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.

Cake and Candles

It was my birthday...

...and now, I am 23.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.  

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.

Eve of Destruction

From the Superdome...

It's not like last time.  This time, there's no foolish bravado, only fear.  People are packing up and moving out, some for good. 

Saturday night, normally one of the five or ten busiest weekends of the year;  Most restaurants are closed, most hotels are boarded up.  Bars are open, but the crowds are thin.   Sunday morning, and the streets are deserted-- we close up the Ambassador Hotel and hit the road.

We're driving to Natchez, Mississippi, where we operate a Country Inns and Suites.  Contraflow starts on I-10, extends on I-55 up to McComb, and the traffic is still bumper to bumper.  We should have taken Highway 61, but lessons learned.  There's nothing to do but creep along and drink.  It's 10am.

On the Road...

The Drinking...

The Peeing...

Who Dat?

I had been to the Superdome before... Tulane played their home games there (except for Homecoming, which commences in Tad Gormley Stadium in city Park, which is small and altogether unimpressive.  Go figure.)  But I had never been to a Saints game before--

Conchetta and I

Jeana, Conchetta, and Abby

Abby and I

Myself, Abby, Coach Wayne, and Conchetta

Sure, it was just a preseason game.  And the seats were pretty far back in the nosebleeds.  And the Saints lost to the Dolphins, who are apparently one of the worst teams in the league and therefore this game doesn't bode well for the rest of the season...  But the tickets were free, and the company was great.  We went to Dino's (where else?) after-- it was a good time.

The City of New Orleans

For the time being, I've gone home.  I left Tennessee via train on Wednesday and headed down to New Orleans.  This is the first time I've trained for such a long distance in years, and, whenever possible, will be my choice in modes of travel.  There's lots of leg room, the seats are large and comfy, and this train in particular wasn't particularly crowded-- hopefully that's the norm.  

Apparently, however, despite the imminent fun of Southern Decadence, I've chosen a bad weekend to visit-- with Hurricane Gustav, the weather is going to get bad.  We'll see.  I didn't know of this until I was on the train halfway here, but probably would have come anyway.  

Anyway, I've been offered a position with New Orleans Boutique Hotels similar, although not quite the same, as the position I held right before my departure.  That is a stroke of luck-- now all I need is to find a room somewhere in the Marigny or the Quarter I can rent for a month or two.

It's great to be back-- to see the old haunts and the old faces.  To stay out past two and eat great food.  Plus Southern Decadence is this weekend-- God knows what trouble I'll get into then.  But anyway, I think I'm staying here through Halloween.

The Recipe Corner

I haven't posted anything in the while, because when I'm in Clarksburg I seldom do anything worth posting about.  I sit a home, watch TV, drink and eat.  So, I'll share these awesome recipe with everyone.  They are, possibly, the best things ever.

Greek Pork Loin--

What you need:

A pork tenderloin (9-11lbs)

roasted red sweet peppers

feta cheese

olive oil

a few green olives

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees, grease a baking dish with the olive oil.  Make a slit through the middle of the tenderloin, and rub the whole thing with olive oil and a little salt/pepper if you want.  Stuff the peppers and the feta into the slit in the pork, tie it up with bakers twine so everything doesn't fall out and put the whole thing in the baking dish.  Lie the peppers and the olives alongside the meat, and then toss it in the oven.  Let it cook for about an hour and fifteen minutes, and once it's done, eat that delicious shit.

Crawfish Etouffee--

What you need:

one stick of butter

a green pepper

a red onion

a tomato

several mushrooms

three stalks of celery

three tablespoons of cajun seasoning (more or less to taste)

two tablespoons of minced garlic

a couple of bay leaves

Alright, chop the vegetables and throw all the above ingredients in a pan.  Sautee everything until the onions, celery and such are tender.  Add 1 cup of water and 2 cups of crawfish tail meat to the pan, cover, and simmer for 10 minutes, stirring ever so often.  After ten minutes, remove from heat, stir in a tablespoon of flour and let sit uncovered for another ten minutes to thicken.  Serve over rice.

Stuffed Tilapia--

What you need:

four nice tilapia filets

a bag of seasoned croutons

an egg

3/4 cup of milk

1 1/2 cups grated parmesan cheese

1 tablespoon minced garlic

1 tablespoon choice seasoning

Preheat oven to 'broil' setting.  Crust your tilapia with as much of the cheese as necessary to get a good coating.  Crush the croutons by hand (if you use a blender, the crumbs will be too fine), throw them in a bowl and add the egg, the milk, the garlic, the seasoning and the rest of the cheese.  Mix it together, and place a generous amount of the concoction on top of each fish filet.  Place the stuffed fish onto a baking sheet and broil in the oven for 4-6 minutes, until fish is done and flakes when pierced with a fork.

New Century Of Cinema: Children of Men

(This is a new, fairly regular column I'm going to try to keep posted, where I examine and review my choices for the best films 

of the first decade of the new century. I don't get to watch movies particularly often, but I'll add to this list as I can.)

