Sunday, September 28, 2008

Epic Fail: The Daiquiri Bay Knife Fight and My Descent into Alcoholism

Attention class-- Please raise your hand if you believed I had the constitution to be a non-drinking sober person. Anyone?  Anyone?  Well, to hell with you all, you were right.

That Jeana Richard with the evil red eyes?  She just might be the devil.  That is a chocolate daiquiri and it was absolutely fabulous.

But in my defense-- I had only moments prior had a near-death experience, and had no choice but to turn to alcohol to calm my nerves.  Yes, it's true.  we were at Daiquiri Bay, a lovely little daq shop near our Metarie home when, hark, what sound but a woman screaming?  Nay, not really screaming.  Bellowing.  Like a cow.  Apparently some crazy NOLA East boy pulled a knife on her because she was being drunken and annoying.  She told him it was very disrespectful to say "fuck" in front of her.  Or she told him it was disgusting that he threw up in the bathroom.  Or something.  I don't know... Either way he pulled a knife but was driven away by a pack of angry regular customers.  The boy fled on foot and the police came.  They asked us is we saw anything.  We didn't.  

Later, we went to Frat House and I had more to drink.  Oh, alcohol.  It's good to have you back.

Saturday, September 27, 2008

In Memory: Paul Newman

Paul Newman was the perfect movie star.  There may have been better actors (Brando, maybe?  Bogart, possibly? Hepburn, probably?) but there wasn't anyone who just owned the screen, brought in the crowds and was as sexy as hell as Paul.

He starred in three or four of my favorite films (Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Hud, The Hustler, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid), starred in a bushel of other films that I admired (Cars, Road to Perdition, The Towering Inferno, Cool Hand Luke), and made a line of delicious salad dressings, all profits of which went to charity (close to 250 million since it's inception).

He was the reigning king of Hollywood, among the most elite in the classic aristocracy, the definition of class, cool, and sex appeal, and he will be missed.

Paul Newman died of complications with lung cancer in Connecticut on Friday.

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

Souled Out

Topic A--

On September 22 (yesterday) I sold my soul to the almighty god of profit and returned to work in the dark mines of despair that is the reservations office of New Orleans Boutique Hotels (Have you noticed my ridiculous indecision about this particular career path in my last several posts?  Are you as bored with and annoyed by this wishy-washy petulant whining as I have become?  Good-- just confirming we are, in fact, on the same page).  Really, I had no other choice.  I was flat out of money and had spent the week prior on a desperate quest throughout Metarie trying to find some responsibility-less nonsense blue-collar/retail/food service thing, but was continually turned down because (I can only assume) I was either over-qualified or unconvincing in my guarantees that I would take the job seriously and was in it for the long haul.  Anyway, no one would hire me.  So I chartered my little canoe and sailed down the River Styx back into Hades.  No, really--it is very, very bad.  I spend nine hours a day in various states of unhappiness and rage.  It makes me hate not only my boss and coworkers and patrons, but every single other person in the entire world who doesn't have to be there.  I'm counting down the days until the second of October, because that's the day on which I will have been there long enough to have received a paycheck large enough to pay Jeana what I owe her, and can make a big, unruly scene and walk out.  Oh, how I despise that awful, awful place.

Topic B--

I have stopped drinking.  Yes, yes-- I know.  That is a serious thing to do, but I truly believe it was time.  You may remember a few weekend back (or was it last weekend?  Time is hard)  when I missed Jen and the Saints game due to exhaustion and intoxication... well, too many weekends like that would kill someone.  But another weekend like the one just past, and someone would kill me.  Friday-- drunk fight with Abby (moderately wasted).  Saturday-- working at Ohm (completely, unbelievable destroyed).  Sunday-- drinking and watching the Saints game (still wasted from previous night) and then throwing up inside Jeana's (new) Xterra (sobered up slightly after that in order to make an admirable go at cleaning the interior of the car.  Unfortunately, that new car smell is gone forever).  So yeah, I'm fairly lucky I have a place to live and a life to live therein with, because so many people wished harm and death upon me over this (my birthday) weekend that I had no choice but to reevaluate my existence. No more alcohol.  No really, I mean it.  

P.S. Jeana has forgiven me and vowed to get me to start drinking again. If anyone could do it, I think she's the only one with the right, but I'm standing firm.  No more alcohol.  Seriously, I'm not joking.  Done.

