The other Jewish Elvis in Cajun country

Don't ask me why, but last night I went to see Bad Santa, John Ritter's final movie. By far the funniest part came at the end when, after the final scene of a movie in which a running joke included Billy Bob Thornton, anal-sex and the line, "You're not going to shit right for a month," the screen went dark and read: In loving memory of John Ritter.

Now that is a legacy.

Yesterday I was assigned to cover two building implosions in downtown Baton Rouge. I thought little of it, other than, "Buildings imploding sounds cool." It turned out to be the biggest event in Baton Rouge for quite some time. People showed up before 8 a.m., when it was 30 degrees, to snag a good seat on the steps of the State Capitol (which offered the best view of the implosions). Camo-clad families came from all over (I met a woman from Memphis and guy from Gainesville, Fla) to witness two rather ordinary buildings come down. Maybe this is why Nascar is so popular here, I just don't know.

I know my posts have been a little thin lately, but I am committed to redoubling my efforts. I covered some building implosions for the local paper this morning and I promise to write about it tomorrow when I am sober.

I walked into The Thirsty Tiger tonight and, before I had uttered a word, the bartender opened a Pabst Blue Ribbon (Peebo for those who know) for me. I would have objected, but he was absolutely right.

I headed to New Orleans tonight to catch a basketball game with some co-workers. When they introduced the Reverand Something or Other before the game, I assumed it was to give us a wonderful Southern Baptist rendition of the National Anthem capped with a hearty, "Thank you Jesuuus!" Silly me, it was an opening game prayer (ending with 10,000 simultaneous amens).

After the game we headed to the French Quarter and I realized that, indeed, New Orleans needs at least that many prayers. Most of the Quarter is great - beautiful architecture, historic buildings, drinking in the streets and smoking allowed in bars. Bourbon Street, however, is like Vegas without the class. I think I got herpes just walking down the street. You know that moment of hesitation you get before flicking your cigarette on the ground? I didn't have that on Bourbon Street - I think litter is actually an improvement.

New Orleans may just be hedonist heaven: cheap booze 24 hours, great food, gambling, bead-clad women (both tourist and professional), and countless churches in which to repent come morning - or afternoon more likely.

I just realized I made a terrible mistake. In my "Y'all eat chicken, right?" post I wrote gumbo when I meant jambalaya. I could get my Confederate flag revoked for this.

FYI, I added a link to the newspaper I work for, The Advocate, to my blog. There's not a whole lot in there of interest to people outside of Louisiana but if you want to see what I do it's all there.

One of the reporters I work with is vegan. Being vegan in Louisiana is kind of like being a Republican in Berkeley - people scratch their heads at you and then pity you for going so terribly astray. Ask if there are any vegetarian items on the menu and your server will squint and quickly respond, "Well, y'all eat chicken, right?" She will then proceed to accidently serve you a hamburger and suggest you pick out the meat.

I'm not sure how a vegan avoids starvation, let alone malnutrition.

"Uh, yeah, I'll have the chicken and sausage jambalaya (only non-meat item: rice) - hold the chicken and sausage."

I guess it's a good way to find out what living off of UN food drops is like, but otherwise I don't recommend it.

Sunday morning a developer snuck in at 7 a.m. and tore down four 150-year-old buildings to make way for a brand new condominium development. And, predictably, everybody whined about it. It's as if old necessarily means important. To review, these buildings were:

-ugly
-of questionable historical significance
-vacant for the past 15 years
-really ugly

No one could quite pin down why these buildings were important.
"Well, they're known as the Old Ice Plant Buildings," a Historical Society nerd would say.

"Hmm, so did they once house an ice plant?"

"Well, we're not sure. In fact we're not exactly sure when they were built. But, did we mention they're historical?"

So, yes, this is the classic big developer vs. the little guy, except, Jesus, downtown Baton Rouge can use every development it can get. Two-thirds of the storefronts are shuttered up, you can't get a bite to eat after 2 (that's p.m. and I'm not kidding) and I stumbled home last half a mile through downtown Friday night without seeing a single pedestrian.

