The other Jewish Elvis in Cajun country

I just want everyone to know I am eating Ham 'n Cheese Quick Grits as we speak. That's ham 'n cheese out of a packet. I'm so ashamed.

I started writing this the night after Steve and Brett left and actually fell asleep typing I was so out of it from a three-day bender that ended in a ratty gay-themed hotel in New Orleans. So this is a few days old, but I'll just pick up from where I passed out and leave the rest as is:

From the night of Wednesday, Jan. 21:

It's 11:30 p.m. and I'm sitting in my comfy chair, feet up on the ottoman, curled up in a blanket drinking Gatorade and still nursing a hangover from the past three days. The reason? As I alluded to in the last post, my degenerate friends, Brett and Steve, flew down Sunday for three days of good, clean south Louisiana fun.

As I mentioned before, they missed their original flight because Steve couldn't get Brett's drunk ass out of bed in the morning. Instead of 3:30 p.m. I picked them up at 8 p.m. and with the extra time I got creative. I went to Albertson's, bought a large, bright pink piece of posterboard and a Sharpie. As they came down the crowded escalator of Baton Rouge airport, surrounded by people from their nearly full flight, I greeted my friends, who have used a fictitious domestic partnership to secure airfare deals, by waving a pink sign that read, "Congratulations on Your Civil Union Brett and Steve" with the obligatory hand scrawled hearts. If I haven't mentioned it before, BR ain't the most gay-friendly of places. I guess the short version of that is that I am very funny. Moving on...

We spent the Sunday night alienating my co-workers by loudly telling apalling stories involving multiple bodily functions and Ryan the Drunken Effeminate Mexican. As it was the Lord's day and we respect the Lord in Louisiana, no bars were open Sunday so the night kind of petered out early.

The next morning I took Brett and Steve out for some authentic southern breakfast at Louie's. We went to a place where they serve omelettes with hash browns cooked into them. After securing our future coronaries at Louie's it was off to Alligator Bayou to show Brett and Steve some authentic wild gators. Sadly, I did not take into account the whole hibernation thing and consequently the only gator we saw was the 10-foot tall statue wearing a hat and a grin that marked the entrance of Alligator Bayou. (this is where I passed out)

That night I decided to show my friends a good time in downtown Baton Rouge (contrary to popular belief, it can be done). I had grand visions of hitting every bar downtown, but we ended up closing the second bar we went to. The night consisted mostly of drinking on the cheap, naturally, but then this local artist walked into the Red Star bar. I'm not a huge fan of this guy due to a previous encounter at the Red Star in which he acted like a real self-righteous douche bag and basically informed me that I, as a crime reporter, was singlehandedly bringing down the downtrodden of the world.

Because of this, his occupation and his stupid thumbnail dreads I now refer to him as Basquiat (who he actually bears a fair resemblance to). Well, Steve picked up on this and started loudly deriding "that Basquiat-looking motherfucker" until we all felt it was time to move on the next, Basquiat-free bar.

Well, we continued like that through the rest of the night until we ended up at my buddy Ryan's house. There it was me, Brett, Steve, Ryan and an LSU grad student. In the 20 minutes that Ryan and I were gone getting Jack in the Box, Steve started hooking up with the grad student with no apparent concern for Brett's presence. God only knows how we managed to find my apartment that night, but we did and the next day it was on to New Orleans.

As we drove down I-10 the three fifty-foot crosses that greet you on your way in and out of Baton Rouge were like wagging fingers warning us about the sinful night we were about to have in The Big Easy. We ignored them.

At a classy Creole dinner, we were still badly hungover from the night before and, as we got our beers, Steve had the line of the night. He picked up his bottle, inspected it and, in complete deadpan, said, "Oh, it's you again." After that, the night quickly descended into oblivion. The progression of our drinks is reflective of the night. We started out drinking $5 gin and tonics at the hip John Lafitte's (the oldest bar in New Orleans, dating from 1730) and ended up drinking $2 Miller Lite out of 32 oz cups on Bourbon Street.
At the beginning of the night we walked under the prominently displayed rainbow flag to check into our ratty, $35 a night hotel located near the French Quarter in the heart of the ghetto. We were the only straight people there but we could have fooled them, packing three of us into a single.

