Chicken Fingers

Some time ago, while a friend and I were eating at Raisin' Canes, I noticed a young couple playing those "young couple" games in a corner booth. A heavy-set girl, probably 15 or 16 ... and a skinny, awkward, shaggy young man of the same age. She kept making sexual gestures with the straw, hugging up to him ... all of the ridiculous things that kids "of the age" do. It occurred to me that, at some point, the young man will probably take to heart some of the slanderous things his friends and peers will say about the girl's weight or appearance, and abandon her. Maybe he'll just break it off, maybe he'll be too chicken-shit and cheat on her. Either way, it's inescapable that he's going to break her poor, fat heart. It almost saddened me to the point of ruining my meal.

Then, I remembered that the dipping sauce I had in front of me was delicious. It all seemed about right then.

Because of a Threat

I am updating this only because of a threat involving Michael Cera. Which I cannot bear. My internet has been disconnected because I'm destitute, but it's actually been nice not having the availability to fuck around. I'll probably eventually cave and get it re-connected. Because fucking around is the American way. More later.

Fuck Michael Cera.

Hell

I love too many people. I'm drinking a bottle of wine by myself, watching the spin cycle on my dryer and thinking, "How appropriate ...."

Oh, Selfish Me

I feel like an absentee dad. I keep neglecting this space, or at the very least bumping it to the dark corners of my "To Do" list. I need to get better at managing my time, really. I've got too many things to do and not enough hours in which to do them. I'm starting to remove myself from certain projects and endeavors that have shown themselves to be a waste of my time, which helps. Unfortunately, the only way to discover what IS a waste of my time is to allow something to waste huge amounts of my time.

As far as the podcast goes, I've given up the stress of trying to churn it out weekly like clockwork. With the other responsibilities I have, it's simply not realistic. Beyond that, it makes the goddamn thing feel like homework, which it should never be. I want my creative endeavors to be acts of love and joy and inspiration. I find myself feeling increasingly anchored to them, feeling a sense of responsibility to the people who enjoy them to churn projects out faster and without the necessary preparation or thought. It really betrays the entire purpose. I'm not making money or seeking money for pretty much anything I put out there. But, I've been treating these things like it's a business. It really threatened to murder the joy of creating for me, and I've only recently come to the conclusion that it's OKAY to throw self-induced shackles off. I can work at my own pace and present things as they come to me. I've long had a perfectionist streak and am notorious for being a self-flagellating guilt and stress monger. I do it to myself for reasons I've never been clear about.

I've got a ton of vague plans and ideas on the horizon, but nothing with form enough to talk about right now. Or ... I COULD, but it would be tremendously boring and I'd feel like a fool when 70% of what I talked about never materialized.

A few people have asked me via email and the wazooproductions.com message board to describe my creative process. I'd like to address that, but it's difficult for a few reasons.

1. It makes me sound like a legitimate artist or content creator, which I am definitely not. It feels pompous to even attempt to describe my "creative process".

2. The truth of it is, there ISN'T much of a process, or a defined trigger for what inspires me. My muses are too inconsistent and varied to put a finger on.

3. The places my ideas come from really depend on my headspace.

If I were to attempt to name the most consistent place where my ideas come from, I'd have to say it's desperation. Whether it be desperation in terms of my finances or my relationships or existential crisis. Most of the things I do that I'm actually proud of come from a dark place, even if the end result is comedic. Rarely does a joke or a concept for a sketch come from a purely happy place. The punchline is generally incidental, and I'll find it on the way to the deeper point. Many times, I'm intentionally vague. The sad clown is the most over-used cliche in the world, but it's also pretty spot-on. The comedians I admire and respect, and the people whose points of view I share and whose company I enjoy are at their core pretty melancholy. Myself included. This isn't to say that myself or my closest friends are overtly depressive, hostile, or heavy to be around. It's more a matter of where the root of things lie. Sadness is pretty hilarious in the end. It's the only comedy with heart or honesty. Being okay with it is the hardest part, but once you come to grips with that and realize it's simply what your outlook is ... it's smooth sailing.