In a town of 230,000 people there are exactly four bars in the entire downtown (and a State Capitol full of corrupt drunks with kick-back money just waiting to be infused into the local economy). In fact, there are more churches than bars downtown, which is never a good sign. So, you know what, good riddance to semi-historic, blighted store fronts and welcome to condominiums which, at the very least, will house people who may demand a decent number of places at which to get drunk and forget they live in Baton Rouge.

As I was walking into IHOP to feed my hangover with grease and syrup this morning (who am I kidding, it was afternoon, I haven't seen a morning in weeks) I saw an old, stooped man who looked to be about 4' 10", 80 years old and Eastern European Jewish - probably a long-lost great uncle. He was struggling mightily to fold his walker - sweating, no doubt, in his argyle sweater - so that he could fit it into the almost non-existent back seat of his brand new $60,000 convertible sports car.

Probably speeding home, handicapped placard flapping in the wind, to fuck a model, too.

I was back at WalMart today, although this time it was not for any kind of anthropological education - I'm simply poor and was in need of household items. So I went there to buy some basics for my pad with a budget of roughly $80 (I know, how the hell do you spend $80 at WalMart? But if you'd ever seen the grandeur of a Supercenter, you would understand). While perusing seemingly endless aisles with seemingly infinite crap I came across a deal no mortal could resist:

A canvas bookbag - with a free Bible inside! Not only did I get:
-outside pocket
-ornate cross zipper pull (yes, that's a cross on the zipper of the book bag)
-long lasting self-fixing zipper (you see, already the Big Man is looking out for this bag)
-inside panel pockets
-pen and pencil holder
-ribbon place marker
-and reinforced stitching

On top of all of that I got an authentic King James with BOTH the Old and New Testaments. And as soon as I picked it up and put it in my shopping cart, the Lord started sending me the deals of a lifetime.

Suddenly I had a doormat for $2.50, a large throw-rug for $19.88, wash cloths for $.60 each, a coffee maker for $7.77. The Lord really does work in mysterious ways, and when I pulled up to that cash register with a doormat, rug, wash cloths, coffee maker, t.v. stand, bathmat, bug spray, blanket, broom, and dustpan, I was blessed with a bill for $86.85 - and how much was my Bible/book bag was? $6.87. Through divine inspiration I had hit my mark with two cents to spare, then splurged a little for the Good Book.

Amen.

I realize that many of my blog entries have dealt with race and sexual orientation and I think this bears some explanation. In Louisiana race seems to play a role in everything. Not that there isn't a lot of self-segregation and division across these lines in California, but here it seems to dominate. It's just different.

For example, I was talking to a longtime cop the other day for an article and he was recalling a time where his police car broke down on the way to a call. He left his car in traffic, ran up to an MG waiting at a red light, hopped in the back and told the driver to floor it. It was a good story, along the lines of Hollywood cops commandeering vehicles, but the way he told it was interesting: "My car broke down and there were these black guys in a little MG..." Was he especially proud of finding such dark individuals on an unlit street? Or did he mean black in that in that listening to Morrissey, wearing trenchcoats and contemplating suicide kind of way? Well, I don't think he is a racist. In fact, I don't think he even registered that he mentioned their race. But he did, and it just seems to permeate everything here.

The weird thing is it's such an issue that nobody really talks about it, except in the manner I just mentioned. People will say, "This black guy this, this black guy that," but when I mention that the Indian-American gubernatorial candidate (who just lost a close election to his white Democratic foe) may have lost votes because he is brown, they are offended. And don't even try to bring up meaningful conversation about gay rights (it's actually technically illegal to be gay here - or at least have sex in a gay way).

But I feel qualified to talk about it because I've got this black friend...