Saturday, September 20, 2008

Sunday, September 14, 2008

New Century Of Cinema: Closer


There is a scene about half way through Closer that just about sums up the characters and, this being an intricate, intimate character study, the film itself.  It's a stupendous scene, probably the best in the film-- two break-ups, juxtaposed against each other for maximum effect.  Dan (Jude Law), a mopey, selfish man-child obsessed with love more as an idea than an occupation tells Alice (Natalie Portman), his girl friend of several years that he is leaving her for another woman.  Alice, young and seemingly truly in love, begs and pleads and cries.  "But I'm supposed to leave you."  And she does, finally, fleeing the apartment in angst the moment Dan leaves the room.

Across town, Larry (Clive Owen) chooses to confess a one night stand to his wife Anna (Julia Roberts).  Anna doesn't get too upset-- she's Dan's mistress and was probably about to leave Larry anyway.  Unlike their peers, these two opt out of the weeping and whining-- the gloves come off and they go for the jugular   "Don't say I'm too good for you," Larry roars, reaffirming himself against the middle class upstart angst that's probably plagued him since before he became a successful doctor, "I am, but don't say it."  Later, backed into a corner, Anna comes out swinging-- "He tastes like you, but sweeter."

So, yes-- Closer, as directed by the incomparable Mike Nichols and written by Patrick Marber (based on his late-90s play of the same name) is a film about two adults and two children playing love as a game.  That these characters are performed by four attractive, talented people (Law, Portman, Roberts and Owen, in order of appearance) acting at the top of their game would, by itself, make the film a must-see.  That the film is insightful, accurate, vicious and able to make your skin crawl, makes it a classic.

I said the film was about two adults and two children, and judging by that cast list, there isn't a minor amongst them.  True, physically, but on an emotional level Law and Portman are younger than Natalie was when she made her debut (in The Professional, at 14).  Their Dan and Alice make eye contact across a busy London street just moments before she is knocked cold by a taxi-- he rushes her to the hospital, and love ensues.  A year or so later, he meets Anna (Roberts), and again it is love at first sight.  However, the results of a cruel practical joke Dan plays brings Larry (Owen) into Anna's life and they eventually wed.  Not, however, before Dan and Anna begin the afore-mentioned affair that will eventually ruin both of them.

Jude Law plays Dan as a man incapable of compromise, incapable of selflessness and by the end of the film his is the one character who most deserves exactly what comes to him-- which is absolutely nothing.  On the opposite end of the spectrum is Julia Robert's Anna, a mature woman who has been through all these games before and finds them exhausting.  Natalie Portman plays Alice first as a weepy little girl, then as an enigmatic woman, and both times keeps the impression of a child trying on different hats to find the one she likes the best.  By the end of the film, she's the only character who has surprised us because, as the youngest, here innate nature is still evolving.  She doesn't know who she is...how can we?

That brings me to Clive Owen, who, in the film's best performance smolders, blazes and sets the screen on fire.  Here is a man who, without any silly romantic notions, understands the rules of the game and plays them to maximum effect.  He gets what he wants whilst systematically destroying his opponents.  And yet, while he does some shady, underhanded things, by the end of the film I felt a little justified that he wound up with Anna-- heaven's knows that's the only relationship in the movie that ever had a chance of lasting.

The film was directed by Mike Nichols, and this is his best theatrical effort in years, possibly since his Carnal Knowledge in 1971 (he also brought Tony Kushner's Angels in America to HBO in 2003, and that is, perhaps, the greatest thing ever done anywhere by anyone, but, for sake of argument we'll contain our hyperbole to the silver screen).  Here, some of his staging feels a bit, well, stagy-- the theatrical roots of the production remain fairly evident, but the intimacy he brings to the production could only be achieved through film and  helps to make the painful things that occur on the screen hurt even more.  He uses beautiful sets and classical music to accentuate the ugly things the characters do, and Nichol's has always had a way with dialogue (see Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf or The Graduate)-- here, Patrick Marber's razor sharp script give him plenty to work with. 

I think it's an accurate depiction of love in the first decade of the new century, where selfishness and stunted development and a 'win at all costs' mentality has permeated society and has turned dating into a war zone.  And with words as daggers and sex as bombs, these four know bloody well there are no rules.

Friday, September 12, 2008

Things Have Changed

1.  I am not in any position in regards to temperament  nor situation to return to work at New Orleans Boutique Hotels.  Perhaps I will look into joining an organization less fanatical in their devotion to the cause, like al Qaeda or the Border Patrol.  I'm going to fill out an application at a grocery store tomorrow.  Hotel reservations chapter closed.  No really, topic off the table.  Done.

