Random Rouge Friday

I don't got much today kids.

To market, to market I walked to the fancy-ish market Calandro's the other day for supplies. I definitely got the cold shoulder from the previously warm old-lady cashier after I offered up my cloth bags to the bagger and she carded me and saw my license was from the Jerse. Either she is suspicious of people concerned about the environment, or Jersey folk, or northeasterners, or Jersey folk who look way younger than their driver's license says, or all of the above. Bitch.

On the way home I noticed a new sit-down dining establishment called [So and So's] EAT PLACE. "Eat Place?" Was "Restaurant" too hoity-toity? I also noticed that just about anyone feels like they can talk to you if you're walking around down here, even some dude hanging out in front of the Walgreens.
"Can I holler at you for a few minutes?"
"Um, no thanks..."
I had hollering to do elsewhere. You know what I mean, though? Like I'm just walking around with two bags of groceries, but sure, let's have an old-fashioned Walgreens gab sesh.

ROOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAD TRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIP My super fun pal Leah and I are going to be heading down in my VW bus from Philly to Baton Rouge a few weeks from now. (And then I'll have wheels again!) Your recommendations for: places to stop for the night that might be along the way, places to stop to look around that might be along the way, whether two women camping in the South would be recommended, how not to get murdered, etc. are most welcome. We're definitely stopping at a friend's ranch in Louisville, and may also stop in Nashville and/or Memphis.


What hath Jim Morrison wrought Speaking of Leah, we looove making fun of Jim Morrison, so I hope she sees this. A mindblowing audio and visual feast in a purple palate of manly mysticism, beast-within bears, noble eagles, and dream-catching dreamcatchers, Dreaming Bear is a website that keeps on giving. I can't stop looking at his Photoshopped montages, like this one, where he has angel wings and a tangle of baby bears is adorably roughhousing in front of thim. I think this one came after, and then the bear mauled him for getting so close to her babies.

UPDATE: [gasp] Dreaming Bear has a tramp stamp!

Ms. Cityfolk over here needs an explanation, please

I assume this has something to do with scaring away unwanted critters? But I'm thinking about getting one just to mess with the dog and cat. And hey! It's only $7.99.

(This was in a collection of sale circulars that arrives at least once a week. I think mailing store flyers has been or is in the process of being phased out in NYC, as we hardly ever got them back home. How 'bout ending this wasteful practice, Baton Rouge? I don't need 10 sets of coupons for fake fast-food "pizza" a week. Or any, really.)

UPDATE: What, no locals are chiming in today? Nobody knows what this thing is really for? Come on people, enquiring minds want to know.

Playdate

The two people I spent the most time with yesterday (that's right, TWO whole people!) were strangers I met thanks to the Internets. They were a rad woman and her 8-year-old daughter introduced by another Internet friend, the lovely and talented photographer (/commenter on this blog) Amy. They took me to lunch, and my first hangout with locals turned out to be good times.

I think it's great that someone I'd never met in real life offered up her favorite Baton Rouge friend, and then that busy friend was game to hang out with some blogger jerk from New York. She's already offered to take me out more again and have me over for cocktails. I really don't know that people would make as much of an effort back home.

And being around a smart chatty little girl reminded me how much fun kids can be. From my teenage years until after college, I used to babysit all the time, and some of those kids were my little buddies. I miss kids. (Jesus, you take me out of the city for five seconds and I start cooking meat, stop wearing shoes*, and wanting to push out some younguns. JK!!! I have a lot more to do before any of that baby grossout business, if ever. Start earning a respectable living for one thing, and getting over being grossed out by pregnancy, for another.)

Speaking of the kids today, here's a short story from a collection called The Weird Story that the young lady I met yesterday wrote and illustrated.

Kids
Hi we are kids
Kids




*This weekend was the first time I wore any shoes besides flip flops in almost a month, other than sneakers for mowing the lawn.

The chicken and the egg

I think I love my boyfriend, if you couldn't tell by the fact that I moved with him to Baton Rouge from somewhere else not in Louisiana. Last night for his birthday, me, the 12-years-plus vegetarian/former vegan cooked him Southern fried chicken and risotto for his birthday.
I know: I am the best girlfriend ever!
/worst vegetarian ever?
/next soon-to-be ex vegetarian because I have commenced my descent on the slippery slope, as named by my now voracious carnivore/former vegetarian pal back in Brooklyn?

No, I'm pretty much just the best girlfriend ever.

Preparing took a bit of mental grappling. First I got some tips from my pal Julie, of the blog Vegetarian Marries Steak Lover. I realized this job would probably be on par with unpleasant tasks like cleaning up after the animals (which I'm used to), or as she said, cleaning the toilet.

