Culinary pet peeves... (continued from yesterday)

I'll tell ya... there's only one thing worse than the one post you make in about a month glitching after it leaves the cell phone... when a dear friend takes the time to poke fun at you for it. (see the comments from yesterday's post)

Yes, I'm looking at you Lauren.

Anyway... to continue... I'm not what you call a refined diner. Beer and pizza suits me just as well as wine and tapas. I do know however, what I like and dislike about restaurants... even more so with restaurants I go to all the time. Generally, I enjoy a well prepared meal and passable service... I'm not one to send stuff back to the kitchen, but a poor meal will usually factor into whether I go to that particular place again. I also don't feel that I hold wait staff to some ideal... people in that profession have it pretty rough, and I try to remember that.

Then there are things that just piss me off. I've noticed that this happens more often when I'm not dining in, but getting something to bring home with me. Still, these are my pet peeves...

Pet peeve #1: When I go into an ethnic restaurant, and the person taking the order assumes that just because I can't pronounce the name of the dish correctly, that I have no idea what I'm ordering. It irritates me even more when I just order the number of the dish off the menu and they still question me with "You sure that's what you want? That's noodles, not rice." It's called "being worldly" toots, look it up when you get home and you'll see a picture of me. Now get off my case and fetch me my number 23 pronto before I start cursing in italian.

Pet peeve #2: When I order a meal for six people and they give me one fork. While I appreciate that someone of my carriage is often assumed to have an exceptional appetite, I am not going to eat six entrees and two appetizers by myself. Maybe I'm just being a little over sensitive, but this really insults me. I am a man, not an eating machine.

Pet peeve #3: When the person behind the counter insists I haven't ordered enough. "do you want fries with that?" is one thing... but when I order something without rice, noodles, or bread, who are you to tell me "You big man. you eat rice."? I used to go to this one Chinese place that did this to me constantly when I worked in the french quarter.

Pet peeve #4: When a waiter acts irritated when I ask what's in a dish, or for specifics about how it's prepared. I'm usually asking because I have food allergies and I'm embarrassed enough that I have to ask, so lose that freaking attitude. My Mom is allergic to soy and corn, so she has to do this all the time... I wonder how she deals with it.

Pet peeve #5: When I'm in the drive through and the person on the other end of the speaker says anything but "Welcome to (our fast food joint) may I take your order?" Anything else just confuses me, especially in the morning before I've had my coffee. There's a McD's not far from where I work where they say "What can I make for you this morning?" every time. No "Welcome." No "Good morning." Just some pain in the ass piece of homespun crapola that I have to get her to repeat twice before it registers in my head. GOD, THIS BUGS ME!!!! I was tempted to write to McDonalds and complain about it, but realized my opinions matter to McDonalds about as much as a field mouse matters to the President of the United States, which is to say not at all.

Okay. End of rant.

Culinary pet peeve #1.

When I go into an ethnic restaurant and the person taking my order assumes i have no idea wh

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Best. Year. Ever.

To all that posted on their blogs wishing me a happy Birthday/Robbie Gras, I thank you all for your kind wishes and warm fuzzies... but I think Melinda won the comedy award this year, by saying this:

For those of you who don't know, today marks a holiday celebrated throughout the United Federation of Planets, Robbie Gras! Today, the great and powerful Rob has completed yet another trip around Sol. But don't give him too much credit. The planet did most of the work.

Short, to the point and very, very funny. I laughed for at least five minutes.

Robbie Gras 2008 started out for me at 5 am with my clock radio belting out my favorite Billy Joel song. Silverfox even rolled over and said "Wow... that's kinda weird... Your favorite song on your birthday?"

"Through Robbie Gras, all things are possible, my dear."

We went out to the Metarie Parade Route to set up Camp Kahunah, (Pictured below with Brouhaha in front of the tiki god acting like his usual ham-tastic self.)
Note the palm tree cooler and tiki god... it was quite a sight.

I sat out on the parade route by myself for a while to reserve our territory, as Silverfox had to head back home to load up the food, kids, and my Dad. As I watched others clamber about in the early morning light setting up folding chairs, tents and ladders I had some time to think.

