Things that are not as good as they used to be:

1. Wendy's hamburgers. They used to be so juicy and meaty (insert lame "Where's the beef?" joke here). Now they are about as satisfying as a scratch'n'sniff sticker of a hamburger.

2. France. Okay, well my dreams of visiting France. Sure, the country has an incredible collection of beautiful art and architecture that I would kill to see; and of course French cooking and wine are divine; and the movies are wonderful, and even when they're not they're still great because the sound of that lovely language spoken by the likes of Juliette Binoche is so pleasing to the ear. But then there are the French. I hate to sound like a damn Republican, but I hate French people. They are my least favorite customers to wait on - difficult, arrogant and cheap. One of the most unintentionally funny things a customer ever said to me while I was waiting tables was, "I am French. I eat every day." Her tone implied that I was too stupid and American to understand food the way civilized people who "eat every day" do, and that I should defer to her superior judgment. For the record, she was arguing that her lovely Louisiana oysters did not taste "French enough." Mind you, this was in New Orleans. Mr. Rudolph and I love to break this line out at slightest provocation (generally when intoxicated) in our froggiest voices. (It's a good thing we like each other, because no else does.)

3. Hangovers, or, rather, my ability to avoid them. For all you partiers under the age of 24 who think you're not ever going to get them...well, never mind. Just enjoy yourself. Have a few for me.

4. Movies. Movies are so great when you are a kid - they are filled with mystery and excitement and surprise. Then you see enough, begin to recognize the formula and realize they are all the same damn movie.

5. Junkfood. I wish I could go back to the days of eating a bags of Cheetos and banana splits without feeling guilty (and without getting a bellyache). It really sucks that just about the time you're old enough to choose what you want to eat you start becoming health and weight conscious. As Alanis would whine, "Isn't it ironic? Dontcha think?"

6. Cartwheels. Ouch.

7. FM radio. Fuck ClearChannel.

8. In a related vein, U2. Fuck Bono.


In the interests of not sounding incredibly negative, I will present a list of the few things that are better than they used to be:

1. Cell phones. My mom used to haul around a shoebox-sized one with an enormous antenna. We thought she was so cool. Actually calling people involved shouting at the top of her lungs (mostly "What?" and "you're breaking up.") And she never let us use it because it cost about $427 dollars per minute.

2. Sex.

Actually, that's all.

Self-Esteem Bubbles

I would be very glad to see a shift in the self-esteem craze. A USA Today article talks about how over-emphasis on self-esteem in child-rearing (like excessive praising for mediocre work) has led to a generation of kids and adults with self-worth "bubbles" - excessive but fragile self-regard. Anyone who has ever waited on entitled, I-am-the-center-of-the-universe, demanding customers, or sat in a class at a private university, or endured an hour of the Real World can see that this is a problem. Down with self-esteem! Long live self-doubt!

Marielitos

This is - gasp - an interesting and newsworthy story from today's Times-Picayune about four Cuban Marielitos released from prison after 25 years.

President Carter decided to get Castro's goat by opening up U.S. borders to anyone who cared to leave Cuba in 1980. This policy came back to bite him in the ass when the clever (and enraged) Castro decided to allow anyone who wanted to go to leave from Cuba's port of Mariel (hence the term "marielito.") Castro also emptied Cuba's prisons and asylums, putting convicts and the mentally ill and retarded on boats bound for Florida (does anyone remember the beginning of Scarface?)

The U.S. Department of Immigration had no idea what to do with the 125,000 who made the trip and really bungled the whole thing. Immigration authorities detained convicts (many who were jailed by Castro for purely political reasons or insignificant infractions) for many years and are just now beginning to release them. With no money or identification. Onto the streets of Louisiana and into many other random communities where they have no friends, family, or other resources. A Cuban lawyer who advocated their release referred to the government's policy as "sabotage," saying, "They lock up these people for so long, then they just dump them on the street. They're going to get arrested and then -- ah, ha! -- these people shouldn't have been released to start off with, they'll say. They're a danger. It's not right." Manny Van Pelt, a spokesman for U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement, would seem to agree, "This is a Supreme Court decision," Van Pelt said Tuesday. "It's something we disagreed with. There were individuals who argued for it, and this is the end result. These are criminal aliens being released into the community."

Some New Orleanians are trying to get a charity going to pay for the mens' bus tickets to Miami and other expenses. This is definitely a cause worth supporting and I will try to find out details. In the meantime - please read the story.

Fat Tuesday

It's here! Yay! Yes, Mardi Gras day would certainly be more fun if I didn't sleep through the last and best parades. Alas, I will end my time in New Orleans without one Zulu coconut. But tonight is my favorite part of Mardi Gras: the after party.

