I drove to Metairie today during my lunch break to buy a sportcoat, dress shirt and tie. I went the “big & tall” route to make sure I found something that fits.
Anyway, at the cash register, I noticed some colognes on display. And one of them – swear to God – was Smith & Wesson eau de toilette.
Smith & Wesson. Eau de toilette.
Smith & Wesson has been making firearms since 1852. Revolvers, shotguns, pistols, rifles. The world-famous .357 Magnum.
I don’t know how fucking long they’ve been selling men’s cologne. Or why. But I thought it was worth noting.
An old buddy of mine, Bill Castronuovo, recently hit me with an old snapshot, circa 1991. That’s me toiling on one of Bill’s old Mac Classics, producing my short-lived fanzine UNCUT FUNK.
Yeah, I’ve been nerding out on music for a looong time. If I were to try that beard again, it’d be more gray than brown.
I was on the set of “Treme” yesterday afternoon, and shortly after 5 p.m. (close to “lunch” that day) I asked David Simon if I could leave early. I’d been the writer on set Thursday night when it rained buckets on us. The crew had to hustle to flee an approaching lightning storm.
Anyway, Simon was cool, and to the hotel I went, expecting to catch up on cable news. (I’ve been out of touch for the past seven weeks. Obama’s still president, right?)
So there I am in my hotel room, surfing the Web, thinking about some room service. Then, around 6:30, the power goes out. In the whole building. Including my Internet connection.
Looked out my window and concluded that some portion of the French Quarter was in the midst of a blackout. (So much for cable news and room service.)
Thought about going outside to see what a Friday evening blackout on Bourbon Street would be like. (Nutty, I bet.) But I wondered whether my electronic key would even work when I got back.
So I figured I’d just go to bed, catch up on sleep, and everything would be normal in the morning.
Here’s something funny, though. Just a few minutes before the power went out, I had a knock on the door. A server was holding a small tray of fresh fruit, candy bars and a bottle of wine... a gift from the hotel to mark the upcoming end of my long stay.
Only thing missing was a damn corkscrew. Server said he’d fetch one and bring it right up. That’s when the power went out (including, of course, the elevators). Couldn’t even drink myself to sleep.
Cut to this morning. After 12 hours of restful, dream-filled sleep, I awoke to discover the power was still out. On top of that, no hot water.
I can go without bathing, and I can go without TV. But lack of Internet access puts a serious crimp in my lifestyle. So I packed my laptop, hit the stairwell, got my car from the hotel garage, and drove to the “Treme” production office where, through the magic of wireless, I now put before you these words.
Power’s expected to be restored in the Quarter later this afternoon.
UPDATE (03/29/09): Turns out the blackout was caused by an underground fire. Supposedly all fixed now. I shall soon find out.
... like, 30 friggin’ years ago. That’s me with Don Valyou and Dick Stone at the apex of our competitive scholastic careers, representing DuVal Senior High School on “It’s Academic.”
We won our first game, but then got crushed by Walt Whitman, if I recall correctly.
Thanks to Don for posting this on his Facebook page. (Click the pic for a larger look.)
So... I’m in New Orleans. Last weekend I saw my first Mardi Gras parade. Last night I saw my first nighttime parade. It was all cool. But I didn’t quite get the thrill of it. Particularly since I wasn’t buzzed, and I don’t have a kid.
Tonight, I was hanging with David Simon, and he explained that you have to get into the whole thing of catching beads and other “throws” which the float riders toss to the begging crowd.
Well, at the Krewe of Hermes parade a few hours ago, I caught my first set of beads on the fly. Yeah, it was fun. It didn’t unleash my inner child, but I kinda get it now.
The best part was hearing Simon tell tales of parades past. That cat knows how to Mardi Gras.
So I had a little drama this morning in New Orleans. I went to a laundromat on the edge of the French Quarter to wash some clothes. Place called the Clothes Spin.
They got a jukebox in there, I was surprised to see. So I decided to pass the time by punching up a few tunes. At four songs for a dollar, I picked two by the Isleys (“Summer Breeze” and “Harvest for the World”) and two by James Brown (“Hot Pants” and “Papa Don’t Take No Mess”).
It was sounding good to me. And there was only a handful of other customers in the place.
So I started playing some Ms. Pac-Man. And during the second song, the manager came over and turned the jukebox down. Like, way down... so that I could hardly hear it over the rumble of the machines.
Later, when my wash was finishing, I decided to approach the manager. I told him I didn’t want to sound like an asshole, but why’d he turn the volume down?