Due to the smallness of the bed we made a deal: first one to puke gets the bed. It was kind of half-joking, but I won.

I had planned to keep us off Bourbon Street as much as possible but I failed, and we went to one neon-lit tourist trap after another - and had a blast. We drank, danced, appalled a contingent of Swedish tourists, fought off hookers, declined to buy drugs from several bar patrons - a complete New Orleans experience.

Then, I think I bottomed out: just after a shot of honey Jaggermeister (disgusting) which followed a shot of regular Jaggermeister and God knows how many other drinks, I found myself puking into a pile of garbage bags on Bourbon street while a giggling Steve snapped a picture with his disposable camera. Yikes.

And we ended the night in a strip club (as far as I can remember).

If you've made it all the way you have won two prizes: a full, detailed update on the Druz and security in the knowledge that your drinking problem is nothing.

The other day I was driving down the notoriously crime-ridden Plank Road on my way to one of my favorite Southern heart attack food joints (all the good fried shit is in the 'hood). It's called Tony's Seafood and right over their tank of live catfish is a sign that reads, "Swimming on this end, fried on the other end."

I'm a fan of the three vegetable plate, mostly because among the "vegetable" choices is mac and cheese. Not many people know about the elusive macaroni bush as it has been the victim of deforestation and overharvesting by poachers from Kraft.

Anyway, on the way to Tony's I passed some great reminders that I, indeed, live in south Louisiana.

First, two handwritten signs for, I am not kidding, "Fresh Coon." Mmmm. As if that wasn't cool enough, I was then approached by a large woman with unfortunate teeth soliciting donations with a bucket that had "Jesus" scrawled on the side. I thought about it for a moment and came to the conclusion that the son of God probably makes a little bit more (or at least has better benefits) than an entry-level cops reporter at a mid-size newspaper.

Sorry Jesus, you're on your own.

I responded to a shoot-out on a busy street tonight and it was nuts. Some guy stole a car, led police on a high-speed chase and then thought it would be a good idea to shoot at them while completely surrounded. It didn't work out too well for him. I got there right after the shooting, which left three cops and the suspect injured. I would say a conservative estimate of the cop cars at the scene is around fifty. It was surreal. However, it is very late and I have Spanish class at 9 a.m. tomorrow, so I will have to fill in the gaps of that story and the past few days tomorrow.

Two of my alcoholic friends from Southern California - Steve and Brett - came in to town the other day and we are currently in the midst of a drinking tour of South Louisiana, so I apologize for the spotty blogging (hmm, that kind of sounds like a nasty medical condition).

Well, I was all set to pick them up at the airport Sunday when I got a from Steve, the heterosexual male flight attendant, calling to inform me that he was unable to get Brett, the unemployed boozer, out of bed in time for their flight. Luckily they were able to get on a later flight using the free tickets they got through Steve's job by claiming Brett as Steve's father. Brett is one year older than Steve and fortunately, with our heightened security, nobody picked up on that.

Well, we're off to New Orleans tonight so I plan to file an update tomorrow and write about what I can remember from the last couple of days.

I try to keep this blog about Louisiana and, more importantly, me, but the Democratic circus in Iowa bears a comment (though, to keep it regional here's the view from the deep South: if Howard Dean - or "that liberal, Yankee, homo-lover" as he is affectionately referred to by some in Louisiana - gets the nomination expect solid red throughout the Sun Belt come election day).

I think the highlight from the last week was Al Sharpton, who provides comedic relief rivaled only by John Kerry's chin. When the good reverand took on Dean for lack of minorities in his cabinet while governor of Vermont I thought American political debate had reached a new low.