This has been an extraordinary year to be Rob... and it's only February. I'm finally getting the hang of this "Dad" thing, My birthday fell on Mardi Gras which fell on "super Tuesday", I'm with an incredible, funny, charming woman that can cook an equally incredible barbeque meal for me and thirty of my closest friends, my Dad came down to visit for the first time in years, the Giants won the effing super bowl, and had their victory parade on my birthday as well.

I'm truly beginning to think that somebody up there likes me.

Dad in his element

Dad is in town for a few days. Rather than hit the french quarter, we hit a muddy rail yard. That's dad for ya.

Holy hitmen, Batman!

I swear, the Saint-sational story of my weekend is forthcoming, but I ran across something I had to comment upon...

As if all those offers for "natural male enhancement" in my mailbox weren't enough, now I have to be on the lookout for scam artists posing as hitmen that want to kill me.

As I read the above linked article, the following thoughts occured to me:

1) If an actual hitman approached me with this offer, I would still be screwed as I don't have 100 grand under my mattress or anything. Most I could counter offer would be 50 bucks and a coupon for a free pitcher of beer at Hooters.

2) Those that would fall for this must be some pretty paranoid people... my first thought when confronted with this would be akin to "There is no one on this planet who would shell out 50 thou just to see me dead."

3) It would be very easy to insert a few generic locations or events to that e-mail to convince a complete stranger that you actually had them under survellence. (I.E.: "I saw you in Wal-mart a few weeks ago and you even bought my employer a gift, you cheapskate.", "you really need to cut down on the between meal snacking" or "I'm sure the folks at that coffee shop will miss you.") I wonder how the con artist missed that.

4) I think way too much like a criminal.

New York stinks. Literally.

I couldn't help but laugh when I read about the unusual smell that Manhattan residents have recently noticed in their air. You know, It's no secret that when you live downwind from New Jersey, things like this are going to happen occasionally... it's just that Manhattan normally isn't the one stuck downwind of it at all. Usually it's Staten Island, where I grew up.

Dats right, mon... I'm from de island. Now pass the duchie on de left hand side.

All you whiney Manhattan residents: suck it up and deal with it, like you've been telling Staten Islanders to do all these years when we would complain not just about the smell of Jersey, but the smell of the Fresh Kills Landfill that you refused to allow us to close for so many years. After all, those refineries in New Jersey are a nessacary evil produced by the port that turned your city into one of the richest on the planet.

Or, at least that's the line you've been feeding me since I was in grade school. Now that it's the air on the upper east side making your eyes water, is it somehow different? All it takes is a shift in the damn wind and our problem is suddenly yours.

See, folks... stuff like this is why I moved. At least here in New Orleans, the classism and hypocracy is right out in the open where it can't sneak up on anyone, and people recognize that a neighborhood's problems can be everyone's problem if left unchecked.

Only a situation? Wake me when it becomes a catastrophe...

Apparently, we have a bit of a situation here in southeast louisiana... the entire half of the state is slowly sliding into the gulf of Mexico like a very lazy avalanche. According to the linked article, the state is falling into the water at a rate of about the width of 2 credit cards per year.

Okay, kids... time for some math:

My credit card (okay... debit card. I never said my credit rating was flawless.) measures 3.5 inches at its wide point... my house is approximately 35.16 miles from the gulf waters as the crow flies, (or in this case as the land slides) or 2,227,953.34 inches to the sparkling blue waters that separate me from Cuba.

2 times 3.5 equals 7

2,227,953.34 divided by 7 is 636,558.097.

In short, by the year 638,565 A.D., my apartment will be beachfront property, and New Orleans flooding problems will be a much deeper issue.

At least it gives me some time to figure out where I should evacuate to...

Progress? you call that Progress?

Yesterday I realized that I've had my Buick for a little over a year, and thus far 'Maybelyne' hasn't let me down when its counted. Unfortunately, all my giddy little bits of sentimentality were blasted out of the water by the fact that it also means it was time for me to take the old girl for her yearly brake tag inspection.

I called work to say I would be late, and figured the whole process wouldn't take very long... After all, "hit your turn signals and honk the horn" is the automotive equivalent to "open wide and say ahhhh". So I pulled into the station like I normally would, waited paitently for the four cars ahead of me to get their inspection stickers, and greeted the attendant with a smile. She asked no questions, had me honk the horn once and presented me and Maybelyne with a pretty piece of paper that said "REJECTED" on it in large, friendly, red letters.

