Next Stop...International Diplomacy

I took a day off recently so that I might catch up on some errands around the house.  After that, I planned to treat myself to a leisurely late morning of TV and then lunch at one of my favorite soul food restaurants.  I also planned to cap the day with friends at the pub.

Now that I think about it, this sounds like a typical Tuesday for a Congressman, only I didn't have to report for a "floor vote,"  and I don't have adequate healthcare or a limo driver.  

After calling a cab, which would transport me to my much anticipated day off, the neighbors assured me that this restaurant would be closed on Tuesday.

What?

I'm convinced that restaurants in New Orleans consult a Ouija Board or the Magic 8-Ball when scheduling hours of operation and/or hiring practices.  Nonetheless, I was on a mission, thus disregarding the naysayers who tried to rain on my lunch parade.

I hopped in the cab and headed down the road to an afternoon of guilty pleasure.
The cabbie, Mr. Tahir, hesitantly offered that he also suspected that the restaurant might be closed today.  Another naysayer!

After a few moments of silence, the cab driver sheepishly asked, in broken English:

"What does stub-born mean?"

I asked that he repeat the question, making sure that I'd heard him correctly.  After a short period of deep reflection, I answered:

"An Ex girlfriend?"

Tahir shot a puzzled stare to the backseat through the rear view mirror, not understanding good old American apathy.  After sadly realizing that I was not, in fact, on an episode of "Cash Cab", I searched my thoughts so that I might be able to better explain the concept of stubborn in a way that Tahir would best understand.  I would do so via real-world examples.  Sort of like the 70's television program, "Good Times," only not as racially stereotypical.

My first thought was to use current events as it relates to his country's relations with Pakistan but I felt that instigating a Holy War in the backseat of a cab could possibly result in some sort of Homeland Security infraction or come across as insensitive...which might anger Anderson Cooper.

I began by explaining the foundation of stubborn behavior and decisions; I noted that there are GOOD types of stubborn: 

Actions which effect an overall positive and productive outcome 

And BAD types of stubborn: 

A network that feels it to be a good idea to give Arsenio Hall another late night television talk show because Donald Trump likes him. 

I likened the bad stubborn to the child who has been repeatedly told to NOT touch the cake on the kitchen counter only to ignore simple instructions, proceeding to eat half the cake.

I then asked Mr. Tahir if that made sense.  He matter of factly shared that he would have beaten the child with a stick.

There's something decidedly funny to me about the image of someone being beaten with a stick.  However, I felt that my example didn't break the international communication barrier.  

Understanding that my cabbie hails from a land rife with triumphs, tragedies, setbacks and technological revolution over the centuries, I felt it to be best that I go back to the drawing board; this time I would employ the use of historical perspective in defining "stubborn."

I began with GOOD stubborn as it relates to the Wright Brothers and the first airplane.

After numerous personal failures,  the Wright brothers never gave up.  They finally swallowed their pride and went through marriage counselling with their wives so that they might go on to experience a dismal home life COUPLED with numerous failures at work.  This led to a brief bout of alcoholism and sexual experimentation for Wilbur.  He later divorced.

However, these personal and professional failures steeled their resolve to do what everyone else does (cheat on their wife) while developing a reliable method of pilot control as the key to solving "the flying problem."  While their competitors were busy developing the first airport bar which charges $15.00 for a double Jack and Coke, the Wright boys were developing a contraption that would lead to the construction of the world's worst airport...Newark, New Jersey.  

Cart before the horse is an example of BAD stubborn, as I explained to Tahir.

I pointed out to Tahir that, by not giving up, Orville and Will blazed (con) trails in modern aviation.  Of course it ultimately led to inadequate maintenance, causing horrific plane crashes.  But, it also ushered in numerous jobs to the economy with the creation of the NTSB and first responders.  

Those few moments on a rail runway in the middle of a North Carolina sand dune led to modern marvels such as barely edible in-flight food, cranky customers poured into seats no larger than a child's tricycle seat for $800 a pop while waiting for alcohol service in order to tolerate the ugly kid who keeps staring over the forward seat.

At any rate, I suspect that the Wright Brothers likely constructed the first aircraft so that they might escape their wives to a land of professional football and beer.

While Tahir seemed responsive to our flight down Stubborn Street, I held a low level of confidence that I'd effectively brought him to the other side of the answer he sought.  So...I felt that a more modern-day example might help. 

I used the most logical example which floats to the top of mind for most people...the Uni-Bomber.

His was a special stubbornness in that it was a prime example of good AND bad stubborn.  It even prompted a lengthy manifesto and one of the WORST police sketch artist renditions of a suspect.  

But, I thought better of using improvised explosive devices as an example of stubbornness to a cabbie who hails from a country where explosives are randomly handed out like Halloween candy.

By the way, In doing research for this piece, I made time to actually read the Uni-Bomber manifesto and gained a significant level of insight in three areas:

1. His writings provided fairly accurate predictions of things to come in an increasingly hi-tech society.  

2. He probably should have utilized a more socially acceptable way of promoting his words.  Perhaps a book signing tour at Barnes and Noble over coffee and crumb cakes.

