Stepping Out in Lafayette

By Jennifer Moses
Sunday, March 26,2006; W16

After settling into Louisiana's Bayou Country, her love of dance was rekindled by the Cajun and zydeco music all around her. But with a husband who likes to sit it out, what's a frustrated, toe-tapping woman to do?

It's a Saturday night, and I'm out past my bedtime. Way past my bedtime.

Not only that, but I'm dancing in the arms of a killingly good-looking stranger. I'm pressed up against him among the gyrating, tapping, prancing, two-stepping, sweating bodies of couples all around us here in El Sid O's, a club with the appearance of a long-disused filling station. It's tucked away on a desolate street of modest, one-story and occasionally abandoned houses near the interstate, on the wrong side of the tracks in Lafayette, La. We've come to El Sid O's ($8 cover, $2 a beer) on this sticky Saturday night to get a taste of the real thing: the homegrown, Creole-infused meld known as zydeco, a brand of music that recently has begun to leak out past its origins in Southwest Louisiana with its irresistible, driving rhythm. And tonight's attraction, Keith Frank, is the real thing. A Creole by birth, he's a self-taught master of accordion, drums, bass, guitar, scrub board, keyboard, piano and even harmonica. His band includes his sister on bass and brother on drums.

Like just about everyone else in the world of zydeco, Frank came up -- as we say in Louisiana -- surrounded by musicians: his daddy, his uncle, his paw-paw. It's in his blood.

My husband and I parked in a weedy lot and threaded our way self-consciously through pickup trucks and ancient Oldsmobiles to the club's entrance. I feel even more self-conscious now, but my dancing partner, no doubt sensing my nervousness, is going gentle with me. He is tall and muscular, and at least 10 years my junior, with skin the color of sun-soaked oak and the compact, lean build of a runner. In short, he is a god. But he doesn't seem to know that, and, holding me tight, he leads with utter confidence. It's as if he's willing my feet to move and my hips to sway in time with his.

Not five feet from us, Keith Frank and the Soileau Zydeco Band is shaking the roof off the rafters with the kind of music you can't not dance too -- characterized, like most zydeco, with a down rhythm as sexual as anything in music, punctuated by the frottoir (a metal washboard typically played with spoons) and the accordion. Only this isn't your old man's one-two/circus music/polka accordion. This is a squeezebox -- the accordion as aphrodisiac.

I'm turning in my partner's arms -- step, step, step-back -- and back again, and then again. It's ecstasy.

In truth, I'm dancing with a god not because of my good luck or wily charm. Rather, when his date -- a slim young woman with long hair down her back, a cowboy hat perched pertly on her head -- appeared next to me at the sink in the ladies' room, I told her point-blank that I'd pay money to dance with her boyfriend. She said that he wasn't herboyfriend, but her cousin, and that she'd ask him to dance with me.

Which, this being Louisiana, where people are unbelievably friendly, he did. Meanwhile, my husband sat still as a rock, utterly unaware that if I didn't get pulled onto the dance floor, and soon, something profound and deep-seated and central in me was simply going to bust. (He later told me that he doesn't do zydeco -- that it's too sexual, too loud, too rhythmic. He was just as happy to let me get my ya-yas out with someone else.)

El Sid O's, which is known for, among other things, its custom of serving booze by the half-pint, is hopping. Zydeco, unlike Cajun, is mainly played by, and for, black folks, and the crowd tonight is primarily African American. The men wear cowboy hats and sharp suits or red straw boaters and matching red shoes; the women wear tall strappy sandals and sparkly slacks so tight they look poured on. Everyone is dancing: young with old, fat with skinny, ugly with gorgeous, and black with white. And why not? It was just last summer when Katrina and Rita wiped out a good swath of South Louisiana, but here in Lafayette, not only are most buildings still standing, but folks can't help themselves. Dancing is encoded in their French-African-Caribbean-Louisiana-Catholic-Native American-Baptist gene pool.

My dream dance partner's name, I learn, is Herman Stevens. He hails from Lake Charles, works as a contractor in the family business, has a wife and three kids, and learned to dance by watching his parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles. "You know, I came up that way," he says.

I wish my husband and I had come up that way, too: We're both about as East Coast as you can get, with a crushing self-consciousness about anything approaching laissez les bon temps rouler (let the good times roll). There's one major difference between us, however: I love to "hear" music in my body, and have known how to dance ever since my grandmother taught me when I was 7 years old. He hears music in his ears. Shaking his groove-thing is something that doesn't exactly come naturally to him. But having experienced this kind of exhilaration, I'm determined that my wallflower days are over. The only question is, can I keep finding willing partners, or am I ultimately going to have to dance solo?

Cajun Country -- or Acadiana -- is a stretch of Southwest Louisiana roughly defined by the Atchafalaya River to the east, the city of Lake Charles to the west, Highway 190 to the north and the Gulf of Mexico to the south. It is home to hundreds of dance halls, bars, clubs, restaurants and even churches, where on any given day you can find people grooving down to a live band, enjoying a crawfish boil, or both. But, for me, it's all about the music and the dancing -- the ramshackle lounges in tiny towns such as Cecilia, Eunice, Mamou, Butte La Rose and Erath that don't always show up on maps. Lafayette, a small sprawl of a city with a pre-hurricane population of about 110,000, and a post-storm population of some several thousand more, is at the heart of the region. Viewed by New Orleans, some 135 miles east, as a kind of poor relation, a country bumpkin with rough manners, Lafayette has always struck me as the second-born sibling who dedicates his life to outshining the brother who came first: If big brother invented Dixie-land and modern jazz, then little brother would show him up with Cajun, zydeco and swamp-pop (a blend of New Orleans R&B, country and blues, performed with a Cajun accent). During the day, this dead-flat city of low-lying buildings, suburban neighborhoods, heavily trafficked boulevards, mom and pop shops, sprawling strip malls and crawfish stands seems like no more than an overgrown small town. Its historic downtown of two- and three-story, red- and yellow-brick buildings is still handsome and intact, but its outlying sections are somewhat dreary and have none of the charm of, for example, the famous French Quarter of New Orleans or the stately historic houses of Natchez, Miss. It's at night that the city comes alive, showcasing one of America's remaining folk cultures.