"Say what?" I asked calmly.

"I'm sorry sir, but all of your turn signal bulbs are not lensed." the Inspection lady said.

I felt May's engine huccup in dissatisfaction. The front turn signals haven't had lenses since I bought the car... I just taped them over and moved on with my life without incident.

"I know that. They have tape over them."

"Sorry, sir. No cars can be passed without lensed lights."

"It's never been a problem before, Darlin. You sure this isn't some plot just to get me to come back so you can spend more time with me?" I batted my eyelashes at her in a hopeless attempt to flirt my way out of this.

Nothing is less impressive apparently, than a large italian man calling you 'darlin' while batting his eyelashes at you.

"No, sir. New rules passed by the parish. All lights to be lensed, no cracks of any kind in windshields, and all windshield wipers must be functional. That's progress for you."

"But you didn't ask me to do the wipers."

"Saw the lens first, so I saw no need. I can give you a temporary tag till you get them fixed though. That'll be 20 dollars"

"Twenty bucks for just the temp one?"

"That's right. Make sure that you keep the temp tag somewhere hidden, though... these things are a very high theft item since the new rules."

No Kidding. I wonder why. I thought, scowling slightly."Not in the windshield? but what if I get pulled over?"

"Just show the cops the temporary one and they'll let you go."

Yeah. Right. I took the tag and drove off in search of turn signals, after calling in to my boss first to say I was going to be even later.

"Your car was rejected?" He asked.

"That's right."

"Well, how does your Buick feel about that?"

"She's a little upset about it. I'll be there as soon as I can."

"I've been to that inspection station before... the lines get pretty long after the morning hours."

"So, I promise I'll be in by 4:00. Bye." (we get off work at 4:30)

I went to several junkyards, none of which seemed to have any wrecked Buicks. I was ready to give up when someone told me to try one last one, an auto salvage place near the Huey P Long bridge. the man behind the counter had a thick cajun accent, but obviously knew his stuff.

"Nah. We got no buicks ov da riht year here. But we do have udders dat'l work."

"wait... you mean you have the lenses?"

"Uhns dat'l work, yah. Diffent year, riht part. Dat'll be 50 bucks."

"I only have 42 dollars on me, but I can.."

"Hokay... 42 bucks den."

I love this town sometimes. I thanked the man and ran out to the car before he changed his mind and had me wrestle an alligator out of a wrecked school bus to make up the extra eight bucks. I slapped the parts on the car, waited in line at the station for another couple of hours, but got to work by noon.

Maybelyne, with her new turn signals, has never looked better.

Hmmm... I see no difference... or do I?

I took the plunge today and switched over to the new version of Blogger... after all, a man's gotta face his fears sooner or later, right? I see no difference though, between this new version and the old except that now the Google Gestapo has a file on me.

In me, however I have noticed a change over the past couple of months or so... the spring is back in my step, the songs have returned to my heart, and I've been just chock-full of the spirit of the season. Compared to last year, when I was ranting about Festivus well into January, I think that this is quite the improvement.

I guess it's time to come clean, as well... I think had been suffering from a rather serious bout with depression for almost a year, and it seems no one noticed. I don't know if my acting skills are just that good, or if those that care about me just didn't know how to bring it up, but I finally caught on to this about two months ago and started doing something about it. For those who wonder about such things, for me it really didn't take all that much, either... an exercise routine here, learing to embrace my stupidity there, and I'm a whole new man. It also helps that there's a genuine feeling of hope in the city again as people start moving back into their rebuilt homes, and FEMA trailers start slowly disappearing. Not to mention the Saints having a winning season for the first time ever... for all those that wonder why it was so important to get the superdome up and running again when there is so much left to do, you should see the smile that crosses nearly everyone's face when they hear the word "playoffs" being spoken aloud in a bar here.

Anyway, I'm much better now. To those I had been aloof to for a while, I apologize. Won't happen again.

The Moral: True change comes from within, but you have to step outside the box sometimes to see when it's needed.

Monty zuma's revenge on Algiers point?