3. Reading the Unibomber manifesto at work draws unwanted attention from management and the IT staff.

Suddenly, it hit me!  Earlier, while waiting for the cab, my neighbor, Katie, raced across the street toward my porch.  Panting, she explained that she needed help zipping up the back of a dress which she'd purchased at a thrift store.  

For five minutes I struggled with this stubborn zipper, trying to avert my eyes from a very bottom to top exposed Katie.  

After the zipper finally came off track, we both finally agreed that this wasn't going to work.  She thanked me and walked back to her house, half dressed, as I stood there wondering if the neighbors suspected that I might have just committed a sex crime.

Hers was a case of good stubborn: 

Not giving up until all avenues have been explored and bad stubborn by purchasing a dress that is a full size too small in order to save a buck.

My friend Leigh recently shared a case of stubbornness within her family.  Seems that her uncle was wrapped within the miserable confines of a second marriage.  When asked why he wouldn't simply get a divorce, he resolutely explained that, in Texas, appearances are important.

It's also important to note that this gentleman was eventually murdered by his second wife.  So, I suppose appearances in Texas result in Darwin's theory in action...NOT stubbornness.**

**Note: I truly wouldn't mind if Texas would secede from the United States.

I took a final stab with my explanation to Mr. Tahir by likening stubborn behavior to that of a small child who doesn't want to share his/her toys.  When one of the other children dares to touch one of the toys, the child purposely destroys the toy and gathers the rest, stomping away.  Thus, depriving his/herself of a fun day at the playground. 

Tahir stared blankly through the rear view for a moment.  I broke the silence by adding:

"...And then the kid gets beaten by his parents with a stick for not sharing."    

An exuberant smile crossed Tahir's face; the proverbial light bulb proudly beamed above his head and I felt that I did my part in crossing international boundaries in the area of sociology while averting phrases which might possibly trigger a Jihad.  

We finally arrived to the curbside in front of the restaurant when I spotted the bright red placard perfectly centered on the front door reading:

CLOSED

I sighed and, after a moment of realization and defeat had set in, Tahir hesitantly broke the silence by asking:

"Good stubborn, no?"

I smiled, before answering:  "NO and...yes ."  

Realizing that, on my quest for a meat and three lunch, I should have listened to both Tahir AND my neighbors.  Bad stubborn I suppose.

As we headed toward home, I enjoyed the fruits of good stubborn on the wings of a flightless bird (with a side of turnip greens and mashed potatoes) as Tahir drove me to a nearby fried chicken drive-thru window.  

I suppose we're all stubborn at times.  Whether good or bad, only time will tell and history will be the ultimate judge.  Until then, I'll optimistically wait.  But, that's just me being...

Hopeful.

copyright Pontchartrain Press, 2013

LITTLE RICHARD

UNIBOMBER

Author's note: My editor feels strongly that using the words: Jihad, holy war, Unibomber, sex crime, Homeland Security, Anderson Cooper, improvised explosive and fried chicken might draw unwanted keyword attention to this writing.  I would suspect that inviting Texas to step out of the Union would bring about more harm to my well being.

LOST: Kitty...

I received an email from a reader who shared the following feedback on one of my recent print columns.  By recent, I'm not sure when it published but know that it had to be AFTER 1967.

From: Juliana420@yahoo.com
To: Pontchartrainpress@gmail.com

I'm writing to let you know that a friend of mine turned me on to your blog after reading an article in the living section of our local city magazine in Tallahassee, FL.  I must say, it's nothing against you, but I don't get it.  

Actually, the thing that I read was about sexting.

Again, I don't mean this the wrong way, I just didn't get it and my friend thought it was REAL funny..and so did her boyfriend......which is why I read it.  I didn't understand why a Tallahassee magazine printed a story that didn't have anything to do with our city OR state. 

Do you live here or did you just move here?

I like to read stuff that's about what's going on around town mostly.  Anyway, I was just confused and so I sent this to the magazine email address.

Thanks for hopefully taking time to read this and I understand if you don't have time to respond.  I'm sure you might not even see these emails.

PEACE,
Juli

From: Pontchartrainpress@gmail.com
To: Juliana420@yahoo.com

Dear Juliana,

Thanks for your email/feedback.

I FULLY agree!  I like to read the obituary or foreclosure section mostly...but news editors, sadly, don't feel that I possess the required writing skill-set for contributions to those sections.  

I strongly disagree with one of two required skill-sets for those positions in that I may not be a senior citizen, but, I AM morbid.

I also like the food section, where they post health inspection ratings so that I might be better armed with advice which safely steers me from Mexican restaurants where live chickens are being raised in the side alley which is, suspiciously, hidden by a 10-foot wooden fence.

Honestly, I don't "get" MOST of the stuff that I write either...nor does my editor.  But, that's due to severe AD/HD.  