It is the year 2027 and no children have been born anywhere in the world for more than eighteen years.  Without a future, society is on the brink of annihilation; most nations have crumbled, Britain soldiers on.  Suicide drugs are free, immigrants are caged into unspeakable camps to await deportation or death, and fascism and terror battle for the upper hand.  Yet, in the midst of the blackness, even at the end, there is hope.  That is the premise of Alfonso Cuaron's Children of Men, a stunning film of remarkable emotion and visceral impact.

Clive Owen plays Theo Farron, a one-time political activist now consigned to apathy.  One day he is kidnapped by a militant activist group headed by his ex-lover (Julianne Moore).  She asks him to use his influence to procure transit papers for a young refugee, Kee (Clare-Hope Ashitey); it is pivotal she be allowed to move unencumbered towards the coast.  He obliges.  After a sudden assassination that couples the realization that Kee is pregnant and in great danger, he becomes her protector.  Together they flee from the government and the radicals, winding up in Bexhill Refugee Camp where they're to meet a ship that will transport Kee safely out of Britian.

Cuaron's vision of mankind at the end of days is enthralling.  There are times when we are so engrossed we forget that we're seeing sets and special effects; we mistake this London for a real place. Children of Men works so well because it doesn't opt to reinvent the wheel.  There are no towering CGI effects--it takes little stretch of imagination to see the world coming to this in twenty years.  The production designers (Jim Clay and Geoffrey Kirkland) have peppered their cityscape with government propaganda reminiscent of New York's anti-terror campaign (I was also reminded of the wanted posters in Cuaron's Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban).   Everything looks much as it does now, but older and less cared for.  Stray animals roam the streets, unoccupied with the troubles of man.  The refugee camp is a brilliant achievement,  effectively evoking Polish ghettos in World War Two.  There are beautiful scenes in an abandoned grade school that linger long after the credits roll.

I have made the film sound as if it is only a visual achievement, but it succeeds on all levels.  It is, above all, an action film and it has sequences so taut and brutal it makes the animated theatrics of Michael Bay seem like a Nickelodeon cartoon.  Shooting in long, unbroken takes, these scenes have an urgency that the audience responds to with a teeth-clenching physicality.  A chase down a tree-lined highway is terrifying, because it shows us for the first time of what the film is capable.  Theo's ascent in a war-torn, bullet-riddled apartment complex is unbearable, because we know how much is at stake.  Using all the tools at his disposal-- CGI, editing, cinematography-- Cuaron has created a thriller for the ages.

What elevates Children of Men from standard issue sci-fi action and ultimately makes it a masterpiece, however, is that it never allows the human aspect of its tale to take second stage to the visuals or the action, and the film has scenes so powerful that they moved me to tears.  In the beginning, all faith in humanity is drained from this picture.  Then, slowly and assuredly, in tiny gestures in the unlikeliest of places, it returns.  The result is an undeniable emotional response that subconsciously swells within us, breaking the surface in breathtaking moments that leave us gasping.  It is pivotal that we believe these characters are real people struggling for meaning in times that do not invite it, and we do.  The performances are indicative of this-- low key and pitch perfect.  Julianne Moore and Michael Caine (as an aging hippie) have small roles, but they leave an impression.  As the everyman, Clive Owen is great at projecting an ordinary guy in extraordinary circumstances.  And Clare-Hope Ashitey grounds scenes simply with her presence.

Yes, this future is bleak, but this film is not hopeless.  By dragging us so breathlessly through all this fear and dread and asking us to examine a stunningly rendered future world that is almost unbearable, Cuaron helps us  to appreciate the beams of goodness in his vision of the end of humanity.  And despite all this darkness, there is so much light.

Return to the Digital Age

Yes, it's true.  I have sold out.

Upon my arrival in Clarksburg, what happened other than the abrupt forcing upon me of a damnable cellphone?  A Samsung BlackJack... what the hell is this nonsense?  My parents demanded I take the thing-- no! I cried--  It shall meet the same watery fate as my last phone.  It shall be cast into the brown depths of the Mississippi river, never to annoy or bother again.

But, wait-- I can access e-mail from here.  And sort of surf the web.  And man, aren't text messages swell...

Oh well, I'll save my rebellion for some other day.

That Greyhound isn't gray...it's red!

"TORONTO - A 40-year-old man who witnesses said stabbed and beheaded his seat mate on a Greyhound bus in Canada made his first court appearance Friday, while police offered no motive for the savage attack against the 22-year-old carnival worker. " --from the Associated Press Well, allow me to offer a motive. This is every Greyhound passengers dream. Sitting that close to someone, probably for 14, 15, 16 hours, unable to sleep due to the seat configuration and the noise and the constant stops and speeches by the driver is enough to drive anyone to savagery. The richest people on a Greyhoud are those with two seats to themselves. I've witnessed two verbal altercations on Greyhounds, altercations where an entire busload of people shit forth their anger and frustration onto one unlucky, inconsiderate, damnable bastard. These buses make people uncontrollably, incurably angry. I almost wish I had been on this particular bus when the particular incident occured. I bet the head fell into the floor and rolled towards the toilet in the back. I wonder if I could have kept from giggling.