He said somebody complained it was too loud, “and I have to keep everybody happy.”
“If I knew you didn’t want me to play it,” I said, “I wouldn’t have put my money in it.”
Dude said, “I don’t care if you play it. Just don’t play it too loud.”
Number one, I didn’t set the volume in the first place. But, hell, I didn’t feel like arguing.
Except, after loading my clothes in the dryer, I went up to him again and said, “Can I have the dollar back that I put in it?” Guy says “No,” all brusque and shit. So much for keeping everybody happy.
Here’s the funny thing about it: That one dollar he wouldn’t give back... just cost the motherfucker at least fifty. Because I’m gonna be in New Orleans for another six weeks. And I won’t be going back to the Clothes Spin.
Except maybe to duck in, slip $5 in the jukebox, and punch up “The Candy Man” for 18 plays in a row... then walk out.
Have you noticed dimes laying around on the ground the way you used to see pennies?
Yesterday I saw a dime on the ground outside a 7-Eleven. My instinct was to pick it up, but I didn’t. Somebody was sitting in a parked car nearby, but that’s not what inhibited me. Heck, there is no shame in picking up money.
But I happen to know that a mentally ill older fellow hangs around that strip mall occasionally. He begs for money. Give him a shot at the dime, I figured.
Because he got all he’s gonna get from me.
Not that I’m especially lacking in compassion. But I gave him a dollar once, and he proceeded to chat me up for what seemed like 10 minutes. In the course of that, he mentioned his son. And I was thinking, “Dude, you got family? Why you out here begging?”
Anyway, today I saw a dime on the ground at the gas station. I was all over that bad boy. It’ll probably be the high point of my day.
Here’s my thing: I like Coinstar. I enjoy carrying a small sack of change to the supermarket, dumping it into the big green machine, and seeing how closely I can guess the amount.
And then I shop as if it were all found money.
That Coinstar machine is the greatest human invention since the George Foreman grill.
Speaking of which, I haven’t used my George Foreman grill in six months or so. I lifted the lid today, hoping that I’d cleaned it after my last steak.
Yeah, I know... everybody has weird dreams always. But now I’m keeping notes. Seems like every time I wake up needing to pee, my dream-self is in the midst of some nutty-ass adventure.
The other night, large and aggressive spiders were involved. Which somehow led to my accidentally taking a pill which I knew was arsenic, even though it was packaged like cold medicine. I spat out the pill before swallowing, but my mouth felt numb and I really started to panic...
Then I looked in the mirror and saw that half my tongue had corroded away. Then I woke up and went to pee.
Sometimes my dreams have crazy guest stars. A few nights ago Pat Buchanan and Sandy Duncan showed up in the same dream. (Sandy Duncan!) At least there’s a reason for that one; I recently stumbled on this YouTube video.
I tried to fall back asleep with my head in the same position, hoping to rejoin that dream in progress. It didn’t work.
So I tried to retrace the dream in my mind to document it, but the details quickly evaporated. All I wrote down was that I saw Sandy Duncan hugging a stranger in the street, and then she said to me, “I didn’t do what you thought I did.”
Weird.
Now... this morning around 3 a.m., I woke up in the middle of another TV-related dream. My dream-self was watching a new version of “The Courtship of Eddie’s Father,” and the child actor – Brandon Cruz – was playing the same part. He was 40 years older, yet he was the same small size.
Then I was in a cafeteria line, and Chuck D of Public Enemy was there too, and I handed him a videotape of the TV show and I said, “This is creepy.” That’s when I woke up.
Why would I dream about “The Courtship of Eddie’s Father”? Because I found a great clip on YouTube which I intended to blog about. Jodie Foster – not yet 7 years old – was the guest star... and she acted her li’l ass off. She was fantastic!
Growing up, I watched tons of television, so I remember Jodie Foster (and her older brother, Buddy) quite well. I just didn’t appreciate how superbly gifted she was, even then. Check out the video clip embedded below.
Funny thing about her “Eddie’s Father” performance... it was all about her being a tomboy and not abiding by society’s gender norms. Uh-huh. Even at the age of 6, Jodie Foster was getting the dyke roles.
Speaking of dykes, I must tell you, when photos of Gov. Rod Blagojevich starting appearing all over the place, I thought to myself: “That woman’s gonna give lesbians a bad name.”
Seriously... doesn’t he look like a girls’ P.E. teacher?
I was in West L.A. this morning to get my hair cut. I haven’t lived on the Westside for five years... but the guy knows my head, and I’m averse to forming new tonsorial relationships.
