September 29th, 2008 michaeldevault
Or: Why the House was right to reject the $700 billion welfare bill.
So let me get this straight.
Congress rejects a $700 billion bailout bill and, in response, the stock market loses $1.2 TRILLION dollars? Something smells here — and it ain’t the caviar on my fancy French cheese or the better than decent German wine in my glass. It’s the thought that we’re considering a $700 billion bailout for irresponsible lenders in the first place.
Let me put this to you another way: I’m going to buy a nice, new Expedition — the loaded version — and I’m going to not pay the note. Then I’m going to come knock on your door and ask that you pay off my Expedition so I can — wait for it — buy a new Escalade.
That’s what this is. Listen to Paulson and how, it seems, all he talks about is “keeping the banks lending.”
::blink::
Isn’t lending what got us into this position in the first place? And then let’s talk about why we need to bail out these companies in the first place? Liberal Democrat here says “No, you moron companies. You do not need a bailout. You need a bankruptcy.”
Disagree? Not so fast. Just do the math.
Today, the stock market lost almost double what these companies’ bad loans are worth. That means even if Congress approved a bailout tonight, we’re still $500 billion down at open of business in the morning. So consider your day.
Think about breakfast. Think about lunch. Think about that new pair of shoes you considered buying when you were picking up dinner. Did you do one thing differently today than you will do tomorrow? No.
And why? The dirty little secret no one is talking about is the answer.
This meltdown has already inflicted its damage. If you have a decent credit score and your 20 percent downpayment, you’ll still get your new mortgage. If you have a good pay history on your credit cards and a job, you’ll still be able to get your ultra-HD Big Screen T.V. on 180-days Same As Cash at your friendly neighborhood Best Buy.
If, however, you’re a meth-addicted crack whore working a minimum wage job at McDonald’s with a 325 credit rating (and let’s face it, if you have a pulse, you score a 300), then guess what: no, sweetheart, you will not be able to buy your $450,000 McMansion in Tuscan Hills Estates.
To Congress, I have but one thing to say: let the damned banks fail and, if their CEOs go suicidal, tell them to call me. I’ll loan them a rope.
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September 28th, 2008 michaeldevault
A writing life is a slow life. It’s punctuated at times by periods of fierce activity but, for the most part, it is a life devoid of schedules.
Your friends have to learn to accomodate the burst of creativity that sends you plunging for a notebook in the middle of dinner or the ubiquitous presence of a MacBook on your lap. Add into the creative writing a dash of Journalism, and you inject into that equation the constant interruption of “Yes, Senator, what can I do for you this evening,” into dinner conversation or a sudden, thirty-minute detour to the plume of smoke on the horizon.
But the life is one of a relatively slow pace.
A few months back, I was approached about adding something to my dancecard. The news director of a DuPont Award-winning CBS affiliate asked if I would be interested in taking a job with his station, as their investigative reporter.
It’s a title I’ve held for some time at The Ouachita Citizen and it represented familiar territory as far as the scope of coverage I would be expected to provide. However, the position also brought with it something with which I’ve not had to contend for a while: a schedule.
I work.
Constantly.
And yet, something has happened corrolary to this new post that I had not expected. Weekends now mean something again.
I relish a Saturday night out with friends or a Sunday on the couch watching football. (Go 49ers! Yes, I’m a Louisiana writer who does not like the New Orleans Saints.) Simple downtime for the brain to decompress and file away the week becomes such a wonderful luxury.
We’ll chat more about this in the coming days. I’ve resolved to begin more regular updates of this blog, as I really do miss it.
If you’re in the Monroe area Thursday night, check out the Chatauqua Nexus at ULM — yours truly will present a lecture titled “Elegy for the Big Easy: a writer’s look at post-Katrina New Orleans”. 5:30, Airway Sciences Building.
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August 17th, 2008 michaeldevault
Or two of them, to be exact.
First, Anything But Ordinary is on its way to the Publisher this week after a month and a half of delays. (Sorry, fans, for not taking quicker care with this thing but that’s where the second chapter comes in.)
The second new chapter is what has made the first pushed back. Many of you may know this already, but I’ve started a new job that is taking me into exciting new directions. I’ll write more about this over the next few weeks, but…
I’m in television.