In a way I was looking forward to the challenge, to see if I could do it. I carefully removed the carcass lump from the packaging, and Whole Foods' wrapping paper put my mind at ease, as it states their humane policies for their meats. No beakless chickens here. Without touching it, I put it in the steamer basket over boiling water to finish the thawing process. EWWW it's turning white! It's moldy or something! Oh right, chicken is supposed to turn lighter in color. I hadn't even come face to, er, breast with meat really since before Coolio had a hit.

Not only hadn't I cooked meat since Babe was in the theaters (and turned the actor who played the kindly old farmer vegetarian), I hadn't cracked an egg since Scary Movie was in theaters. I felt OK using these eggs, as they were the hippiest kind available at Whole Foods, the kind that practically promises they were laid piles at a time by hens swooning while Chicken Frank Sinatra and Chicken Bing Crosby croon for them.

I never miss meat, but the appeal of fried chicken is certainly not lost on me. Before I got into the veggie scene I was a big chicken eater, and there's just something so iconically mouth-watering about fried chicken. Over the years, I've made countless attempts at chicken-fried-tofu-type configurations, and my biggest DUH realization last night was how much easier recipes work with the real ingredients rather than hoping something known as egg replacer will serve the same function (for battering purposes, it really doesn't). I'd sought out fried chicken amalgams at NY veggie restaurants and am now over all of them, none are quite right. I'm not so into the fake meats anymore, though must shout out Quorn as my current favorite chicken-style cutlet.

I was maybe a little overzealous about contamination and washed the cutting board, implements, and my hands about 20 times throughout the process, and for fear of undercooking, I left the chicken in the steamer long enough for it all to be white before the frying process began. But overall, turns out the whole process wasn't that bad. It was still as satisfying to make something that I wasn't going to be eating and see that it looked, smelled, and apparently tasted the way it was supposed to. Then I used the same seasoning and battering process for my chunks of seitan, and we had a lovely dinner indeed.

Working hard and hardly working

Last night in New Orleans the boyfriend and I were treated to dinner at Emeril's French Quarter restaurant Nola, which very much "kicked it up a notch" in my belly! AHAHAHAH. Seriously though: ridiculously delicious. We all said "kick it up a notch" and "Bam!" about 47 times during the meal. Then we saw the end of the Liars' set followed by Interpol at House of Blues. I'm such an oldy that I couldn't stop yawning and couldn't wait to sit down, but felt I had zero right to feel that way, because our dinner friends had been quite drained from being on tour, not to mention my boyfriend who's been running on fumes all month. (In an entirely different way than I was running on fumes much later on.)

The bf has been working more hours than anyone I've ever seen this close up; between class and the studio he's putting in 20 hour days or close to it, every day of the week. I see him and his classmates doing it and still can't even imagine. Last night was only our third night out in over a month of being here, I think, and he couldn't help thinking how he had to get back. This morning he was beating himself up for "sleeping in" til 6:30. On his birthday.

Part of what's making this possible for him is a competitive drive to rank in the top of the small class. I find myself rather lacking in this helpful drive. The only thing I was really good and/or the best at in my classes as a kid was reading, writing, and art, and look where that's gotten me--the rewarding world of publishing! You might die of starvation, but look at how clever you are!™ Also, your pay breaks down to about $9/hour, but here's some free CDs!™ I wonder if there's some magical pill I could take to install a competitive drive this late in life. Possibly my namesake drug, but I'm going to pass on that.

Supposedly this is the worst semester for the program so my old man just has to power through two and a half more months or so before things return to a slightly more sane skedj. I'm inspired by how determined and dedicated he is, and the hope is that this difficult stretch will lead to much better, more fulfilling futures for us both.

In further navel-gazing news, it's also our one-year anniversary. It's been a big year, I must say. Here's the partial story of our first date.

Friday zone!

Yesterday there was a slight controversy in the comments touching on whether mega-popular comedian Dane Cook is funny and worthy of affection/hatred. A popular topic of late. While we're on the subject...

On this 21sth day of the Ninth month of 2007, I shall hereby and henceforth issue a decree:





















* Seth, I mean as a performer. I laughed a lot during Superbad, which he wrote. Knocked Up, however, felt like it was 9 months long in real time, and I did not understand why it was such a huge hit. Sarah's just mean and relies on shock value. I'd be reluctant to be in the same room as her for fear she'd turn her gaze on me, like Medusa. She reminds me of this hair farmer from my high school we secretly called Pumpkinhead because her foundation was so orange in contrast to her big platinum hair. She would just say the first thing that popped into her mind to anyone, and it was usually cruel. I don't think hurting people is necessarily a sign of a funny person.

So what IS so funny, then?