I don't get it because I usually slap many deadline oriented articles together under duress after dealing with a number of silly situations in my everyday life which force me to procrastinate; Thus, I write them in about 15 minutes so that my boss might have more free time to do important things, such as: leave me alone.**  

**You see?  That was a run-on sentence, (caused by AD/HD), but I feel OK with it because I used a bunch of punctuation to dress it up.

I DID write about Tallahassee one time; it was about three years ago for a piece addressing relocation prospects after I took an online assessment quiz:

Tallahassee, FL
If I were to live in Florida, I certainly would NOT pick a landlocked city. The Tallahassee city slogan is 

“Visit Tallahassee, where it all comes together”. 

Of course it does…it’s the center of a state where there are many cool things going on, just not there. If I were born there, 10-minutes after birth, I would demand for a rescue helicopter to transport me to safety.  I think that the city slogan translates to:

“We know you’re just passing through to a place where the television program "Cops" doesn't maintain a permanent filming facility.  And, we reeeeally wish you’d just give us a shot.  Plus, we have a TON of heavy-metal bars." 

Anyway, I fully understand why my writing doesn't resonate with some, as I often receive complimentary copies of these print magazine editions only to see my articles have been sandwiched between advertisements for establishments which promote "free glow-sticks at the door", "Hot Studs Waiting For YOU", "Topless Maid Services" and, according to a blurb situated below my last article in your city,  there seems to be a:   

"Lost Tan/White Neutered Male Cat, named Eli, Brown Collar near N.E. Tallahassee - (Lenox Mill Subdivision) Collar has an affixed tag. Eli has a small head and saggy belly."

This is a prime example as to why I typically race straight to the crossword puzzle section.

I really appreciate that you took time to read the article and for your feedback.  I'm being quite sincere here and hope that this email finds you well.  

I CAN authoritatively assure you that, after reviewing the magazine issue in question,  there is a spectacular strip club which is located on 4th street...according to your local magazine.  They even offer a raw oyster bar and bottomless chips n Salsa during happy hour...Plus, "DJ Spaz is spinnin' the fresh JAMZ!!"

Take a peek at the original version of the article, with illustration, that your local paper couldn't print.  They told us that it had something to do with length restrictions and/or Jeb Bush.  Anyway, I think you'll like the article as it was originally written.  The link is included below.  

http://pontchartrainpress.blogspot.com/2010/11/out-of-context.html

Cheers Juliana!

Sincerrely, Jimmy "Jamz!" Patrick

P.S. Juliana is a beautiful name by the way.  Take care.

copyright Pontchartrain Press, 2013

Today's Forecast...Hot and Stupid

The phrase dog days refers to the sultry days of summer. 

In the Northern Hemisphere, the dog days of summer are most commonly experienced in the months of July and August, which typically observe the warmest summer temperatures.  (Or, in New Orleans, March till early December.)

The Romans referred to the dog days as diēs caniculārēs and associated the hot weather with the star Sirius. They considered Sirius to be the "Dog Star" or,  Canis Major (Large Dog). 

I would have deemed it due to the proximity of the sun to the earth's tilt...but I'm not a Roman.  I don't look good in leather straps, sandals and, for the record, I also will go on record to attest that I've never crucified anyone claiming to be the son of a deity.

Sirius, by the way, is the brightest star in the night sky. (Sorry Beyonce.) 

The term "Dog Days" was used earlier by the Greeks primarily because the Greeks thought themselves to be better than everyone else for inventing the world's FIRST portable sandwich AND for getting away with pre-marital sex via other anatomical entry points.  They might be lousy bankers...but the Greeks definitely know how to throw a party...AND crash a national economy!  It's like living with my ex all over again.

The Dog Days originally were the days when Sirius rose just before or at the same time as sunrise, (Much like my neighbor's dog).  

This is no longer true, owing to precession of the equinoxes...and a primary factor as to why network television debuts shitty new programs during these months.  

The Romans sacrificed a red dog (Not the failed Miller beer product) in April to appease the rage of Sirius, believing that the star was a primary cause for hot, sultry weather.  It's simply amazing to me that this empire eventually fell.

In fact, sultry summer days are now attributed to Global Warming®, according to Al Gore©.

Dog Days were popularly believed to be an evil time "the Sea boiled, the wine turned sour, dogs grew mad and all other creatures became languid; causing to man, among other diseases, burning fevers, hysterics, phrensies, Acid Reflux, PMS, herpes, Karaoke bars and anal hematoma."** 

**(Or, as my computer spell check helpfully demands that I change to "tomato.")

Realizing that "Dog Days" was all just a foolish "wive's tale" Sirius decided to hire Howard Stern and merge with XM satellite radio...and, the rest is history. (for $13.95 per month.  With an option to add the NFL package.)

I don't have the first clue as to why people seem to behave as they do during the warmest days of summer other than to speculate that it has something to do with margaritas.

Did you know that there's a CDC sanctioned study which theorizes that when ice cream sales spike, so do homicide rates?  Who says that our tax dollars aren't spent wisely?  One researcher offers this brave dissent:

Saying that warm weather causes crime is just as simplistic as saying ice cream causes crime. I was in Chicago this past weekend, and I didn't kill anybody. (I ate a lot of ice cream, too, for what it’s worth.)