I turned 28 a few days ago, and while the age itself is meaningless ... the closer it is to that new, round number. 30 years old. It shouldn't be a line in the sand. I'm a pretty rational guy most of the time. But, I'm feeling this increased pressure to do something huge or dive off the deep-end somehow. Maybe take a risk, even if the prospects for success are close to nil. I feel like I've been sleep-walking for a long time and taking the easy road because it's safe. By the time I've got a zero and the end of my age again, I want to either have scars and a story, or the keys to a new car and a thorough knowledge of tax law.

It's storming outside, and I'm drinking St. Germain cocktails in my underwear. Honestly, it feels pretty right.

My City

Apologies for the lack of updates. I don't think anyone reads this, so I'll be apologizing to the cosmos alone. I've been drinking. That's my warning.

Too much has been going on. Work has been draining me ... disaster talk ... more duties than I can fit into a day. But, the fact is I still enjoy my job for the most part and consider it a blessing to have. I get paid to be creative, push a few buttons, and direct people as best I can. I can't complain.

Some opportunities are opening up before me, and I can scarcely juggle them all. I mean that in a positive sense. I wouldn't put these things in the rotation if they weren't worthwhile and I didn't believe in them. I have paid writing gigs, paid film and TV and editing opportunities. Creative outlets are becoming increasingly available, and it's everything I ever hoped for. Sometimes I find myself stressed and ungrateful because there's too much on my plate. I have to slap myself out of this, and realize that the dark side of opportunity is still something I've always wanted. Eventually the pony has to shit. But, I still have the fucking pony.

I'm riding around the city tonight ... listening to music after hanging out with friends ... generally having the kind of weekend I've needed for a long time. And as much as I talk about leaving New Orleans, and as much trash as I talk about this city I live in ... I love it. Deeply and truly, I do love New Orleans. The city has a push pull relationship with me that I can almost equate to the mildly crazy girl you love dearly. She hurts you. You wonder why you put up with all this shit, but in the end ... it's because she's mysterious and magical and compelling. She keeps you on your toes and keeps you honest. The crazy ones are truly the most honest people. And in a strange way, this city is the most honest I can think of in its identity.

I talk often about leaving New Orleans ... but, in the end ... this is MY city. I love it. I'm able to take it for granted because I truly feel at home here. I'm comfortable. I admire it's broken, cracked spirit. It's an old, drunken whore who will still bring you soup if you're ill.

As for the podcast, my apologies for not keeping that consistent and weekly as of late. There has been too much going on, and I've just realized the pressure of keeping a few people appeased is not worth the sanity it's costing me. I'll keep doing it. This is my promise. It just may not be like clockwork. Hopefully you guys will stick with me, and when one DOES pop up, it'll be more of an event. Maybe that's just lazy justification on my part.

Has any of this been coherent? Who am I talking to? I don't think anyone is reading this. But, I've found it quite nice to jot these thoughts down. So, thank you binary code. And good night.

Much more to come. And much love transmitted.

All Hail the Traffic Jam

I'm convinced that if you've lived in Louisiana for more than 5 years, are above the age of 16, and don't hate Mardi Gras ... you're either mentally ill or unemployed. Possibly both. The traffic jams and long detours have already begun here in New Orleans, and I'm considering skipping town when the parades are in full effect. Some of us have places to go and things to do during Mardi Gras time. And the whole affair just becomes a blood-boiling nightmare to those of us with any other obligations except for standing in a median freezing and half-drunk on swill in a plastic cup. It's fun if you're a tourist or a kid. But, as a grown ass resident of the city, it's a living hell. Hooray for filthy streets covered in pollution and cheap plastic beads! Hooray for the rage-inducing delays and seemingly random street closings! Hooray for the drunken, stumbling tourists who think the entire city is Bourbon Street!

The only good thing about Mardi Gras is king cake.

Who Dat Maelstrom

In eight days, The Saints will compete in their very first Superbowl in team history. It promises to be a hell of a contest between two teams who played a hell of a season. But, let's be honest here: The Saints, if they hadn't firmly laid claim to the title during the course of the regular season, have now cemented themselves as America's Team. Few people outside of Indianapolis fans or perhaps embittered die-hards of the many teams the Saints left battered in their wake will be rooting against New Orleans. It's the ultimate Cinderella story. And while the story-lines surrounding the Superbowl are already growing old and trite, one can't help but to be swept up in what this game could mean for the crescent city.