This.
Also, thanks to Amanda for passing along this monstrosity: The Out of Gas Biker Baby Boy Doll, A whimsical sleeping baby boy doll celebrating the spirit of the open road, available only from Ashton-Drake. I'm actually getting mad the more I think about someone or numerous someones spending $110 on this. Still funny, though.

Finally, if you didn't already see this on Gawker, here's one of my new favorites, LOL Secrets.

I'm off to NOLA twice this weekend! Talk amongst yourselves.

In the words of Onyx, "Slam!"

Yesterday turned out to be a good day, largely due to my unexpected contact with humans. There was an accident that turned into a big to-do on my street in the early evening that I would have completely missed had my bf not gotten home right when it happened. He called me to alert me to the excitement, and first I was like, "Who is this and why are you home during daylight hours while I'm awake?" (He hadn't come home at all the night before from the studio and had come in yesterday morning for about five minutes to grab stuff before heading right back to the studio. That's why he and the rest of the class left so early yesterday, they were dead on their feet.) I went out to find most of our neighborhood out gawking at the accident at the end of the street. At first I was like, whoops, forgot my shoes, but your man here was quite comfortable in no shirt and penguin-print pajama pants, so I figured I was fine.
















A UPS truck had flipped onto its side from the collision, but fortunately I don't think anyone was hurt, since no ambulance came.

Meanwhile, since everyone was outside to check out the hubbub, our street had turned into a social event. Cooper was running around like a maniac with a 12-foot branch in his mouth and we chatted with neighbors from a few doors up. Our friend Mary arrived, and it turned out she knew our other neighbor from high school in Austin. Just like when I was walking in Brooklyn during the big power failure of 2003 and in the darkness heard everyone out on their stoops with candles and snacks and drinks gabbing away to each other, it made me wish it was like this more often, instead of everyone being isolated in our technology bubbles.

Mary came inside for a bit, then later I made delish Mexican Cantina dinner (seitan burritos, kicked up with Chachere's, with fresh guac) and it was the most mexcellent meal since I've been here.

Later they covered the accident on the local news. Narrating over the footage of the overturned truck and broken bits of car, the wholesome anchor actually said, and I quote, "In the words of Onyx, 'Slam! Da da da,' yeah!"

I think I'm going to be watching more local news.

Boys' guide to hunting and fishing

Hunting and fishing shows are on every night down here.

I was dozing in front of the telly last night and from what I gathered in my sleeping daze, there were three fully-outfitted hunters all lightheartedly teaming up to shoot this huge, motionless turkey. In my stupor, since I'd probably fallen asleep watching some comedy program or other, I thought this was a send-up of these local hunting shows, and thought it a jolly satire indeed. I was all, "Good one, guys." But no, once I woke up I saw it was a real show, called "Chuck Devereaux's Outdoors To You" although a less euphamistic title might be, "Chuck Devereaux and Pals Killing the Outdoors."

As an outsider, this TV phenomenon is funny and strange to me. It's kind of like the Crocodile Hunter, only instead of just sneaking up on the animal and wrestling it or whatever, it's a group of guys sneaking up on defenseless dumb hulk of a bird, and then they murder it. (Presumably. I thankfully wasn't awake for the money shot.) Still, this method of obtaining food seems more honorable than purchasing the remains of some creature that endured a horrible existence on a factory farm.

On a less hippy note, I'm happy to report having rejected the idea the bf and I were considering to start a compost pile. After a bit of online research, it seemed too sciencey, too much maintenance, and our yard's not large/isolated enough for the smell that could ensue, plus I would be the one doing it all. Also, we do not have a pitchfork. F that literal mess. I do like that we can even consider something requiring a pitchfork, though.

Compare and Contrast: the weaves

You know, it's difficult living in a new place where everything is so different. It's like I'm a foreigner in my own country.

But then I see something like this:

















A lone, castoff weave on the sidewalk in Baton Rouge. And it takes me right back to Fulton Street in Downtown Brooklyn, back to the spring of 2007, a more innocent time when a vibrant weave grew in Brooklyn.


















And I think: You know, there are some cosmetic differences between the BaRou weave and the Bklyn weave, but maybe...just maybe, deep down, we're not so different after all.

Where my bitches at? No really. Where are you.

I know I have a lot of Southern readers now, so I've been slow to write this post, mulling over how to put this in the least offensive way. But something has been gnawing at me in the month since we moved to the Deep South. Where are the badass women hiding down here? Admittedly I haven't met many locals yet, so I'm going on what I see in the media and on my occasional ventures into public. But what I've seen has left me unimpressed.