Thank you doc.  It's useful to point out that, by comparison, the crime rate survey was likely not done on Michigan Avenue or in the lobby bar of the Intercontinental Hotel.

I don't believe that there's correlation or causation between ice cream and homicide rates other than the irritating music which emanates from the drug, I mean, ice cream truck, driven by a gentleman named "Big Worm."  Moving, however, probably holds an extreme correlation.  

Summer moving is always a fresh, new and exciting chapter in the making for one's life.  New beginnings are fun for everyone...except for the one guy, who finds himself, reluctantly,  enlisted in the moving process.   

He's extremely hung over and finds himself engaged in a full-blown  argument within his head as to the correct name of the young woman with which he had unthinkable sexual relations, at 4am, on the previous evening after being tossed out of the bar.**

**Note: If you own a pickup truck, SELL it, and/or post your own death notice in the local newspaper so that all of your friends and family believe you to be deceased.  You'll also need to cancel your cell service provider.

As my friends have aptly demonstrated, it's especially a smart idea to move in late July/early August in the sub-tropics where the median heat index is somewhere between 4 to 5-thousand degrees.  

I saw a car literally melt into a giant silver blob in the middle of an intersection on the day that I decided to help a friend move two weeks ago.  I showed up, logically, at 8:00am, when a pleasant morning breeze prevailed (from the North) and the sun hadn't yet cleared the buildings and trees.  Of course, her plan was much more logical than mine, in that we began loading in and out between the hours of 1:00pm and 4:00pm.

It's absolute entertainment value at its finest when assisting a couple on moving day. Blissful, sweet nothings, which are shared between couples, devolve from: 

"(Playfully giggling) I'm SO excited about the new place!  I have a special treat for you tonight sweetie to christen our new house.  I found my special toy in that box from the closet shelf." 

To:

"If you move the f**king box tape one more time, I am going to kill your entire family and the dog...in front of you."

Where I grew up, summertime held special camaraderie in promoting "community."  Neighbors would visit with one another on their front lawns or porches for lazy afternoon/early evening social time.  

In the deep south, where the average temp is 97 with humidity reaching levels as that of a boiling tea kettle, one might spot family and neighbors strewn across the porch, slumped backwards in their chairs...resembling the scene at Jim Jones' religious compound after they drank the Lord's special Kool-aid...or a Tom Jones concert.

Summertime also represented long afternoons of baseball, sitting under a giant tree in my grandparents back yard, riding bicycles all morning with no particular destination in mind and an inappropriate moment with my second cousin.  She was related by marriage so, I'm told, it's okay.

One study from the New Jersey Medical association relates summertime behavior to the following:

Heat suppresses the thyroid hormone, which causes energy drain. Heat also stimulates growth hormones, specifically, a closely related protein hormone called Prolactin, which causes lethargy. In addition, Prolactin inhibits the effects of dopamine, a chemical in the brain that is associated with positive feelings and/or the strong feeling to go home with, what appears to be, a fairly attractive person as the bar announces Last Call.**

**Note: Ask your doctor if Prolactin is right for you.

Dog Days of summer stirs a nostalgic image of 1960's Americana, in my mind.  An era where children splash around an open fire hydrant on a busy city street, completely doused in cool (lead pipe laden) water, eventually causing them to fall terminally ill from various forms of cancer decades later.  

That's an image that Norman Rockwell probably never painted.

Because I'm an optimist, I like to fast forward to the same scene in the 21st century where one of the children, likely, will become a hood ornament on a Lexus SUV at the hands of someone reading a text which reminds: 

"Don't forget to pick up some hummus at Whole Foods sweetheart...xoxo!"

I have a simple, yet, unscientific hypothesis as to symptoms which these Dog Days present in mankind.  It's a highly sophisticated psychological term which I regularly diagnose upon myself and friends when the blazing red Mercury rises on that doorstep thermometer:

It's not the heat...it's the humidity.  Or, perhaps, you're just being an as**ole.

Of course most of my friends, upon receiving the above assessment, blankly stare at me as though Alex Trebek has just informed them that 18th century opera is today's Final Jeopardy question.  With the exception of my homosexual friends.

As I finish this piece, and round out the summer, I'm reminded of sincere fun times which punctuated my childhood.  Backyard picnics, fishing, swimming, all of my uncles, my father and my grandfather slumped under a shade tree in the backyard with a blood alcohol level of .38 as my mom and grandmother screamed at them as though they were making a bid on The Price Is Right.  

With that, I hear the faint sound of music from a block away; I'm heading outside to make a purchase from Big Worm...I mean, the ice cream man.

copyright Pontchartrain Press, 2013

With Friends Like These...

Best Friends don't let you do stupid things . . . alone!

                                         

                                                 -Unknown

I was recently "un-friended" on a social network site and It really bummed me out, primarily because I refuse to accept that "un-friend" is a real word...no matter what Urban Dictionary says.

