Share Our Wealth

(When I run for mayor of NOLA, I want somebody to remember what I'm about to post.)

Huey P. Long supported the presidential campaign of Franklin D. Roosevelt in 1932. However, he was highly critical of some aspects of the New Deal. He disliked the Emergency Banking Act because it did little to help small, local banks. Long bitterly attacked the National Recovery Act for the system of wage and price codes it established. He correctly forecasted that the codes would be written by the leaders of the industries involved and would result in price-fixing. Long told the Senate: "Every fault of socialism is found is this bill, without one of its virtues."

Long claimed that Roosevelt had done little to redistribute wealth. When Roosevelt refused to introduce legislation to place ceilings on personal incomes, private fortunes and inheritances, Long launched his Share Our Wealth Society. In February 1934 Long announced a scheme to rectify the existing maldistribution of wealth in the United States. He told the Senate: "Unless we provide for redistribution of wealth in this country, the country is doomed." He added the nation faced a choice, it could limit large fortunes and provide a decent standard of life for its citizens, or it could wait for the inevitable revolution.

Long quoted research that suggested "2% of the people owned 60% of the wealth". In one radio broadcast he told the listeners: "God called: 'Come to my feast.' But what had happened? Rockefeller, Morgan, and their crowd stepped up and took enough for 120,000,000 people and left only enough for 5,000,000 for all the other 125,000,000 to eat. And so many millions must go hungry."

Long's plan involved taxing all incomes over a million dollars. On the second million the capital levy tax would be one per cent. On the third, two per cent, on the fourth, four per cent; and so on. Once a personal fortune exceeded $8 million, the tax would become 100 per cent. Under his plan, the government would confiscate all inheritances of more than one million dollars.

This large fund would then enable the government to guarantee subsistence for everyone in America. Each family would receive a basic household estate of $5,000. There would also be a minimum annual income of $2,000 per year. Other aspects of his Share Our Wealth Plan involved government support for education, old-age pensions, benefits for war veterans and public-works projects.

Long employed Gerald L. K. Smith, a Louisiana preacher, to travel throughout the South to recruit members for the Share our Wealth Clubs. The campaign was a great success and by 1935 there was 27,000 clubs with a membership of 4,684,000 and a mailing list of over 7,500,000.

Some critics pointed out that all wealth was not in the form of money. Most of America's richest people had their wealth in land, buildings, stocks and bonds. It would be very difficult to evaluate and liquidate this wealth. When this was put to Long he replied: "I am going to have to call in some great minds to help me."

Leaders of the Communist Party and Socialist Party also attacked Long's plan. Alex Bittelman, a communist in New York wrote: "Long says he wants to do away with concentration of wealth without doing away with capitalism. This is humbug. This is fascist demagogy." Norman Thomas claimed that Long's Share Our Wealth scheme was an insufficient and dangerous delusion. He added that it was the "sort of talk that Hitler fed the Germans and in my opinion it is positively dangerous because it fools the people."

Huey P. Long admitted that certain aspects of his scheme was socialistic. He said to a reporter from The Nation: Will you please tell me what sense there is running on a socialist ticket in America today? What's the use of being right only to be defeated? On another occasion he argued: "We haven't a Communist or Socialist in Louisiana. Huey P. Long is the greatest enemy that the Communists and Socialists have to deal with."

Some economists claimed that if the Share Our Wealth plan was implemented it would bring and end to the Great Depression. They pointed out that one of the major causes of the economic downturn was the insufficient distribution of purchasing power among the population. If poor families had their incomes increased they would spend this extra money on goods being produced by American industry and agriculture and would therefore stimulate the economy and create more jobs.

In May 1935 Long began having talks with Charles Coughlin, Francis Townsend, Gerald L. K. Smith, Milo Reno and Floyd B. Olson about a joint campaign to take on President Franklin D. Roosevelt in the 1936 presidential elections. Two months later Long announced that his police had discovered a plot to kill him. He now surrounded himself with six armed bodyguards.

On the 8th September, 1935, Carl Weiss, a physician and the son-in-law of Benjamin Pavy, shot Huey P. Long while he was in the state senate. Long's bodyguards immediately killed Weiss. At first it was thought that Long was not seriously wounded and an operation was carried out to repair the wound. However, the surgeons had failed to detect a bullet had hit his kidney. By the time this was discovered Long was to weak to endure another operation. Huey Long died on 10th September, 1935. According to his sister, Lucille Long, his last words were: "Don't let me die, I have got so much to do."

(My note: We have just passed the 70th anniversary of the death of Huey P. Long. Louisiana needs the Kingfish more than ever.)

Hank Stram and Tootie Montana

They died.

Who were they?

Hank Stram coached the New Orleans Saints for two terrible seasons. Sure, they weren't seasons that were any more or less terrible than many of the Saints seasons, but Hank Stram was a championship coach who had great success with the Kansas City Chiefs. Over the course of his two years, the Saints won a total of 7 games and lost 22. He wore a bad hairpiece and clapped a lot. Archie Manning, Tony Galbreath, Chuck Muncie, and Henry Childs all played for Hank.

What in the world would make Hank Stram "beloved" in the minds of Saints fans? I think it's because he loved NOLA and he stayed there. He died in Covington, in St. Tammany Parish Hospital on the 4th of July, the day after I moved to New Orleans. Hank Stram, Super Bowl Winner, was just one of the thousands of folks who came to NOLA and couldn't leave.

Tootie Montana was something else altogether. He died on June 27, defending the Mardi Gras Indians at a City Council meeting.

