The other Jewish Elvis in Cajun country

This is, by far, the best letter to the editor I have ever received. It hasn't run yet, but I really hope it does. She was upset with the story I wrote on Jimmy Swaggart saying he would kill any gay man who looks at him "like that." The "issues" Ms. Robinson refers to, would be the two hookers Brother Swaggart was caught with (the second one after his tearful television apology for the first one). Try to make it through the whole poem (yes, poem) and note the signature. Enjoy.

September 24, 2004

In Thursdays Metrostate of the Advocate dated 9-23-04, you printed an article referring to Evangelist Jimmy Swaggart's comments on homosexuals.

As he explained, the comments were "silly" and he will not do it again.

However, it truly befuddles me, as to how, out of a silly comment you feel it necessary to bring up issues 13 and even 15 years old?

You're all so quick to print negative feelings and opinions. I challenge you to print my opinion as well as many others... blessed by the preaching and teaching through Jimmy Swaggart Ministries and Son Life Radio (88.5 FM)...on the positive things Evangelist Jimmy Swaggart has done, is doing and will continue to do...

Upon awakening this morning
I had a word of prayer
Turned on the television set
And heard to my dispair

The anchorman expressed
An apology from my pastor?
Taking some words he'd said
Some were seeking disaster

I jumped into my flesh
And out of my spirit
But I cried out to God
"My Lord, Did you hear it?"

I prayed a while more
My spirit is stirring
What the people have said
Really has me worrying

I felt Him as He said
"My child, go in love,
You may back your pastor
But speak with word from above"

So to all the scoffers
Taking words out of context
Misconstruing the meaning
The word of God you reject

Playing cemantics with the word of God
As you do Louisiana law
Equals your relationship with God
As corrupt as our justice system; AWE!

Mr. Traigle says his Bible
Speaks naught of hate or intoleration?
What are you reading
And proclaiming to our nation?

For haven't you ever heard
Of Sodom and Gomorrah?
God didn't tolerate such sin
The people died in horror!

The Bible also says
God loathes a liar
Webster defines loathe as hate
May I mind you of the fire?

No! God does not hate us
But He does hate the sin
And He will not tolerate such
In his Kingdom within

Thus is why He sent His son
Whom gave His life for all
And by believing in your heart
You can defeat mans' fall

In spite of all you scoffers, non-believers
And down right ignorant to the word
God is still blessing folk through Jimmy Swaggart Ministries
Haven't you heard?

For all you intelligent, independent and thinking people,
Not saved by the blood of Jesus Christ
May I lovingly remind you,
In hell, there is no ice...

On the flap and on the scandal
For all still living in the past
Think about what you are saying
When forgiveness of your sins you ask

For if the blood of Christ can't wash away a sin
Committed in '88 or '91
We're all doomed for hell
None spared, not one!

So I thank God this morning
You are all wrong
And I pray Dear God
You hear the Jimmy Swaggart song-

For my pastor is singing
Jesus Saves! Jesus Saves!
He still forgives, He still heals,
He's the same today, yesterday and tommorrow
Mr. Joe Traigle, He can even deliver you
From all of your sorrow

Jimmy Swaggart is preaching the uncompromised word of God
The mighty Gospel of Jesus Christ
It is true
And there is nothing you can do

Brother Swaggart is preaching the word
And will continue until Jesus comes
I stand behind him 100%
As do many,
Thy Will Be Done

Katie Robinson
Believer

For the past two months, I have been following around a family of Liberian refugees who arrived in July to settle in Baton Rouge (yes, apparently the Sierra Leone refugee camp where they were living is even worse than Baton Rouge). I met them as they stepped off the plane and have kept up with them ever since. The story finally came out today, on the front page of The Advocate and I am more than a little relieved. It was, unquestionably, the most rewarding story I have ever reported and there's the added bonus that, as far as I can tell, it didn't get fucked up going from my computer through the metro editors and the copy desk and finally to the newspaper. It's a fairly long story to read on-line, but I would like to hear what you think, so check out the link when you have a few minutes.

http://www.2theadvocate.com/stories/092704/new_liberia001.shtml

Once again I have one-upped JoeJa. He may have gone up in a 1955 Cessna to look for phantom wolves, but I flew in a restored 1941 Waco bi-plane yesterday for an assignment. It was a lot of fun, although hitting turbulence in a 63-year-old plane with a 73-year-old pilot is a little frightening.