This unfortunate event stirred a bit of conversation between me and my writer friend,Todd, in that we were trying to form a viable answer to the following questions:

What constitutes the designation for "Best Friend?"
Can you have multiple best friends and have them vie for BESTEST status?
What time does Theo's Pizza close on weeknights?

Todd is fun to hang out with, but we usually inadvertently get into trouble together for reasons which are not readily known to us.  Especially with his wife, Melissa.

As an example, see: http://pontchartrainpress.blogspot.com/2012/03/meeting-of-mindless.html


We arrived at one mutual agreement that if someone referred to either of us as their "BFF" we would punch them in the neck and light them on fire, then we ordered a pizza.  By the way, Urban Dictionary online defines "BFF" as either:

Best Friends Forever or

Big Fat F*ck

16-year old kids who use the term "BFF" get a free pass.  Adults...punch in the head and a trip to the Houston Burn Clinic.

I consider Todd to be one of my better friends; I would consider BEST friend status should he decide to divorce his wife who hates me.   At any rate, either he or I must put on a few pounds to earn the second designation from the Urban Dictionary.

As I contemplated writing this article, a close friend of mine chimed in, asking how I knew who my real friends were. By "close friend"  I mean that we shared a couple of evenings of late night  "relations" several years ago and still manage to look one another in the eyes. 

I answered her question by immediately distributing a text message to three people with the following note: (This is something that I call a topic grenade.  Pronounced: Prompt them do some free work for me.  Heheh.)

"Writing a new piece ...How does one know who their BEST friend is?"

Twenty consecutive texts in five minutes seemed to be an excellent illustration for her.

Lets look at a couple of the things that I found in online research and personal text messages.


Lynn: My best friend is Lydia

Jim: How long have you known her?

Lynn: 7 or 8 months.  She told me after the first couple of months that I'm the best friend she's ever had.  That's sweet huh?

Jim: Have you, by chance, ever watched the movie "Cable Guy?"


Honestly, I cant even muster loyalty to a new grocery store product until a year has passed...much less for a human being. I have cereal in my pantry that's been there for a year and I still don't hold positive feelings for it.

A best friend, in my mind, is measured in the following way:


Me: I have a problem

Marie: Shoot!

Me: I already did. Now there seems to be a dead body in my living room. We may need to chop her up in order to not draw too much attention in carting her away.

Marie: OK...Be there in 10. Game Of Thrones is almost over.

Me: Excellent. Don't tell me how it ends...I haven't watched it yet.  BTW, can you bring some old quilts, rubber gloves and some cleaning supplies?

When I floated this storyline, I received a lovely email from Caroline. She advised that:

"Jesus Christ is MY best friend;  Isn't he YOURS?"


I appreciate JC and all that he did; I'm sure that his final days were a painful experience.  It also triggered a holiday full of festive hats, candy, a mythical rabbit and wide social acceptance for one to wear white in public.  However, I tend to assign the "BEST friend" title to one who can give me a ride to the airport and/or loan me 20-bucks here and there.


My friend Kristi tells me that her best friend picks her up when she's feeling down. And...she even bought her a burial plot.


So long as she's not the beneficiary of a major insurance policy, I suppose I'd be somewhat OK with that arrangement.  But, it's still a little creepy for my taste.

My editor, Mike, informs me that his mother is HIS best friend. What a shock.


I could have never been best friends with my mom. Primarily because best friends are those with whom you can share your deepest and darkest secrets. For instance, my story of having sexual relations in the trunk of a car on a country back road with the state governor's niece many years ago would go largely unappreciated by dear mom. Bob, on the other hand, feels strongly that I am a super hero.


From our chief Pontchartrain Press research machine, Eric:

A REAL friend will go out and get two b**wjobs then come back and give you one.

An oldie, but still funny Eric. 

I can also count on research requests from Eric to never end with just one text:

Why won't you move to Philly dude?

I usually inform him that I love Philly and the Reading Market Place, but I will move to Philly in the event that they move the city approximately 900 miles south.  Blunt honesty is a virtuous quality amongst friends as far as I'm concerned.

A long time ago a studio producer friend at the radio station, who I considered to be a close friend and confidant, borrowed his friend's car with strict instructions to NOT smoke in the vehicle as his friend is a non-smoker.

My producer dropped his cigarette onto the seat of the car and it caused a major burn mark on the upholstery.  Needless to say, he experienced a state of utter panic, wondering HOW he was going to explain the damage.

As a true friend, his lifelong childhood friend came to the rescue by putting the car into neutral and letting it roll downhill into a tree.  The airbag deployed, covering the upholstery with a white powder.  Then he gave my friend a 16-ounce Budweiser.  Problem solved I suppose.


According to a Glamour Magazine tidbit, one best friend scenario goes something like this:


Gun Man: I’m going to kill your best friend miss
Stu: No take me instead!

This has a Tim McGraw song title written ALL over it.


According to Oprah online:  "Men are happy to silently watch sports over a beer. Psychologists call these side-to-side relationships, versus female's face-to-face ones. Women like to engage in conversation; men like to bond over an activity.  Anyone who's seen men sit and watch the game while the women gab in the kitchen knows it to be true."