The Indians are/were an expression of the black community in NOLA, an expression of pride and a celebration of an unbowed spirit. Tootie Montana was the King of the Indians, the "Chief of Chiefs." I don't know much about the Indians, all I know is really what I read after Tootie died and from what I saw in "Make it Funky." And what I know is that Tootie was speaking out against NOPD harassment of the Indians. Why? Who the hell knows. I don't know why the NOPD did 90% of the shit it did in NOLA. I don't know why a cop who was well known as a sensitive poet would refer to kids as "animals." The NOPD is a mystery wrapped up in an enigma.

All I really wanted to do was to mention that this summer, two people who were inexorably tied to the soul of New Orleans passed. And then the storms came, and New Orleans passed, too. Where is the produce man who continued the long tradition of singing about his goods as he drove through the Fairgrounds area? Has he gone the way of the New Orleans Pelicans?

With every passing second that we are kept from our city, more and more of the people who lived in New Orleans because it was old and beat up and full of fucked up drunks and it was slow, they won't be able to afford to return. That will mean the death of the city. We will face a New Orleans where Rue de la Course is replaced by Starbucks. And I for one cannot accept that. We CANNOT allow New Orleans to become Dallas or, God forbid, Atlanta.

That is why I am hereby announcing my candidacy for mayor of the City of New Orleans. My platform will be "Save New Orleans!"

Save New Orleans from the carpetbaggers and the speculators! Save New Orleans from the yuppies and Baptists! I tell you here and now that the first things to go when "the respectable people" move in will be our liberty to do what we want, when we want. These yuppie trash will take away our freedom to drink, our "to go" cups, our Mardi Gras, our gambling; they will say that "decent" people don't need such things. And I say to them: GO BACK TO ATLANTA, YUPPIE BAPTIST TRASH!

Vote for me, and Save New Orleans!

(I am not joking.)

There is a hole in my heart...

and it is shaped like New Orleans.

Before it happened, I mean, before IT happened, I was at Vaughn's on Thursday night standing amazed in the presence of Troy Andrews. They call him Trombone Shorty because he started playing with his brother James at such a young age. He just might have been the youngest second line player ever, I don't know.

And there were so many "New Orleans Moments" that night (and New Orleans moments can be great or they can be terrible, it just depends) that it seems silly to pick out just one as the thing that demonstrates just WHY NOLA is "special."

Let me go back to a week or so before when I went to hear Soul Rebels at Le Bon Temps--you cannot possibly name me another city in America where hip young cool things showed up to dance to a BRASS BAND. You just can't. They were dancing like the kids in Atlanta dance to hip hop, but it was to trombone, trumpet, sousaphone...yeah. I am not making that up. And they got it, too. It wasn't cute, it wasn't trendy, it was NEW ORLEANS, baby, it was COOL. It would be there before the kids were born and it would be there long after they were gone (assuming IT hasn't killed that spirit).

So move ahead, back to Vaughn's on Thursday night. Vaughn's is (was?) legendary for its Thursday night sessions where, so I'm told, Kermit Ruffins would show up late, play all night, and somebody would bring in barbeque to feed the faithful.


This is Kermit. He is cooler than the top of Mt. Washington.


And Vaughn's itself is tiny. When I first went there on a Sunday afternoon, before I had moved to NOLA, it was at the moment that I was walking into Vaughn's that I knew, "This city will be my home."

Someone was putting out a bunch of junk on the sidewalk outside a home; a sink with a hole in it, a tarnished copper kettle with no lid, a dollhouse that looked like it had (prophetically) been hit by a hurricane, some old quilts...and the woman hung a sign that said, "FREE STUFF."

Free stuff, indeed.

I needed some cash so I went to the corner grocery (and you better know it, if there's one great thing about NOLA it is [was] the corner grocery, because every neighbourhood has them, and a lot of them serve hot food and PoBoys) because they had a sign that said "ATM" outside. I went in and wandered around, but I saw no machine. I asked the man at the register where was the machine and he said, "No machine." I had to do some finagling and then he gave me money from the register. THAT is an ATM in New Orleans.

So now, having turned down free stuff and used the invisible ATM, I walked to the door of Vaughn's and...couldn't get in. I had to be buzzed in. That was a first. You know, I had NEVER been buzzed in to a bar before. Yeah, that was a New Orleans moment.

So Vaughn's on this last Thursday night before IT happened had a good crowd, like Le Bon Temps, young hipsters who were dancing and grooving to Troy's band. I mentioned it before but Troy is a genius. Troy Andrews is Spiderman. Troy is just a brilliant musician who knows everything. The music was the best I've ever heard, energy, art, and technique married together, Troy playing trumpet, trombone, bass, drums, singing, conducting...Troy was Louis Prima, Troy was Satchmo, Troy was every genius wonderkind who ever lived. At this tiny club. On a Thursday. That was a New Orleans moment, people. You can always, always hear the best musicianship on earth for 10 bucks in my city. Or you could, I guess.

I was drinking my blessed Dixie. Whatever anybody says about Dixie, and shit probably most of the criticisms are valid, I would never refuse one. Dixie is New Orleans, the run-down brewery, the lack of care, the uniqueness...

And at some point, between sets, the door to Vaughn's opened and two men walked in carrying giant steel pots, one filled with red beans, one filled with rice. You don't pay for this. They're just feeding you, you know, cause you might be hungry. It wasn't the barbeque I had heard about, but this was better. This was NOLA. I don't need barbeque when I have red beans.