When the Saints beat the Vikings for the NFC championship in nail-biting fashion in overtime, I was watching the game in a crowded bar with friends. It was a night of huge highs and lows, and by the time Garrett Hartley kicked the game winning field-goal, everyone in the place was emotionally drained. I'll remember the night for the rest of my life. It was one of the most perfect evenings I've ever experienced. When it came time for the game-deciding kick, the owner of the bar locked the door, everyone crowded underneath the big screen, standing hushed as the ball went into the air. As soon as it became apparent that the ball was going to split the uprights, the bar bursted into cheers and screams and elation. The bartenders began popping corks and passing champagne to everyone in the bar. There were tears streaming down the faces of at least half the patrons, and hugs and kisses and dancing were happening at every turn. My friends and I walked into the street where cars were already stopping in the middle of the road so the passengers could get out and dance with the pedestrians. Music was blaring from every direction, cars were honking in celebration, with people hanging out of windows, chanting, cheering, and occasionally flashing their breasts.

As we walked down the street, not a single car that passed went without honking and yelling "Who Dat", and we gladly returned the sentiment. When we finally got to another bar down the street, most of the patrons were outside. We quickly grabbed our drinks and went outside to join them, whooping and hollering at every passing car or person. Cars stopped to give high-fives, pulled over to dance with us, and nobody we came across the entire night was without a broad smile across their face. Later on, we decided to drive down the street to get even more of a feel for what was going on in the city. On the radio, announcers were jubilantly calling out, "Pigs have flown! Hell has frozen over! The Saints are going to the Superbowl!" as we rolled the windows and sunroof down. Cops were on the streets, but not pulling anyone over or telling anyone to get off the road. They were seemingly there just to make sure no one was hurt, and the smiles on their faces made it clear that they understood what this meant to everyone in New Orleans. The girls in my car stood on the seats to shout out of the sunroof as happy hands and faces surrounded us. I crept along as if it were a parade route, and the jubilant masses came toward the car, slapping us five, pumping their fists, and shouting "Who Dat" until they were hoarse.

There were no riots, no flipped vehicles, no fires. This city knows how to celebrate, and seeing the absolute unity that a Saints Superbowl had caused was almost too moving to convey.

The euphoria is mostly over now, and all eyes are looking forward to next Sunday. Many citizens are saying that they don't care whether The Saints win or lose. They say that just getting there was enough. But, I'd like all of you fellow Saints fans to keep this in mind: we can win this thing. And as magical as the NFC Championship game was, it was merely a pep rally. When we bring home that Lombardi trophy, this city and its fanbase will never be the same. It may be one of the most important moments in New Orleans' long and storied history. There's a sense of pride, a sense of expectation, and a commitment to excellence that go along with winning the biggest prize in the game. That mentality of being first-class ... FINALLY first class ... can and should spread to other lines of thought within the citizenry. We can demand more from our populace, more from our elected leaders, more in terms of infrastructure, business, modernization, and progress. To call a Superbowl victory the catalyst for such a widespread change of mindset may seem completely far fetched. But, if you had been in the heart of the city and seen what I've seen ... you'll believe just about anything is possible.

In the Year 3000

Increasingly, it looks like we're all headed toward a future full of morbidly obese people suffering from night terrors and new-age maladies like restless leg syndrome. None of these people will be able to pay for the medical treatment they require, either for the legitimate or more fantastical conditions they're afflicted with. They will lie helplessly, reeking of death, and pondering their long-shattered dreams ... as the newest reality shows blare from the TV sets, reminding them that Hollywood is full of 17 year old millionaires, while they're living on a pittance and have to poop through a tube. All social skills and old-time niceties are long forgotten in this brave new age. So, these people can only croak at their chirping, bleating computer screens; the closest they know to interaction. The digital world, and all the disposable gadgetry that's now available via vending machine is what encompasses the new so-called "real life".

I really shouldn't let the buzz about the iPad cause me to become so unsettled. However, all things considered, I'm pretty sure I just described my own bleak future ... 10 years from now.