Cajun Country continues to be like no other place in the United States, with an ethos and culture unique to itself, primarily thanks to Mother Nature. The region is set apart from the rest of Louisiana geographically as well as culturally and linguistically (with Cajun French still widely spoken), with its landscape of bayou, swamp, riversand coastal marshes. All this is courtesy of the Atchafalaya Basin, the largest freshwater swamp in the United States. For better or worse, the swamp is rich in natural resources, particularly oil, and, over the decades, more and more of the wetlands have been destroyed for profit. The wetlands are shrinking at the rate of two football fields every hour: Over the past 50 years, an area the size of Rhode Island has become part of the Gulf of Mexico. Until Interstate 10 was built across the basin in 1973, the region was almost entirely isolated, protecting its indigenous culture and allowing it to flourish without outside influences.

The original Acadians were French Catholic colonials who, having been kicked out of the Acadia province of Nova Scotia by the British in the 18th century, wound their way down to Louisiana, which in those days was still held by Catholic France. Most of the good land along theMississippi and farther east in New Orleans was already claimed, so the settlers headed west, directly into the swampy lands of bayous, crawfish, muskrats and alligators. Today, the area is still largely Cajun (the word is a corruption of "Acadian") and, unlike North Louisiana, primarily Catholic. There is also a large Creole population of African Americans who were brought up in French-speaking families and are of Caribbean descent. Cajun French is still widely spoken, and if you tune into KRVS Lafayette or KEUN in Eunice, you'll get an earful of Cajun, zydeco and swamp-pop, with French-speaking deejays. One way or another, the culture of music is so pervasive that chances are good your hairdresser, dentist or air-conditioning repairman works nights as a musician. The music -- which goes hand in hand with the dancing -- is as much a part of the culture here as the heavily seasoned, flavorful food: hot and spicy, down-home and delish, nothing fancy, and everyone's welcome.

When I tell my friend Durwood in Baton Rouge about my plan to get more dancing in my life, he immediately says I have to meet Hadley Castille -- an old-time Cajun fiddler. Castille has been keeping people in Cajun Country dancing for most of his life, and maybe he can give me some insight into why this music is so irresistible. So one day I drive from Grand Coteau up Interstate 49 -- 18-wheelers, billboards, pickup trucks, wildflowers -- until I get to the town of Opelousas. There I hang a right on U.S. Route 190, another right near the sign advertising same-day surgery and a final right on a quiet road threading through woods and surrounded by the buzz of a million insects. I reach Castille's comfortable, neo-Acadian cottage, which is propped up on arise. At the door, he greets me with the kind of smile you usually reserve for long-gone children. Castille, who has a wonderfully expressive face under a mop of thick white hair, brings me inside, where my eyes are immediately drawn to his collection of fiddles, one in the shape of the state of Louisiana.

Like just about every other musician in South Louisiana, the 73-year-old Castille never had any formal instruction; he learned to play the fiddle from his uncle. He walked to dances in his bare feet so as not to ruin his one good pair of shoes, grew up speaking French and one day, when he was young, experienced a revelation. "I must have been about 11 or 12 -- my father brought home a radio," he says. "I tuned in and heard something I'd never heard before, Texas swing. I couldn't believe what I heard. I stayed up all night listening to that radio and wore the batteries out." Castille took the mischievous sound of Texas swing, with its teasing fiddle, darting melodies and -- unlike traditional Cajun music -- swaggering hints of cowboy, and turned it into what's now Cajun swing. It's played on two strings with a back-and-forth, wave-like movement of the bow, and produces a fuller, richer, more complex sound. Today Castille -- who for years earned a living as a plumber -- performs with his son, Blake, and teenage granddaughter, Sarah Jayde Williams.

His bow glides up and back over the strings in a demonstration for me --a black bowler on his head, his entire face alive with feeling. He keeps time by the slow tapping of his foot. "The melody? You see -- it's carried by just the one string." The room fills with a wild, playful music that's so alive, so vibrant that it's as if the small instrument in his hands can barely contain the big joy inside it.

My feet are tapping, too. I long to inhabit that music, to start dancing right there in his living room. But I'm too self-conscious to get up off the sofa.

Next I head to Louisiana State University's "leisure school," on LSU's leafy green campus, under live oaks and magnolias, past the university lake, fraternity row with its big, Southern-style brick buildings, the wide expanse of the parade grounds and the massive neo-Gothic law school. In the student union, up on the third floor, is the Atchafalaya ballroom, a large, unfurnished, characterless room surrounded by dirty windows. Roland Doucet is teaching Cajun dancing to yet another group of people who somehow missed out earlier in life, and I want to see if there is anything I can glean that might help me light a fire under my husband. What I find are about 30 couples, at least half of them with a willingness to learn but no natural ability. The class is a godsend because, as Doucet says when I explain my struggle to loosen up my husband, who is a professor at LSU, "The hardest people to teach are professors and engineers, because they want to learn how to dance with their heads, and half the time don't even know where their feet are." Whereas the majority of Cajun dancers learn not by memorizing the steps but rather by copying what everyone else is doing, which is how Doucet learned to dance. Only his story has a twist: Like just about everyone else in Doucet's hometown of Vinton, his father, Haywood Doucet, played the fiddle in a Cajun band, which meant that if his mother wanted a dance partner, she had to ask one of her four sons.

As befitting his second-job persona as a dance instructor (his day job is installing and designing custom rugs; he also hosts a Cajun radioshow on WXCT here in Baton Rouge), the 55-year-old Doucet addresses his mainly middle-aged students as "ladies" and "gentlemen." As in: "Gentlemen, remember that the most important thing you can do when you're dancing with this lady is to look her in the eye and say, 'Honey,I'm sorry.'" Or: "Gentlemen, make sure you're stepping back with your left foot, because she's going to be stepping forward at the same time with her right, and if your big old foot is in the way, she'll rupture you."

The secret of his classes is that he breaks the dancing down into small, manageable steps, segregating men and women on either side of the room, and repeating each move over and over until his students feel confident enough to try with their partners. At first the method seems like overkill. I mean, how many times does it take to learn how to move your right foot two inches farther to the right and then bring your left foot in to join it? On a cue from their teacher -- the formerly separated couples are floating around the dance floor, the men guiding their partners in large, graceful circles, the women accommodating the husbands' and boyfriends' leads as if they've been doing it all their lives. As for me, when I see Doucet cutting in to dance with a pretty older woman with curly white hair, and the woman, in turn, relaxing into his embrace, as if she'd been waiting for him her entire life, I feel abolt of pure envy.