Anyway, whenever I go for a cut, I’ll pop over to Junior’s Delicatessen for a bite to eat. If I feel like lunch, as opposed to breakfast, I’ll get the liverwurst on rye. Sliced yellow onion, stone-ground mustard... bam, that’s a good sandwich. (Goes right nice with a cream soda.)
When I was a kid, my dad used to snack on what seemed like the grossest foodstuffs in America. Blue cheese. Pickled pigs feet. Souse. (Y’all hip to souse? Also called “head cheese.”)
Then there was kipper snacks – canned herrings that Daddy would mash up with mayonnaise and relish and spread over Ritz crackers. Oh, how he delighted himself with that crap.
And, yes, Daddy liked liverwurst, though he preferred to call it braunschweiger. Only since moving to L.A. and getting my deli on at Junior’s did I acquire a taste for it.
I’ve done the kipper-snacks thing too, I won’t lie. Maybe I’ll try to find me some souse... though it’s hard enough trying to find scrapple out here in So Cal. (In fact, I haven’t.)
I never felt close to my dad. We were so wide apart in age; he was 51 when I was born. It was like being raised by a grandparent. He grew up in the country. His sensibilities were shaped by the Great Depression.
He never understood why I would leave a good job at the Washington Post and try to write for television. By the time my first co-written episode was shown on TV, Daddy was blind. He couldn’t even see it.
By the time I created my own show, he was dead and buried.
I went to the 7-Eleven this morning, bought a few items. And the total price was $7.11. That tickled me.
In a lifetime of buying stuff at 7-Elevens, I never before spent exactly $7.11. Surely it would’ve stuck in my mind if I had.
I wanted to make a cute comment, so I sized up the cashier to see if I should. Maybe it would just embarrass us both.
Then I saw his name tag. “Biplob.” That’s the dude’s name. So then I became obsessed with that. Biplob?
Figured I’d best keep my mouth shut altogether.
But Biplob is now at the top of my list of strange immigrant names encountered while shopping. Previous champion: “Polycarp.”
Polycarp was an African guy. A cute white chick ahead of me in line actually flirted with him over his name. He said it was not an unusual name where he came from.
My heathen ass... I just found out Polycarp was a Christian martyr.
Whilst riding through New Orleans today, I saw a big billboard for a personal-injury lawyer. It said: “Crippling injuries? Call now!”
So I’m sitting in the men’s room at work, and I happen to read the wrapper on the Precious brand toilet paper. It says “facial quality.”
This is me... 30,000 feet in the air... RIGHT NOW.
An old buddy of mine, Bill Castronuovo, recently hit me with an old snapshot, circa 1991. That’s me toiling on one of Bill’s old Mac Classics, producing my short-lived fanzine UNCUT FUNK.
So there I am in my hotel room, surfing the Web, thinking about some room service. Then, around 6:30, the power goes out. In the whole building. Including my Internet connection.
Only thing missing was a damn corkscrew. Server said he’d fetch one and bring it right up. That’s when the power went out (including, of course, the elevators). Couldn’t even drink myself to sleep.
... like, 30 friggin’ years ago. That’s me with Don Valyou and Dick Stone at the apex of our competitive scholastic careers, representing DuVal Senior High School on “It’s Academic.”
So... I’m in New Orleans. Last weekend I saw my first Mardi Gras parade. Last night I saw my first nighttime parade. It was all cool. But I didn’t quite get the thrill of it. Particularly since I wasn’t buzzed, and I don’t have a kid.
So I had a little drama this morning in New Orleans. I went to a laundromat on the edge of the French Quarter to wash some clothes. Place called the Clothes Spin.
So I started playing some Ms. Pac-Man. And during the second song, the manager came over and turned the jukebox down. Like, way down... so that I could hardly hear it over the rumble of the machines.
Have you noticed dimes laying around on the ground the way you used to see pennies?
Here’s my thing: I like Coinstar. I enjoy carrying a small sack of change to the supermarket, dumping it into the big green machine, and seeing how closely I can guess the amount.
I’ve been having weird dreams lately.
I like liverwurst. Deal with it, motherfuckers!
And, yes, Daddy liked liverwurst, though he preferred to call it braunschweiger. Only since moving to L.A. and getting my deli on at Junior’s did I acquire a taste for it.
In a lifetime of buying stuff at 7-Elevens, I never before spent exactly $7.11. Surely it would’ve stuck in my mind if I had.