As we were climbing over Point Coupee Parish (population: not many), we flew over vast, swampy forest surrounding the Mississippi and the pilot, Al, said, "I like to take the tree huggers up here so they can see all the trees." Unsure of exactly what he may have meant, I let it go. He later made clear what he meant when, pointing to a tree farm, he said, "See all those planted pines? There's no shortage of trees."

Rush Limbaugh would be proud: "Do you know we have more acreage of forest land in the United States today than we did at the time the constitution was written." (Radio show, 2/18/94)

Ring, Ring.
"Swaggart Ministries, how may I help you?"
"Hi, this is Heath Druzin with the Advocate. I'm calling to talk to Mr. Swaggart about some comments he made on a TV broadcast regarding gay marriage."
"Just one second, let me see if Brother Swaggart is in."

Yes, it seems our good friend and favorite televangelist Jimmy Swaggart has gone and got himself in trouble again. The good reverend, who has already been caught with a hooker not once, but twice, has the gays mad at him this time. It seems he took a note from Beenie Man and referenced killing gay men during a televised sermon.

Here's a snippet from the broadcast: "I've never seen a man in my life I wanted to marry. And I'm going to be blunt and plain: If one ever looks at me like that, I'm going to kill him and tell God he died."

Clearly he hasn't seen me.

This is all especially big news in south Louisiana, as Brother Swaggart's sprawling compound for Christ is located right here, in beautiful Baton Rouge. It was here that Swaggart gave his tearful apology (worth a watch) after getting caught with hooker #1 in 1988. (http://news.bbc.co.uk/onthisday/hi/dates/stories/february/21/newsid_2565000/2565197.stm)

Of course, after Louisianans passed a state constitutional amendment to ban gay marriage by a nearly 4-1 margin, this is probably good business for Swaggart.

In any case, it was all a misunderstanding, you see, just a Southernism and a joke being misunderstood, Swaggart assures us. Fear not, though, Swaggart vowed to me that, "I will continue to preach against homosexuality, but do it in the right way."

Score one for the Lord.

I spent the past weekend sweating my balls off in the Texas hill country, staring at other, more attractive sweaty people at the Austin City Limits music festival. I can now tell you three things: 1. cute girls + cowboy hats + 98 degree heat = pleasant diversion from a mediocre Modest Mouse performance. 2. Six people is too many to travel with. 3. Cold beer is 10,000 times better after a four mile walk in flip flops.

Steve the Stewardess, my fellow cops reporter, Josh "Maurice" Noel, and Sack Face, a former Advocate reporter, met up the first night and all was well. Beer was consumed, bullshit was talked and everyone was happy.

The first day of the fest, however, was a disaster. We didn't see the bands we wanted to see, feelings were hurt when our group got separated and we left the show at about 9:30 p.m. sober and grumpy. The highlight was when Sack Face got lost and the rest of us were yelling at the top of our lungs in a crowd of about 75,000, "Sack Face! Sack Face!"

Our moods only got better when got outside the grounds to see the 10,000 (really) people in line for taxis. Following some good advice from a local we walked the three miles downtown - in flip flops after spending 7 hours walking around in the sun.

After seeing the half of the show we didn't miss we mercifully made it to a bar and sat down for what is one of the top five most enjoyable beers of my life.

Everything got better from there, although I must admit this trip was by far the most sober I've ever been hanging out with Steve, which I am not proud of. Other than missing out on getting hammered, the food was good, the scenery was better and the music was plentiful.