At last my time came to go. I had been in heaven from the moment I walked in and I will cherish the brilliance I was treated to for the rest of my life. James Andrews put in a cameo for good measure, showing his brother that there's more than one horn player in the family--and that too was a New Orleans moment. You simply never know when someone will just appear, his horn under his arm, and start playing. There is no other city like that on earth.

Troy was still playing when I made my way to the door--and for some reason he looked up and saw me. I looked at him and gave him my "prayer hands" in thanks for his brilliance, and he smiled and nodded.

I had two other New Orleans moments that will live with me forever before this. Both were at Donna's on separate Sunday nights. The first was when I ended up talking trumpet with Kermit, as if I had any business doing that, and the second was talking with Shannon Powell when there was almost nobody else in the club, and then when I left he threw his arm around me and thanked me for coming. Shannon Powell--you probably don't know that he was Harry Connick's drummer on some of Connick's biggest selling albums. He is a freaking legend, as gifted a drummer as you will ever hear anywhere, and he was thanking ME. As if.

And as if for any reason Troy Andrews should note me leaving Vaughn's, but he did, and it hit me so hard: My God, I cannot even tell anyone how much I love New Orleans.


Trombone Shorty. Troy. ET. The Brother from Another Planet.

So I had pretty much kept it together

Until now.

The lovely people from Cork & Bottle http://www.corknola.com/ posted on their site that WWOZ is webcasting, "WWOZ in Exile."

I'm sorry, when I heard the music of my city, the music that makes me happy when everything else fails, I just cried. I am crying now and I keep saying to myself "Just stop it!" but I can't. I can't.

My father is a Georgia Cracker, a redneck who grew up in Resaca. He never went to college and he never lived more than 20 miles from the place he was born. He grew up in a segregated South where black folk were treated horribly.

Yet my earliest memories include my father bringing a black co-worker and his sons to the First Baptist Church in Dalton in the early 1970s and us sitting on the closest row the to the front of the church as we could, at a time when they would have been as inconspicuous as a fly in a sugar bowl. Sometimes I don't even know how my father became the person he is, he is almost supernatural

Well, anyway, this same father of mine has always loved New Orleans jazz. Among the old vinyl collection were records by Sweet Emma and Kid Thomas. He tells stories of going to Chattanooga to hear them play and he got Kid Thomas and his band's autographs on one of the album jackets. (Side note: This is one of the things I stupidly left behind when I left NOLA.)

I don't know if my father's love of this music infected me or not. I do VIVIDLY remember watching Satchmo on TV as a child and loving the music too.

And of course, as soon as I got to NOLA I discovered the music. I could go on for days about Troy Andrews, Shannon Powell, Kermit Ruffins, Detroit Brooks, Dr. Michael White, Maurice Brown, Nicholas Payton...

I can't tell you how much I miss New Orleans. I can't. My words would fail. If NOLA were a woman, I would marry her and never stray.

Please, everyone, help save my city. Save New Orleans. Nothing else has ever been this important to me.

What's in a name?

The good people of Bangladesh (you may know them from "massive floods every other day") have offered us a million bucks in aid.

How about that?

Some people are taking offense at the term "refugee."

My thoughts: WHAT THE FUCK???

Here's the first definition of refugee from google: "an exile who flees for safety."

HELLO PEOPLE OF EARTH!

I CANNOT GO HOME!

I HAVE FLED FOR MY SAFETY!

DUH!

Got that?

I am PROUD to call myself a refugee. We are refugees, in every sense of the word. Who could be offended by that? We are a people, from a place, and we cannot live in our homes.

I am a refugee, bitches. I cannot be called anything else. I was NOT evacuated. NOBODY knows that I am gone. I left because Mayor Nagin told me to go.

No soldiers showed up at my door telling me that I should leave. Nobody from the government even cares that I am not in NOLA.

No sir. I am a refugee. I have fled. I did so for my safety.

If you call me a refugee, I know that you understand my situation. I did not want to leave. I have no where to go. My greatest desire is to return home.

Sitting in your own crap

Yeah, that' s the title of this entry, because that is what's going on among the poor in NOLA.

Read this and weep:

2 September 2005(AP): The stench from backed-up toilets inside the Superdome is unbearable and people are afraid to go into the unlighted bathrooms.

Sandra Jones says she and her family use a box to relieve themselves instead of using restrooms because "The stink is so bad you can't go in there anyway."

Even though she's hungry, one hurricane refugee in the dome says she's not eating. Michele Boyle says eating would mean she'd have to use the dark, dangerous and filthy restrooms in the dome. So she's going without.

Boyle has been spending some of her time trying to keep a small area of the dome as clean as she can until help arrives. Boyle and other refugees found some brooms and swept up the mess.

She says they're simply "trying not to let it get any worse."

________________________________________________

Welcome to Hell, Day 5.

How in the name of decency can we allow this to go on? Tell me. Tell me that these poor people don't even deserve to take a shit with decency. I am listening to our dear governor tell me that today was a milestone and a turning point, but for the people camped out at the I10 overpass, the convention center, and the Superdome, IT IS NOT!!!!

Not one of these people asked to be in this position. The time for judging them is long, long gone. They need your compassion and love. PLEASE.

The 17th street canal broke Monday night. It is all but repaired. NOW. How long has it been? An eternity? Why was this not a priority?

Or better yet, when the budget for raising the levees was rejected for 3 consecutive years (presumably because tax cuts and wars against phantom stockpiles of WMDs had to be conducted), why did decent people not stand up and say "If we're gonna superheat the Gulf waters, can we at least pour some motherfucking dirt down here?"