Happily, my exile into Daquiriland is over. I was supposed to work today again but it turns out I was double-booked and instead I'm working a private party on a Bourbon St. balcony tonight. This party gets over at midnight, which is perfect. The best party of the year starts Tuesday at midnight, the official end of Mardi Gras. The wall of horses, followed by the wall of water, washes any tourists off Bourbon St. and all the bars have to close their doors (or get really, really wet). Any decent place closes at midnight and lets its overworked employees off the hook (although more and more places are re-opening around one, a trend which I find greatly disturbing). This is cause for jubilation for the myriad bartenders, waiters, bouncers and others who are subjected to great quantities of massively drunken tourists, greedy managers, long and grueling days, and transportation difficulties that occur when streetcars shut down, cabs are unavailable and parking costs $50.00 a day (and is nearly impossible to reach by car). Plus, it's really fun to watch tourists get run or washed off the street. Quite magical, really.

And then the party is on. All the locals bars on sides streets in the Quarter fill up with elated and bedgraggled workers. Many of the bars don't even allow tourists inside, which is a big draw for servers who would rather bathe in a putrid Bourbon Street "mud" puddle than have to look at another obnoxious bead-wielding tourist again. This is the night when everyone lets down his or her hair and gets crazy. The combination of relief, sleep deprivation and a shared sense of having lived through a major crisis (all of Mardi Gras is a crisis) cause strange behavior in normally sane (well, sane-ish) people. I hazily remember one Mardi Gras morning dancing on a bar with my boss who I normally hated. The memory is burned in my mind because of the huge shiner I got on my eye from the blades of the ceiling fan which hung over the bar. (You should have seen the nasty looks my husband got for a week afterwards. And the shiner looked really cute with my strapless gown I wore to our fancy celebration dinner the next night. But I digress). To sum up, I am very glad to have worked this Mardi Gras. And I am very glad it's nearly over. And I am most glad because I am going to my favorite party of the year tonight: the celebration of the end of the tourist invasion. Happy Mardi Gras.

Daquiri Bars

Last night I had a chance to experience working in a Bourbon Street daquiri bar during Mardi Gras for the first time. I lived and worked in New Orleans for nearly ten years and almost managed to scrape by without sampling that particular brand of hell, but now that I have graduated from school my job options seem to have shrunk.

A daquiri bar gets the true cream of the crop of Bourbon Street customers: self-impressed fratboys too young to drink, rednecks old and young, "performance artists" (in New Orleans this is code for hustlers) and the ghettoiest of the ghetto. And, as you can well imagine, these fine people not only behave in a dignified and friendly manner, they always remember to tip.

Truly, good daquiri-drinking people, I understand that charging eight dollars for a slushie mixed with rubbing alcohol counts as highway robbery. (Believe it or not, you are not the first person to point this fact out to me today. Or this hour. Possibly this minute). This is not my fault; you can be damn sure that very little of that money trickles down to my little puddle. Look around you: it's Mardi Gras on Bourbon. You should expect to be shaken down as surely as if you were at the airport. And if you think our prices are robbery, you should see what the landlord gets for rent in this part of town.

Bush could be onto something

Bush's main (and unstated) premise in creating "personal" accounts seems to be that you can't trust your government. He may have a point. Hell, he epitomizes the point.

Kickoff

Ah, drunk blogging. Why am I awake? Why did I just spell awake "awask"? Mardi Gras is officially here. I think the first real day of Mardi Gras is always Thursday and I am spending my last Mardi Gras Thursday much as I did my first one: unexpectedly drunk (and having lots of fun). We went to a corporate party at the Royal Sonesta hotel and drank free champagne and ate free strawberries, shrimp and filet tips on the balcony on Bourbon Street. I have NO idea what the party was for but they let us in (admission being having to wear a silly nametag on my nice party outfit). And the licquor was free, and I dutifully drank too much of it. (That spelling of "licquor" can't possibly be right. Can it?)

My question is, is it really a bad thing if Mr. Rudolph gets fired from a job that he really, really hates? And knowing that I'm not the most discreet person in the world when intoxicated, isn't it really his fault that I mentioned how unappreciated, underpaid, and, oops, about to move he is? (Did I mention that I imparted this highly privileged information to his boss?) He shouldn't have brought me to his place of work in the first place. Or fed me shots. I really need to perfect this line of thinking quickly. Just in case. But as I tried to 'splain to him, he is either fired from a job he really hates or he's getting a huge promotion. What could be so bad about that? Oh, and now his boss is scared of me. Could that truly be bad?

Either way, my better half has taken his revenge: he fed me Cheetos and Tabasco flavored cheese popcorn (you Louisianans are really taking this Tabasco thing too far) and then put me right to bed. There really is an age cutoff point when you stop being able to digest food like that, particularly right before bed. And now I am awake and paying. But I do love the Thursday before Mardi Gras. After all, should you really begin Mardi Gras weekend without a hangover?