What should be frightening for the Doc's supporters was the self-styled straight shooter's lame, almost stuttering response and then sort-of apology. He should have simply given Sharpton the finger.

I did the math and, to get a representative portion of African-Americans in the 5-member Vermont cabinet you would need to multiply 5 by 0.5 percent (the portion of black residents in the Green Mountain State), which leaves you with 0.025 brothers in the cabinet, or that midget from Bad Santa post-amputations.

Now that would be some hardcore affirmative action.

So, as Joe has pointed out, I have been given a knickname down here: P-Nut. Now, I know this knickname begs the question, "What the fuck?" but, unfortunately, I don't really have an answer. One day I walked in to the newsroom and my fellow cops reporter bestowed up me this odd knickname. I asked if there was any particular reason and he had no answer. But I'm working on a good story to explain it that involves Neil Bush, Thai hookers, a coke binge and a vacuum cleaner. More to come soon.

Embracing this new knickname, I do have a motto for my new alter ego:

"'Dese nuts? P-Nut's."

I hesitated posting this for fear of planned interventions, but what the hell?

Last night I went out with a group of my newspaper buddies and there was much merriment and rejoicing.

Not coincidentally, at about 12:20 p.m. today I awoke to a civil war raging in my head, complete with heavy artillery fire and unspeakable atrocities. Not liquids, advil or even Jimmy Carter could convince the factions to put down their arms and, eventually, a decision was made (independent of me) to purge the country.

As I knelt over my toilet I had a conversation with myself, weighing the relative pros and cons of drinking half a bottle of Hungarian wine before going out drinking. It was decided, officially, that I am a moron.

Even those of you who don't follow sports probably heard what Rush Limbaugh said earlier this year: with half his brain tied behind his back and the other hopped up on hillbilly heroin, Limbaugh said that Philadelphia Eagles quarterback Donovan McNabb is overrated and propped up by a liberal media "desirous that a black quarterback do well." So, it was nice to see McNabb complete a pass for a first down on 4th and 26 Sunday which not only brought the Eagle's back from sure defeat against the Packers, but was the equivalent of kicking Rush in the nuts and taking away his Oxycontin.

What I found very interesting watching the Eagles-Packers playoff game in the newsroom was who ended up rooting for which team. Nobody in there had any kind of regional loyalty to either Wisconsin or Pennsylvania, yet there were vociferous supporters for both. Most of the white people who cared were rooting for Green Bay, whose white quarterback, Brett Favre, was battling through the death of his father and injuries, while the black people in the newsroom were invariably rooting for McNabb.

At least we can reach across all racial lines and say, Geaux LSU Tigers! Fuck those pretender national champions from California! Woo-hoo!

God I'm glad college football season is over.

The call came in at about 4 p.m. today: plane crash in West Baton Rouge Parish (the sticks). So I hopped in my car and followed country roads aiming for the Guinness record for most hairpin turns leading to the sugar cane field where the plane had come to rest. In the end it was much less exciting than it sounded (though probably not for the pilot): some guy flying an ultralight aircraft (single engine, one passenger in this case) had engine failure and crashed upside down in this field. He had a few broken bones, but was fine.

Fortunately the trip was made worthwhile by the when some of Port Allen's best and brightest showed up. The trio of 20-somethings sported camoflouge hats, cheeks full of chew and a large Ford pickup with a fresh coat of mud and, no kidding, plastic bulls nuts hanging from the back of the undercarriage.

They wanted to drive in the field to see the plane wreck and seemed none to pleased when the black sheriff's deputy told them no.

It's a wonder nobody wants to invest in this state.

I know I haven't updated this thing in a few days and I know it has been excruciating for all of my loyal readers, but I will be back tonight, after I get off work and you can finally get your RDA of Druz.

