'Bred Crumbs
05.17.03
2 Fast 2 Furious is rated PG-13, not, surprisingly, for its illiterate Prince-ish title (which I can't help but think of as "too fast to furious," as in "too full to eat" or "too smart to see this movie") but "for street racing, violence, language and some sensuality."
"Some sensuality"? How would that play out in actual human language?
- A backhanded compliment*: "Is he hot?" "Oh, I guess he might have some sensuality."
- A real compliment: "That Lucinda, she's got some sensuality!" ("goin' on" at the end optional).
- An expression of craving: "I need me some sensuality."
- A weak come-on: "Here, have some sensuality."
And why should "street racing" affect a movie's rating in any way? Would Ben-Hur now be rated PG-13 for "coliseum racing"? And why didn't Star Wars Crapisode I get a PG-13 for "desert planet racing"?
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Since I'm probably never going to own a gay bar, I'll pass along this idea for some other, more entrepreneurial soul to implement: the Mr. Personality Dancers! Buff boys on your bartop, wearing only a bikini or jock (if your laws require such coverage) and a colorful mask and matching hood.
Then again, the show's almost over and not on Fox's fall schedule, so maybe the op-window on this notion is already closing.
Then again ...
Mexican Wrestling Dancers!
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* Or, as I like to say, "a right-handed compliment."
05.13.03
After another grand half-week in New Orleans, I'm back in San Francisco, trying to adjust to life without warm nights and fresh crawfish. As always in the city that defies sea level and moderation, my flesh faltered well before the spirits. My body swore off alcohol at about 2 a.m. Friday night, relapsing Saturday only to allow the decadence of a rum and Coke in the bath and the token purchases of drinks that night, as the Bourbon Pub's foam party demanded being witnessed. Saturday morning, my stomach notified me through its lawyers that if I did not cease and desist consuming jambalayas, etouffés, and fried fishes for at least a few hours, it would resort to punitive damages. Then, at 1 a.m. the last night, as we loomed admiringly over the gyrating islands in the foam, my feet issued a writ of unignorable aching to inform me of their refusal to stand or walk around any further.
Plus, I don't think I have the security or social skills to actually live in New Orleans, though my schedule there certainly suits me:
- 10:30 a.m. Begin process of waking up
- Noon Leave house for light breakfast to tide me over until ...
- 2 p.m. Lunch
- 4 p.m. Nap
- 6 p.m. Bathe
- 7 p.m. Lounge on porch with drinks
- 9 p.m. Go to dinner
- 11 p.m. Hit bars
- 3-4 p.m. Go to bed
Much of this routine was made possible by the charming Faubourg Marigny guesthouse we took over. The home had quirks that took a little getting used to – like the sink, tub, and toilet placed inside our bedroom. But it put us close to the Quahtah – I mean, Quarter – while providing more-genuine local flavor. Which is to say, in this neighborhood every second building was not a daiquiri mill.
New Orleans always caresses/assaults the senses, but this time I was more acutely aware that most of its seductive power lies in perceptual paradoxes —
— After a lovely day of walking about the French Market and baking in the embryonic summer swelter, I opened the big door to our antique-filled, early-20th-century guest house – and Abba's "Dancing Queen" roared from the doorway.
— One night at Bourbon Pub, with the thud and loud chaos of pretty gay males at play on the dance floor all around her, a woman sat on a platform in the lotus position with her head cocked to one side, utterly, utterly unconscious.
— Friday night, on our veranda at dusk as we took our sweet sweet time getting to dinner*, a neighbor painter/repairman named Jeff, freshly rewarded with a slab of ham for fixing our host's refrigerator, hung out with us for a couple hours. Jeff, whose nothing-to-hide recountings of abuse, recovery, and realization were far more colorful than fiction, told me how he'd been mugged twice in New Orleans, and how someone not long ago was shot less than half a block from where we stood. As he spoke, light poured onto the sidewalk from the outside of the house, music blared from inside, patrons of nearby restaurants began to take up all the parking places, and neighbors coasted leisurely by on their old bicycles, replete with handlebar baskets.
And I stood there at 9 p.m. already riding high on the chicane of five rum-and-cokes, taking in the tales, hearing their harsh reality. But I was impervious. Not a dent could be made in my joy.
Yes, I know, New Orleans can taketh away. But boy, does it giveth.
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* Mmm, sausage, rabbit, crawfish, shrimp and tasso jambalaya.
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