Thank you "O" for assuming that women don't watch sports...and, seem to belong in the kitchen.  Heheh.


At the end of the day, it's my experience and observation that a true friend will:

• Take one for the team (yes, you know what I mean)
• Bring you chicken noodle soup and a gallon of vodka when you're feeling blah.
• Comfort you when your heart is a wee bit empty
• When you go to the restroom, they'll give a fake excuse to someone regarding a potentially fatal social disease to a person who's hitting on you
• Give you a lift to work, the airport, the grocery store or to Barstow, California
• Help you move and (most importantly) move forward
• Urinate on your ex-boss' Infinity door handle
• Tell those who bring hurt to your world to "piss off."
• Correct YOU when you bring hurt to another person's world
• They will feed your dog and, generally, NOT sleep with your significant other when you go out of town

I have no clever way to end this piece before turning in for the evening other than to say, I go to bed one social network friend lighter and many real life friends heavier.  A much more fortunate place to be if you ask me. 


Perhaps one of my good friends, Tony, puts it best...

"Best friends don't give up on you.  And, you don't give up on them."

Now, if anyone feels so inclined to send me $20-dollars, email me for my address.  If you'd like to drop it off in person, I DO still have leftover pizza.

“The truth is, everyone is going to hurt you. You just got to find the ones worth suffering for”

                                                                                                        -Bob Marley

Yes, this friendship has been called into question.  Heheh.  BFF!

copyright Pontchartrain Press, 2013 

　

Confessions From A Hotel Concierge

A friend of mine recently took he and his family on vacation to Denver, Colorado.  I helpfully reminded him that there was no snow there in July.

He had such a good time in the Mile High city that he's seriously considering a move. 

He also informed me that his hotel concierge staff were nothing short of spectacular in securing useful information about relocation to their fine city.

There are many helpful traits which a good hotel concierge possesses. In addition to being snappy dressers, day in and day out, they cheerfully greet transients while exhibiting unswerving abilities in order to ensure that one's vacation, business trip or spousal cheating excursion is nothing short of spectacular.

"Of course we can arrange for a bottle of champagne AND we'll have that Mexican brass band promptly delivered to your room Mr. Smith. Will MRS. "Smith" be joining you later?  And, if so, should we post security outside your room?  We don't want problems from the large gentleman who showed up looking for Mrs. Smith outside your door the last time you enjoyed a stay here. 

By the way, the Loco Latino Explosion Brass Masters might be a tad late; Enrique' is having trouble with his VISA paperwork again and Carlos is changing his cousin's car battery. Will you require a roll of garbage bags, cleaning supplies and a shovel again this evening?"

I strongly suspect that there are many things that a hotel concierge has to deal with.  Equally, I'm certain that there are, decidedly, many things that a good concierge chooses NOT to inform their globe-trotting guests.

For instance, in Omaha, Nebraska, they might remind one that they are in the middle of a state which is known for nothing in particular other than it's a long state where it is unwise to purchase a mobile home.  It's also the birthplace to Johnny Carson and home to a giant insurance company which used to sponsor "Wild Kingdom."   Oh, and it's a haven for several radical religious terror groups who got tired of living in Montana. 

BUT, it IS bursting with some of the finest steakhouses on the planet. One of which is suspiciously located on the second floor of the hotel and will cost approximately 3-thousand dollars per person.

In West Los Angeles, you might be pleased to learn that the drive out of Santa Monica up the Pacific Coast Highway to Malibu is stunning, dotted with cliff side mansions all the way. 

What you probably do not care to learn is that it's rumored that one of the Backstreet Boys engaged in a slightly homosexual 3-way in room 743.  And, the gentleman who just valet parked your car is wanted on three gang-related infractions, is ducking child-support from five different women and is, likely, having sexual relations INSIDE your car with a housekeeping attendant.

Let's take a look at New Orleans, Louisiana. Home to some of the best Cajun and Creole cuisine on the planet. A virtual mecca of world famous plantations, corruption, potholes, jazz & blues artists and architecture that is absolutely timeless...when drunken tourists from Knoxville, Tennessee aren't urinating on the front door step.

What Frederick, the helpful concierge at the Ritz, might forget to tell you is that New Orleans is also home to a city council that regularly walks out of it's OWN sessions. Where city leaders come to work to find that their entire staff has walked out on the job.

Then there's a tiny inconvenience where, should you choose to call the Big Easy home, one might arrive home at the end of a long day to find that his/her room mate across the hall has employed the services of a 20-dollar Meth-infested hooker while the kitchen is on fire. Simultaneously, the next door neighbor is being mugged in front of no fewer than four trans-gender prostitutes down the block.

At least such a scene makes it easier on city first responders since all emergencies are confined to a small area; I'm a big fan of multi-tasking when it saves tax dollars for our children.

Not that I'm intimately familiar with the aforementioned scenario...I simply have a vivid, um, "imagination."

I've spent a considerable amount of time over the past two-months trying to better understand things about myself, others, the city in which I live and why professional soccer seems to NEVER take a seasonal break.