As I sometimes do on my exciting weekends, I went to the library today. My memory is generally terrible, but there was a book recommendation I received in September, which stuck in my mind and I was determined to finally check it out. I remembered this recommendation, an account of the French Indochina War (or, as the Vietnamese put it, "The time we kicked the shit out of the Frogs to warm up for the Yankees") by a French-born journalist, I think due to the compromising position I was in at the time of the recommendation.

You see, when I came down to Baton Rouge in September for my pre-employment drug screening/humiliation part of the drill was dropping my pants and grabbing my ankles for the doctor. As the Cajun MD inspected me to make sure I was, indeed, a consciencious wiper, he started rattling off books by journalists and especially recommended the one I picked up today.

Thanks, doc, I hope the book is more pleasant than the exam.

Did you hear the earth shaking news? No, no, not that unimportant mad cow business, terrorism or that what-do-you-call-it, oh yeah, the primaries. This is actually meaningful. The LSU Fighting Tigers won the national championship (or half of it, but don't tell anyone out here that)! Clearly God has smiled on this great state and there's no way we'll sink back into the same economically depressed backwater we were before January 4 because we got (1/2) the title! Woo-hoo! (Speaking of God, several church changed their schedules for services because of the game)

So yeah, we had about 1000 reporters out of a staff of 50 covering every angle of the game and every ounce of vomit expended by drunk Tiger fans. A shooting, carjacking and possibly fatal car wreck? No, don't worry about those, we need you in the office for the game.

The highlight of the night? After the game was over, at about midnight, I was sent out to Academy Sports store, which had opened to sell LSU championship apparell, marking the first time in the 300 year history of this town that something has been open past midnight.

Well, not only was there no parking, but there were about 500 people lined up out of the store to buy t-shirts that would be there in the morning. Because, you see, football is the most important thing - ever.

Aha! I have finally mastered my technological retardation and added a comment option to my blog. So now you, too, can make snide remarks in cyberspace. And remember, this is a family blog.

I realize my blogging has been somewhat spotty recently but I made a quick trip to California, during which I had very little computer time.

During this trip I decided to head back to the old college town that I have such fond memories of (from all of six months ago). I met up with Joe, also of blogging fame, and a recently-turned 21 year-old Andrew Whelan (who some of you know and who is the current editor of the esteemed California Aggie newspaper).

Needless to say it was a glorious evening (for those of you who saw Joe's blog, you know just how glorious), that involved much merriment and many adult beverages. The night really began to take off when, somewhere around the third pitcher at our third bar, we played a few games of pool - poorly. During one of these games I lined up for a shot and, predictably, missed terribly. A fratty-looking guy with a fire hazard worth of gel in his hair and a shit-eating grin thought it would be useful to critique my pool strategy.

"I don't know, brah, I would've gone for that other ball," he said.

"I don't know, I would have gone for more gel," I slurred.

Brilliant.

Well, I seem to remember Andrew preventing a physical altercation in which I was all too ready to engage and all too sure of getting destroyed. So we took that as our cue to leave and then I had a brilliant idea: vandalize the house I used to live in.

Without further delay we ran across the street to the downtown pizza place, Woodstocks, and pillaged their men's rooms for rolls of toilet paper (which we subtly tucked under our shirts before walking out the front door). We then endured a cab ride from the single lamest cab driver I have ever encountered and, after resisting the urge to urinate in his hand in lieu of a tip, we went to work - on the worst tp job possible.

There were several rolls of toilet paper on the house and the front yard tree, however most of them failed to unravel, making it look like a bad modern art installation (redundant?) rather than a brilliant work of vandalism.

Fortunately I made up for it by putting the current occupants' motorcycle on its side and running away - though not before falling on the concrete. Twice.

We ended the night secure in our knowledge that:

a) we still rule.
b) we continue to be terrible, terrible people with no prospects for maturity.

Actually heard on the Baton Rouge area police scanner tonight: "Complainant is a LaToya Jackson."