Whatever you think about this, just understand one thing: IT WAS ALL PREVENTABLE.

From the failure to restore the levees and wetlands, to the failure to have a plan in place to evacuate the poor, to the failure to have a plan in place to plug breeched canals, to the failure to have adequate security for our neighbourhoods, to the failure to have adequate food, water, and shelter after the fact, IT WAS ALL PREVENTABLE.

It will cost 500 million dollars just to rebuild the HOUSING in the lower 9th ward. Just the housing. Not including the infrastructure. These people need your love and compassion.

My sweet Colleen tells me that she has to move back to Chicago, that there is nothing left for her in NOLA. The great Acadian Diaspora has begun.

My city is on life support, people. The city that gave America its one true art form, the city that spawned a cuisine treasured around the world, the city that gave you Lee Harvey Oswald (okay, bad example) IS DYING. Please, help SAVE NEW ORLEANS.

New Orleans: Year Zero

I cannot tell you how I feel.

Beyond losing everything I own, losing a rare picture of a grandfather who died before I was born, losing all my clothes, is the loss of a way of life in a city that was one of the best on earth.

New Orleans was so very far from being "perfect," but its informality and ease brought with it the troubles that one had to endure in order to discover its gifts. And its gifts were infinite:

The taste of a hot cup of Community Coffee's New Orleans Blend, flavoured with chickory--I could cross the street from my apartment in the morning and start my day with that. And a very pretty, smiling girl named Ty would hand it to me and that would set the tone for the rest of my day.

Donna's Lounge on a Sunday Night--Shannon Powell would play the drums and sing, musicians from around the city (and sometimes the world) would drop in. It was informal, communal, full of joy.

Anything from Liuzza's by the Track--The gumbo, the Garlic Oyster PoBoys and the incomparable BBQ Shrimp PoBoy just begin to tell the story. The cast of characters (a woman in a purple mumu wearing a mask and on top of her head a crown made of pot leaves would often drop by; S. Gary Wainwright, Attorney at Law would regale you with the story of how he ran for District Attorney on the platform of decriminalising drug posession; the leader of the Storyville Stompers brass band was there; Bird the one-man taxi company worked there; Roadrunner, the chef/carpenter worked there...) made every Saturday morning hangover session more bearable.

Jhelisa at Hookah Cafe--her voice is indescribable.

Cheap food from Country Flame when you're high--It was really the bucket of Coronitas we loved, but cramming a plate of nachos down your cramhole and watching Mexican novelas was the perfect complement.

Alligator sausage at Cooter Brown's--wash it down with some 11% Abita Andy Gator beer. Repeat as needed.

13 Monaghan--The proper launching pad for a night of debauchery. Start off with a frozen irish coffee, eat the good food, drink a few beers, then hike over to the Quarter where pretty blondes named Lindsay with an "A" will kiss you.

The "Barmuda Triangle" on Magazine at Sophie Wright--Half Moon, Moonlight, and Sharon's bar all within 200 feet of each other, each forming a point on a triangle. This is supplemented by $1 cans of PBR at Juan's Flying Burrito. Sharon's was like "Trees Lounge" + "Barfly" but maybe not as uplifting.

Sitting on the steps of the levee by the Mississippi, sipping a cold beverage, watching massive ships moving up and down the river--the first time this happened, I was in awe of the scale of what I was seeing.

Pizza at Sugar Park Tavern--the best mf'in pie on earth.

Watching Troy Andrews play every instrument in his band--Vaughn's on a Thursday night. Troy, the genius wonderchild that only NOLA could produce, I would just stand amazed as he conducted the band and communicated telepathically with his sax player.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Two nights ago, as a refugee in a small sports bar in Tunica, MS, I sat down at the bar and thought, "There's nothing in here I'd want more than a Dixie Beer." A Dixie. Something small, something simple from my city. I miss my city. I love my city.

Damn it!

Friday night in New Orleans. I went to 13 Monaghan for dinner and a few beverages. 13 is a great place, and by that I mean it's filled with "characters," amply-endowed female bartenders who keep the drinks coming, frozen irish coffee, and like most places in this town a great jukebox.

Well, I met one of the characters--"Pete." Pete is 68 years old and has an outlandish personality. He loves jazz and loves to talk. He and I hit it off, but I think he hits it off with everybody. He calls the well-tattooed bartender Tara his wife. (Tara is famous. She wears her hair like Betty Page.)

Pete suggested we go to Fritzel's in the Quarter. There was some good old-fashioned NOLA jazz being played there. So we went. Pete is old and had a hard time walking there but he made it. They served me cheap drinks and I drank them.

Two girls came in and I was drunk and I somehow ended up talking to them. One was one of those pretty blondes that looked like she would like pretty blonde boys. The other was a short-ish brown-haired girl that looked like she would like me.

Here is where it gets sketchy, obviously because I was drunk. I talked to them both and the blonde said her name was "Lindsay with an 'a'" and she was from Tucson and her friend was from Virginia. I forgot that part. So she told me again. Then another swarthy-type dude sat down next to the brunette. And at some point they weren't sitting next to us, and I was talking and Lindsay with an "a" leaned over and kissed me. What? The pretty blondes don't like me. They never like me.

We kissed a lot and at some point they left and that was that. We went to dance and then they left. I didn't get her phone number. I didn't find out anything. I was stupid drunk. STUPID.

I am 38 years old and this was a pretty, young, nice blonde. And she kissed me. I mean, I am 38 years old and I could probably count on one hand the times in my entire life that a pretty blonde, with no coercing from me, leaned over and kissed me unexpectedly. I was literally in mid-sentence.