I got a pimple today. A nice big red one, complimented by a second, smaller pimple higher up and to the right. It's not like I had a date or any afterwork activities other than drinking at The Thirsty Tiger (good skin, full set of teeth not required) but I daily battle to gain respect from people I interview, being the youngest reporter at the paper by quite a few years. So, while investigating some armed robberies at a predominantly black college today I was not only hampered by the predictable what's-this-white-boy-snooping-around-here-for? looks, but added to that, compliments of my pimple and boyish good looks I got what's-this-pubescent-white-boy-wasting-my-time-for? looks, too.

Talking to chancellor of student affairs I could see his eyes swing immediately to my forehead and the expression on his face unmistakably read, "Shouldn't you be in class right now?"

I suppose I will all too soon look back fondly on such youthful blemishes, along with my now full head of hair (apologies to balding friends, but I'll be there soon enough) and ability to achieve erections. For now, though, it's just irritating.

Fans of the Ben in China blog take note: the title is finally accurate - Ben is, in fact, now in China. Pray for China.

I was sitting outside my local coffee spot today, marvelling at the unusual absence of crazies when, well, Don Kenman showed up.

Don is a big man who "grew up in the country" and whose flannel shirt and camouflage hat complimented his missing teeth and long, coarse, malnourished gray hair. I was reading the paper, so Don started talking about "those damn politicians" as I nodded blandly, trying desperately to get back to reading about those damn politicians.

Finally, I gave up and listened as Don started darting from one semi-formed thought to another until his piece d' resistance at the end. Here are the highlights:

"Oh man, them Republicans really fucked things up there in California, didn't they...Yeah and that Bush and I-Raq, boy I tell you, once it became a Stalinist guerrilla war, it was all over...And you know, there's a bunch of crackheads up in north Baton Rouge (that's the rough part of town), always shooting each other, but I guess that's kind of good. Too many niggers - I say that and I'm a liberal (kind of a Robert Byrd liberal, but with the hood still on)...Well, ya know, there's a lot of nuts in this town."

Yes, yes there are.

I just found my new favorite Louisiana specialty license plate, just ahead of "Choose Life," "Support the Troops," and "God hates fags," (the state legislature recently rejected a gay rights specialty plate that, unlike the other 150 specialty plates they sanction, "promotes homosexuality"). It reads, "You've got a friend in Jesus" and, the best part, includes a registration tag that says, "Never expires." It's the attention to detail that makes all the difference.

Just covered an attempted car-jacking about two blocks from my apartment, which happened about the same time I was driving home for dinner. Nothing like a little violent crime to spice up your commute.

Last night I went out drinking with a Louisiana native whose moustache connects to his sideburns. He dressed up for a Saturday night on the town by putting on a Labrador Brewery baseball cap over his wild, mountain-man hair to compliment his denim on denim outfit. A toothless hick? A redneck in the city to sell some produce from the farm? Nope, an editor at the Wall Street Journal in town to promote his new book - a book devoted solely to beer. Did I mention his moustache connects to his sideburns? Dude, this guy is my hero.

Well, it turns out he has done just about everything, including bouncing around southern Africa writing features for the Journal and covering the 1994 elections in South Africa. So basically I gazed starry-eyed at him for the entire night, although probably less and less starry as the beers hit double digits, and asked him in various ways, "So, how exactly do I be you?"

Strangely, I have had a lot of Mexican food in Louisiana and, not surprisingly, I have yet to see a Mexican. You can imagine the result. Well today, for some reason I went to "Rocket Fajitas" and ordered a burrito from a bearded white guy in an Audioslave hat. I should have been tipped off by the sign explaining, with no hint of irony, how to eat a burrito and the extra charges for such burrito basics as CHEESE. As a French friend of mine once said, (cue ridiculous accent) a burrito without cheese is like a woman without breasts (or something to that effect). Needless to say, it was $6.50 not well spent and a jarring reminder of how far I am from home.

Oh Burrito Real, where have you gone?

I used the word kin today. I'm not talking "first of kin" or any respectable usage like that. I told someone that I was "looking for the kin of Desmond Johnson" and you know what? I think I detected the first hint of a drawl. Frightening.