Like literally. For those of you playing the Monroe version of the Michael DeVault game, tune into KNOE 8 News at 6 and you’ll see me there more days than not. I’m the investigative reporter there — and having a blast.
At any rate, expect some fun observations from the wonderful world of Television in the near future.
Until then, back to the millstone for me!
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July 8th, 2008 michaeldevault
So Saturday, a friend of mine quit her job so she could hang out with me.
No, this is not the start of a joke. And no, it wasn’t planned. Instead, it truly was a spur of the moment thing to spend some time together in Shreveport, a few hours down the road.
Sure she only makes about a hundred and fifty dollars a week. Sure, she has a new job waiting. But I like to think she is quitting because she likes my winning smile and flashy personality. After all, just look at me. I’m gorgeous, right? 
En route to Shreveport, I learn Kitty, the friend, has never been to a horse race — which is one of my favorite things to do. I love going, watching the people, reading the racing forms, and picking horses. Then there’s the food at the track, the atmosphere. It’s all very exciting.
We both lost, but her horse finished remarkably well and it was a lot of fun watching how excited she got when the horses approached the line. I even made sure she stood at the post, leaning on the rail.
That afternoon, Kitty introduced me to something I never thought I would enjoy.
We went to the car races.
I was cautiously optimistic. I always enjoy new experiences, but questioned what I have in common with people who attend events out at our 1/8th mile (no, that’s not a typo) track. I was pleasantly surprised.
Instead of toothless rednecks and beerbellies, there were a lot of very excited, very enthusiastic people there. (And no, none of them were from redneck karaoke.)
It was the most unexpected and symmetrical of days. I hadn’t been to an auto race. Kitty hadn’t been to the horse races. Because someone was willing to drop everything and be just a bit impulsive, both she and I had amazing first experiences.
And isn’t that what life should be about?
How different would the world be if, at the drop of a hat and without warning we all just decided once a month to drop everything and go experience something new? I think that’s my challenge for the remainder of the year to all of you out there in the Blogosphere.
Every week, for the next five and a half months, experience one completely new thing. Maybe it’s going to see Shakespeare when you’ve never been to a play. Or perhaps you quit your job and take up remodeling your house when you’ve never touched a hammer. Or it could be just breaking down and trying escargot for the first time. Or maybe, it’s just taking a moment to stop and breathe.
Whatever your new experiences are, making this commitment isn’t easy. It takes bravery. It takes stamina. And it takes a willingness to make risky decisions that don’t always work out. It can be a rollercoaster.
But damn, it’s a fun ride.
See you on the other side.
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June 23rd, 2008 michaeldevault
“I really need to get a life because I enjoy this shit too much.”
I blink at Toni’s blunt pronouncement, made just loudly enough for the people at the other end of the plastic picnic table to glance our way, a perplexed look of surprise written on their faces. Immediately, I recognized the look as not one of surprise at her not-too-quiet use of a profane word in public, but rather surprise at her honesty.
Their raised eyebrows didn’t say, “Oh my god she didn’t!” but rather, “Wow. You go girl.”
We’re sitting at Riverside Coney Island, listening to what my small, dedicated group of friends have affectionately termed “Redneck Karaoke.” The emotions one feels at this event normally run from one of sympathy for the “victim” at the mic, humor at the “skill” displayed by the performer, to something approaching Schadenfreude. After all, one should consider himself blessed that he can look at the tone-deaf cowboy at the microphone, a camel in one hand, a budweiser in the other, and say “There but for the grace of God and good breeding go I.”
We’ll skip over the fact that, every Sunday without fail, we’re right there, cheering them on, downing crawfish and beer, and — yes — even singing. Instead, we’ll discuss how this particular Sunday afternoon was different.
Usually, our faithful Karaoke emcee, Wesley, arrives at 2 p.m. and sets up his equipment. From about 3 p.m. until close (sometime after 11:00 p.m.), Wesley will patiently cue up every Waylon Jennings and Johnny Cash song in his repertoire while somehow, miraculously, managing to keep the pace alive by interspersing the evening with his own vocal stylings on Patsy Cline or some other standardbearer of the bygone era.
