Thursday, March 24, 2005
Pump fake
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.
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.
Saturday, March 19, 2005
Three!
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!
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!
Monday, March 07, 2005
Cue the banjo
The call crackled over the scanner around 7 p.m.: "We have a man saying someone shot his horse on Holmes Lane." I had filed all of my copy for the day and this was something I had never heard on the scanner so I headed out to the scene.
Holmes Lane, I found out, is very far away and, in fact, barely exists. After driving for about 30 minutes, as vestiges of civilization disappeared into the rural darkness with each mile, I drove right past Holmes Lane, not noticing the unmarked dirt road until my second pass.
When I did figure out that it was probably the road I was looking for I hesitated to go. Holmes Lane is a one-lane dirt road in the backwater of the already backwater area where I live and at 7:30 p.m. it was pitch dark and intimidating. But I went, my car bouncing and sliding on the gravel and nothing but darkness on either side of me until I got to the very end of the road where three people were standing next to a pick up truck.
Eyeing an escape route the entire time, I rolled down my window and, as confidently as I could muster, I said, "Hi there, I'm with The Advocate and I heard someone reported their horse was shot. Do y'all know anything about that?"
A flannel-clad man wearing a winter hat with the ear flaps down and sporting very few teeth stepped forward and, pointing to a small horse tied to a fence, told me he was the one who called the Sheriff's Office.
I got out of my car was immediately enveloped in the creepy darkness and insect noises unique to the rural deep South. Adding to the surreal situation were the loud bellows coming from various unseen animals on the ear flap man's farm.
The farmer shined a flashlight on his wounded horse and, indeed, a small bullet hole near the animal's stomach heaved up and down with each labored breath. The horse wasn't doing well (it actually collapsed while I was talking to the guy) and the local vet said he didn't have the expertise to perform the complex operation it would take to remove the bullet and possibly save the horse.
According to the farm owner, this was just the latest in a string of animal shootings on his farm. He said a crazy old man down the road had killed 15 of his hogs, blew away four of his dogs with a shotgun and had killed various other animals on nearby farms. At this point I vaguely recalled something I had read about how most serial killers get their start by torturing and killing animals. This coupled with Baton Rouge's knack for producing such psycopaths and my utter isolation and vulnerability at that moment made for a disquieting situation.
Eventually, Sheriff's deputies arrived (yes, I beat them out there. I'm getting a little too good at my job and I routinely get to scenes as the cops arrive. I'm hoping I don't get to write the "I got shot" blog entry, although you have to admit it would be a cool story) and I got the man's number to follow up with him. Rumbling down the dirt road on my way out I was pleased: I got a truly weird cultural exchange, a good story and a possible article and I didn't even have to squeal like a pig.
Holmes Lane, I found out, is very far away and, in fact, barely exists. After driving for about 30 minutes, as vestiges of civilization disappeared into the rural darkness with each mile, I drove right past Holmes Lane, not noticing the unmarked dirt road until my second pass.
When I did figure out that it was probably the road I was looking for I hesitated to go. Holmes Lane is a one-lane dirt road in the backwater of the already backwater area where I live and at 7:30 p.m. it was pitch dark and intimidating. But I went, my car bouncing and sliding on the gravel and nothing but darkness on either side of me until I got to the very end of the road where three people were standing next to a pick up truck.
Eyeing an escape route the entire time, I rolled down my window and, as confidently as I could muster, I said, "Hi there, I'm with The Advocate and I heard someone reported their horse was shot. Do y'all know anything about that?"
A flannel-clad man wearing a winter hat with the ear flaps down and sporting very few teeth stepped forward and, pointing to a small horse tied to a fence, told me he was the one who called the Sheriff's Office.
I got out of my car was immediately enveloped in the creepy darkness and insect noises unique to the rural deep South. Adding to the surreal situation were the loud bellows coming from various unseen animals on the ear flap man's farm.
The farmer shined a flashlight on his wounded horse and, indeed, a small bullet hole near the animal's stomach heaved up and down with each labored breath. The horse wasn't doing well (it actually collapsed while I was talking to the guy) and the local vet said he didn't have the expertise to perform the complex operation it would take to remove the bullet and possibly save the horse.
According to the farm owner, this was just the latest in a string of animal shootings on his farm. He said a crazy old man down the road had killed 15 of his hogs, blew away four of his dogs with a shotgun and had killed various other animals on nearby farms. At this point I vaguely recalled something I had read about how most serial killers get their start by torturing and killing animals. This coupled with Baton Rouge's knack for producing such psycopaths and my utter isolation and vulnerability at that moment made for a disquieting situation.
Eventually, Sheriff's deputies arrived (yes, I beat them out there. I'm getting a little too good at my job and I routinely get to scenes as the cops arrive. I'm hoping I don't get to write the "I got shot" blog entry, although you have to admit it would be a cool story) and I got the man's number to follow up with him. Rumbling down the dirt road on my way out I was pleased: I got a truly weird cultural exchange, a good story and a possible article and I didn't even have to squeal like a pig.