I remember, from years ago, when I first contemplated a move to New Orleans. I witnessed the following exchange between the hotel bellhop and a guest:

Guest: So, I'm thinking about accepting a relocation opportunity with my company and might move my wife and the kids down here. Any neighborhood suggestions?

Bellhop: (Laughing hysterically before walking away)

A concierge would have handled the previous situation much more professionally and less jaded in demeanor. He or she would have simply stared blankly at the guest, pretending that they didn't hear the question while blocking the guest's view to the side lobby, where it seems that a young man is urinating into the giant lobby flower pot. The concierge then cheerfully recommends a swamp tour.

Fact of the matter is: I like this city; I like MANY cities. I'm sure that there are days when others feel jaded toward their respective homes. To put it another way, I certainly grow weary of New Orleans on some days, the same way that (while I LOVE pizza, fried chicken and Taco Bell) I do NOT care for it every single day of my life.

Of course, the argument could be made that a cheesy crust pizza with extra meat is not capable of robbing you at gun point outside the front door to your house.  That's a job for the 19-year old kid who is staking out the block.

I like living in an urban setting which happens to be filled with cabs, culture and unique characters. By the way, there's something very "New Yorkish" about a city where one might incorporate the services of a taxi in taking their walk of shame upon exiting the front door of...whatever his/her name was...the following morning.

I don't know the first place to begin in advising someone of the pros and cons of living in New Orleans, Los Angeles, Baltimore or Seattle.  I've been to those places and had a fine time...from what I can remember. 

I also cant tell you WHY people fall in or, sadly, out of love.  Or: 

Why the sky is blue
HOW the Red Sox are maintaining their top position in the standings (Keep it up!) 
Why a fried chicken establishment in this city feels that a 3-piece chicken dinner is worth $12-dollars (mashed potatoes are $4.25!) 

What???  Is there another potato famine that I'm unaware of?

But, I digress.  Since it's been pointed out that I tend to stray off point from time to time...I'd like to bring our story back on track by wondering how funny it would be if, when the great Keanu Reeves flubs a line in a movie shoot, a director released a pack of hunger ravaged coyotes onto the movie set, where they gnaw at his twisting body while he screams in agony.  Or, the director could just release an acting coach onto the set...whichever would be most beneficial to the motion picture community.

Summertime is indeed a great traveling season; It's also known as a "growing season."   Perhaps a time for one to explore a big world that we all share.  It's a time for fun or, indeed, a time to scout prospective relocation avenues.

Either way, as I ultimately advised my buddy: 

Do your  homework. 

Life is quite different beyond the sliding glass lobby doors of the Holiday Inn Express.

copyright Pontchartrain Press, 2013



 

Vacations: And Other Reasons Why I Cant Have Fun

Mike Klein: Gonna go ahead and take liberties to post this strand myself, since I know that YOU'LL do it anyway.

James Patrick: Why would you assume that?

Mike Klein: Because, I know you.

James Patrick: I'm somewhat bruised that you'd think such a thing. Assumption leads to a dark and winding path of wrong turns you know? Typically, assumption is punctuated with deflated hopes, dreams and bad decisions; Sort of like the new Fox program concept, "Sleepy Hollow".

Mike Klein: What other sorts of "bad decisions?"

James Patrick: Assuming that it might be a sound decision to hire a hooker. Or, on a random Thursday, deciding that you've had enough shit from your boss so you stroll into work with a smile on your face (with slightly crazy eyes) and punch him directly in the nut-sack before emptying your desk and telling the annoying person who sat next to you for 10 miserable years to f*ck off, followed by 8 shots at the nearest pub while one contemplates how to fake his/her death in order to disappear. And/or scrapping the afforementioned plans and just do the Thursday crossword. (Late week puzzles are quite difficult).

Mike Klein: That's quite a vivid and outlandish asumption.

James Patrick: Precisely; Sort of like my assumption that the book I wrote seems to be taking you and your staff 473-thousand years to edit and pitch. Did your assistants work for NASA at some point?

Mike Klein: Very funny. Editing is a form of art. It takes time.

James Patrick: Art? I didn't know that you painted. Can you do a nude portrait of me on top of a vintage Corvette? I'm wading through a mid-life crisis. Seeing how, since my book is not edited, I don't have enough money to actually purchase a douche-bag automobile...so, at least I can assume that I have one by looking at a beautiful portrait that you and your group of "artists" might concoct.

Mike Klein: Welcome back.

James Patrick: Thank you.

Truisms Or Dare

Kindness is the language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see.

-Mark Twain

This is a little piece that I will call a "transition story arc." Mike, the editor, will call it a rant. The saving grace, in my mind, is that I often couldn't care less what Mike thinks. So, it evens out.

Our friends at Webster's online define truism as:

Adjective: an undoubted or self-evident truth; especially: one too obvious for mention

　
Note to our fun-loving college kids who are perfectly happy with being "C" students: 

When doing research papers after 17-thousand shots of Jameson, you'll be happy to know that the brain trust at Wikipedia label Truism as a NOUN. 