This Sunday, though, Wesley is nowhere to be found at 2. Instead, in his place, in some cosmic act of divine retribution, our dear Wesley has been replaced by a Doppleganger. For standing on our “stage” is a 17 year old blonde girl wearing a shimmer wig, sequined chemise and silver patent leather heels.
For a moment, Judy and I can but alternate glances between the girl on the stage, each other and the sign out front proclaiming “Lainey Wilson as Hannah Montana!” As an epithet, whoever was responsible for the sign had tacked on “TODAY ONLY!”
Thank god.
I don’t have anything against Hannah Montana, Miley Cyrus, or for that matter little Lainey Wilson. It’s the principle of disappointment. I’m expecting to see Frick and Frack, two close friends who always sing back to back. (The nickname, alas, is what Toni calls them.) Instead of riproaring entertainment provided by geriatric oilfield retirees, we’re surrounded by a veritable sea of six year old girls all screaming “Sing ‘Pumpin’ up the Party’, Hannah! Please!! Sign this for me, Hannah! Please!!”
The waitstaff keeps reminding us, yes…it’s okay to drink beer, wish we could join you, and don’t forget. This ends in just a few minutes.
It wasn’t until later that I began to realize just how blessed we had been with little Lainey Wilson. At least she could sing.
It wasn’t until later, after Wesley had kicked off the Karaoke set, when a woman of indeterminate age and equally indeterminate vocal acumen stepped to the microphone and did to Natalie Merchant’s “Because the Night” things that should be a felony. In that moment, between the totally butchered lyrics, the off-key singing, and the shallow attempt at a low-register vibrato, I suddenly found myself longing for the return of the Hannah Montana wannabee.
Charlie Daniels had it coming. But what did Natalie Merchant ever do to this woman to deserve this?
Moments later, I realize my own plight pales in comparison to one of the waitresses. She’s sitting on the steps leading up to the restrooms, a pained stare on her face that betrayed the realization that she was too pretty, too well mannered, to be here in this. It’s not even the end of her shift and she’s stuck. Is it her marriage on her mind? Maybe it’s trouble at home? Being nosey, I ask.
I was, thankfully, wrong.
“I was just thinking about my baby girl. She has spina bifida and my husband brought her up here today because she loves Hannah Montana so much. The girl got her up on stage in her wheelchair and got her to sing. It was just amazing,” the waitress tells me.
I return to my seat just as one of the weekend cowboys runs to the microphone, as if showing up in between his friend’s song and the moment before Wesley can call out the next name, he’ll get to sing quicker. This time, it works. And as he begins to belt out the notes of a country tune I’ve never heard, I think about what Toni had said earlier.
I open another Bud Lite, take a long draw off the bottle.
She’s right. We need a life. But I think to myself, “be thankful. There, but for the grace of God, you might have been the mom — waiting tables at a crawfish joint and having your day lit up by Hannah Montana.”
And then, I smile, cheer on Bubba at the Bandstand and decide, no, we don’t need a life. The one we have is just fine. Pass me that binder. I feel a hair band coming on.
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Note: Check the archives, happy readers. I just imported my old blog from Blogspot.com. Should be some great stuff in there. Happy reading.
- md
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June 19th, 2008 michaeldevault
I officially became old today.
And it’s not my birthday.
Last night, at Karaoke with Judy, she noticed I kept moving my glasses farther and farther down my nose in order to read the small print in the songbook. Finally, she handed me her glasses and, voíla. I could see the text perfectly.
So today, cursing the entire time, I paid a visit to the eye doctor and was measured for a very weak bifocal. I stress: very weak. The weakest bifocal stocked in the store, in fact. Any less and they’d have had to special order it.
I really cannot complain. After all, I probably treat my eyes worse than any other part of my body. I read 50,000 words a day, of varying pica and in sometimes less-than-ideal conditions. I work in front of a computer and don’t wear the right anti-reflective coated lenses because I’m not paying an extra $100 for something that’s going to wear off in a year.
But hell, I’m not that old. Bifocals? Come on!
I’m just waiting until someone asks me “Bifocals?”
Why yes, they are bifocals. But damn it, they’re Armani!
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June 17th, 2008 michaeldevault
Once, while working as a marketing director for a non-profit, I decided I would one day write a one-hour T.V. program called “Other People’s Drama.”