Exhibit A: Beauty queens
Wow, so if I go to Washington Parish and eat watermelon, they'll give me a crown? I'm there! But no, those are beauty queens. Really? That's really a mainstream phenomenon down here? Apparently, yes. I already saw a bunch of beauty queens being all sparkly at that tailgate party at the River Center. And just look at them here at this Shrimp and Petroleum Festival that I regret having missed due to my stupid lack of a stupid car. Why does their queen have to be young and beautiful but their king is an old codger?

One of my pals from back home is originally from Florida and was Miss Pee Wee Ocala as a pee wee lass. Then someone told her she couldn't sing and she was all traumatized. She was like three. What three-year-old can sing?! Or do anything for that matter. F beauty pageants (obviously).

Exhibit B: Tailgating girls gone wild
Yesterday I got to borrow a car and I was inching in traffic past the tailgating bonanza at Tiger Stadium. A trio of girls holding brewskis were absentmindedly grinding on each other three in a row for the potential benefit of any drunk slob who happened to be watching. Lame, girls! Although I do realize that prob happens everywhere cheesy girls and boys go to party in America these days. Baaah! You young girls with your fake lesbianism to entice drunk frat boys! Pssst: You don't need to try that hard! They want to do you anyway!

Exhibit C: Football clinic for women
So this football clinic for women which took place at Tiger Stadium a few weeks back has been making the local news. When I first read about it, I thought, Oh cool, a football team for women, like the New York Sharks. Not my thing at all, but more power to the women who want to do that. Nope! This was a clinic to teach women "fans" all about football, presumably so they understand what their husbands and boyfriends get so worked up about. The organizers were expecting about 300 to attend, but the turnout was 650, ranging in age from 13 to 85.

*sigh*

What, do you have to like everything your man likes? I feel that if these women legitimately enjoyed football, they would have caught on to the game's rules themselves years ago as their interest grew. I mean, if a guy drunk on 57 cans of Bud Light can follow it, how hard is it to understand? Come on, ladies, step it up. If you don't like football by the time you're fortysomething (or eightysomething), it's probably because you don't like football. Not because it needs to be explained to you in a special for-girls way so you'll understand it. And that's OK. It's OK to not like football, even though it's a huge huge deal around here.

Maybe I was spoiled back home. I was accustomed to the women around me being all independent and brash and inappropriate and hilarious. An old Janeane Garofolo stand-up comedy special from like 1996 has been running on one of the HBOs lately. (It's like, I see I've missed a lot in the years I didn't have cable! Here's that special I watched when I last had cable 7 years ago.) I like to leave it on when I'm not cracking up on i.m. or email with my faraway friends, so I remember there are women who fucking rule. I hope there's some like that here. A gal gets lonely without her bitches.

Just another Random Friday

* BR is freaky. I've ventured forth from the house again, am more confused than ever, and have a new Abandoned BR post up about it. It's much cheerier than the last, and thanks to the newly borrowed camera, it's also visually free of the blues.

* Remember Amy? Another discovery was made this week in the same drawer that yielded the paper towel of resolutions: women's laxatives. Bad Amy! Bad! Not HEALTHY!

* Exuhcise is good for you. Everybody loves my favorite funny ladies Julie & Jackie's video short, "Welcome to Our House." Finally, they released part two! (If you're new to this: Soap stars Natalie Hammer & Nina Hammer-Ortiz return to teach you how to "exuhcise," because the most important part of acting is not being fat. Inspired by Brenda Dickson's fantastic "Welcome To Our Home.")



* I had a dream, I had an awesome dream. Sometimes I am the biggest goofball. Monday morning I dreamed I had gone back to school. It had an awesome ending which took place in the school's 60s-style lounge area. My friend Leah and I were dancing to "Spanish Flea," doing synchronized air-morocca movements (was that because I heard Mo Rocca on NPR the day before?!) and I passionately declared, "I LOVE Herb Alpert!" I guess dreams really do reflect your innermost desires.

* Huzzah! Ye Olde Renne Faire. My Brooklyn pal julepandme, who hails from the South, and is often bored, sometimes reads Southern Cragslists. She recently shared this with me since I'm looking to make friends.

* Ms. greens beans. This recipe for Curried Mustard Greens with Kidney Beans friggin' rocked it. It's fast, super delish, vegetarian, and easy to make vegan (which I did). I love having a nice kitchen! Yay.

Swing out, sister

The best somewhat-walkable market (though I won't buy much while on foot; I refuse to lug home heavy bags of groceries on foot now that I'm in car-land) in these parts is Calendro's. This, my friends, is an entire endcap of many different hot sauces. Yum.













In other Louisiana culinary news, I found these:



Curiously, their website copy is trying to take a "healthy" tack with these. Usually products in the pork rind category and those with names ending in an exclamation point are not marketed as healthy. Why not take more of a "SNAP INTO A SLIM JIM!" angle? Here, I'll try a new one out for them: [wrestler voice] "RIPPED RIGHT OFF THE BACK OF ONE OF THE PLANET'S SMARTEST ANIMALS, STRAIGHT TO YOUR MICROWAVE, THEN CRACKLIN' INTO YOUR MOOOOUTH! WHO'S SMART NOW?!"