Unlike zydeco, most Cajun music is sung in French -- and danceable even for oldsters and young fogies. So even my husband will dance to Cajun music. Or so I'm hoping. We've come to Randol's, a big barn of a place with red-and-white checked table cloths and a commodious dance floor in Lafayette. There are numerous other good, family-style restaurants in Acadiana where you can dance, as well as enjoy excellent high-end dining-- Catahoula's in Grand Coteau and Cafe Des Amis in Breaux Bridge, with its zydeco brunch on weekends -- but we've come to Randol's because we heard that the band alone is worth the trip.

Cajun music, which tends to be played by and for white people, is typically slower-moving and sweet-tempered, having evolved around the turn of the 20th century from fiddle music played at house parties to an accordion-based sound big enough to fill up old-fashioned dance halls.

All around us diners are feasting on huge platters of fried fish and potatoes, jambalaya, gumbo and spicy-hot boudin to the sounds of Kevin Naquin and the Ossun Playboys. The food of South Louisiana has a French-Creole accent: crawfish bisque (prepared in a rich roux), sauce piquant, boulette (hush puppies seasoned with onions and crawfish tails), cracklins (fried pork skin), etouffee (various kinds of seafood simmered in a rich spicy stew), dirty rice, maque choux (highly seasoned corn).

These days the place is filled with FEMA and Red Cross workers, insurance adjusters and National Guard members. But the regulars are here, too: Long-married couples, little girls with their daddies, and women with their best girlfriends dance gracefully in the typically circular pattern of the Cajun waltz and two-step. "Maybe they'll order a beer, or a cold drink, but most of 'em come for the music and dancing,"says Rusty Randol, the head chef. "We see the same couples over and over again."

As usual, no sooner are we seated than I'm filled with a kind of yearning. How could it have happened that I married a man who can't dance? Doesn't he notice that my feet are tapping on the floor and my fingers are drumming on the table? How can he just sit there, when all I can think of is finding one of the many elderly gentleman who might not mind ditching his wife for a minute or two in order to dance with me?

But then, just as I'm about to burst at the seams, my husband turns to me, takes my hand, asks me if I'd like to chance it and leads me forward. And a minute later, the two of us have joined the circle, dipping and swaying to the accordion and fiddle as best we can. The other couples glide like swans around us. "That's it," I'm saying. "One, two, three, one, two, three." Actually, the Cajun waltz is about the easiest dance in the world to learn -- you just move your feet in a simple left-right-left, right-left-right pattern, pausing slightly on the third beat for emphasis.

The song comes to an end. It's time to quit. But then something happens. As the band launches into another tune, my husband takes my right hand in his left, puts his left at my waist and begins gliding me backward. Only this time there's no need for me to count out the beats, or jump away from his feet or even make sure we don't crash into another couple. Something about the tune -- its sweetness, or perhaps its pace -- seems to have embraced my husband, leading him out and away from himself and landing him right smack in the middle of Acadiana. When I glance up at him, I see that he's smiling. Around and around we go, in time with the other couples but lost in our own time, too, until I no longer know where I am, how I got here, or how I got by for so long without this.

Jennifer Moses is a frequent contributor to the Magazine.
© 2006 The Washington Post Company

Dreams....wow

Like most people, I don't always remember my dreams, but sometimes there is a dream that will stick out amongst the others.

My dream last night started out with me entering a large department store. I remember thinking that it was Wal-Mart, but it was more of an upper-class Wal-Mart. I'm not even sure if those exist. All I know is that they don't exist here.

So, I walk into the store, and it seems that they are trying a new stragegy. Right past where you usually get your buggies, and a little past the mile-long row of closed cash registers is another cash register on a fold-out table. There's an older woman there that I know from somewhere. She is really sweet, and we chat for a good while. Soon, she is replaced by a younger guy around my age. I know him as well, and a couple other guys join us in conversation. Upset, the older woman, who was previously there, summons a manager to break up the group chat. I found it strange that it was perfectly fine for her to do such a thing, but when someone else is doing it...Well, that just rubs her the wrong way.

So, I proceed further into the department store, taking notice of the shiny black floors and nicely stained wooden shelves. I kept thinking to myself, "Wow, this is a really nice Wal-Mart." By the way, this dream is in color. I have heard it said that we do not dream in color, but I find that I always dream in color.

I end up meeting up with a friend of mine, Erin, that I worked with at Lafayette's Restaurant. We were pretty tight then, and we are still good friends, we just do not get to see each other or talk as often as before. We wander around the store, but not really doing any shopping. It does not take long for Zee to find us, and fuss at us for doing or not doing something. Zee is the owner of Lafayette's restaurant, and he told us that he was following us around the store with the security cameras. I have always noticed that he distrusts everyone, and to me this is a way of projecting his own dishonesty onto everyone else.

We begin to wander to the back of the store, and the department store turns into a nice hotel. There were stone-like walls, black granite countertops, and I remember thinking that it reminded me of the new Drury Inn here in Lafayette. I have never been there, but I somewhat have an idea of what it looks like because I have seen inside through the windows.

Zee also owns the hotel, and the girl at the front desk tells us that there is a "secret locked hallway that leads to the attic." A secret locked hallway? That sounds right up my alley! Now, this hallway is secret and locked, but she has the key, which she gives to us.

We unlock the door and immediately there is a staircase leading up to a single door. We open the door, and it is the door to the attic. I never go in, but Erin does. The door is at the far right of the attic, and inside the attic, all the way to the left of the doorway is an eyeball sitting on the rafter. The eyeball looks fresh with all of its nerve-endings still in tact. However, we knew that it was not recently placed there. The eyeball is always there, and it never decomposes or dessicates. It is not looking straight at us, but it is facing the same way as we were when we opened the door.

After taking notice of the eyeball, and a little freaked out that an eyeball is sitting on the rafter, we look in the general direction that the eyeball is facing. There sits a guy in a blue shirt. This really frightens us because we had not noticed him before, and how would he be in a a secret attic that was locked?

He told us that he was sent by God, and that we must join him. I looked back at the eyeball for what seemed like a half of a second, and when I turn back, Erin is sitting beside the man as if to join him to be with God.