It would focus on the lives of a group of people who work in a volunteer organization and the way the drama of daily life can infect everything a group does. I figured it to be a wonderfully cathartic experience because, surprise, I don’t like other people’s drama finding its way into my life.
But I have a legitimate reason: everything I do as a writer — both professionally and artistically — takes place on one square foot of real estate. It’s all in my head. And when it all is said and done, at the end of the day, when things get into my head and invade my thought processes, it mucks things up. Writing — both of the journalistic and the artistic — suffers.
I’ve talked about this phenomenon with some of my friends, some artists, some not, and we all agree. When the drama of daily life for people outside your head gets in your head, it can upset the delicate balances that make this thing called “living” comfortable. While I believe some discomfort should be allowed for, the kind that brings your life to a screeching halt should not.
So, as we embark on the summer and the days grow longer, let’s all strive to get along, to avoid the anger and the bitterness, and maybe, just maybe, one day we’ll all come out on the other side unscathed.
Then again, maybe not.
Happy summer. Hope you like the new site.
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April 7th, 2008 michaeldevault
Living in Louisiana, it’s hard to find a good Martini, much less a perfect one.
When I ask for a Martini in a restaurant, I’m inevitably asked by the server, “What kind? We have apple-tinis, chocolatinis, Grandma’sSinusitustini’s.” I’m a purist.
A quick visit over to Wikipedia will give any curious dipsomaniac a rundown on the often, if needlessly, complex history of the Martini.
It is the simplest of drinks. You take five measures of Gin, one measure of dry Vermouth, pour it over ice, stir, (if I hear ice rattling in a shaker, I’m sending it back), and then serve in a well chilled glass with an olive or a twist of lemon.
So I ask you this — how in the world can you screw up pouring Gin over ice?
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March 7th, 2008 michaeldevault
The one day.
THE ONE day I want decent weather, it snows…in Louisiana. In March.
I have tickets to “The Producers” tonight, with plans to take my kid. I cannot overstate how much I love “The Producers”. It is one of my all-time favorite shows. And the kidlet even bought a new dress.
Now for those of you who know her, for her to even consider wearing a dress is news enough. But to have picked one out, tried it on, and then shopped for the shoes to wear with it? That’s unheard of. Yet here we are, new dress, new shoes, and make-up. And it snows.
They haven’t canceled the production tonight. They haven’t even canceled classes. That fact is surprising enough when one considers half-an-inch of accumulated ice in the dark recesses of a freezer are usually enough to warrant shutting down our airport and salting the bridges. And this isn’t just snow flurries. It’s really coming down.
Alas, my amazing powers seem to have stopped short of snow. I’ll do what everyone else is doing — go out, stand in the middle of the parking lot, and look up.
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February 7th, 2008 michaeldevault
Or: Why the “he fucking deserved it” defense should be resurrected.
Law and Order has killed the justice system.
That’s the pronouncement of my good friend, Russ, when I asked him why we no longer have the “He just fucking deserved it” defense in murder and assault cases.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not prone to fits of violence. I’ve not been in a fight since third or fourth grade and haven’t thrown a punch in anger since I was 15 (and that one missed its target). But seriously, why can’t we have something resembling ‘justice’ in our justice system?
I’m thinking specifically of a case in my hometown. A young man of about 25 had lived most of his life under the heel of his abusive step-father. The man’s mother was also abused — to the point of multiple trips to the hospital, threats to her life and limb, and post-tramatic stress disorder. Eventually, the son snapped. Bang bang went the gun and thud went the asshole stepfather.
Is the world a better place today? I don’t know. But here’s the deal: this young man is about to go to prison for 40 years because he took care of his mama. Southern boys know what I’m talking about. Don’t mess with a southern boy’s mama unless you want a world of hurt to come on you through a never-ending parade of painful.
This boy doesn’t deserve jail. He deserves a medal. And legally, he deserves a defense attorney who is smart enough to say “Hey, this man deserved it. My client was post-traumatic and had a reasonable fear for his life. Justifiable Homicide.”
Instead, he gets whatever 9th Grader the state just made a public defender and a “plead to Manslaughter and you’ll see the light of day again” counsel. That’s not justice. That’s perverse.
So I want to lead the world in resurrecting the “he fucking deserved it” defense. If only because the bastard did.
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