I kid, but on an (optional) heavier note: I've been making a conscious effort to stay positive down here and establish productive work habits. But while missing my friends combined with my deadly tendency to procrastinate, I've been an Internetty Betty. And because I'm freelance, I'm always checking email to see if editors bit on my pitches, or checking the snail mail to see if a check arrived, which has led to fretting about money. And worry is the opposite of productive. I love that the Internets allows me to work from anywhere, but I'm going to have to pull out that umbilical cord from my laptop for a few hours every day and work on the most important thing: writing.

Early this summer I recounted how I'd finally visited a swimmin' hole with a rope swing for the first time that weekend. On the first try, I tried to hang on by my feeble arms and splashed right into the drink, then lingered on the bank, slow to try again, even though I wanted to do it right. The day's catch phrase as we egged each other on was "Quit bein' a pussy, pussy." Fortunately I have some very inspiring friends who are in effect now telling me the same thing about my writing (and giving me deadlines). Hesitating only invites more fear. Once I quit being a pussy about that rope swing, I discovered I barely had to hang on by my arms because there was a knot on the rope to sit on, and off I swung up into the arc, then into the water.

It's late and I don't know how to tie this comparison into a neat little bow, but hopefully some people will understand what I'm on about. If not, just think about MICRO RINDS!

Compare and Contrast: the Bedfords

(Click photos to enlarge)
Bedford Drive in BaRou:

















Bedford Avenue in Bklyn:


















Bedford in BaRou: cute little houses

















Bedford in Bklyn: "spaces"



Bedford in BaRou: unironic tiny lawn gnome, unironic support for a local sports team






















Bedford in Bklyn: Well...you know how that goes with the irony and the Williamsburg.



Bedford in BaRou: names ending in -eaux


















Bedford in Bklyn: names beginning in DJ or ending in Jr. or III


Bedford in BaRou: slow, children at play






















Bedford in Bklyn: slow children at play






















Bedford in BaRou: sketchy holes





















Bedford in Bklyn: sketchy holes















The winner: Bedford in BaRou!


















Thank you! I'll be here all week. Be sure to tip your waitress.

Sometimes when you dig, you find things

Saturday was a big day; before having my mind blown by campus-wide tailgating, I also began gardening. I planted basil, Creole tomatoes, and poppies, not knowing much about what I was doing or if it was an appropriate season to be planting anything. My first impulse on digging a hole was, "Can't someone else do this?" But there wasn't anyone else around to do it, and once I began, I had small smile on the whole time. Then I found this lil' stone in the dirt:

Really? These things grow in the ground here? If I dug in the dirt in NYC, if there was much dirt to be dug, I'd probably find broken glass and a syringe. And as Amanda pointed out, I didn't even have to buy my dirt and lug it home to do this planting. Plenty of free dirt everywhere! This stone was like something you'd use in jewelry--ugly hippy jewelry, but still. Digging further, I found more pretty stones, though none as shiny as the first.

When I was a kid, my dad had a garden, but back then I didn't like anything we grew except the strawberries and watermelon. I did like helping him around the yard, though, and one time when we were digging holes to plant trees, I found an old-time ring a few feet down in the dirt. My Nana told me it was a moonstone, and in thinking back now to its style, it may have been from the 20s or 30s. I was hoping the ring would have magical powers but I could never get that part going on.

Anyway, I've found another quiet grownup pleasure, but don't think for a minute that I didn't send out several text messages announcing that I had just used a hoe.

heh heh.

"Hoe."

Shock and awe

Today was the big day everyone in Louisiana has been waiting for. It was the first home game of the football season. I'd heard that it was insane, and huge, and there were going to be superfans like I had never seen before, and I knew that it would be a shitshow. But I didn't quite comprehend until I got there, and even now, many hours later, I still don't really comprehend it (Click photos to enlarge).

In the afternoon, I walked to campus. It took nearly an hour walking at a brisk clip. At first it was crazy hot, but I thought, I'll just walk through it. No other option, really. Around five, it started raining just like it does almost every day, but for some reason I haven't caught on enough to bring an umbrella with me. And I thought, Eff you, BaRou. I will walk through your heat. And I will walk through your rain. You can't beat me; I'm from New York. And I will not even take off my sunglasses, even though I know it is raining. And I know I haven't eaten a meal since my tragic Walgreens meal 20 hours ago because I don't have a car yet, but As God as my witness, I will never go hungry again! And I shook my fist at the sky. And then a few minutes later, I took my sunglasses off. And then a few minutes later, it stopped raining like it always does.