I promise that this isn’t one of those “well, first I got up, then I showered, then I got dressed, then I did my hair, then I decided to have an egg, then some toast…” kind of blog entries that Lauren and I make fun of all the time. Read on.

Allow me to describe my morning to you...
1) Wake up
2) Take shower
3) Brush teeth
4) Get Dressed
5) Make some toast
6) Eat said toast with a bit of peanut butter
6) Drink a couple of glasses of tap water to wash down toast and peanut butter
7) Turn on cell phone and remove from charger
8) Check my voicemail messages.
9) Receive "MOM SAYS DON'T DRINK THE WATER IN ALGIERS POINT OR BRUSH YOUR TEETH WITH IT!!!! IT WAS JUST ON THE NEWS!!!" message from Dizzy.
10) Panic
11) Promise myself that I’m not having a heart attack
12) Check pulse anyway
13) Tell myself that the sudden queasy feeling in my stomach probably has more to do with the 26 hot wings I ate the night before than the water I just drank.
14) Watch morning news that doesn't say a blasted thing about the water, or what to do if you've already drunk a few quarts of water before hearing the news that you shouldn’t drink it.
15) Go to work, hoping that I don't suddenly die from salmonella behind the wheel.
16) Realize on way to work that the odds of anyone suddenly dying from salmonella are fairly slim
17) Hear report on radio confirming that Algiers residents need to boil their water before drinking it until Thursday because of a water main break, but not what to do if you’ve already drunk it.
18) Panic some more
19) Realize that dying from drinking tainted tap water has to be worth a Darwin award.
20) Get to work, check internet, and find out that the boil water thing is just a standard procedure precaution for water main breaks, and that anyone who drank the water before hearing the news should be fine.
21) Realize that I will live to blog another day

A near miss

Well, I think that I probably came the closest I will hopefully ever come to winning a Darwin Award this morning… by nearly removing myself from the gene pool in a spectacularly stupid manner.

It was a fairly normal (if chilly) morning here in the big easy, and overnight the temperature had dipped down near the twenties. Of course, this meant little to me as I hopped into my car to head to work, other than that I grabbed my sweater before leaving the house. Or so I thought.

While passing over the bridge, I noticed that my windshield was kinda dusty, and instinctively pressed the washer button to clear it. Predictably, wipers started, and the washer fluid sprayed over the windshield…

And froze solid on contact.

I was rendered totally blind to the cars in front of me in less time than it takes to tell, and still moving at 60 miles an hour. My windshield wipers made no headway against the super thin sudden frost that my stupidity had rendered upon me. I frantically pushed the heater lever over to defrost, but nothing happened. Terrified, I found the presence of mind to pull over, and waited there on the side of the road for almost a half hour for the defroster to finally melt the mess that sat there mocking me after nearly getting me killed.

I realized a few things from this experience.

1) My worst fears are true… Without my ex-wife around, I have indeed become the ‘stupid one’ of my clique of friends. The ‘Joey’ of our little group, as it were.
2) After living in the deep south for 13 years, I no longer think it important to carry an ice scraper or deicer in my car, despite the fact that I am known for my long drives into northern climates.
3) All this time, the oil change place I go to has been adding water to my windshield washer bottle instead of washer fluid.

I’m still working on which of these makes me more upset.

So this preacher gets mugged in an alley...

This is not a joke post, but darned if it doesn’t start like one. I’m listening to the radio the other day, and they told a story of a Texas inner-city preacher that after having been mugged, decided that his mission was to bring the Lord to the inner city youth of today. Apparently, the preacher turned to his bible for guidance on the subject, and came to an interesting conclusion: The bible was really long and difficult to read.

No huge mystery there, padre. It was written and re-written at least a thousand years ago (no, I don’t need the exact date... It’s not integral to the point of this story) and our language has changed since quill met papyrus. Inspired by this bit of divine obviousness, the preacher has decided to do something about it.

He is writing a Hip-Hop translation of the bible.

To quote psalm 23: “Yo, check it…even tho I’s walkin thru an evil hood, I got no fear… cause God got my back. Though them Gangstas try to bring a playa down, I got no worries, cause my homey… the Lord… is with me.”

