New Project: "The French Quarter 100: A Drinking Companion to America’s Most Eccentric Neighborhood"
When I was a kid, I wanted to be a novelist. Forget cowboys and doctors and lawyers and such: I wanted to be the Madeleine L’Engle of my generation.
This did not happen.
This did not happen because eventually I realized that I can do short stories and essays and the occasional one-act play, but I probably don’t have the ability/interest/desire to pull off a full-length work of fiction. Not a good one, anyway. So, I’ve left that to the people who know what they’re doing. Which is fine, because the world has enough half-assed novels, am I right?
Over time, blogging became my thing, my niche. I may not be great at it, but it gives me the opportunity to get the wordsmithing bug out of my system. I’d pretty much given up on writing a book at all, until my friends Elizabeth and Allison approached me about putting together a field guide for people who want to booze it up in New Orleans’ Vieux Carré.
“I can’t pay you, because I just had new parquet flooring done in my house. That already cost a lot.”—An e-mail from a client that I hope will be permissible in our upcoming court case (via clientsfromhell)
French Fashion Chain La Redoute Uses Naked Guy in Kids' Clothing Shoot
Sex sells, but French fashion chain La Redoute’s laissez-faire attitude to nudity is a little de trop even for Gallic tastes. The retailer’s website shocked visitors with an image of a naked man frolicking in the sea in the background of a children’s clothing shoot. The picture shows four adorable Redoute-clad children lined up on the sand, smiling at the camera and seemingly unaware of the naturist behind them.
I conk out on the sofa at 2:00am, watching an obscure, animated film by Hayao Miyazaki on my laptop. The sound’s a little off, and the drawing is clunky, but the story is amazing. It just goes to show how far a good plot will get you.
A hundred yards away, at the bar on the corner, a girl sits nursing a beer. She’s about as old as the film I’ve been watching. She was bordering on drunk earlier, when her friends were buying rounds of champagne, but most of those friends are gone now — moved on to the French Quarter, or moseyed home, realizing they’d hit their limit. She’s not sure why she’s still here. It feels like she’s waiting for something to happen. It’s a new year, after all. Something should happen, right?