Hit and Dine

So. I lived through 22 days of scooter-driving bliss before getting hit by a car. Bearing in mind that I was hit my a tram in Amsterdam after just one day on a rental bike, I'm viewing it as an exponential improvement. Not to worry, I'm A-ok. It was a very low-speed crash, and I'm fairly certain it was the other guy's fault. Today he dropped off a $75 gift certificate to Restaurant Zea at my work. His note read:

I went to Hallmark, but they were fresh out of 'Sorry I hit you with my car' cards, so hopefully this gift certificate will do.

Seriously, how cute? Were I single, I would totally ask this guy out on the sheer principle that no one should ever pass up the chance to have that great a story for your future grandchildren*. Alas. I'll be dining out with my Mister instead. *It's only fair to add that said note was written on Mary Engelbreit stationary which, God willing, means he's married too.

When Stars Crossover

There's nothing to surprising about the number of Gilmore Girls "stars" have graduated from the show (ie, broken up with Rory) to their very own WB drama series. (See Tristan, Dean and now Jess) Of course, none of those guys can act their way out of a paper bag without accidentally inhaling the receipt, so maybe in that way it is a little surprising. But for a network's best show to also serve as it's entire talent pool is understandable. Far stranger is the talent pipeline running between Veronica Mars and HBO's new Mormon-ploitation drama, Big Love. I've been watching Big Love primarily because I just got HBO and feel I should make the most out of my monthly premiums. It's not that good, but for whatever reason, their casting director is looking to the UPN for their young actors. So far, not one, not two, but three major V.Mars players are now also on Big Love. Lily Kane appears on Big Love as one of the Mormon-spawn. Good on her, I think. Her V.Mars character was dead from the start, and we said goodbye to her flashbacks once her murder was solved. The girl needed work, and HBO, well, it's a respectable joint. Mac, the computer-bad-ass/switched-at-birth sweetheart, is pulling double-duty appearing on BL as an ultra-devout Morman pal of Lily. Then! Last week, Beaver Casablancas, the very little brother of Dick who just broke our dear Mac's heart, shows up on BL as the best and oldest friend of yet another Mormon-spawn. Only thing I'm saying, is that this pipeline better be one-way, because I don't think I can take Chloe Sevigny showing up in Neptune. Unless Logan or somebody was going to accidentally shoot her.

Salon Finally on Honky Tonk Bandwagon

And Rebecca Traister comes up with a wonderful piece about the Whitney that was, and why her demise stings the way it does. Likening Whitney to the friend who has screwed up too often to forgive, Traister writes, "What we need to be doing is not laughing, or looking away. What we need to be doing is mourning." And in the vein, take a little trip down memory lane.

Is this the proper use of the word "irony"?

So, my blog is called "Honky Tonk Chronicles" but all I ever seem to do is talk about Whitney Houston. Go figure. There's more news on the once and future diva, and it has to do with "toys" and "lesbians". Far worse than any of the "breaking news" is the fact that her sister-in-law is the source on all this info, which is neither right nor okay. Also, one can only surmise that the bathroom Whitney retreats to day in and day out (giving herself a sore, um, throat) is the same one pictured in last week's National Enquirer. It's a double-shudder.

Lessons Learned from Bob, Doug and Scott

Crossing the Pontchartrain Causeway is not a part of my daily, monthly or even yearly life. This is by design. The bridge is long and narrow and it makes me skittish. But about a year ago, when I was in the market for a good used car, I braved the drive to scout a Honda. I had to take my husband's car, a 1991 Ford Festiva, which is a lot like a clown car in that it can turn circles on itself. Also, it has "parking power," meaning it can fit in the spaces that no one else can. For me, that's the beginning and end of the joys of that automobile. ("Automobile" sounds like an exaggeration.) This is a 1991 Ford Festiva (A much much nicer one than his, which at this point had no remaining exhaust system. It used to set off car alarms just by driving by.) This is the Pontchartrain Causway, one of the longest bridges in the world. People later made endless fun of me for the panic attack that ensued. But as I was puttering along in that soda can on wheels, all I could think about was what would happen if I broke down -- an inevitability in that piece of junk. With no shoulder, I'd be stuck in middle of the road. Barreling down the bridge behind me, a GMC Yukon or some other such monstrosity would drop kick my sorry tin ass into the waters of Lake Pontchartrain. The end of the Festiva. The end of me. As it turns out, these things do in fact happen. And not to the Ford Festivas of the world but to the pickup trucks. Face!! The driver's name is Scott Strauss, and just yesterday he was rear-ended clear off the edge of the bridge. We can be jovial about it because miraculously, he didn't die. I thought the only way to survive such a thing was from the bubbles in beer, but apparantly, if you wait until your car sinks to the bottom and fills with water, the pressure evens out and you can open your car door and swim to safety. (It helps that Pontchartrain is a very shallow lake.) Duly noted. Except really, I'm never driving on that damn bridge again. PS To all three of you Festiva lovers out there, I'm sorry. I'm married to one of you, and I think you're endearing, if a little crazy. Parking power is not to be underestimated, nor is people pointing and laughing at you when you honk your horn.

Cute Overload

I know I must be one of the last people on earth to find this website, because I found not one, but two pics that my "friends" have used on myspace. Nevertheless, I couldn't possibly not link to it, as I just spent the last half hour crying, actual tears, from all my office-style silent giggles.

Pepper

Anyone who knows me well knows that I don't have the best track record on two wheels. Let's just say that a) I learned to ride a bike at the tender age of 21 b) I once crashed into a moving tram in Amsterdam -- and not because I was on my way home from the coffee shop, and c) "Crash" is a generous word. "Tipped over" is more accurate. To start anew, I have acquired a scooter. A kicky littke Japanese number, named Pepper by its previous owner. Check it. (Before I wreck it.)

All over the Map

The map here is a little small, so what you may not notice is that the levees in my neighborhood do not require any work. They are, as they say, ship shape. Or...already under construction. Or...too expensive to think about right now. Who knows? Who trusts? Not me on either count. The real gist of this map is that pretty much all the levees are just too short. It seems like such a fool's errand, in a way, just making higher and higher walls every year. The walls grow, and the river responds in kind. The first levees in Louisiana were 2 feet tall; on my block today, they are twenty five. That's what it takes now to keep the water out, so we keep going higher. We could go on like this forever, all the way to heaven. Or more likely, someplace less fancy pants.