Now, I understand the time honored tradition of translating the bible into another tounge to convert the unbelievers. If you want a populace to get the message, they need to be able to read it. This still seems like a stupid idea to me… Gangstas so inclined to pick up a bible won’t care if it’s in hip-hop or not, will they? I just don’t understand how this will not directly contribute and encourage the decline of the English language. Why bother to learn the finer points of our language if we’re gonna translate everything into our slang anyway?

So says the fat white guy of course, so I’d be interested in hearing any dissenting opinion.

Man vs. Mouse-round 4, and more!

"To depend strictly on defense means that there is not enough strength of purpose in your heart" --Sun Tzu

So, before going home to decide the fate of my P.O.W. in the great Mouse police action of 2006(see previous entry) I had to do my civic duty. That’s right, kids… it was voting time once again. This time, one of the issues was about how the parish has the right or lack thereof to tax me for owning a car. Personally, I think that’s ridiculous, and just another excuse for the government to shift as much of its overweight bureaucratic ass as it can upon the backs of the working stiff.

Anyway, seeing as how Ducky lives basically across the street from me, he decided to tag along and vote, too. He was however, turned away at the polls. As it turns out, that even though he changed his address after Katrina to reflect his residency in my neighborhood, not a single state or federal agency thought it appropriate to share this with the voters registration people. They were nice about it, but basically told Ducky that if he really wanted to vote, we would have to cross the river and drive the 17 or so miles down a still-dark-cause-the-streetlights-still-haven’t-been-fixed-since-the-storm road to Chalmette to do so.

In the 37 minutes before the polls closed.

“Dude…” I said, stifling my righteous indignation, “you have just been disenfranchised.”
“So it would seem.” Ducky replied.
“Isn’t there something in the bill of rights about this?”
“It’s taxation without representation, at the very least.”
“Hooters?” I suggested, thinking that going for chicken wings was somehow appropriate just then.
“Hooters.” Ducky agreed.

It was trivia night at Hooters, but we still regaled the waitresses with Ducky’s tale of woe. While managing to win a pitcher of beer. (Behold our brilliance!) The problem is, Ducky doesn’t drink, and I was driving. We got several thousand points for style when we decided to donate our hard-won pitcher to the team that came in last place.

Afterward, Ducky told me he had read my blog entry from earlier that day.

“Yeah,” I said, “I still haven’t figured out what to do with that P.O.W.”
“He’s not a P.O.W.!” Ducky quacked at me, “He’s an enemy combatant and a thief! He pillaged valuable resources and attempted to spread disease among your populace! He deserves no mercy!”
“My regime is not one to line people up in front of a firing squad, my friend.”
Ducky frowned.
“And you call yourself a dictator.”
“I prefer to think of myself as a benevolent Monarchy.”
“Most dictators do.”

I got home fairly late, half expecting that the Mouse in the wastebasket would have managed to escape somehow, but he was still there.

“You have been tried and found guilty of crimes against the sovereign state of Casa Kahunah.” I said to my furry prisoner, “we have decided that the sentence for your crimes is…" I paused, still unsure of his fate.

I thought of Sun Tzu, and his quote above. I thought of the errors of the current regime of the United states government, and why so many other nations don't like us.

I sighed. I'm just not a bully, I guess.

"Your sentence is banishment and exile.” I said.

I guess I lack strength of purpose... but at least I can live with myself.

I know what you’re thinking… I’ve tried this before. This time, I walked two blocks away, with the wastebasket and let him loose in a small park. The Mouse ran off into the night, in the opposite direction of my house. The war, for the moment, was once again over. Casa Kahunah is apparently mouse free but we can never forget the great police action of 2006, lest we repeat it’s mistakes.

Now if I could just get rid of that squirrel in the attic…

Man vs. Mouse, round 3.

The struggle continues to make Casa Kahunah rodent free… and I am seriously considering borrowing a friend’s cat for a few weeks. I just don’t think I can borrow Drew’s cat (Nimbus) in good conscience, because A) I live in a more urban setting that an indoor/outdoor suburbs cat like Nimbus might not find as safe, and B) That cat’s a bit of a jerk (according to Stacey).

Plus that, I’m thinking that these mice are not nearly as smart as I’ve been giving them credit for.