I get this intense feeling that he was not sent by God, but he is a demon who is trying to trick us. Still standing just outside of the doorway, I had never entered the attic. I begin to scream at Erin to run. I had to scream more than once because she was in some sort of trance, but she soon snapped out and tried running to me. It was a difficult task because he kept trying to pull her down, and she was tripping over rafters and insulation.

I felt like this was a battle of her own that I could not help her in. I stood at the door, and all I could do was encourage her and keep her motivated. As I said, I could not physically help her; she could only help herself.

I continue to scream, and she continues to fight and struggle. Bright flashes of blue, pink, yellow, purple and white lightening repeatedly fill the room. At the top of my lungs, with everything in me, I do all that I can to encourage Erin to save herself. The demon is putting up quite a battle, and it is not an easy task for her. I tell her she can beat it just like the other demons that she has been faced with in her life. She's a strong person, and she can overcome anything.

Finally, she is only inches in front of me, and I wake up from my sleep.

I wanted to call Erin, but I'm not going to call her at 3am on a school night. All I can guess is that she was able to overcome the struggle since she was at the doorway. I'm shocked at how vividly I can recall this dream, but it touched me so deeply.

I did end up calling Erin and sharing it with her, and she was glad that I didn't call her at 3am and freaking her out. We tried to pick it apart and analyze it. She is a psychology major, and we both think that it is deep, dark, and interesting.

Buster Update

A week ago today, I got Buster. He is growing so fast. He is getting better at using the bathroom outside, crying less, and he is also learning how to sit and stay. He is a good puppy, when he wants to be. After all, he is still a puppy.

Don't get me wrong, every now and then he makes a mess. He gets upset from time to time when he's alone, and he will take a poop in his playpen. The good thing is that he does it on his "pee pee pads." The bad thing is that he is so worried about being alone and wanting someone to hold him that he ends up walking in his poop and walking all over his pen. It has not happened in a couple of days, so I'm hoping that it's getting better.

He loves playing with his toys. He has tons of fun with balls because they roll away, and he can pounce on them. Outside, he attacks leaves, pine cones, and tall weeds or flowers. The boy loves to play. He can go on and on, but when he decides that he is tired, he will just curl up and any spot will do.

Now that he's becoming accustomed to being away from momma and the family, we can start working on his behavior. I can't have him chewing everything around him. He'll end up tearing the house to pieces. He has come so far in just a week, and I think, by next week, he will become even more obedient. Maybe he can be a show dog! Haha...Well, maybe not. I don't plan on being that strict with him. I just want him to be a happy puppy that doesn't tear everything up, uses the bathroom outdoors, and knows how to act in front of people.

On a separate note, I get a kick out of reading bumper stickers. I saw two, on a truck, that was on campus, and I had take a picture of them.

Friends

FRIENDS: Never ask for anything to eat or drink.
BEST FRIENDS: Helps themselves and are the reason why you have no food.

FRIENDS: Call your parents and grandparents by Mr. and Mrs.
BEST FRIENDS: Call your parents DAD and MOM and Grandpa, GRAMPS!

FRIENDS: Would bail you out of jail.
BEST FRIENDS: Would be sitting next to you sayin "DAMN!" We fucked up!

FRIENDS: Have never seen you cry.
BEST FRIENDS: Wont tell everyone else you cried... just laugh about it with you in private when you're not down anymore.

FRIENDS: Asks you to write down your number.
BEST FRIENDS: Has you on speed dial.

FRIENDS: Borrow your stuff for a few days then gives it back.
BEST FRIENDS: Lose your shit and tells you, "My bad...here's a tissue."

FRIENDS: Only know a few things about you.
BEST FRIENDS: Could write a very embarrassing biography on your life story...

FRIENDS: Will leave you behind if that is what the crowd is doing.
BEST FRIENDS: Will kick the whole crowds ass that left you.

FRIENDS: Would knock on your front door.
BEST FRIENDS: Walk right in and say "I'M HOME."

FRIENDS: You have to tell them not to tell anyone.
BEST FRIENDS: Already know not to tell.

FRIENDS: Are only through highschool/college. (aka: drinking buddies)
BEST FRIENDS: Are for life.

FRIENDS: Will be there to take your drink away from you when they think you've had enough.
BEST FRIENDS: Will look at you stumbling all over the place & say, "Finish that! Drink up bitch! You know we don't waste!"

Unbelievable

Rebecca told me about a story that was featured on the news. This new phenomenon is called unschooling. Basically, the unstudent makes all of their own decisions of what they are going to do throughout each day. If they want to learn something, all that they have to do is look it up online. Also, if they decide they want to go out and play, there is nothing to stop them.

I think this is wrong on many levels. I didn't review the entire website, and I remain unsure of all the details. Still, this doesn't teach the youth how to think and learn as a group. It encourages anti-social behavior. Also, when the kids grow up, as the tend to do, how are they going to cope on the university level? Better yet, how are they going to hold down a job? It is not exactly acceptable to have playtime in the middle of the work day, and if they have no experience working with others, it will be miserable for all parties.

Also, as a child, they may be unaware of reputable websites that are out there on the internet. The internet and magazines are filled with information written by people or groups with zero credentials. This just means that they may be teaching themselves the wrong information.

Have you ever tried to look up mathematical or chemical equations and calculations? There isn't much out there, and some of the ones that exist, that I have seen, are quite vague.

Some things are just better with a teacher.

As random as it gets

As I go throughout my day, I think about things that I want to write in here. Ideas after ideas flow through my head, but when it comes down to it, I have nothing. So, I'm just going to put a bunch of random thoughts that I have, which don't make any sense.

I just detailed my car, and tonight I hit about 500,000 bugs on my way home.

I'm tired of parents fussing their kids in public, but never following-through.

Today, the song "I'm in love with a stripper" was playing on the radio, and I decided that I really like that song. It makes me wanna go out and have fun. After that song played, Eminem came on. I don't like him. He's an angry little Toby.

I think I have an eye infection, and I lost my glasses.

For my nursing class, we had to develop a healthy habit. I listed my goal was to run 3 miles, 3 times a week, within a month. I reached my goal early, last week.

When will Chuck Huebner quit wearing that orange suit?

I got Buster Saturday, and he's so fun. He slept pretty much the entire day Saturday, but I played with him today. I think I wore him out.

