July 14th, 2004

I Will Not Defame New Orleans.

Why Are You In Louisiana?

Yesterday I spent the night at a country cottage of a friend of a friend. It was sewww high school, complete with way too much beer, too many munchies, and even wine coolers! (Don't let mom catch us!)

The house was a three-storey wooden ski lodge on the waterfront in Pass Chris-chee-ANN, Mississippi. It looked exactly like a setting from one of the Friday the 13th setups.

We fished off the end of a long, hurricane-slanted pier. We caught crabs in crab traps and, those of us without seafood allergies (I do not raise my hand) ate them.

We also caught a catfish, a stingray, and a big rope.

Driving home yesterday, I got caught in a speedtrap in Chalmette, LA. One of those tacky, quota-filling deals where one fat cop sits on the side of the road and radios in radar results to driving coplets.

I was going 70 in a 60 zone, and they tagged an extra 5mph on "just for fun."

The cop questioned why I had a Mississippi license, driving a car with Tennessee plates and Louisiana insurance. "We just moved here," I lied.

"Why did you move to Louisiana?"

Generally, it's not in one's best interest to get 'clever' with the coppers, so I bit my tongue as hard as possible to let this little monologue not slip out:

"Why Louisiana? It's simple! High property tax. High income tax. High sales tax. Highest house and car insurance in the country. Polluted water. Shitty roads. Non-existent education. High violent crime statistics. Overt political corruption and petty, quota-filling cops who pay their salaries with bogus, marked-up speedtraps like this. I'd be a fool not to choose New Orleans! It's a no-brainer!"

I imagined the cop's rejoinder: "But at least we have Bourbon Street!"

At which point, BANG! It's a one-eight-seven on dey undahcovah cahhhhp…
I Will Not Defame New Orleans.

(no subject)

You'll find me posting a lot today because, when I'm posting, I'm not packing, cleaning, pulling down art, removing things from walls, sneezing, sweating, or crying out in frustration.

That's why you see me posting a lot today.

That's why.

That's.

Hey, if you haven't already "caught the wave, cowabunga!", I highly suggest you add everyone's four favorite mid-19th century geniuses to your friendy-pooh list. They live again! They are, in no particular order, franzliszt, fredericchopin, delacroix and of course that saucy tart, georgesand.

I suspect they are all the same person.

But then, I have long suspected they were all the same person in 1840 as well. Sorta like a Three Faces of Eve/Sibyl scenario, with multiple voices clusterfucking in one big fat brilliant head. Weird they all had affairs with each other. That's kinda dirty, when you think it was all the same person.

Speaking of dirty, let's play a game! Because when we play games, the Marquis Déjà Dû does not have to drag dusty, cat-hairy things out from under the bed! Yah! Let's!

This one is called: Who's The Bigger Faggot?

Q: Who's the bigger faggot? Franz Liszt, or Claude Debussy?

I'll give you a hint. And you don't need to be able to read music to have this help.

Meet Franz:


Meet Claude:


A: Clearly, Debussy is the shirt-lifting, pillow-biting, loafer-sporting cakeboy. Liszt is so forceful and manly and intimidating in the above delicate snippet of "Liebesträum" (or, huh huh, "Lovesong"). It's like he's saying, "Take off your panties or I'll blacken the other eye!" Straight from Budapest to Alabammy with four on the floor, a coburr in the cooler, and bitches in the truckbed.

Debussy is so namby. So pamby. So billowy-blowy. So OCD symmetrical. If there were notation to turn a note to a lisp, it would be there. And, come on, three staves? Does he play the third staff with his cock? Why, you showy little showtune monster! Il y a quelque-chose sur Marie!

Plus, he's French.

Plus, his name is Claude.

Oh. Gosh. My house hasn't packed itself during this lovely interim.
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