The other day when I went to pick these pictures up there was this girl there. She was cute, you know? Petite, tight little shirt, indigo bell-bottoms, drawn-on eyebrows and a tattoo in the small of her back. Really hip, really with-it.

Except for her hair.

I am not, usually, a noticer of hair. This, though, was a crime against all hair everywhere. Her hair was mainly red, but it had been streaked blonde in front.

This was not the bad part.

The bad part, y'all, was that someone had given this girl a hell-perm. She had these tiny, supertight curls, almost afro-like...where it wasn't frizzed out away from her head...and where it wasn't gone. Big, gaping bald splotches spotted her head. The blonde streaks in front hung limp and greasy in her face.

It was so sad.

I swear, if I was her I'd fuckin' kill whoever did that to me. Invest in hats, darlin'. You're gonna have to let that grow out. I'm sorry.

Sonya and I met Jen and James at House of India for dinner Monday night. I had never had Indian food before.

"Y'all know that temple in India where they let the rats run free all over the place?" I asked Jen and James as I slid into the booth.

They both nodded.

"Is the kitchen like that?"

They assured me it was not.

The food was pretty good, too. Indian food is all right. And the artwork in this place was a hoot! Lots of Indian folk, running around, doing Indian things and whatnot. All the Indian chicks in these paintings, though, had on these tiny little tops that showed most of their boobs, a la any number of Snap-On Tool posters.

I pointed to one especially sexy one, where some Indian Barry White was about to make sweet love to his Calcutta honey.

"He's about to ganesha the hell out of her punesh," I cracked.

For a photo shoot the other day at work we borrowed a genuine Gibson guitar - a Lucille, to be exact. I got to play with it!

It was so cool, y'all. It fits naturally in the hands, with a fast neck and gleaming gold hardware. I - who have no talent, music-wise - even managed to wring some sweet sounds out of it, without an amp.

It is a quality instrument. It also costs several thousands dollars. At one point, with the gig back over my shoulder, I was tempted to head for the horizon and make my living as an itenerant bluesman. I would be Harold "Catfish" Williams, always moving along to avoid the law, born under a bad sign.

But I decided not to. The white-boy-blues market is pretty saturated right now.

Last night, Sonya and I were discussing Ricky Martin. More specifically, Ricky Martin's sexual orientation.

"You know," I opined, "after going to Backstreet the other night and actually seeing all the gay guys, and seeing what's hip with the gay guys these days, you have to admit that Ricky Martin really has the look, you know?"

"True," Sonya agreed.

Don't take my word for it, though. Better minds than mine have been worried about this same subject: check out Camille Paglia in today's Salon for a thoughtful look at this extremely important topic. Camille annoys me on occasion (she has a horrid tendency to blow her own horn and canonize her '60s youth) but this time I think she hits pretty close to the mark.

If you're an on-line journal reader you may be familiar with Scott Anderson's Words, a sardonic and always-entertaining view of life in Canada. The only bad thing about Scott's work is that he's just a touch too smug about his Canadian-ness.

[Thanks to Suck for being so darn funny - especially concerning Canadians.]

Anyway, to quote Scott:

...the Buffy the Vampire Slayer two-hour season finale won't be broadcast in the U.S. because of the weekly schoolyard shoot-em-ups or something. Oh come on. That is so lame. We had the first copycat shooting in Alberta and we still got to see it. America: nation of pussies.

That's as opposed to Canada: nation of Molson Ice, Loverboy and Howie Mandel.

Really, though. I kid, but Scott has one of the best journals going. read it, I say.

I believe Sonya and I will take a little trip to New Orleans this weekend. Long weekend, we both get paid this week, nothing really planned...it's probably best that we get out of town. No telling what kind of trouble we could get up to if we stayed.

Anyway, here's a lovely Victorian description of the Crescent City, circa 1853:

"At the gates, the winds brought intimation of the corruption lurking within. Not a puff was not laden with the rank atmosphere from rotting corpses. Inside they were piles by the fifties, exposed to the heat of the sun, swollen with corruption, bursting their coffin lidsŠwhat a feast of horrors. Inside, corpses piled in pyramids and without the gates, old and withered crones and fat huxter women . . . dispensing ice creams and confections, and brushing away . . . the green bottleflies that hovered on their merchandise and that anon buzzed away to drink dainty inhalations from the green and festering corpses."

Makes you wonder why the Chamber of Commerce down there doesn't use that in their literature, doesn't it?

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