I don't even really know if her name was Lindsay, but the "with an 'a'" stands out distinctly.

So if you know Lindsay with an "a" from Tucson, and she was in New Orleans this past weekend, would you tell her to e-mail me? I'm not desperate (don't ask) for female companionship but I'd like to have a picture of her as evidence that she exists.

"Who sold you the drugs? TALK!"

Last night Erika said something to me that fucked everything up.

Er, not in a bad way.

"Do you wanna know a secret?"

Yeah.

"I really wanted to be with you."

Christmas 2001 I gave her a present, a gift card from a trendy clothing place. I was driving away from her house and she called me on my cell. She was crying.

Nothing worked out. Nothing. I went to London and Amsterdam. She got pregnant and married the guy.

Well, I'll always have cartwheels on the beach at Tybee Island. Yeah, I'll always have that.

The funniest thing happened

Dear Val,

I cannot believe it, but I'm actually typing this letter from TIJUANA, MEXICO! Yes, don't ask me how I wound up here, but suffice it to say I was drugged in a sleazy bar by a pushy broad and next thing I know, I'm in the back of a pig farmer's truck somewhere in Baja California.

Hmm…

It all started several months ago when I was approached by the National Security Agency. They had apparently heard of how incredibly dashing I am, of my power to speak several sentences from almost any language, and of my amazing track record with women of foreign origin. "Antonio," they said, "we've been watching you, and quite frankly, you frighten us. We know you're a dirty commie, and we know you’re irresistible to many women we consider dangerous. This is a combination we're not willing to ignore any longer." And with that, I was hit on the head by someone who had snuck up from behind me and given me a brutal bash with a billyclub.

I woke up in what I would later find out is a top-secret (as opposed to bottom secret, which is what Bill Clinton often experiences) government training center in Gaffney, South Carolina. I found out a lot of things those three days that have since terrified me…the most important-that Generic Baby Diapers Confederated Nappies, Inc. is a front company for the U.S. Government to export terrorism, sabotage, and leaky diapers!

I felt like such a fool for being sucked into this tawdry web of torture and excess baby poop! How could I ever go back, knowing that thanks to my efforts there had been a dramatic rise in the disease rate among Chinese peasants, due in no small part to the defective defecation collection of our Chinese product "Super Dump n' Leak, You Bet!" It was the intention of the government to slowly reduce the population of our enemies by flooding the world diaper market with Generic Baby Diapers Confederated Nappies, Inc. diapers, which would foster the spread of disease. And what a perfect front company to do it! A company which had no website, a company whose name never even appeared on the packaging! DIABOLICAL!

My friend (at least I thought he was my friend) Chuck Medicine had long been a member of the "vast right wing conspiracy" that Hillary Clinton so cleverly uncovered while her husband was testing the ability of the human body to restore moisture to dried-up cigars. Yes, THAT vast right wing conspiracy! I know you're shocked. You should be. I too was shocked when I found out that Mrs. Clinton was right about something!

But I digress...It was my so-called friend Chuck who talked me into coming to work for Generic Baby Diapers Confederated Nappies, Inc. in the first place. It never occurred to me that there was anything unusual about a multi-billion dollar company that no one had ever heard of! My god, was I naïve! Yes, I was. It was explained to me that Chuck had willingly volunteered to join the vast right wing conspiracy, and was handsomely compensated every time he brought in a new member. Even though he knew I was a dirty commie, he thought that our friendship would somehow take precedence over my bizarre adherence to a failed socio-economic philosophy that had enslaved over half the world's population. Sucker!

It was also explained to me that the ridiculous amount of traveling I did during my first month or two at Generic Baby Diapers Confederated Nappies, Inc. was a time which the NSA would be evaluating my ability to deal with adverse conditions…you know, things like no cappuccino in the hotel room, no HBO, not getting upgraded to first class when I fly Delta…but most of all, how smarmy and Sinatra-esque I could be when slinking about the North American Continent. Well, you know me…I passed with flying colours! Every woman I met, every flight attendant I schmoozed with to get free drinks, every Olive Garden hostess I called "gorgeous" in order to get seated first…they were all planted by the NSA, and my every action was monitored via a host of miniature cameras, powerful microphones, and satellite uplinks.

While I was trapped in Gaffney, I was shown a video compiled of the highlights of these endeavors…and I was GOOD, BABY, I WAS AWESOME!!! I watched that video 11 times, I would sneak into the interrogation/conditioning room when nobody was around and munch on some popcorn while admiring my incredibly smooth techniques. I would like this video entered in next year's Cannes Film Festival, and I would like Special Agent Randolph Mantooth to be nominated for best director.

After three days in Gaffney, I was ready to be released back into society with a new mission. I would no longer be just a sleazy wannabe lounge singer who served only himself. No, I would be a sleazy wannabe lounge singer who would serve a disgusting and corrupt government. Why, you ask? Why would I betray my principles? Two reasons, Val: One, they threatened to pour acid "where the sun don't shine," and two, I figured I could get closer to the top people behind the scam, expose them, or get lots of chicks while trying.

And so it happened…two days ago, in some dive in the greater Atlanta area, I met Lisbeth De Ruyter…rich, painfully beautiful, and (seemingly) very, very stupid. I found her irresistible, I found her charming…hell, I found her willing, and that's a good 75% of the equation right there! Oh she played it perfectly, all right. Breathless, giggling, constantly touching me, cleaning my back teeth with her tongue…Those were all her subtle tricks, and I fell for them! What a fool she played me for! You should see her, Val…all hair, wiggles, and teeth. It's so obvious now! Chuck was talking about her for weeks before I actually met her, going so far as to arrange our meeting.

