided to get their revenge.

All at once, without warning, I found myself sprawled on the concrete, face down, my foot having twisted into a horrible contortion under me.
I tripped down a flight of stairs in the darkness.

How I managed to get up and crawl back indoors I don't know. I'd be crying now, if it weren't for the icepack I have hastily made. Whether my foot is broken or not, I don't know. I hope it's not, since I have no insurance (or salary for that matter) right now.
I'm not sure what to do. Thank God for the internet, hopefully I can find some information there.

Ouch

My ears are still feeling it.

My friend Dennis called me up the other day to ask if I'd like to go to St. Jude's (the church of the famous novenas of lost causes) for a free acupuncture session. I was hesistant. Actually, I didn't want to go at all.

I mean really, needles? Fun?
Unless heroin or something is involved, those two words don't go together, do they?
But just to be social, I went. (I wasn't driving, so I didn't have much choice either did I?)

The accupuncturists were part of a group called Accupuncturists Without Borders
(I'm not making this up,I swear). Much like Doctors without Borders, I assume, they travel around helping the disadvantaged.

We entered the church hall, which smelled of mold and rubbing alcohol. In the center, under the florescent lights was a circle sundry people sitting on folding chairs in absolute silence.

There were 4 twenty somethings, clearly not from here. (One can always tell). I guessed they were Common Grounders...members of a sort of post-Katrina "action" group. They were all very Peace Corp-ish looking, with fashionably shaggy hair and a vague gay vibe.
There were some older women (parishoners I suppose), us, and a few other oddlings, like the buxom, very tanned 30 something year old woman in short shorts, her bright hot pink painted toenails distracting me from a seat away.

The accupuncturists were a couple, very earnest and granola-ey, if that paints a picture. They very very quiet. The padded around the silent room checking up on each of us, smiling silently, the way you might expect a cult member to.

To my surprise, the needles hurt more than I expected them to. This was the consensus in fact. Everyone said the same thing, that they hurt more than we expected them to. It was a slight pain, but a pain just the same.

Before getting our own needles, we could see our peers

After having the 10 or so needles implanted in our ears, we sat silently for 30 minutes. I don't know if accupuncture helps or not, but sitting still for 30 minutes in complete silence is sure to help in one way or another. That was another consensus. The jury is still out on the accupuncture, but staring at hot pink toenails for 30 minutes is Zen.

Now if only those plastic surgeons I see on tv---you know, the ones who are always volunteering their services to the helpless harelips and Ebola victims in the jungle----come to town I'll be set.

Third wheeling

Tonight, I had dinner with a friend and his ex, as the perennial 3rd wheel. On the way home, I was complimented on my abilities as a "buffer." All I can say is that practice makes perfect. I've been third wheel all my life.


Third wheeling is bad enough, but it's 5th wheeling that's the worst. The two couples couple up and you're left to fend for yourself. Occasionally one of the mates will toss you a bone.
But not often.

Third wheeling can be just as bad, or sometimes not so bad. At its best it's illumiating. It feels like I'm in a Desmond Morris documentary sometimes, viewing the secret mating habit of higher primates.

It was a nice enough meal. The ex seemed much more low key than I had been lead to believe. I had never met him before, but I had heard a lot about him....all bad of course.

I notice that people have a tendency to exaggerate the traits of exes, to me...to others...but more likely to themselves too. That's probably part of why they are now exes.

Of course, he (the ex) was, as I had been lead to expect, "domineering" and very (my friend's words here) "alpha male," but not nearly as dramatically as I had been lead to expect. Yes, he seemed a bit extroverted to my tastes, but nice just the same.

On the way home, my friend, however, picked apart every last phrase the ex had said, point by point, to show me the subtle domineering and patronization that I might have missed.

I hadn't been paying attention to the subtleties of the conversation, but he had. He had reason to. I didn't. He was right of course, but it had all passed over my head. I guess it's impossible to keep such clueless objectivity in a relationship, but I wonder if it wouldn't help sometimes, you know?

7 Wonders of Lafayette

I just came back from a lovely trip to the Capital of Acadiana, Lafayette, Louisiana. I went to visit my friend Michael and see his new home, nestled right in the leafy bosom of USL.

Here are a few highlights:

1.Supertarget- The chief tourist attraction of Lafayette. I had heard tales of it, but really didn't believe it until I saw it myself.
It's like a regular Target....but with meat!

2.Alesi's Pizza- Lafayette's oldest Pizzaria, so I was told, entirely staffed by Mexicans for 50 or so years. There's a beautiful neon sign of an Italian (or is that Eye-talian?) tossing a pizza pie into the air. Or maybe it's a sombrero. Who knows. Very good pizza all the same.

3.USL's gator habitat- (i. e. Campus)- The university surrounds a lovely man-made swamp, complete with alligators and garfish, where buxom, middle aged women in black chiffon, sequins and high heels walk their miniature dogs and children on Saturday afternoons.

4.River Ranch- A huge "new urbanism" development near Lafayette. Imagine Houston meets Eurodisney plopped down, as if by aliens, in the middle of cane fields.....
and then walled.