The only thing I can compare Tiger tailgating to from my own experience is Ag Field Day at Rutgers, which is the day that everyone heads for Cook College, the agricultural campus, and parties outside doing drugs and drinking (a lot more so than usual). You know, pretty much every university has a day like that; It's called Trip or Treat at Hampshire at Halloween.

Here's one of my handful of photos from Ag Field Day taken on my pink and purple LeClic 110 camera (I'm old!).


That would be a bidi that I'm smoking--I don't know, it's some kind of Indian thing that makes you lightheaded. They made Patty there [photo right] drop like a sack of potatoes after smoking one. I just spotted bidis for sale last month at a liquor store here in LA. (Another unfortunately bad-quality photo from another Ag Field Day has my pal KarTek wearing her "Cool It" pillowcase dress that she made by following directions from Sassy magazine.)

But today was Ag Field Day by a multiple of 100, minus all hippy credo or sentiment, dressed in a campus-wide bruise of purple and gold. And this isn't a once-a-year occurrence; it's going to happen six times this semester. The bf compared it to a Dead show descending on the campus (minus, again, any and all hippy sentiment). Speaking of the old ball and chain, here is the design building that my bf and most of the rest of his first-year grad class were attempting to work in today.


















The revelers might remember this building as "RESTROOMS," but they probably don't remember it as anything at all. Nonetheless, they were wandering about inside like zombies, silver-and-blue beer cans in hand, talking as loudly as you do when you've been drinking since 6 a.m. (not an exaggeration; the bf got to campus around that time in order to get parking, and people were already outside chugging, as they had been the afternoon and evening before).

Dear whichever paid-off jerk in the LSU bureaucracy who made the final decision to leave the design building open as RESTROOMS for drunken rubes to wander every floor, while your top-notch landscape architect first-year class had projects to get done for Monday, and while other buildings such as the architecture building were locked up tight: fuck you, dick. (Yesss! If I had said that in person, that would have been New York dick style!) I will say that the class extracted a small but rewarding revenge. That's all ah can say about thay-at [Forrest Gump voice].

So where do I even begin. Tiger tailgating is an orgy of American excess, as if we were lacking in examples. It's a bit ironic that this region is so influenced by the French, because I think many French folk would take issue with such wasteful decadence. (Just as I take issue with many French folk, but that's another post altogether. A post called, "Extra! Extra! CoKane hates snooty jerks!") My brain refused to even consider the day's impact from an environmental standpoint. Basically, the entire campus of LSU becomes one giant outdoor party, beginning on the afternoon before game day. The parking lot is lined on the borders with RV after RV. Each one of those RVs must be worth much more than I have earned in my life altogether combined. Not to mention that each was outfitted with satellite TV, sound systems, and who knew what-all else. And that's just somebody's party setup. Later when the game began, partiers abandoned their huge flatscreen TVs where they were to watch from the stadium, leaving them unattended. (What?!) Just the leftover booze from today could have gotten multiple third-world countries wasted (especially because they're not as fat as us).

















Never mind that you know, everyone could have made a nice dent in the troubles of Darfur or Appalachia or, say, the blighted areas of Baton Rouge with all the money and food thrown around at today's game. But I'll quit being Debbie Downer and just show you around.





















This is pretty much what the young folks look like, though shown here with an unusually high representation of non-blondes.


To give you an idea of the scale of things down here, Tiger Stadium is a colosseum on par with something like Giants Stadium in New Jersey (which was probably the last time I was in a stadium, to see Guns 'n' Metallica in like '92 or so). In the past (according to hearsay), the roar of the crowd in Tiger Stadium has registered on the Richter scale.







A lot of the young people had a message they felt strongly about today, and that message was "WOO."















B.A.T.T. had nothing on a party gang spotted elsewhere on campus called T.I.T.S.: Totally Insane Tiger Spirit. GET IT? TITS! LIKE BOOBS!


I don't know what that spinny wheel below is all about, but I suspect it has something to do with the 8,000 dead soldiers in the foreground.














The above photo might also be the most non-blondes I've ever seen in one place in this state.

















Noticing a theme in the ladieswear? A whole lot of girlie, non-threatening purple and/or gold dresses. That's why I was so stoked to see this girl, who was tossing a football with another little girl and boy. Too bad she's wearing LSU-colored Crocs, but I made a lot of fashion mistakes as a kid, too.























This bus below may be Shaq's gangsta-themed ride, I'm told he was there. I don't really even know or care who Shaq is, so talk amongst yourselves on this one. [Due to Blogger sucking, for you Mac users the picture might be two down. Readers, should I switch this blog over to TypePad? I've about had it with Blogger.]

