And it was all a trap sprung by the vast right wing conspiracy to expose me as a traitor to their cause. Oh, I talked, yes, I blabbed my whole plan to her, all about the way I was going to track them down and tell the world about their crazy schemes. And she was wearing a wire! Well, it was an underwire…heh heh! Oh, but I make a poor joke at such a terrible time. Please forgive me.

So now I'm on the lamb again, which the lamb abhors but it was the only means of transport I could steal without notice.

So how are things with you? Well, I hope.

It was a hobby, not a lifestyle

I once starred in a series of porn videos aimed at the avid golfer. The title of the series was “The In-The-Hole” series. My screen name was “Woody Driver.” Some of our titles included:

“First, Second, and Third Holes”

“69, One Under”

“Gripping The Shaft”

“Picking Up A Stroke”

“Long and Straight”

It was extremely popular, to the point that I couldn’t get a tee time anywhere because my very appearance at the clubhouse would cause such a distraction that guys were shanking balls all over the place.

Imagine my chagrin.

Lang-u-age

I so hate interweb communication. What is with "dudes" calling grown women "girl?"

You know, "Aw girl, it's gon be aright."

To them, I say, "Aw, dude, go fuck yourself. You're not Donnie Wahlberg are you?"

Or how about "Hit me up?" "Hit me up wit sumpin."

Yeah. You're really a rap genius, there, Tupac. I've got an idea. How about I "hit you up" with a brick upside yo head an' shiz?

I'm old, I guess. It just doesn't seem cool.
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I sort-of shaved my head yesterday in preparation for the big move to New Orleans. It gets hot there, I don't know if you heard that. Oh, and I like to perspire. It's one of my hobbies. My hair was looking like crap over the last week when I was there searching for my apartment, and since I'm so vain, I had to compensate. Think the Mekong delta, the rainy season, charlie in the bushes, getting stronger.


Summer in the Crescent City--
Is it the heat, or the humidity?


That's it. If I had moved to Minnesota, it would be "The Shining." But now it's "Apocalypse Now." The original version--the one that doesn't suck.

I'm pleased with my lodging choice. The digs themselves are basic, not that enticing, but the surroundings...wow. It's the former carriage house of a mansion built around the turn of the century, out Esplanade way, two blocks from the track. I have a gazebo. Who can resist a gazebo? And a fountain. And a racetrack. I have a coffee shop across the road for Sunday morning decompression. I have a feeling that my life there is going to be Spartan. Stay out of the Quarter and I'll be fine.

I'm weak, you know. If confronted with a crisis, I'm usually pretty good. Pretty calculating. It's the inability to master the common tasks that gets me down.
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Speaking of the track, I'd like to say that the only sports worth discussing are horseracing, boxing, futbol, and college basketball. On occasion, you can throw golf in there. I used to include baseball but, uh, it's like boring and stuff.

I don't mean it's boring compared to the NFL or the NBA or that ice sport, I mean, wtf happened to the game I grew up playing? Remember that? Speed is fun.

I just had a crisis

Holy fucking hell.

I never used to floss, but I finally found a dentist's office that I respected enough to start heeding their guilt trips about it. Nowdays I just do it. It's what I do. I'm like a sailor or an inventor. I MUST floss.

So this weekend I realised that I'd lost my floss. You got no idea what evil that did to me. No floss, no peace. I had some goofy spare floss from 1983, kiddie floss, bubble-gum flavoured (because kids will floss automatically given bubble-gum flavoured floss). It sucked. It broke. I bled.

Today I was having a wee snack, some lovely prosciutto, and a bit of it got stuck up on the top left and I tried to floss the bitch out with the substitute floss and it broke. And then more broke. And then I tried various combinations of thread, fingernails, kitchen utensils, pig tendons, and violence.

Nothing worked and in fact I think I just got more crap jammed in there, not at the gumline but just between the teeth. PAIN, motherfucker!!!!

(side note: Those dorkologists on the Verizon commercial, the ones that call each other just to make fart noises or send pictures of themselves dressed as "Banana Insertion Man," well, they must die.)

I just had to drive to the goddamn pharmacy on an emergency floss run. And once there, I actually broke open a box and sampled the shit right there and it broke just like the crap I had at home. So I sprang for the expensive stuff and ran to the car. (I did run.)

And I sat in the car listening to "All Things Considered," furiously trying to floss the hell out from beneath my teeth, and the shit kept breaking and kept breaking and kept breaking and kept breaking and I threw out a pile of broken floss on the ground like a littering bastard, madly, insanely, cursing all the while, my teeth unnaturally spread by the various flotsam jammed in there like a WWI trench.

I don't think I've felt that insane in a long, long, time. But...eventually, one of the strips of floss worked its way in between and I was FREE!!!!!!!!!!

Oh, sweet release.

On one side of the moment I was a rabid, mad beast gone off the edge. Having crossed over, I felt positively beatific.

And there you have the story of the crisis in my mouth. And you weren't invited.

All the bad things

I like to drink. Catch that? I said I LIKE to drink. I enjoy it. I don't feel that I must drink. It's just what I do.

I used to drink to avoid thinking. Then I read "Drinking: A Love Story" by Caroline Knapp and it hit me hard in the face and stomach that I was not growing as a person. I won't preach. I do think that drinking to avoid thinking is not advisable if that's all one does. You gotta think sometime, boy.