People ask stupid questions in class. I think it's annoying when the teacher just finishes explaining something, and someone raises there hand and asks, "Can you explain: blah blah blah?" I just wanna scream, "That's just what he freakin' said!" Today, people started asking questions about something they should have read in their email (and the syllabus), while the teacher was calling roll. I thought that was inconsiderate.

I can't stand the girl whose last name sounds like "Apple Jelly." I hope she reads this. She's a moron.

I believe in radio to the power of X.

I wonder if I should tell this guy I know that his girlfriend wants to trick him into getting her pregnant?

Do you think Tom Cruise's baby's momma is going to get post-pardom depression?

I should have bought a lottery ticket tonight.

I have a Faith Hill song stuck in my head. It's "I'm the Lucky One."

I've picked out what songs I would sing on American Idol. Have you?

After tomorrow, the worry about my income taxes will be lifted from my shoulders. I'm happy about that.

I've lost 20 pounds since this past summer.

I'm petty, but if you're a regular, you already knew that.

I like working nights better than days, for now.

Lori Meaux-Steele is a man.

I'm going shower. Have a goodnight.

America has voted

All I have to say is: Thank the Lord Brenna Gethers got kicked off American Idol tonight. She's got a nasty little attitude, and I'm convinced that this will be the last we will see of her. The only other place that she may be seen is in porn "to try and get her career started."

Allons a Lafayette, Louisiane

I have never been one to go to all ends to celebrate Mardi Gras. Well, other than celebrating the literal meaning, "Fat Tuesday." Mardi Gras is the last day, for us Catholics, to cut lose before the Lenten season. Practical Catholics typically give up a favorite food or activity during this season, and before we give it up, we have to get that one last day of feast.

The pomp and splendor of Mardi Gras was made popular in New Orleans but has since spread across the state and beyond. The Marquis de Vaudreuil, a person of elegant manners and sophistication became Governor of the French Louisiana Colony and served a term from 1743-1753, in the capitol of New Orleans. His sponsorship of a regular series of balls, dinners, and formal social engagements increased his popularity with French Officials and members of the upper class in New Orleans, all of whom were hungry for this type of atmosphere. It is believed that he is responsible for the pageantry that we see in some Mardi Gras celebrations today.

Contrary to popular belief, the first-known Mardi Gras celebrations were not celebrated in New Orleans, but in Mobile, in 1703, before New Orleans existed. Mobile was a prior capitol to Louisiana, and is now located in present day Alabama.

Still continuing are some non-commercialized raw Mardi Gras of Southwest Louisiana, rich in all of its original traditions. Colors of Carnival is a tradition that began decades ago, when blacks were not welcomed at white Mardi Gras festivities. Some began creating their own costumes, using boxes to make hats and masks, which afforded them the secrecy to celebrate with lack of restraint. Additionally, The Independent has a great article outlining some of the Mardi Gras activities more common to the black Creole communities in Lafayette and New Orleans.

Another type of Mardi Gras common to Southwest Louisiana is the traditional Cajun Courrir de Mardi Gras ("Fat Tuesday Run"). It consists of a gang of locals masking their identities with hats we call capuchons (tall cone hats) who knock at doors in the neighborhood demanding charité ("charity"), in other words, ingredients to make a communal gumbo. Chickens are chased in designated yards and fields, caught, skinned, and cleaned. At the end of the day, a gumbo is made from the total of all communal charity received, and the entire neighborhood meets to eat the gumbo. This link offers great pictures and descriptions of the Cajun Courrir de Mardi Gras.

This year I decided to laissez les bon temps roulez, downtown Lafayette. I only went downtown on Mardi Gras day, and it was the disappointment of the year. The parade was short, and there was about a 30-minute gap, which separated the parade into two parts. The floats were extremely low budget. I've seen better parade presentation at the Rice Festival.

Most of the people who were interviewed on the news said that they enjoyed Lafayette's "family friendly festivities." To me, this means it sucked. I wasn't asking for anything vulgar, but some spice of the culture would have been welcomed.

Thankfully, quality entertainment was not far away. Our little party crew consisted of Aaron, Amber, Chad, Cypress, John, and myself. After the parade we went to The Blue Moon Saloon, which if you haven't been, I highly recommend it. The bar area is outdoors and completely covered. It is on a wooden deck, and they are good to count on for a great band. The entertainment Tuesday consisted of Joe Black, Horace Trahan, and Asparagus AllStars.

I never knew that Horace Trahan was close to my age. Below is a picture of him during his performance. While his band was setting up, some girl actually approached me because she thought that I was Horace. She wanted a picture, but unfortunately for her, I am just me.
After Blue Moon, we went to Artmosphere. Six String Rodeo was playing there, and my picture of the band didn't come out to good, so I'm not going to post it. When I first walked into Artmosphere, I saw quite a show, and it wasn't from the band. There was a little squabble, and Cypress got a punch in! That's my girl! I was glad, that plug deserved it and so much more. Not to discredit Six Finger Rodeo, I thought they rocked. They played some good ole' boy country music, and you can't end the night much better than that.

I'm glad I decided to get out of Crowley. I celebrated with a great bunch of friends, and I don't need a special holiday for that. We'll have fun regardless of the circumstance. I'm sure we'll be causing trouble again sometime soon.

Oh, and Cypress and I ate at some little Chinese place behind Mel's Diner. I had seen the place before, but never had the pleasure of eating there. They have the best eggrolls I have ever tasted in my life. They told us that they were homemade from scratch. The buffet is only $5.95. I encourage you to check it out.

It's Buster!

For a while now I have been wanting a little dog. I wanted one that was sweet, and not too hyper. My grandparents used to have really hyper dogs that would jump all over anyone who walked through the door.

So, I thought about it, and I really like weiner dogs. It seems like close to a year that I have been wanting one, and I had been pressing my nose up against the glass in pet stores.

Beth told me that her mom had both a male and a female. Issy had her litter on January 25th, and here is my Buster. I picked him out last week. He's a fiesty little sucker.

I picked him because he was the most playful out of the group, and he tried crawling out of the box to play with me too. I say that I like this quality in him now, but I've been thinking that I may come to regret it. Before long, he will probably be tearing everything up in the house. Nah...he's gonna be a good dog!