Case in point… Last episode, I found a mouse trapped in the living room wastebasket, and released him to the wild. At least, that was the plan. (no snickering out there… I’m lookin at you, Melinda.) The wily beast ran back into the house before I could react… Well, this morning, as I got ready for work, I heard a rustling in the (still empty) wastebasket again. I looked over the rim, and there was the same, stupid mouse.

At least I’m pretty sure it was the same mouse… I didn’t ask him for any I.D.

I didn’t feel like dealing with it just then and there, so I put a board over the wastebasket to confine the little S.O.B. till I get home. I also intend on stopping at Wal-mart to pick up a few more of those nifty traps. (The link is for Dreamwalker, who liked the sound of the design) I still have to decide what to do with my P.O.W. when I get home though… I think just outright executing it may be against the Geneva convention.

I’m off to re-read Sun-Tsu… but I’ll be damned if I know how to take a mouse’s wind.

Cell phone rudeness…

It amazes me sometimes just how rude other people can be in the use of their cell phones. I have seen this happening a lot lately. Sometimes, it’s a woman ignoring the check-out person at the supermarket because the horrible job her friend Yeveonne had on her nails was simply more important… sometimes it’s the man at McDonalds who thought that talking cutesy-wootsy to his girlfriend surely took precedence over his (or any of the people behind him in line) need for a Big Mac. These are signs of the times we live in; An irrefutable symbol of our growing need to not interact with people in the world around us save through the buffer of our technology.

I’m not a cell phone Nazi, mind you… but there are times when it is simply inappropriate to take a call, and other times when you should just turn the damn thing off. To not do so is simply rude. Maybe some people just don’t get that their cell phones have an off switch for a reason. I know that I thank the lord every day that if I don’t want to be bothered, I can just turn it off… but then, I’m the type that does that.

I thought I had hit the height of witnessing cell phone rudeness a few months ago, at the movies with JavaFooFoo, when a woman answered her cell phone, and proceded to have a full on conversation, annoying everyone in the theatre. (FooFoo, to her credit, leaned over and told the woman to either shut the hell up or take the call outside) We joked later about how it doesn’t get much ruder than that.

Ha. I wish.

For those of you that haven’t heard, Ducky’s father passed away this week. Funerals are never fun… very un-kahunaish. I usually get through them with my “why do we call it a wake” jokes, or the ever popular rant about how I insist on being buried in a hawaiian shirt. This one was no exception.

The ceremony was dignified. Sadly, it was really clear to me that the pastor giving the eulogy had no clue about who Ducky’s dad really was… but it was still a pretty good sermon. Got me thinking though; in the unlikely event I don’t outlive all of y’all, I fully expect my eulogy to be given by someone with a sense of humor who actually KNOWS me. Preferably in the style of those classic Dean Martin celebrity roasts. (Jay, Lauren, Dave…I’m lookin at you!) That and lord help the person who ignores my Hawaiian shirt request. I am not above coming back to haunt whoever decides a suit would be more appropriate. I have friends on the other side, you know… being a paranormal researcher was not without its perks. A few strippers at the wake would also be good…

But I digress. Back to the funeral.

Ducky’s dad had been in the military when he was younger, and so got full military honors. It was perhaps, the most moving part of the ceremony, as the USMC honor guard approached the coffin, and the bugler started playing “Taps”… I was getting a little misty-eyed when someone’s cell phone went off.

I thought this was kinda funny (at first), thinking to myself how mortified I would have been for my phone to ring at that moment. Everyone looked around (except the Marines, who stayed focused on the solemn duty at hand) and saw that it was one of Ducky’s aunts (one of his Dad’s sisters) whose phone was ringing. My amusement quickly turned to disbelief however, as she then ANSWERED THE CALL!!!!

“Hello? Yes… No…” (then notices everyone staring) “Can you call me back tomorrow? I’m at my Brother’s funeral. Okay. Bye.”

The phrase “Have some respect for the dead” comes to mind. So do the phrases “Were you raised by wolves with manners like that?” and “Are you handicapped or just stupid?”

I know Cell Phone Jammers are illegal in the US, but I would think with the number of businesses that would want one (theatres, funeral homes, schools and churches, to name a few) that the FCC would get off its fannies and figure out how to make them work within their guidelines.

Opinions anyone?

Why some folks shouldn't have kids....

Is it really immature of me that I laughed for a full five minutes at the thought of this?