Also, and this will probably cause Attorney General Sanchez great consternation, I like to smoke the ganja every now and again. I'm no pothead. Just sometimes I like to visit cartoon land.

I like to fondle women--con permiso, of course. I won't expand on this.

I like to watch and talk sports wif me mates. This is a very typical man thing, isn't it? Crude and stupid. Just like me! Huzzah!

I'm terribly, terribly vain. Sean called me a "dandy" in his brogue. "Lookit ya, wi' yer Guess Jeans an' yer J. Crew shirt and yer Aveda hair products! That shite's 'spensive, ya know!" I do know, Sean. I do. And I'm sorry.

I waste time watching television. Now, I've never seen an episode of "Friends" (thank Christ), and I do actively seek out public broadcasting, but every now and then I need a little cotton candy and thus I turn to Jennifer Garner, or Caliente. That's "Caliente!" of course.

In the words of George Best, "I've spent a fortune on drink and women. The rest of my money I just squandered."

Confession. See, I told you it feels good to unburden yourself. And according to Newsweek, I am tall, handsome, and wealthy.

Salted Nuts

While we’re on the subject of Martha Stewart, I want to share something I discovered about Martha.

I know many people out there hate her—actively. Like people hate/hated Barney the Dinosaur, and Kathy Lee Gifford, and Corin “Corky” Nemic. I am not here to treat upon your hatred. You may hate her as you wish. But did you ever stop to think about WHY she is the way she is, which in turn makes you hate her so? Because it’s the way she is which makes you hate her, right? I mean, you don’t automatically hate ALL eerily robotic women who perpetuate their own dreamstates with bric-a-brac and notions, do you? Okay then, maybe you do.

But I realised something tonight when I saw Martha in a commercial touting her all-encompassing vision of the American home (and hey, isn’t all of America really just a backyard in the Hamptons, awaiting the arrival of guests named Trip and Muffy, adorned with handicrafts and home-grown goodies? Yes, that’s what I thought, too!), and that is that she is at heart a little girl of, perhaps, shall we say, age 9?

There she was, a-waking to a gloriously sunny morning (and all of Martha’s mornings are gloriously sunny ones, that is, unless mayhap she put hot cocoa and ladyfingers on the day’s menu, at which point a soothing drizzle of heavenly rain gently washes clean this nation we call “Connecticut”) and she looked for all the world like a little girl anticipating a day spent arranging her overpriced doll’s house. Think of how these girls are—they control everything! Every detail. Nothing is left to chance. They are gods, you see. They order the universe just so, and the universe is a 3-story Colonial estate in a New York suburb or a beach-front mansion in Newport. It always is. It is decorated with nary a trace of the stench of men…it is frilly and it has many shelves to hold not only antiques handed down from grandmothers, but hand-made pottery fired in the backyard kiln…it is the scene of quaint yet precisely scripted tea parties where stuffed teddy bears hang on every word of the mistress of the house…

Even Veruca Salt could be charming for a moment, couldn’t she? And did we truly hate her for wanting the world, the whole world? I know we remember Veruca as a terrible brat who is spoilt by her father (Damn him and his salted nuts!) but if you see her clearly you know that, brat she may be, but my god what an high class and tasteful brat the world has rarely seen! You see, for all the terrible things we hear about how evil Martha is (I am not here to pass judgement upon her evil or lack of evil), really she is just Veruca Salt. She wants the world. She wants the whole world. Presents, and prizes, and sweets, and surprises…but Martha, being aged nine, leaves nothing to chance…she has her own way of ordering the universe…

She is God, after all.

AND VERUCA SALT SINGS…

I want a feast

I want a bean feast,

Cream buns and doughnuts and fruitcake with no nuts so good you could go nuts.

No, now!

I want a ball

I want a party

Pink macaroons and a million balloons and performing baboons

and..give it to me..

Now.

I want the world

I want the whole world

I want to lock it all up in my pocket

It's my bar of chocolate

Give it to me now!

I want today

I want tomorrow

I want to wear'em like braids in my hair and I don't want to share 'em!!

I want a party with roomfulls of laughter

Ten thousand tons of ice cream

And if I don't get the things I am after

I'm going to scream!!!!!!

I want the works

I want the whole works

Presents and prizes, and sweets and suprises of all shapes and sizes

And now!!

Don't care how I want it now

Don't care how I want it

NOW!!!!!

One step above the mule

I must confess, I’m befuddled by soft-core porn. You know the kind I mean—it populates Cinemax and Showtime and it has names such as “Illicit Desires,” “Illicit Passions,” “Passionate Desires,” or “Bad Things Which Happen When You Give In To Your Illicit, Desirous Passions.”

Now, one thing I’ll say for these movies is that they manage to have fairly good-looking people in them. I’ve drawn the conclusion that it must be easier to get attractive people to simulate the sex act than to actually perform it. However, these more attractive people are not any more gifted in the field of acting. So you wonder, is there then a food chain of porn acting, and where upon this chain fall the soft-core folks? Do they make more money than the hard-core folk? Oh, I doubt that. I doubt that very much.

I watch a lot of these flicks. Mainly because I stay up very late, they’re always on, and they are one of the few mediums which can be entertaining, titillating, and amusing, all at the same time. It’s nice to see women undress and act slutty…come on, don’t deny it! And it’s instructional to see the consequences of relenting to your illicit passions and passionate desires (the consequences usually involve that you will have lots of sex with beautiful women and feel a tinge of remorse about that).

So, let us salute the purveyors of this art form, this “soft-core,” if you will. Thank you, one and all, for taking me through my late-night groin jazz landscape with just a little more zing than Mexican infomercials.

