Toulouse

In honor of Halloween and me dressing like Marilyn Manson for my at-work Halloween party, a little story from the summer or 2001:

Jose and Camille, a couple we knew from Memphis, had come down to New Orleans for the Depeche Mode concert. That was Friday night. On Saturday night, we went to the Shim Sham Club to see the debut of the live Hedwig. Afterwards we were going to go drinking and dancing on lower Decatur, so we were dressed up.

I wasn't dressed that crazy for that time in my life. Big stomping boots, vinyl pants, t-shirt, eyeliner, spiky hair. Sonya had the vinyl skirt and boots going, along with a wig and suitable dramatic make-up. Jose and Camille were hardcore, though, and made us look like amateurs. Jose had on a skirt and boots too, and a mesh shirt and more make-up than Sonya and I combined. Camille had on some traffic-stopping stockings/heels/cleavage combo.

So we're walking down Toulouse, headed for the Shim Sham. Sonya, Camille and Jose are a little ways in front of me and I'd dropped back to light a smoke. It's seven, eight at night in the summer; still light, still hot. We walk by Ralph and Kacoo's, which has a long bar room/waiting area with a big window looking out on the street. A cute blonde middle-aged tourist from Alabama or Ohio or somewhere was behind the glass, looking out on the street and talking with her friends. She's talking and smiling and laughing and then I see her eyes land on my people up ahead of me and her expression instantly changed like she'd seen the Antichrist and his Infernal Whores strolling down the sidewalk.

"Oh my God," she mouthed as she and her friends surged towards the window to get a better look. I gave them a merry smile and continued on my way.

The Music Critic

After school this afternoon I buckled John into his seat in my car. I got in and turned on the radio. The early nineties groaner Ice, Ice Baby came on.

"That's not a good song," John said from the back seat without hesitation.

"You're right, son," I said and changed the station. Bobby Brown, My Prerogative.

"That's a good song," John said.

"Yep," I agreed, "that's Bobby Brown, John. Classic New Jack Swing."

"I want to go see Bobby Brown."

"Well, son, I'll take you if he comes to town. I don't think he tours much, though. He's pretty busy."

Lost In You

Driving home from work one day and the Rod Stewart song Lost In You comes on the radio. The lyrics raise my eyebrows.

And then one of my coworkers called me.

"I just wanted to tell you," she said, "I'm behind this car, and the bumper sticker says, 'men come in three sizes: small, medium, and oh my God.'"

"Yeah?" I countered. "Well, I just heard Rod Stewart say that he wants to make love to some woman like he's fifteen men. That's not right?"

"So Rod is going to make it like a gangbang?"

"Exactly."

"Maybe we should introduce him to the woman driving this car in front of me."

Toast

They've started a Toastmasters chapter where I work. Allegedly, Toastmasters helps you with your fear of public speaking...by making you speak in public.

"I don't know about all of that," I told one of my coworkers, "it seems like if they really wanted to help you with a fear of public speaking they'd send out a replacement to speak for you...or to kidnap the person who's making you speak. Then people would get the message: Harold's not talking."

Rehab

So Represetative Foley checked into rehab. That's pretty neat. Apparently he was a drunk. How much of a drunk? He was such a big drunk that he had to send dirty text messages to teenage boys. Wow. That's pretty darned drunk. I've had a lot to drink in my time and I've never done that. I know some pretty hard-core drinkers, too, and I've never known any of them to send graphic messages to anyone underage.

What exactly was Foley drinking, anyway?

Coworker

This was one of my coworkers at Tulane. She got a new job, post-hurricane, and was quoted in a story about the industry she works in now:

"I'm local -- born and raised. When I came back I had a job, but I ended up being unhappy there..."

I can only imagine what an unhappy place the urology department was after Katrina. Not that it was Disneyland before. But corpse-stink (from the anatomy department around the corner) and high-functioning psychopaths in the faculty would have made it a new circle of hell. Had I still been working there and had the option of going back to Tulane or bailing out floodwater with a spoon I would have been reaching for the silverware drawer.