I mean, please... put down the kid and pick up a bat, lady. You get no distance or additional force with a child, and I care not to think what the melee modifier would be to hit! (Sorry... can you tell I play RPGs?) And furthermore, if you are too darn lazy to put down the kid and look around for a sledgehammer or something, why on earth do you think you'll actually WIN a fight?

Still, I suppose you don't have to worry about keeping the label up with a baby, huh?

Revelation of the week...

My laugh sounds just like Barney Rubble.

The 40,000th post on a blog today titled “a year later”…

As many of you are well aware, today is the anniversary of Hurricane Katrina’s landfall. What pisses me off is that all day… Katrina has been all up in my grill. I woke up, the first thing on the clock radio is the DJ saying what he was doing a year ago. I turn on the TV and instead of the morning traffic report, I find the local station is doing a SIXTEEN HOUR Katrina retrospective, pre-empting all their programming for the day. I get into my car, and every DJ on every station was yammering on about hurricanes. I popped in my Green Day CD for the morning commute instead. (something I NEVER DO!) I go to check my e-mail, and Hotmail has all these disturbing Katrina pictures. At work, the company plans to throw a “lunch picnic” of sorts to commemorate the occasion. My boss is downloading pictures of the devastation to decorate as we speak. I log onto bloglines to see what up in the world, and Everyone whose blog I subscribe to (with the exception of Drew, who never updates his blog anymore) has written about Katrina.

Sheesh. Now I have too. I feel like such a lemming.

The crime of it all is that I woke up in a good mood today. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, my next road trip is a scant 48 hours away, my weekend was spent creatively, and all in all I felt good. This is impossible to maintain when surrounded by people saying things like “we must never forget” or “yeah, the water was up to my waist before I could react” or the ever popular “the government did nothing!”. It’s bad enough that whenever I have met someone new for the past year, the initial conversation is ALWAYS about flooding, hurricanes, evacuation spots, FEMA’s ineptitude, evacuation plans, or how many relatives are currently crammed under your roof. And psychologists around the country are wondering why so many of us here in “the Big Hard” (not Easy anymore… trust me on this) are ready to snap?

I admit… this has not been an easy year. My bills are still behind, I changed jobs about as often as people are supposed change the oil in their car, many of my friends moved away from me (either physically or emotionally), and either the floors in my house have gotten weaker, or I’ve put on some weight.

Now is the Indian summer of my discontent. I need to get some sand under my feet this weekend, and some sun on my tummy. If anyone says the word “hurricane” to me on the road trip, I swear I will end them.

Of course, according to the weather channel, Tropical storm Ernesto will be following the path I was going to take… (Sigh).

Focus on the beach, Rob. Focus on the beach.

New Orleans update.... Hurricane plans and lack thereof.

Well, here we are looking at month twelve removed from hurricane Katrina. Here in the big easy, the news is getting better… traffic signals are functioning, businesses thought shuttered forever are opening their doors, people are moving into their homes after months in the FEMA trailers… but the good news keeps being punctuated by the horrid, like the fact that they’re still finding bodies in New Orleans East almost a year later. The mood is weird, but each day you realize that despite setbacks of stupidity and greed, New Orleanians are a robust bunch. This city will endure.

Unless of course… the city gets wiped from the face of the earth with the arrival of the next hurricane. Speaking of which, hurricane Chris churns somewhere east of the Caribbean, the first storm of the season with the potential to break into the Gulf of Mexico and wreak all sorts of havoc. Even though it’s barely a Cat 1 at this point, everyone here has an eye on it. Half the guys at the factory brought in weather band radios to keep updated, and it’s still at least a week out.

The good news is my cupboard is full of canned soup and veggies. The bad news is that I think I’m still too close to that cold I had to be welcome at my “evacuation point” at Casa Spiehler. The fact that Ace is coming home is still wonderful news, but Mama Stacey is gonna insist I wear a space suit until three at least doctors certify me germ-free.

It may be easier to just drive to New York should the hurricane head my way. If it wasn’t for the gas prices, I probably would make that my plan. Damn hurricanes. Damn Gas prices. Damn instinct for self-preservation. Shoulda moved to outer Mongolia when I had the chance.

Further updates as events warrant.