Hey, speaking of which, why did Gabriella Spanic do that one about the fat wrap? I’m pretty sure it’s Gabby. You know her, of course, from her legendary performance as Paola and Paolina Bracho from the magnificent “Usurpadora” novella. I adore her. She shouldn’t be shilling fat wrap. That’s just my theory.

Hope is for Losers, Sucker!

There is still hope for mankind. How do I know this?

ABC has considered adding two shows to the fall lineup—one about Wutan warriors fighting evil; one about a group of solar-panel salesmen. Now, I have no idea how these things might be executed, but there is no doubt that the very idea that they could see the light of day is very, very LOONEY.

New York is pretty…awesome. I realised something while I was there last week—if there’s anything you want, you can get it in New York. How’s that for quality? And you’re not supposed to get anything you could want, but you can there…and gettin’ laid is more trouble than it’s worth…

If you get the chance to see Joe Strummer live, and you like him, then go to see him. And make sure you can get some tasty chicken enchiladas at the rice bar.

London calling…May 2^nd…

Politics are not funny

I have no idea what I’m doing here with this writing cure, Jack Daniels. Can you forgive a moment of self-indulgence?

I am about to tell the old lady that I’m headed to the Big Apple to take a bite of a Joe Strummer concert this week. That ought to go over well. Then, to add a bit of whipped cream to my baked apple, I’m going to tell her that I’m going to London to watch a game of EPL football. Multiply part one by 470, and you’ll get the detriment to my health which follows.

Peace in our bloody time was never achieved. Neville Chamberlain thought it could be but he was wrong. Take what’s about to happen as WWIII, America v. China in a war of the wills. I went to see the shrink and we tried to sort some things out and yet I know what’s coming.

I bet, and I could be wrong, that there will be some gnosh consumed tonight at the hands of your humbled author.

And in all this, I’ve said goodbye to Erika…not formally, but in some way. Tell us the truth now, when you say fare thee well to a 17 year-old hot piece of tail, doesn’t it make you weep?

Pop will blow itself in the Craftmatic adjustable bed

If you were to go back to the conventional timeline of rock history and start with the Sun Records gang [and even Bill Haley and The Comets], you could easily identify the “sunburst” moments in that timeline…

1. Rock Around The Clock
2. Chuck Berry, Fats Domino, Little Richard
3. Sun Records—Elvis, Carl Perkins, Roy Orbison, Johnny Cash
4. The Beach Boys
5. The Beatles
6. Disco
7. The Clash
8. R.E.M.
9. New Kids On The Block
10. Nirvana

Yes, New Kids On The Block. Why? Urgh! Don’t you get it? Everything I mentioned up to that point had been represented as a moment when pop music changed! And I didn’t have to say it changed for better or worse, just that it changed. And if you can stomach it, check out the pop tunes which have had the most enormous success over the past few years and you see it’s all this product which stems directly from Lou Perlman seeing NKOTB and their effect on teenage girls. I hate it, but it’s true.

Nirvana, of course, is just as guilty of spawning a million pathetic imitators who never could hope to make something as worthy as the guano which fell out of Kirk’s brain. I’d say just about all the shitty bands out there today are Nirvana-knock offs, which makes me ill. When shit like Creed gets serious attention, you know you’re glad Kirk put a shotgun to his dome…

I’m biased about The Clash but the reason I cite them is because they truly made a new path in pop music and they did influence a generation of artists. But don’t worry about that, we’ll take care’a that later…

You knew R.E.M. had to be influential when two things happened:

1. Rickenbacker managed to stay in business thanks to sales after “Murmur” was released.
2. The Gin Blossoms were successful.

The Gin Blossoms, god love ‘em, are blameless for what they did. They are Badfinger to R.E.M.’s Beatles. But how can you not listen to the bollocks they spit out and not feel offended for Peter Buck and his jangly jangly jangly I beat up a British Airways steward jangly jangly? Or the splendid Guadalcanal Diary, or Wire Train, or Indigo Girls, or Mr. Crow’s Garden [whoops! Sorry Christopher!]…just I don’t have anything against Gin Blossoms but hey, man, call a spade a spade you are just ripping off R.E.M.!

Are you not entertained?

Coming this fall from the Fox Network, two new groundbreaking comedy dramas from Aaron Sorkin on mushrooms and David E. Kelly…

MONDAYS AT 8:30

“Dale Chrysler, Bowery Ph.D”

He’s a hard-drinkin’, book-lovin’ perfessor who shares wit, wisdom, and love among the broken down human remains of the mean streets. Newcomer Quesadilla Sinatra stars as an up-and-coming but down-on-his-luck scholar who helps the locals find the meaning of life AND enjoy a little Foucault…if they’re not careful, they just might learn something, and teach Dr. Chrysler a thing or two in the process!

WEDNESDAYS AT 9

“College Student/Homeless Person”

He lives in a box, but he’s on the dean’s list!

More academic hilarity from Sorkin, who must have dreamed this one up while traipsing through cartoon land! Newcomer Trace Bobblehead stars as an up-and-coming but down-on-his-luck honour student who, through a “glitch in the system” ends up with his grant withdrawn at the beginning of his freshman year. Kicked out the dorm, no living relatives, knowing nobody, he makes a courageous go of it under an overpass. With Lonnie Anderson (of TVs “WKRP in Cincinnati” and real life’s abusive Burt Reynolds’ marriage) as kindly social worker Ms. Jennings and Charles Dutton as Chronic Man.