Just worked on a story about a guy who was carjacked and shot in the head before the same people pulled up to another driver while she waited at a red light and shot her in the chest (she escaped). Later that night, the same people shot another driver, who also escaped. The story will run on something like page 10 tomorrow. No big deal.

Since I am a "journalist," I feel the integrity of this site is important. Well that's not really true, but in the interest of full disclosure and to set the record straight on our ad-savvy anti-abortion friends, I want to note an error in a previous entry (Wal-Mart, grits, 10/31/03). When I wrote about a billboard that I said features a baby's hand in a woman's hand and reads "Care for me, don't kill me," I inadvertantly made up a new slogan for the campaign. I couldn't remember exactly what it said and, after an exhaustive, but fruitless internet search for the exact wording, I relied on my shaky memory. The actual phrase on the sign is, "Take my hand, not my life." The other Jewish Elvis in Cajun country regrets the error.

I would love to hear the "Idiot Yankee" story that necessitated this sign - in line for the "No Shit Sign of the Year" award - posted at some swamp I was hiking around today: "Caution: Alligators are dangerous."

As I have stated before, my work schedule runs Wed-Sun, so I used my Saturday (today) to explore this great state of Louisiana. I went down to the coast to a small state park consisting of a boat launch, man-made beach and several bayous running into the Gulf of Mexico.

As I walked near the water's edge on my way to a reading spot I was greeted by a friendly fisherman.

"Hey man, whatchu doin' here, just enjoying the water?" he asked.

"Yes sir, just down here on my day off. What are you catchin' out here?" I responded, feeling this could be one of those chance encounters that flowers into an interesting, educational experience and a great story.

"Oh, you know, flounder, trout, redfish, but not much bitin' today. What's that you readin'?"

"It's a Robert Penn Warren novel," I said.

"Oh, I thought you was readin' the bible."

Thus, the friendship was over.

However, the rest of my trip to what felt like the end of the Earth (I saw nearly as many alligators as people) was successful. That question that's been keeping you up at nights? You know what I'm talking about, that piece of information that will make you complete again? Right, the location of the Tabasco factory. Well, ponder no longer. After taking a free tour I can say with confidence that everyone's favority crimson-red ambrosia is processed on Avery Island and that it is a shitty tour.

Also note my creeping Southern-ness, y'all: today I had a bowl of gumbo with a side of fried okra for lunch before seeing my first wild alligator and (dead) armadillo.

I know I've probably ranted to some of you about the strange politics out here, but I think it is worth a brief entry. We have two candidates in a runoff for governor. Try to figure out which one is the Democrat and which one is the Republican:
Abortion:
Candidate A - pro-life
Candidate B - pro-life
Guns:
Candidate A - pro-concealed weapons
Candidate B - pro-concealed weapons
Gays:
Candidate A - not a fan
Candidate B - ditto

Our current governor's (successful) pitch in a campaign ad a few years back:
"I'm a Christian and a gun owner."

After buying a cup of coffee and a "Honey Bun" (a delicious 35 cent processed Southern snack) from a Yarmulke-toting clerk at the local corner store, I was treated to the following scene at the establishment's outdoor seating area:

My reportedly heroin-addicted neighbor - complete with abundant tattoos, multiple piercings and child - discussing his days touring with Marilyn Manson and his wavering faith in the Mormon Church with a jittery, acid-casualty from Visalia, CA, who was chain smoking and speaking too loudly at close range, but looking smashing in his TALIT AND YARMULKE (for the Goy readers those are the shawl-like covering and skull-cap, respectively, that bar-mitzvahed Jews wear to synagogue - nobody wears them to get coffee on a Sunday).

I moved to the twighlight zone.

Got off work at 10:30 p.m. tonight and had to scrounge for a costume. Threw on my Modern Drunkard Magazine shirt, grabbed a few beers, decided to get very drunk and be "Your Creeping Alcoholism" for Halloween. Mission accomplished.