"Know what GRITS means? Girl Raised in The South," I overheard someone say. (It was a big day for acronyms.)

















I have so much hope for the cranky-looking girl on the left there. But a lot of young girls raised in the South also seem to wear bows, like the young lady on the right. Speaking as someone who regularly wears fashions several decades old, this is still pretty astounding to me. Like, what, are we in an episode of The Little Rascals?


And these folks below were doing THE MACARENA. For the entire duration of the song. In case you forgot, it's 2007. Doing the Macarena was not even acceptable in whatever year the Macarena came out in, probably about ten years ago. I become mortified on hearing the first notes. It's like a very effective song and dance created for the express purpose of embarassment.



Just then, my borrowed fancy camera's memory card ran out, and I had my regular camera as backup, but I was just exhausted, and headed back to the design building to pick up a borrowed bike to ride home.

"Hey," Some round-faced redhead kid in a group of three said to me as I was stopped, getting my bearings on the bike. "Think the Tigers are gonna win it today?"
"Oh, there's a game today?" I said.
"Come on, don't play with my emotions like that," the kid said.
We all laughed, and I biked off, enjoying his sweetness.

And then I guess there was a game or something. I don't know. I hate sports.

I took my borrowed bike to my borrowed car, and finally got to Whole Foods, the place in town that was most like how I wanted the world to be, and bought stockpile amounts of food to ensure that I would never go hungry again.

I thought there was a virtue in always being cool

The title of this post is a Flaming Lips lyric that keeps going through my head as I think about cool-ness, a topic that keeps popping into my thoughts since this move from New York happened. I'm 33. By a lot of standards, I shouldn't be concerned with cool anymore. By suburban standards, I should be a married homeowner with steady employment and 1.5 kids (not cool!). New York is a whole other animal, though.

But when I think of my friends who seem the most content and happy, it's the ones who aren't concerned with impressing anybody. Oddly enough, it's also the ones who are married with children (or wanting children soon) and/or the homeowners. One of these friends was the first person I knew to denounce the hipsters that I later came to term williamsjerks.

As for Baton Rouge, I keep hearing that there's cool stuff here somewhere, but I still don't have a vehicle and so have yet to see a lot of evidence of that. And I gotta tell ya, after nearly seven years basically living in the center of the universe, it gets to me. And it also gets to me that a lack of cool would get to me. I had an old-lady Friday night of watching TV, but that in itself wasn't the problem. What bugged me was in a few hours' span, I saw four people I knew personally on TV, taking up big chunks of programming time. I thought, I used to be where it was at. Where people were making it happen. Now I'm a consumer of what other people are making happen. Well really I'm not just a consumer--I'm producing my own art (for lack of a better term)--but I think what was getting to me was a sort of nagging, "I used to be with the cool kids" feeling.

And before my boyfriend got home last evening and got me to cut it out, I'd been feeling quite sorry for myself for most of the day. He's been putting in insane stretches of hours at the studio and our food supply has diminshed to nothing that would constitute a meal. After having cereal for lunch, I decided to play a new game called How Far Must I Walk to Find Food That I Eat? (Keep in mind I'm vegetarian, try to eat healthy, and live in a pretty crummy area outside of my immediate neighborhood.)

I set out heading west on Government, knowing there wouldn't be much but I hadn't walked far in that direction yet, stopping in a gas station's deli for a snack. It smelled like fried chicken, and all I could find was nacho Corn Nuts.

"Bikini...Kill," the Middle Eastern cashier read my shirt tentatively. I was drawing a bit of attention from several people in this deli, which became a theme for the day's mission.
"Yeah...it's a band," I realized I shouldn't have worn a shirt with any words on it when going on one of my expeditions in this strange land.
"Yo, you wanna get this for me?" a guy behind me was holding his water bottle toward me. That was a new one.
"You wanna get deez Nuts for me?"...is what I should have said, which I realized much later when I passed the station again on my way back.

I did find a promising French-style cafe amidst a compound of arty/antique-y stores, but they were closing for the day. I got more photos of a lot more abandoned shit, only under the gray sky and in this dicey neighborhood where I didn't dare stray off the main drag, it was all just depressing.

I also got offers of car rides from several different gentlemen, which I politely declined. I think it must be really unusual here to see a person walking who looks like she should be able to at least afford a bicycle.

I hadn't been expecting my bf home for dinner and there still weren't any fixins, so I'd walked to the nearby pharmacy trio corners and purchased a tragic feeling-sorry-for-myself bachelorette dinner of dill pickle potato chips, "Cruncheese" snacks, microwave mac cheese (the same brand I used to buy in college before I knew about better food) pizza bites ("Wow! Only 99 cents!") a frozen pizza about the size of a Sacajawea dollar coin ("Wow! Only 99 cents!"), and of course beer. It was as terrible as you'd imagine, and the bf went back out for some Cane's beakless chicken (his descriptive word, but I'm going to use it from now on, too). But now that I had human companionship the night instantly improved. (Lack of human contact: the classic problem of freelancers.)