I should be able to get him around March 8th. I almost feel guilty about taking him away from his momma, daddy, brothers, and sisters. He's going to be lonely at first. He'll be ok though. We'll be friends.

I go to the #1 Unhealthiest University in America

Nov 1, 2005 12:00 PM
Jennipher Shaver

NEW YORK — College life is known for dorm food, cheap beer and all-nighters pulled off by a strong pot of coffee. While this stereotypical lifestyle holds true at some schools, others are opting for healthier habits.

Brigham Young University, the University of Southern California at Santa Barbara and Boston University took the top spots on Men's Fitness' Fittest Colleges list. On the magazine's Fattest Colleges list, the South didn't fare well with the University of Louisiana at Lafayette, the University of New Orleans and Mississippi State University coming in at number one, two and three, respectively.

The magazine partnered with the Princeton Review to survey nearly 10,000 students from more than 660 of the nation's top colleges and universities, asking them 18 questions grouped into five categories: student bodies (sex, height, weight and total weight gained or lost since beginning college), exercise, bad habits (fast food, alcohol, smoking, sedentary activities), other lifestyle choices (supplements, sleep, whether student's significant others help or hinder their fitness goals) and the campus culture of fitness (a school's physical-fitness requirements or recommendations and student impressions).

Top 5 Fittest Colleges:
1. Brigham Young University
2. University of California, Santa Barbara
3. Boston University
4. University of Vermont
5. Northwestern University

Top 5 Fattest Colleges:
1. University of Louisiana, Lafayette
2. University of New Orleans
3. Mississippi State University
4. Southern Illinois University, Carbondale
5. Portland State University

Dancing with the Stars

I hate to say it, but I got hooked on a reality TV show. Dancing with the Stars is a show that I thought I would never watch because it sounds so dumb. Well, I watched it this year, and I kind of got into it. The star finalists are Jerry Rice, Drew Lachey, and Stacy Keibler.

Since the beginning, my personal favorite has been Stacy Keibler, WWE Superstar. Other than the obvious, she is a great dancer. I can't wait for the final results. She didn't do so well on her freestyle dance tonight, but that was her trainers fault. He is the one that choreographed the routine.

I have a feeling Jerry Rice might win because he had such a large fan base. Although, Drew has a good chance too because I think it is mostly teenage girls who do all the voting for these shows. Stay tuned to ABC to find out.

Hot

Well, you just gotta love Louisiana weather. Monday of this week, the temperatures were in the 30s. Today, they are in the 70s. I'm not sure what tomorrow holds. I think it is going to get cooler again, but I haven't checked with Rob.

I don't think that the buildings on campus have noticed the temperature change outside. I think they still have the heaters on. It is so freakin' hot!

My face is flushed, and when I get to class, I am sweating buckets, which, by the way, is not hot.

Outside is not pleasant. Currently it is 78 degrees Fahrenheit, but the heat index is 81. Yeah, during the winter, we have a heat index. It is partly-cloudy, and the humidity is at 61.4%.

If this is our "winter," I hate to see what the summer is going to hold in store.

One of MANY

There are millions of little things that get under my skin. In fact, there are so many that I couldn't possibly make one post to include them all.

For the past couple of meals, I have been eating gumbo. MmmMmm...mais I love me some gumbo, cher. I have a big pet peeve when it comes to gumbo. I am sure you're saying, "What could possibly get on his nerves about gumbo?" Well, leave it to me to find something, but I will say that the gumbo is just the innocent by-stander in it all.

Whether you choose to eat seafood, or chicken and sausage gumbo, the story remains the same. There will always be someone that tries to "fish" all the "meat" out of the gumbo. It just so happens that my dad is one of these fishermen.

I don't know what you think, but in my opinion, gumbo is always better the next day. Tonight, while I was serving myself, I noticed that we had a vast amount of the roux stock. (I guess that's what you would call it.) On the other hand, the meat was barely detectable. I did some fishing of my own. I was not greedy. I even took less than I would prefer, but since dad fished most of the meat out last night, it did not leave too much for tonight.

To sum it up, the left-over gumbo that we usually have in this happy home typically consists of rice with a whole lot of gravy. [sigh]

Bon Anniversaire

"It's your birthday...shake ya booty...like Sha-nay-nay!" That's a song my friend Katie's little sister, Maggie, used to sing.

Unfortunately, another year brings another birthday. Up to this point, birthdays were fun. Don't get me wrong, they are still fun because it is MY day, or so I like to think.

Well, I am 26 this year. [sighs] I'm now closer to 30 than 20. There's nothing too exciting from this point on. At least last year, I got that insurance discount. Now, the only thing that I can count on next is that Senior Citizen discount, but that is still a few years down the road.

The picture above was taken on my third birthday at my Grandmother's house. It was a cake with peanut butter icing. I still remember taking that picture. It's funny how I remember bits and pieces of things from my childhood. I'm glad I can hang on to those memories.

The most memorable thing I have this year is that I got a King Cake for my birthday. It was so good. Although, I didn't get much because Kevin ate most of it. It was gone is less than 2 days.

I spent tonight hanging out with some of my closest friends, and those great friends that I didn't get the pleasure of being with, in person, gave me a call with birthday wishes. Thanks for thinking about me and making my 26th birthday another one to remember.

Oh, and Cheryl, thanks for the pin that came with my card. My booty got slapped several times. Thankfully, not a full 26. I would come up swinging from that.

Leisure Time in the Legislature

THE DEAD PELICAN has obtained an interesting photo from the February 14, 2006, 3:00 pm session of the House of Representatives .

If you look closely, the unknown legislator talking to that lady in the above picture has a nice game of solitaire on his computer screen.

Positive I.D. of the person sitting at the computer terminal could not be determined.

But based upon analysis of the legislative seating chart, the seat and the computer terminal are those of Rep. Danny Martiny of Kenner (Republican).

Louisiana tax dollars at work!

February 16, 2006 UPDATED 6:10 PM CT
by Chad E. Rogers
© THE DEAD PELICAN 2006
http://www.thedeadpelican.com

A Family Tale...

From the moment that I saw the preview for Failure to Launch, I had one thought on my mind. This movie was written after my brother! It hits the nail on the head.

I keep waiting for the parents to make a comment when they see the previews, but they are stone-cold silent. They don't see anything wrong with a 30 year old still living at home. Dr. Phil would have a field day.

