The other Jewish Elvis in Cajun country

In case it wasn't readily apparent, I was very drunk when I wrote that last entry, hence the overzealous/underfunny effect. However, I was not as drunk as when I beat that piece of shit at pool. Really, though, who the fuck wears a "College" shirt. He probably has a Scarface poster in his room, too. Douche.

Tonight, Alcoholic Ryan (a different Alcoholic Ryan) and I went to the mighty Thirsty Tiger, the smoky basement bar across the street from work, and played some pool. Though Ryan is studying for law school finals he graciously went out with me on my weekend to have some drinks and play some pool (and then have some more drinks).

The two guys we were playing were as follows: one was some douche bag with a backwards hat and a "College" T-shirt (I'm sure Belushi would be proud) and someone who actually said, "Dude, I hope we don't get Jewed." Wait to go, asshole. So, you know what? Though the dude in the "College" shirt was clearly a superior pool player, we came down like the vengeful Old Testament God and let him know what was up. Fuck you you Anti-semitic bastard, Jews cannot only be usurous moneylenders, we can play some drunken pool, too, fucker.

So yeah, we represented, and made my matzah eating Israelite brothers proud. Louisiana clearly isn't ready for The Druz.

A 32-year-old Sheriff's deputy who also worked as a school resource officer at a local high school died in a car crash at 5:45 a.m. the other day and a 17-year-old girl from the high school at which he worked was his passenger. Hmmm.

Maybe I'm a bastard finding humor in this, but nonetheless, here's a priceless and unfortunately timed quote from the deputy's lawyer who was trying to make his late client look good:

"Anytime he could do anything for kids he would go above and beyond to do it."

And who could argue with that.

During a riveting story on the local noon news today about a man who makes fishing polls with LSU logos, the reporter, in all seriousness, actually used the phrase "grinnin' like a possum eating sweet potatoes."

I've been working on and off for longer than I care to think on an article about serious safety problems at Southern University. I know that description doesn't jump out as thrilling but I think I did a pretty decent job and the story is sure to net me accusations of racism for daring to criticize a historically black school.

A disclaimer: my story was moderately fucked up after it left my hands. There was about three inches cut from the end of the story without my knowledge that really should have been (it didn't end on such an up note before). Also, I was forced to take the punch out of several grafs throughout the story. Still, I think it turned out well and if any of you manage to get through all 60 inches I would like to hear your comments. Except for you, Ben.

When you're reading the story just keep thinking of Heath, the short Jew, notepad in hand, wearing a shirt and tie, trying to keep a low profile on a campus that is nearly 100 percent black. Blend was the word.

Here's the article link:

www.2theadvocate.com/stories/041804/new_southern001.shtml

South Louisianans love their beer as I have thoroughly documented. Any excuse will do: crawfish boils, zydeco festivals, Tuesday. My research has now shown that what I originally thought was a tradition unique to the aptly named "Fat Boy 5K" I ran in a couple weeks ago, is actually the status quo for Cajun country runs: free after race beer.

I found this out this past weekend when I was roped in to running the Crescent City Classic, a 10K race through The Big Easy that kind of reminded me of the Bay to Breakers, but with more Elvis look alikes and Confederate flags (though just as many transvestites).

It actually went better than expected, considering my training consisted of drinking light beer and thinking real hard about working out in the week before the race. Right about mile 2.5 my training kicked in and I felt terrible, then good again about mile four and floored around mile five. Two things kept me going in the last mile: not being called a pussy by my friends for giving up and, more importantly, I had passed the same Confederate flag-shorts wearing dude I saw in the 5K I ran and I resolved to once again remind him who won the war.

After crossing the finish line at a respectable 67 minutes 51 seconds (and well ahead of General Lee) I stumbled in a daze to a tent that promised at least shade. It had so much more. There, free with the price of my prepaid race admission, was as much beer as you could drink. It wasn't great beer, but it wasn't bad either (Abita Light, a local microbrew) and it went well with the sausage jumbalaya they were serving.