I suppose I shall name my next pet "Truism" and then do a shot. Feels like college all over again!

　
I know a gentleman who uttered something that truly offended today.  In the interest of protecting his identity, we will call him Steve...primarily because his real name is Stephen.  Granted, it's quite hard to offend me but Stephen, I mean, Steve did.

　
An important scad of background on this guy includes the following:
　

1. He's a genuinely kind individual
2. He's been through a volatile relationship, which is on the mend
3. The relationship turned south due to his significant other abusing alcohol
4. He's a homosexual

He, I and two other mutual friends were sitting in front of a restaurant where they work, waiting to go on a quick grocery store outing, when he dispersed several epithets toward a young woman with whom he works.  Granted, SHE couldn't hear his foolish words from the car, but he needlessly uttered them anyway.

　
By all accounts, these two get along at work, they work well together and there's zero animosity between them. She's also well liked around the neighborhood and seems to be a kind soul.  Steve just felt it appropriate to repeatedly call her "fatty" behind her back.

　
I've written a great deal of inappropriate humor, sometimes at the expense of others. But my regular readers know that I NEVER poke fun at Hispanics, they seem to be able to handle that all on their own. If you don't believe me, visit a Latino bar sometime. Plus, I'm having new sheet rock hung next week and I don't want to piss them off.

　
I also don't tell "fatty" jokes...primarily because there's not enough room on a typical laptop screen. And I don't poke fun at or perpetuate stereotypes toward young African American men...because I don't want to get shot and/or carjacked.

　
Aaahh HA! See where I'm going with this? I'm not a bleeding heart left-winger, primarily because I don't want to anger Sean Hannity. I DO, however, judge those who arbitrarily judge books and covers. I've read lots of books and peeked past many covers. If you don't make this a regular life routine, try it sometime...you might be pleasantly surprised.

　
With all silliness aside, I wondered how in the world that a 50-year old gay man, who grew up in a society steeped in judgemental attitudes toward HIS lifestyle could possibly lob such comments toward a person who I know to be a hard working, sweet and caring individual.

　
So, I called on my good friend, and Pontchartrain Press' chief story research manager, Eric for some background studies on hurtful words and their implications upon society.

　
Eric does good work but, sometimes when sending his findings back to me, goes off in unrelated directions. I eventually tend to get the info I need...and some info that is, decidedly, not needed.

　
Jim: I'm doing a quick piece on a 50-year old gay man who works with a very nice young woman. Not realizing that I am also friends with her, he repeatedly called her "fatty" behind her back. I waited to call him out when we were one on one, but I want to write about this. Any research you can find that would help the story along would be great!

Eric: Is this one of those SAT math word problems? 

Jim: Can you please do some research before I book a flight to Philly and kill you?

　
Eric: There was a study a few years ago about the MOST offensive words in the English language.

　
As it turns out, the top four (in order from most to least) were:

　
Fat
Nigg*r
Nazi
Cu*t

Jim: Thanks for your help. See ya' soon

　
Eric: I was surprised that F*ck wasn't on the list but even MORE shocked that FAT was number one!

Think about this...every girl thinks she's fat...even if she isn't. Call a girl fat and she'll stab you in the balls.

At any rate, it explains why my old band, "The Fat Nigg*r Nazi Cun*s" never made it big.

　
Jim: Interesting. I'm gonna get back to writing. Thanks again for the research.

　

Eric: Unrelated, but I f*cked two girls named Ginger this week. They may not have souls, but they got PLENTY of DNA.

　
Jim: Are you clinically insane?

　
Eric: Perhaps. The one Ginger was a blast. She liked to be abused and verbally degraded. I let off 20-years of pent up aggression on her and she has been begging for more ever since. She's such a filthy whore...and she's not fat. I think I'm in love.

　
Well, I can always count on Eric to provide more than enough background research on a story. Plus, our communications remind me precisely why I do not accept dating advice from him.

　
So as not to cast a stone from my own glass house, yes, I have slung unfair, judgemental commentary toward and about others...and I feel absolutely horrible about it...with the exception of everything I've said or written about the band Nickelback. Simply dreadful music.

　
People will always make fun of, ridicule and degrade other people...as a society, they always have and, likely, always will. Just watch an episode of The Voice or Chef Gordon Ramsay.

　
As for myself, I'm having a nice dinner with the young woman in question right now while looking across the table, keeping a hurtful secret about her co-worker. I'm also, oddly, wondering what having crazy sexual escapades with TWO Gingers in one week must feel like...but I'm not about to text Eric again for the answer.

　
With that said...I like to lob more educated insults toward those who deserve it:

　
Webster's Online Dictionary

dick; (dik) noun; Slang for detective

Adjective: derogatory term for penis

Noun; Shortened name for Richard

Noun; Glen Beck,  Bill O'Reilly, Jim's boss, Al Gore

Real world: a label for a narrow minded asshole who should be ashamed of himself. (that one came from the Jim Patrick dictionary)

copyright Pontchartrain Press 2013