I know it's going to get better once I have a vehicle and make friends here. I know today I'm scheduled for a guaranteed laff riot in a few hours when I walk to campus, as tonight is the first LSU home football game of the season, and the drunken tailgaters have already descended on campus beginning yesterday afternoon (oh yes, I am so going to blog this). I'm estimating the walk will take 45 minutes to an hour, but I'll be glad to work off all that garbage I ate last night. Stay tuned for Tiger Tailgating party pix.

Random Rouge Friday: And your little dog, too! edition

I've been tagged by Hoosier Joe to do one of those meme things, so I'm going to work it into my Random Rouge Friday Roundup.
I'm supposed to elaborate on a list of words.

Pets I'm an animal lover. But there is a little rat dog next door that wakes me up with its miserable yelping/moaning about three or four days a week and I want to punt that fucker into orbit. (Today was one of those days.) I know that some people for some reason adore these mistakes of nature, but I think the world would be a better place if they all disappeared. My favorite is when Cooper is marking his territory by peeing on the fence right where that little shit is waiting on the other side, probably all trembling like they do. Hopefully Coop's giving little Ratso a golden shower through the crack. Good dog, Cooper! Too bad the little yipyip is probably into it anyway.

Religion




















This came in the mail yesterday. The event has daily themes like Countdown to Eternity! Racing Toward the Rapture, and Unmasking the Antichrist. Amazing Facts, ehhh? It is amazing if you consider any of this "facts."

Accent I don't think I have one but some folks here might disagree. To me a lot of the older guys here in BR sound like Cleveland from Family Guy, although the voice actor who plays him is from Virginia. Also, I love hearing old ladies here say "Lord!"

I Don't Drink Well, that's sure not true. That will probably be less and less true the longer I stay here. Or, what do you think, is there a different vice I should pick up? Which one is the healthiest? I'm trying to figure it out.

Kids I don't have any, but if I did, I wouldn't let them trick-or-treat at this house:






Chore I Hate I don't know, mopping? That doesn't happen too often.

Essential Electronic Not even going to make some coy reference to something by Hitachi here...It's definitely the computer.

Perfume/Cologne Not really.

Gold or Silver YES, PLEASE! AM I RIGHT, LADIES?

Job Title Freelance writer who can always use more paying gigs. Anyone? Anyone?

OK there's more but even I am bored, so I will stop. You're supposed to tag others but I'll leave this meme as voluntary...whomever needs a topic for their blog, work away!

Ummm...

What's wrong with these local ads? Discuss. (Click to enlarge, I finally stopped using TinyPic, and think Blogger's photo function is finally working for me.)



And with the second one, I don't mean that the place on the right is called "Corky's," and that tragically it's one of the only places that might deliver to my house. I'm talking about Hunan there.

I ain't missing Jews

Yesterday we covered what I'll miss about Baton Rouge when I go. Today I'd like to touch on what I ain't missing about New York City, or should I say, JEW York City!

SECOND EXPLANATORY UPDATE: For the apparently numerous folks who didn't get this post, I am not following in Mel Gibson's anti-Semitic footsteps. Not everything you read or hear is literal. This is an adaptation of a popular song about someone who IS missing the person he is singing to, despite the fact that he's saying he's not. Sometimes people say one thing and they mean another. You can figure it out using context clues.
*Sigh.*

[To the tune of John Waite's 1983 hit, "I Ain't Missing You," (FIRST UPDATE/EXPLANATION:) a song about a guy who's saying he doesn't miss someone at all, but really he actually does miss that person like crazy.]

Every time I think of Jews, I always catch my breath
And now I'm standing here, and you're miles away
And I'm wonderin' why I left
And there's a storm that's raging through my frozen heart tonight

I hear your name in certain circles, and it always makes me smile

















I spend my time thinkin' about you, and it's almost driving me wild

And there's a heart that's breaking down this long distance line tonight

I ain't missing Jews at all, since I've been gone away
I ain't missing Jews, now that I live in LA

I ain't missing Jews at all
Since I've been gone away
I ain't missing Jews,
Nor do I miss any gays

I can lie to myself

etc.



(New York, please send your hilarious Jewish comedians and delicious bagels. Louisiana, if anyone local randomly happens to be into any of those non-Sammy Davis comics above, please make yourself known. Also, I hear I may have a lot of new readers today. Welcome, and please check out my other blog, Abandoned Baton Rouge.)