The other Jewish Elvis in Cajun country

My new blog's up so check it out. www.boisedruz.blogspot.com - the new greatest Web site ever.

The Druz World Tour has officially made its next stop - Boise. I got into town a few days ago after a harrowing journey across darkest Middle America and I am currently shacking up with JoeJa of phlogger fame.

During the solo 2,500 mile drive there was little excitement, though I did stop off in the pagan outpost of Lawrence, Kansas, to visit with my friends Sera and Jacob. Kansas gets a bad rap, and probably deservedly so - the Kansas school board is essentially recreating the Scopes Monkey Trial as we speak - but Lawrence is a damn cool town. Besides being home to the University of Kansas Jayhawks basketball team and the former home of William S. Burroughs, Lawrence is also the small blue dot in the solid red rectangle that is Kansas (think Berkley but flatter and much cheaper).

Before Kansas, there was Missouri. I now know two things about Missouri - it's very big and has very few interstates. Consequently, it took for fucking ever to get across that monstrosity of a state (I didn't even get to see the Gateway Arch for my troubles). There was, however, one major highlight of my nine hours in Missouri: I passed a town called, no kidding, Cooter, Mo. Just for good measure, the fields of Cooter were freshly shorn.

Because of my slight detour to Lawrence, I put myself in an unenviable position: I had to drive the length of Kansas to get to my next stop, Boulder, Co. At first, the scenery along I-70 was pretty, with cows dotting rolling green hills. At rolling hill number 3,557 it started getting old. The best way I can describe the painfully gradual climb from Lawrence (elevation 850 feet) to Boulder (elevation 5,400 feet) is that it's like taking the world's longest wheelchair ramp at 80 miles per hour.

After a relaxing day and a half with some family friends in Boulder, I took off for the final leg of my journey, stopping in scenic Rawlins, Wy. for the night. After that it was a day through the high plains of Wyoming where herds of pronghorn antelope (tied with the Moose for my favrite North American ungulate) and cattle broke up the monotony of the landscape. And suddenly I was descending into southwest Idaho's Treasure Valley, getting blasted by an unusual thunderstorm (which made me feel a twinge of homesickness for Louisiana).

So here I am. I started work yesterday, filling out paperwork and starting my indoctrination into the Gannett Cult. I'm still adjusting to the reverse culture shock of lily white Boise (Baton Rouge: 51 percent black. Boise: .8 percent), where nobody locks their doors and people care about, gasp, quality of life, but I have already found my regular coffee shop (which, of course, will never replace Perks) and the people have been very friendly (though they pale in comparison to the BR crew).

So, this is to be the final post on this blog (other than the one directing you to my next blog). There's a glitch on blogger right now making it difficult to start my Boise blog, but it should be up soon and I'll post the new URL as soon as I get started (which should be in a few days). I'm glad I'm either interesting enough for you to read my blog or that you're all nice enough friends to humor me and shake your heads when I'm not looking. Either way I've enjoyed the back and forth on this site and I hope it continues on the next one.

Apparently I'm most comfortable at the far ends of the earth. After starting my career living a hermit's life in rural Nevada County, Calif., I moved to the swamps of South Louisiana. Next stop? Boise. As goes the journalism business I have scratched and clawed my way to a job at The Idaho Statesman (employer of famous photographer Joe Jaszewski) and it's actually a positive move.

I think the most common reaction to news of my move to Boise has been, "Oh, that's in Idaho, right?" and "Hmm, isn't it cold there?" I usually start explaining that no, Boise's actually in the valley so the winters really aren't that ... and then just abandon it all together.

There are many positives about the move, both professionally and lifestyle-wise, if you can believe it. It's a better paper with (from all accounts) stronger editing and, importantly, I'm getting a staff job as opposed to the 2-year internship I'm on right now (which would have ended in October). It certainly doesn't hurt that I'm 30 minutes away from quality snowboarding and mountain biking and that I don't have to deal with the dank, malarial summer of Baton Rouge.