As you know, Ivan hit this morning, and I can tell you the damage here was grim. The eye of the hurricane started in my plastic cup and came ashore somewhere in my cerebral cortex before taking a southerly track to my digestive track where it maintained its category 5 status until reaching the toilet, where it broke up. I got a good sense of the destruction wrought around 7:30 a.m. when my alarm went off and stumbled to work only to be told by law enforcement that not only was there no storm damage, but that Baton Rouge didn't even get a drop of rain. In short, I felt like Gulf Shores, Alabama looked.

Welcome, Ivan, the first hurricane to threaten Louisiana in the Druz's storied tenure here. As I drove east on Interstate 10 today, the westbound lanes were jammed with people fleeing New Orleans, a city seemingly built for a single purpose: to get completely fucked by hurricanes. Lying near the coast almost entirely below sea-level with the Mississipi River on one side and a monstrous lake on the other, New Orleans is positioned perfectly to be 20 feet underwater and facing a storm surge about five minutes after a hurricane hits.

And what better way to celebrate an impending costly, destructive disaster than popping open a cold one or 10? The first hurricane party of the season promises to include the requisite rainslickers and galoshes and, of course, Hurricanes, a girly, but potent crushed ice drink, with 3 shots of rum mixed with orange and pineapple juice.

I haven't got the word yet on whether I get to work on a hurricane story for the paper, but with luck I will be ass deep in dirty water and fire ants soon enough.

Before the end of summer (which for Baton Rouge isn't really until late October), I feel I really need to detail the horrors of the weather in the past few months.

I haven't taken a hot shower for more than three months. Each morning I wake up, open the bathroom door, recoil at the blast of heat released and sprint for the relief of a cool shower (it would be cold except that there is no cold tap water in summer). I towel off but, really, there's little point as I'm sweating by the time I leave the bathroom. Then, after I put on my ridiculously overly formal work clothes (company policy requires a shirt and tie) I race to get into my air-conditioned car before I start sweating through my clothes (I usually fail).

Summer here is really a constant hop from air conditioned building to air conditioned building, though in my job I often don't have that luxury. The only comfort to talking to people at a crime scene while clearly sweating through your clothes is that everybody is sweating through their clothes and it's generally acceptable.

As you soon as you go outside down here, you are covered with a layer of sweat and you simply learn to live with a constant grimy film during the day.

Night is little better (although it is improving with the shortening days). In August there was many a night where the mercury stayed above 80 even at 2 a.m., making gin and tonics that much more key to an enjoyable porch experience.

Summer has it's own smell, too, and that smell is rotting. The other night, as is common, the entire town smelled dead vegetation, which is somehow fitting for a city decaying on many levels. When the rotting smell is not overpowering, the nearby Exxon refinery fills in dutifully, causing the town to smell like every morbidly obese Baton Rougean is simultaneously paying the gastric consequences of the three mufalettas they had for lunch.

The paradox of summer weather here is that the only way to have a bearable climate and air that doesn't smell like death or flatulence is for thunderstorms to come through, cool things off and clean out the atmosphere. So pray for shitty weather, I guess.

This morning I was on my way to play basketball with some Advocate sportswriters (I realize that me playing basketball is funny enough but wait, there's more) when I hit a pot-hole on the goddamn interstate and blew one of my back tires. I quickly exited and pulled over right next to a small stadium where our local semi-pro baseball team, The Riverbats, were playing a game.

Well, I don't know how to change a tire. So, feeling like the biggest pussy in the world, I called AAA and had them send someone out to help me. Of course, as the repair guy was fixing my tire, all the time giving me a look that only could have meant, "You fucking California faggot," the baseball players began leaving the stadium and, as they got into their large trucks, they looked at my California plates and thought, "You fucking California faggot."

And, you know what, what can I say? Today I earned the title my friend gives me when I'm going on and on about something in California: Cali-vag-face. And fuck all of you for the comments to come.