Well, I would like to watch the movie. I probably won't pay to see it in the theatre because I'm tight. I think it will be entertaining.

Valentine's Day

I'm not a bitter, but I think love today is over-rated. Everyone is looking for that perfect person, which doesn't exist. They dream of that fairy-tale love that they see in movies, on TV, or read in stories. That stuff isn't real! I never hear them burping or farting in love stories.

I have been noticing the little lovers of Lafayette running around looking for goodies for their Valentine. Yeah, it's a nice gesture. I'll give it that. It is just that today, relationships seem to be preoccupied with material possessions. Girls are worried about getting married, and as soon as her man pops the question, it is all about the wedding ceremony.

She and her girlfriends are first evaluating the ring. "How much was it? How big is it? Where did he get it? Color/cut/clarity?" Yeah, they need to chill out. Of course, she has got to get the best dress and design her wedding bigger and better than her best friend that got married last year. It's all a competition. Not all girls are this way, thank goodness. It just seems like the majority of the ones of the 20-something age group are just skin deep.

Last week, I overheard a conversation in my Statistics class. I'm nosy, and I'm not shy about eavesdropping. I don't know their real names, so I'll just make some up. Gertrude was talking about how she is dating her high school sweetheart, and they have been together since they were freshmen in high school. They are now engaged, but they don't plan on getting married anytime soon because they need to focus on school. Shaneeka said that she's been with her boyfriend for a few years, and they are content with where they are right now. Ramona said, that she has been with her boyfriend for 4 months, and she is ready to get married NOW. She knows that he's the one, and she doesn't want to waste any time.

Gertrude and Shaneeka look at her like she just feel out of a tree. Ramona, unaffected goes on to talk about how great their love has been, and it can only continue to grow and flourish. I had to stop listening at that point because my stomach got a little upset.

This week, Ramona comes to class and talks about her boyfriend again. He asked her to give him space, and she wants to do everything that he asks. What else would she do? She's a psycho puppet. It's so hard for her not to call him 20 times a day because she just loves him so much.

Yeah, I can see why he wants his space. Can you?

Anyway, since it was Valentine's Day, I thought I would talk about "love." Also, I know the day is historically significant, but I didn't know all of the details. I went to The History Channel Website, and got the following information:

Every February, across the country, candy, flowers, and gifts are exchanged
between loved ones, all in the name of St. Valentine. But who is this mysterious
saint and why do we celebrate this holiday? The history of Valentine's Day --
and its patron saint -- is shrouded in mystery. But we do know that February has
long been a month of romance. St. Valentine's Day, as we know it today, contains
vestiges of both Christian and ancient Roman tradition. So, who was Saint
Valentine and how did he become associated with this ancient rite? Today, the
Catholic Church recognizes at least three different saints named Valentine or
Valentinus, all of whom were martyred.

One legend contends that Valentine was a priest who served during the third
century in Rome. When Emperor Claudius II decided that single men made better
soldiers than those with wives and families, he outlawed marriage for young men
-- his crop of potential soldiers. Valentine, realizing the injustice of the
decree, defied Claudius and continued to perform marriages for young lovers in
secret. When Valentine's actions were discovered, Claudius ordered that he be
put to death.

Other stories suggest that Valentine may have been killed for attempting to
help Christians escape harsh Roman prisons where they were often beaten and
tortured.

According to one legend, Valentine actually sent the first 'valentine'
greeting himself. While in prison, it is believed that Valentine fell in love
with a young girl -- who may have been his jailor's daughter -- who visited him
during his confinement. Before his death, it is alleged that he wrote her a
letter, which he signed 'From your Valentine,' an expression that is still in
use today. Although the truth behind the Valentine legends is murky, the stories
certainly emphasize his appeal as a sympathetic, heroic, and, most importantly,
romantic figure. It's no surprise that by the Middle Ages, Valentine was one of
the most popular saints in England and France

Well, if you are on my mass email list, I will send you a poem that I send out annually. It's funny, and I'm sure you will enjoy it.


Happy Birthday Anne! I hope you have a great day, and I'll talk to you later.

I am petty

I forgot to blog about it when it happened, but Kevin turned 30 on January 26th. His girlfriend bought him an entire new bedroom set. She must have spent a fortune. I must admit; it is pretty nice. Nevertheless, the boy is still living with momma, after 30 years.

Friday night, I didn't get home until about 3am. Upon arriving, I noticed that there was an extra vehicle in the parking lot that we call a driveway. For me, this meant that I had to park a fairly good distance away from the house. So, to get this straight, there were 4 cars parked, all side by side, from the door where we enter the house. After the 4th vehicle, was Kevin's boat. So, I had to park in the "6th slot" if you get my drift.

Well, I was not too pleased. I have the newest vehicle, and I had to park in the mud. Not only getting mud on my shoes, but tracking it back into my car the next day. I decided to be real mature about the situation. I was going down the driveway at a relatively quick pace, and I veered off the driveway, and slammed on my breaks once I was onto the grass. This tore up the yard a little and left some tiny ruts. I wanted to leave my mark. It also made me feel pretty good. We usually always park straight, but I was positioned at a 45 degree angle from everyone else. So....ruts and an angle, I wanted to make sure they noticed.

Then, I go into the house. Everyone is asleep, and I proceed to slam everything that I touch, which were the doors, refrigerator, cabinets. Now, I didn't slam them too hard because I didn't want to mess anything up or be too loud. Just loud enough to be noticed. Oh, and I kept saying, "I hate living here."

As if I wasn't annoyed enough, I noticed that Kevin has been using some of my bathroom stuff. I already have to take things like soap and toothpaste and lock them in my desk. If I don't, we will run out, and he won't buy anymore. He's a mooch. Remember? So, me, the college student just making enough to pay the bills, has to support the FLUF that brags about making +$60K a year.

So, noticing that he used something else of mine tonight, was just the icing on the cake. In the process of all of this, I woke up Mom. She came and started pulling on my doorknob, but it was locked. I didn't want anyone coming into my room because privacy isn't something that I get at home. As I am told, "we share everything."

She never knocked on my door. No one knocks. They just barge in. She kept turning the knob, applying more and more pressure. Finally she said, "Brian?"

In a rude tone, I said, "Yes?"

She said, "What's the matter?"

I said, "I am sick and tired of having to park in the _____ rice fields because someone, who doesn't live here, and who owns their own home is here AGAIN!"