Baton Rouge has, of course, been a total mind-fuck the past year and a half and I wouldn't trade my time here for anything. The crew of young, bright, degenerate journalists that hang out together down here is indescribable and I'm going to be very sad to leave them. I can only hope a similar crew crops up in Boise, or that I can sully enough once-pure young people to roughly recreate my situation.

Fear not, the blog will continue throughout my final few weeks on the bayou (I'm leaving sometime at the end of the month) and will be replaced in Idaho by an as-yet-unnamed blog that will be similarly clever and profane. I'll keep you posted as the Druz World Tour continues.

I won't lie to you, I like when people are impressed by my job. As I was returning a pair of shoes at Dillard's today that I found cheaper at an outlet store, the clerk asked me what I do.

"I work at the Advocate." (so coy)

"What do you do there?"

"I'm a reporter."

"So what do you cover?"

"Mostly crime."

"Wow, that sounds exciting."

Of course, if she knew I made significantly less than her, even before commission, and that I don't turn my air conditioning on during Baton Rogue summers to save money, she might be less impressed.

I know my blog is getting stale but a major change may be afoot in my life (and it doesn't even require an operation or 12 steps!) and I have been quite distracted. I will know more after an all-expense paid, three day/two night vacation to Boise, Idaho next week so please be patient. Actually, scratch that. If you don't fill my comment section with insults for me being a pussy and not updating my blog I will be disappointed in all of you.

Spring in Baton Rouge is like the free watch you get with pre-approved credit cards. It's great for a few weeks until the watch breaks, you have debt up to your balls and you find yourself pawning your children to pay your monthly balance.

You see, right now, it's absolutely beautiful here. Clear skies, mid-seventies with a breeze and little of the humidity for which South Louisiana is infamous. Clothes are getting skimpier, flowers are blooming and my neighborhood is filled the chirps, cackles and weezes of songbirds. It's all a clever rouse of course.

Spring here is just long enough - six weeks to two months - to get used to the weather only to wake up one morning to find you've sweat through your sheets because it's still 95 degrees at 7 a.m. And once that hits, there's no turning back.

So I'm determined to enjoy this weather to the max because I know come May it's going to be six months of sweating through my clothes, unending swamp-ass and the constant search for air-conditioning.

Surrounded by a womb-like red neon glow, I hopped into a bar stool in sight of the Stanford-Washington basketball game, put $20 into the video poker game in front of me, ordered a whisky and lit a cigarette. It was an auspicious beginning to what will forever be an infamous Vegas weekend.

Joined by Dyke, JoeJa, Sleezy, h-bomb jr. and Squealin' Whelan, our small Aggie crew took on NASCAR weekend in Sin City and, with a steady diet of the King of Beers (we resolved to always order Bud as 'The King of Beers' in honor of NASCAR weekend), we prevailed.

After the obligatory champagne brunch with Sleezy and Whelan at one of Vegas's many fine buffets, the remaining members of our group straggled in and we went to a so-so Chinese dinner that featured an $80 round of sake bombs and during which we inexplicably were not kicked out of the restaurant. Afterward, we headed to a swank club on the strip. The line was gargantuan but, using what Joe referred to as the "Power of the Vagina," our girls got the bouncers to let us bypass the line, thus earning us the right to more quickly shell out $30 to get in. Despite the steep cover, $10 lemon drops (a stern lesson to never ever buy douchey drinks) and a crowd that can only be described as verminous, we danced our balls off and had a blast. All in all, it was a strong move.

An aside I could not seamlessly fit into the narrative: early on I introduced several phrases for the weekend including "good game." When one does something noteworthy, or really anytime, you say "good game" while giving a solid smack on the ass a la Major League Baseball players. It was a resounding hit.

The rest of the weekend we tore across the strip like a desert dust devil, pillaging black jack tables, looting bars and relentlessly taunting NASCAR fans with shouts of "Three!" while holding three fingers in the air (three is the late, great driver Dale Earnhardt's number for the NASCAR uninitiated and our battle cry was not well received).