That's what I like about these people: when they do something stupid, like run six miles, they are determined to get back every calorie stolen from them during their senseless endeavor and get drunk in the process.

Lining up at Great Wall's extensive buffet the other night, I was struck by two things: people in Baton Rouge a) are fat (as chronicled in previous blogs) and b) dislike all things foreign.

Amidst the bountiful and surprisingly decent Chinese food (not coincidentally made by some of the few Chinese people in Baton Rouge) was a section of food clearly pandering to native sensibilities. Next to the general's chicken (and for once down here it wasn't General Lee) and pepper pork were onion rings, french fries, fried sweet potatoes and chicken tenders. There really should have been a sign over this section: For people who really want the exotic experience of a Chinese restaurant but want nothing to do with Chinese food. And, by the way, the sweet and sour pork was plentiful, the chicken tenders were low.

A less depressing meeting of cultures was the Szechuan crawfish, which was actually quite good.

On a similar note, I recently returned from a trip to Houston to see my San Francisco Giants defeat the Astros. The whole time I revelled in being the only (extremely loud) Giants fan in the section, successfully thwarting attempts to boo Barry Bonds.

While in town my friends and I went to a Mexican restaurant recommended by Joe, who spent a summer working for the Houston Chronicle. Called the Spanish Flower and affectionately referred to by Joe as the Deflower, it was fucking good and reminded me, once again, how depressingly bad anything other than Cajun food is here.

Oh, for an influx of Mexican restauranteurs.

It's about time to shut down the link to the now-defunct Ben In China blog. But fear not fans of "how I didn't go home with a hooker and how appalled I am at my friends who did go home with hookers" stories, Ben has a new blog. One can only imagine the stories our fearless, unemployed, hero will have while living at home, trolling the hideous underbelly of Palo Alto and stewing about not having a job and living with his parents in Palo Alto. Enjoy.

Baton Rouge is not known for many things. It is, of course, the backdrop to Robert Penn Warren's "All the King's Men," it has one of the strangest looking capitols in the nation, it's crime-ridden and, lastly, it's very fat.

Yes, between the Cajun food, the sedentary life a brutally hot and humid summer brings and the general sloth of the football watching beefers here, we are awash in people painfully unaware of what their own genitalia look like.

Rather than treating this fact like a drunk uncle and pretending it doesn't exist, the good folks at the Fat Boy 5K embrace the Louisiana lard so prevalent in our fair city.

I'm not sure what possessed me, but I woke up at 7 a.m. this morning and ran in the Fat Boy 5K. It wasn't all fatties, either: the 15 or so fit people in the city limits came out and there were plenty of average looking folks among the cornfed giants. During the first leg of the race I was behind an older guy in Confederate flag running shorts and I made damn sure to beat him for the good of the Union.

After finishing the three miles in the middle of the pack at a respectable (if unspectacular) 28:33, I grabbed (I'm not kidding) a (few) beer(s) and a donut, all included in the price of admission. Just for good measure, I had a cigarette with my friend to cap the event. Add to that the sausage lunch they provided and I can't think of a better pick me up at 9:30 a.m. on a Saturday.

Later on, Baton Rouge culture really shined when the race organizers started throwing out free shit to the crowd. Every once in a while they would throw out a pack of sausages and there was a palpable buzz in the crowd followed by pushing and shoving to pluck the valuable processed meat from the air.

If only working out could always end in free beer and donuts. I'll have to drop that suggestion to the YMCA.

Speaking of hurtling toward my obituary, last night I went down to The Thirsty Tiger to meet some friends who were allegedly there for a few drinks. Well, out-Heathing me, they had gotten blasted by 9:30 and already moved on to the next bar. By the time I had figured this out, however, I already had a beer in my hand so I grabbed a newspaper and pulled up to the bar.

Suddenly I found myself, PBR in hand, reading a story about one student's struggle with alcoholism and the magic of 12 step program. I suddenly had an epiphany: drinking and smoking alone at a bar (well, not totally alone, I did chat with my friends, the Tiger bartenders) sounds like a lot more fun than AA. Lesson learned.