2. Despite all evidence put forth by my new MySpace default photo, I really am not a douche bag.  Seriously.  Okay... maybe a little.  But not a douche bag of such epic proportions as this:

I need to do some charity work to wash the asshole off of my hands.

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

Just Like a Woman: Joani Richard Turns 21

There is, really, no excuse whatsoever to justify being at Harrah's at 6am on a weekday... unless, of course, someone is turning twenty one and it's there first time there.  And although these pictures don't represent it (these are from the bar-crawl before and the party the next night), we really were there.  At 6am.  Which I've done before.  More than once.  Ugh.

Birthday Girl
Russo, Tracy, Joani
an assortment of girls
Brad, Jeana, DJ, Russo

I have partied nonstop for two days...again.  That's twice in less than a week.  With my own birthday coming up, I may just disintegrate into a puddle of light beer and tequila.  I'm hungover.  I need a nap.  Happy birthday, Joani.

Monday, September 8, 2008

Tangled Up In Blue

(...and, by the way, we're going to stay on this Bob Dylan train until it derails.  It tickles me.)

Everything went wrong this weekend, and I have no one but myself to blame.  Well, no one but myself for most of it.  

I certainly isn't my fault that the stupid NOPD came into the Ohm on Friday and shut the fucking place down at 2:30am, threatening to throw everyone in jail and neighing incessantly about stupid 'curfew'.  Nor is it my fault that, to avoid the same thing happening again we shut Ohm down at two the next night, which prevented anyone from making any money because, let's be honest, no one comes out on Saturday before 2 anyway.  So, we went to Amps to relax with free drinks and, y'know what?, stupid fucking NOPD rolled in about 3 and shut them down, too.  Ridiculous fuckfaces.

My blame comes into play with the fact that Jen was in town from Baltimore for a couple of days and I wanted to see her and didn't, and that I had a comp ticket to the Saints game on Sunday and didn't go.  After spending Friday night and Saturday night twisted on tequila, coffee, and coke I crashed and crashed hard come Sunday morning, missing noon kick-off by three hours and Jen lunch by four.  So, if I had behaved and acted responsibly, I could have seen Jen and gone to the game, but would have never broken into a pool to go skinny dipping, camped in the back of a car for 4 hours, or done lines in the bathroom of a CCs on Magazine Street.  I'm not sure the scales don't level out here.   

But anyway, we are all Sisyphus' children, and like a fool I have descended back into the quagmire that is New Orleans Boutique Hotels.  I was officially brought back onto staff in a ridiculous meeting on Monday, and will return to the office as soon as the phones are corrected (they still are undergoing post-Gustav problems).  I am not happy about this situation-- I am pretty sure I will regret it, and become bitter and miserable before I leave.  But, even if you know you're in a circle, it doesn't mean you can break out.  Fuck it-- I'm in New Orleans until after Halloween.

Wednesday, September 3, 2008

Highway 61 Revisited

Enough.  Goddamn, enough is enough.  Things have wandered awry.  Why is it that there cannot be a hurricane evacuation that is not surreal, unpleasant and painful.  If Katrina was like Apocalypse Now, a long strange journey into madness, then Gustav was A Streetcar Named Desire-- a group of people living together who should not, drinking more than anyone should.  Some beaten down, some desperate for love and attention.  Bitches, peacekeepers, the oblivious.  There were bound to be fireworks.  It is too late tonight to drag the past out into the light.

Josh and Abby
Wayne, Joe and Abby
Abby
Suffice it to say, there were fun times in Natchez.  Bowies, The Under-the-Hill Saloon, Andrews-- these are fun places.  Maybe the match to the kindling was when the power went out.  And stayed out for more than twenty four hours.  It got hot, no one could sleep-- everyone was tired.  And in the end, Abby and I were deserted in the hotel, lied to, and generally made to look like fools.  I am tired of these little children and their little children ways.  We took scenic Highway 61 back to New Orleans, and, by God, we got there.  It was a little victory.  

Monday, September 1, 2008

Shelter from the Storm

We have evacuated to Natchez, Mississippi, a small tourist-esque town on the banks of the Mississippi about 2 hours from New Orleans.  It's a lovely town, filled with antebellum structures and stunning overlooks down onto the river.  The bars stay open late and most are within a decent proximity-- the city rewards aimless wandering.

According to a history of the city I found, it had more antebellum structures, per capita, in it's city limits than anywhere else in the country-- they still stand because the town surrendered without a fight to Union forces during the war, being adamantly opposed to cessation to begin with.  And no wonder-- with more millionaires per capita than anywhere else in the nation at the time, clearly bloody battles would be bad for business.