On our second night, Whelan, JoeJa and I pocketed hefty sums from several successful black jack sojourns, aided in great part by George, the greatest black jack dealer ever (quoth the wise man: "Everybody gambles. Anyone who says they don't gamble is full of shit.") Buoyed by our profits, we celebrated with an authentic Mexican meal at La Salsa on the strip. Led by Whelan, who had mysteriously lost his voice through too much demon rum or some mysterious infection (I suspect VD), we blasted our way through many a margarita and, just as we agreed we needed to find a karaoke night we heard, like the voice of God coming over the restaurants speakers, "Welcome to karaoke night at La Salsa." I nearly shit.

The rest of the night we thoroughly hijacked the karaoke machine, putting the fear of God into NASCAR fans and Spring Break sorority girls alike. The hero of the night? Whelan. Despite his voice-debilitating battle with VD, he bravely soldiered on, sporting a pink jacket and making a series of flash cards to communicate. He even croaked through a few songs, including AC/DC's "Back in Black."

As expected, I was the karaoke ringleader and I led us through five varied and beautiful tunes, earning a rousing ovation for my duet with Dyke of Simple Mind's "Don't You (Forget About Me)." Each time we took the stage to the rolled eyes of the needle-dick MC, I would come up with a clever new name for our group. The one they refused to read was Ali D. and the D-bags. Fortunately I loudly introduced us over the PA. Out of tune and out of control, we started making friends with everyone in the restaurant. We convinced one diminutive middle-American to sing Quiet Riot's "Cum On Feel the Noise" while her angry husband shot daggers at us from across the room. The night crescendoed when Dyke and I approached a table of hardcore NASCARians. After we introduced ourselves and asked where everyone was from I said to one particularly gruff-looking race fan:

"Hey, you know what? You should come sing a song with us."

"I only sing David Allen Coe," he said resolutely in a heavy twang.

"OK, but I've got a really good song for you."

"What is it?"

"It's 'Freedom' by George Michael."

"Isn't that that British faggot?"

"Yes, but it's a great song and I think it would be fun."

"Uh, no."

Not that we needed him. And, furthermore, said British faggot has banged more hot models than Billy Bob's wife had teeth. We rocked the piss out of "Freedom" and I think that bathroom-masturbating Limey would have been proud had he seen us.

The rest of the night is progressively more hazy, but at some point Joe and Hilary went off to frolick and the rest of us ended up at Pinkes, the greatest pool hall ever. Once inside we were treated to the punk and ska music from my high school days and Sleezy and Dyke drank that foul concoction known as a Greyhound. Grapefruits have developed an amazing defense mechanism against marauding herbivores: they taste like shit. 'Nuff said. Pinkes had some great features, such as porn plastered all over the bathroom (are they encouraging drunk tourists to cream their walls?) and a square piece of mirror placed perfectly next to the first urinal so a fat customer can monitor his dick's progress.

Despite my balance problems (I distinctly remember being on my back, which I'm sure thrilled Pinkes proprietors), my pool prowess was unmatched and I left the undisputed champion.

We rolled out around 4:30 and headed to the nearest Denny's to reflect upon our victorious evening. There we loudly discussed the virtues of the Icy Mike (use your imagination) and Hot Carl much to the joy of surrounding patrons. Dyke made the strong move of ordering the chicken-fried steak, which I imagine was much regretted the next morning.

With Sleezy and Dyke dressed in their skanky Vegas best it seemed hailing a cab would be a slam dunk. Not so. Dyke even flashed a bit of nip, but no dice so we trudged home (I think. Hmmm, did we get a cab?) and passed out sometime around sunrise.

The final day, we were hurting. In a fog, we spent some of the day in the Alladin, which provides Vegas visitors with exactly what they want: a quaint temperature-controlled Arabic market with none of the Arabs. Like most traditional Middle Eastern bazaars this one features a FCUK clothing store, trendy beauty products and morons on Segway scooters.

We had various ailments that day: for some, it was their heads, for me it was my stomach. It felt like I had developed five ulcers over the course of the weekend. That day was summed up by this observation:

"I think I know why I'm going to the bathroom so much. It's my liver
trying to escape through my asshole."

A small price to pay for the Aggie contingent kicking the shit out of Vegas. Three!