5.Borden's Ice Cream Parlor - half a century or more years of bad wallpaper.

6. Steak and Tamales- a restaurant from Alabama, I believe I was told. Who's ever heard of such a thing? I certainly haven't. I didn't eat there, but had to ask. The tamales did not get very good reviews, but the fish, I was told, was excellent.

7. The drive-thru Chik-Filet. Unbelievable! We just don't see that sort of thing here. Of course the tourists were packed there. It was a riot scene. It's the size of at least two ordinary Chik-Filets....and, did I mention, there's a drive through! The menu is much more expansive (fruit salad!) And, most amazingly, it's completely staffed and patronized by whites.
Remarkable.

The Woman in White

The other day, at a Dollar Tree, I found myself behind a middle aged black woman, dressed all in white---white shoes, white socks, long white dress, and, most notably, white wig.
The wig, of course, was the most notable part of the costume.

I was very excited, to be that close to it, to finally get the chance to examine it in person.

You see, I had seen this wig before....
nearly every day, in fact, driving home down Carrollton Avenue, before the deluge.
She was hard to miss, waiting for the bus, getting off the bus, rushing to the bus, rushing from the bus, blinding white wig flashing in the sunlight.

The wig was more than just white, however, it looked homemade. I know you're probably thinking, "a homemade wig?"
Exactly.
But it was. Up close I could confirm it. It looked like a hank of white yarn, sewn crudely down the middle for a part, and pulled back into a bun. Like wearing a mop head on your head, in 100 degree weather.
Still, I had to admire her ingenuity.

Now, a woman who wears only white, nothing but white, all the time, every day, is notable, but a woman with a white yarn wig on, well, that's something else.
And two women in white yarn wigs is even more amazing.

Yes, there are at least two such women. I saw another just recently waiting for the bus (naturally). She was a bit younger than the first (daughter?)
I had to hypothesize that it's a cult, or at least it should be.
I mean, why else, besides it being God's divine will, would anyone wear a white yarn wig in New Orleans in June?

Now despite the fact that she was maniacally whispering to herself the whole while she wandered the dollar store, (attracting the attention of the manager) and even while she paid her three quarters and 25 pennies...for one pair of white socks at the dollar store, I was glad to see her.

It comforts me somehow to see that she has not disappeared in the floods.

She has only, like the rest of us freaks, moved to the Westbank.

8 Women

I just returned from my friends Missy and Jan's. I went over to see a lovely film they insisted I see, called "8 Women" I'm glad I did.
It's a French film from 2002.


If you like frothy French musicals about suicide, incest and rampant lesbianism, (and who doesn't??)
well, this one is for you.

The 50s costumes alone are worth the ticket.)

This completes a trilogy of favorite Catherine Deneuve films I've been introduced to by friends: "Belle De Jour," "The Umbrellas of Cherbourg" and now "8 Femmes"
All are wonderful.

fema to female?

"WASHINGTON - The government doled out as much as $1.4 billion in bogus assistance to victims of Hurricanes Katrina and Rita, getting hoodwinked to pay for season football tickets, a tropical vacation and even a divorce lawyer, congressional investigators have found.

Prison inmates, a supposed victim who used a New Orleans cemetery for a home address, and a person who spent 70 days at a Hawaiian hotel all were able to wrongly get taxpayer help, according to evidence that gives a new black eye to the nation's disaster relief agency.

Federal investigators even informed Congress that one man apparently used FEMA assistance money for a sex change operation...."


hmmmm....so THAT'S where the money I've never gotten has gone.
Typical.

"I saw Anderson Cooper's Stool!"

I was in our local Barnes and Noble yesterday and saw a huge poster of none other than the ubiquitious Anderson Cooper. It said that he would be at a book signing here sometime late next month. I can only imagine what a crowd that will draw.

Back right after Katrina, I had a sighting of Mr Cooper. Sorta.
My friend Dennis and I were driving around the quarter when we saw a stool in the street and a number of dazed looking gays surrounding it.

"WTF?" I said.
I couldn't figure out why they were adoring the floodlit stool in the middle of Bourbon St.

We circled around and then eventually saw what the commotion was about.
I later naively told my friend Michael,

"I saw Anderson Coopers stool....on Bourbon St!"

Needless to say, he got a good laugh at that.

Anyway, you'd think he'd have had enough of NO. But we've been good to him, I suppose. He's got a very carefully written "autobiography" to shill.

I am not, unlike what seems to be a great number of gay men, infatuated with Mr. Cooper. I'm actually much more infatuated with his mother.

But that's beside the point.

Tonight I stumbled across this picture of Andy and his supposed lover. (above)
At least this is the twittering in gay cyberland. The twittering goes on to say that he seems to have a penchant for younger latino men.
The younger thing, (his paramour is 25 or so) I don't get. I mean really now. It's all too cliche, isn't it?

It's stupid,I know, especially for someone I don't even think of as a role model, for me to feel somehow "disappointed" in his following such a well worn gay cliche (pedagogue, sugar daddy, call it what you will....all alledgedly of course). But it still does sort of disappoint me. I don't know why.