To that, she replied, "Oh." Then, she went back to bed.

Nothing was ever discussed about this later. No solution....No anything. It was just swept under the rug. They assumed I was drinking. That's what Kevin's girlfriend thought. Much to the contrary, I had nothing to drink. I was just tired of a really crappy situation.

This semester, I have a really hectic schedule. Since I am living in Crowley, the buttcrack of Louisiana, I can't exactly go home and eat lunch. So, to avoid spending lots of money and gaining lots of weight, I started buying things to make sandwiches and bringing my own lunch everyday.

It's well-known that Kevin wakes up during the night and eats everything that he can find. To avoid my food from being devoured, I kept in the shopping bag, and I put a note on it that says, "Do Not Eat." I left it in the bag so the visual of food wouldn't be tempting. He's usually too lazy to open things. That is, until he discovers what it is. After that, he'll eat it all until it's gone.

This morning, I noticed that my bag was untied. Also, my unopened package of cheese, had now been opened and 2 slices were missing. Yes, I arrange things in a certain way and count them to see if anything is missing. I am that petty. I have to be.

Basically, the outcome is now I have to suck it up to Kevin eating all of my food. I could confront him about it, but that wouldn't get anything accomplished. He would treat me like I'm stupid, and tell me that I use his things, which I don't. He doesn't buy any food, so I can't eat that. I don't use or borrow any of his stuff. (Although I should, since he wore a pair of my good running shoes to paint his girlfriend's house spilling paint all over them.) I don't even go into his room because I have no desire. I don't owe him a thing. I prefer to keep it that way.

Plus, if I bring anything up, my parents will look at me like I'm the monster. Also, they may offer to pay for it, or take the blame that they ate it. So, once again, they are protecting their precious Kevin. I don't want their money. It's time for Kevin to face up to reality. They bow down to him like he's royalty, and I have no clue as to why.

I am still highly irritated, and the day that I move out cannot come soon enough. It's driving me crazy.

Tobys of America

I joined a new group on facebook today. For those who do not know, facebook is much like myspace, but you have to have a university email address to become a member. This group is so funny that I must share it with everyone, and I also feel that most will agree with this group's mission. I copied the following from the description that was posted on facebook. Enjoy.



The Tobys of America, or T.O.A., is an organization designed to help rid the world of a growing epidemic known as Tobys or T-Boys. This idea was first started back in 1996 by three innovative and creative young men from Lafayette Middle School. These three men had one common goal and that was to one day exterminate all living Tobys in the world.

Since 1996, the toby epidemic has grown exponentially. With the rise of hip hop music it seems more and more Tobys are running the streets now more than ever. Local people cannot shop at our own malls anymore without fear of being mugged or jumped by a gang of Tobys. Even people who are brave enough to walk the mean streets of the Acadiana Mall must look at the floor at all times so that they do not make eye contact with one of theses creatures. We must stop this growing epidemic before it reaches heights that even President Bush can not handle. We need to stop them while they are young and before they start breeding baby Tobys known as TITS (Tobys in Training.)

We can do this. This is what this group is for. To help stop the worldwide epidemic known as Tobys. Gather up everyone you know. We need everyone, otherwise we will either be forced to join them or our next President of the United States will have the nickname T-Money. We need to hurry before its too late. These once cowboys are trading their Garth Brooks CDs in for 2 Pac and Master P albums. They are trading their cowboy hats for black stockings that fit tightly over their head. Their once proud cowboy boots are being sold for solid white K-Swiss. Even their beautiful horses are being thrown out for yellow and orange lowrider trucks (with dice and a crooked license plates.)

But be very careful guys. The Tobys are extremely dangerous. These guys want respect from the real street thugs more than they want anything else in life. There are no limits as to what they will do to get that respect. They will beat up anything, they will steal anything and they will rap to anything. So be careful. It is up to us to make sure they stay in their own country towns and away from our city, our malls, and our clubs.

COMMON PLACES TOBYS HANG OUT: New Iberia, Cecila, Duson, Bunkie, Rayne, and most other small towns. Skate Zones, fairs, malls and Sonic parking lots are also common stomping grounds. Since they are growing I am sure there are others so be careful.

COMMON TOBY CHARACTERISTICS:
1. Gold Teeth
2. Baggy Clothes
3. White Shoes (No Other Color)
4. Perfectly straight bangs (Tobe-cicles)
5. Starched Jeans
6. Crooked Hats
7. Lowrider Trucks/Cars
8. Car accessories would include the basic dice, rims, crooked license plates, neon lights, etc.
9. A real toby will peel out next to you and drive real fast as soon as a light turns from red to green. (This is a toby who likes to show off.) Do not race him unless you are willing to throw down. Racing to a Toby is like shooting his mom, he will take you down.
10. Any person who uses an adjective in front of their name for no reason. Examples of this include: Lil Mike, T-Mike, G-Mike, Big Mike, Money Mike etc. They are many more but you get my drift.
11. Guys who wear XXXL shirts when they should be wearing Mediums.
----#11 follows the basic "Toby Rule of Three" which states, "If your shirt is big enough to fit three tobys inside, the size is just right.
12. They have a distinct mustache. Also known by the common people as a Tobe-Stache. What the hell is that growing on their lip? I mean, its not too thick, its not too thin, its not too much of nothing. Its gross, terrible and unexplainable.
13. Beepers/Pagers. They still carry beepers. Many modern day tobys have switched to cellular phones. The real Tobys still have the green and blue see through pagers attached on the outside of their pants pocket. Be careful around these Tobys, as they are considered Old School.
14. Bright Colors. These colors include bright green, bright orange, bright yellow and baby blue. Be very careful with the Tobys who wear these bright colors. They have gone out of their way to make sure everything from their visor to shoes match. They have expertly picked out their clothes and will kill you if you make a comment to them about it.

Yet, another good reason to stop this weird breed of a human.


The picture to the left is a great example of what a true toby looks like. His bright colors and gold give him that distinct Toby look. His cocked back head and expressionless face show the world that he is ready for any drama. He is pretty much daring you to "diss" his outfit.

Quote of the Week:
When asked why Bobby Brignac is not too fond of Tobys, Bobby had this to say. "When I gel my hair, I gel it up. When they gel their hair, they gel it on their forehead."

Something to remember...