All right, so yesterday was Comedy Day. Today it's back to business; I've no excuse for playing with the kiddies when there are still 22 chapters of THE BIG D to be proofread (though I would certainly have botched anything serious I tried to do yesterday; I didn't start feeling better until very late in the evening). Anyone who wants more kwobtchan-y fun may find it at LJdrama.

Got some restaurant news to catch up on:

Earlier this week we had dinner at Ralph's on the Park, the new venture of Gerard Maras (formerly of Gerard's Downtown, one of our two favorite chefs in the city) and Ralph Brennan, owner of Mr. B's and several other restaurants. I am happy to say Gerard's mightiness has decreased not an iota.

Our evening did not begin auspiciously. The place was packed, and when Chris asked if the hostess could seat a "deuce" (table for two), she thought he was saying his name was Deuce. Yes, McAllister, party of two. When she finally figured out that we were walk-ins, she told us no tables were available. As we left, GM Richard Shakespeare, whom Chris knows from his Commander's Palace days, chased us down the sidewalk calling, "We have room, we have room!" I'm sorry to say he probably heard me call his hostess a silly cunt (once I was well out of the building -- I'm not a complete asshole), but even so, he kindly found us a table. At the peak of dinner rush this is a very noisy restaurant. Two words: WORTH IT. The menu will not blow you away with wild combinations or fashionable ingredients, but that's never been what Gerard Maras is about. What he is doing here is Creole-tinged food prepared to perfection, at least judging from what we ate.

We began with the charcuterie and cheese plate, a generous assortment of Gerard's Platonic pork rillettes, a hauntingly flavored terrine, a deliciously stinking Morbier, a Valdeon, excellent olives, green apples, and what I think must have been a house-made cucumber pickle. Next I had the Farmer's Market salad of red sail lettuce with oranges, sweet turnips, Washington Parish cheddar, and sesame dressing. I could have gone for more turnips (I had exactly 4 tasty, wafer-thin slices), and I did not approve of the sunflower seeds scattered hither and thither, as if a hippie had strolled by and "improved" the salad. Chris had melanzene, thin strips of roasted eggplant wrapped around fresh goat cheese with a marinara sauce. Not my sort of thing, but he liked it very much.

For my entree I had a double portion of steak tartare with frites, remembering how good it was when served as a special at Gerard's. Still excellent. Chris had Ashley Farms chicken braised with a sausage, sour cherry and goat cheese stuffing, served with blended whipped potatoes, Swiss chard and a sour cherry bacon sauce. For dessert Chris had some sort of intense chocolate cake with sour cherries and I had a glass of Inniskillen Riesling ice wine from Canada, which was delicious but which I definitely didn't need after three Maker's Marks and soda (they were out of Wild Turkey, which I hope will be remedied soon).

The dining room is beautiful, if not terribly well-designed to absorb noise, and the service was attentive and affable despite the crush. I occasionally encounter gentlemen who fetishize my "manly" eating and drinking habits. Our waiter was of this type. I ordered a fresh Maker's Mark when my steak tartare arrived -- "Because how can you eat raw meat without bourbon?" I said, though in fact I do so often, come to think of it. He leaned over to Chris and stage-whispered, "You're a very lucky man, sir!"

I'm happy to report that my pathetic attempts at preparing Ethiopian food may be at an end: La Nouvelle Cafe on Magazine Street is now serving two Ethiopian dishes, tibbs (spicy beef stew with onions and jalapenos) and kitfo (chopped beef with spiced butter, raw or lightly cooked). Both are served with injera, the traditional Ethiopian flatbread, and both are delicious.

Sure wish my bird book would come.

I proofed three chapters, then felt sluggish and went walking in Audubon Park. At least one pair of anhingas seems to nest there every year. Among other oddities, they have an unusual feather structure that allows water into tiny spaces. The resulting loss of buoyancy helps them submerge to feed. (Sibley, THE SIBLEY GUIDE TO BIRD LIFE AND BEHAVIOR, pp. 165-166) Consequently, they become waterlogged and you'll see them sitting on branches with their wings dramatically outstretched, drying in the sun. If you are in New Orleans and are interested in the anhingas, they can often be seen just off the Aubudon Park walking track not far from its closest approach to St. Charles Avenue. Find the statue of the man and the little boy fishing, then go to the edge of the lagoon and look out at the dead branches on the golf course side. If you see a big, snaky-necked black and brown bird perching there with outstretched wings, it is an anhinga. Be sure to walk around for a rear view, as they have beautiful silvery markings on the backs of their wings.

Also saw a green heron (colloquial name: shitpoke) disguised as a turtle, hunched down half in the water with his wings spread a little to resemble a shell. I knew they didn't like to be observed, but I didn't know they could do that. Watched the egrets and ibises on the island for a while as the sun was setting, but had to leave becase I'd forgotten my bug spray and was getting bit up. After scoffing at them all, I'm probably going to get simultaneous cases of mad cow disease, West Nile Virus, SARS, and anthrax. No, anthrax is so 2001 ... how about swine flu? I wonder how many people reading this are old enough to remember swine flu.

As I walked, I thought more about the childless/childfree thing, about the difference between the showy hatefulness I've seen in the childfree communities and the mostly cogent, polite remarks I received when I took the time to ask about it. I think the communities both fascinate and horrify me because I came so close to that sort of bitterness myself in my late twenties/early thirties. As I said, I was appalled at the way the whole world seemed geared toward heterosexuals and their babies, and embarrassed that people who didn't know me probably lumped me into that mass. My feelings on the whole matter of "breeders" were not precisely those of EXQUISITE CORPSE's Lush Rimbaud, but they weren't as far off as you might expect. I'm far better able to deal with the abstract concept of parenthood now that I am getting to an age (36) where people don't tell me "Oh, you'll want kids when you get older" nearly as much as they used to. This is a particular peeve of the childfree folks, and a justifiable one; informing someone (especially someone you barely know, which often seems to be the case) of what decisions she will or won't make about her own body and life is the height of rude, stupid arrogance.

I still don't want kids. Never have, doubt I ever will. But some of my friends have them now, and seem to take enormous joy in them, not just some reflexive isn't-he-the-kyoooootest-thing breeder tic. Most of the parents and kids I see walking around the park, shopping, eating out, etc. seem happy enough. I don't look at them and think "That's a bad thing." Even when the kids are being bratty, as they almost always are in the guess-what-horror-was-inflicted-upon-mine-poor-childfree-eyes stories, I don't see the incipient global catastrophe they seem to. I don't know. It's certainly their prerogative to feel as they do. Many of them sound like intelligent people. Better they should have an Internet community where they can vent than they should go around surreptitiously tripping kids in Wal-Mart. I just ... in general ... don't see anything wrong with ... ack ... perpetuating the species. I hate many of the things we have done as a species, especially to other species and the environment, but overall I do not think humanity is a bad thing. There's still enough breeder-hater in me that I have a hard time admitting that, but it's true.

Gah. My warm, fuzzy feelings for people nauseate even me sometimes. Writing about the Stubbs family has changed me a lot, though I'm not exactly sure why or even entirely sure how. I'm interested in things that never interested me up until a few years ago, and feelings and opinions I used to hold with a passion now seem completely foreign to me. I understand that many readers who liked the misanthropic, violent, outsider-ish qualities of my earlier work are not going to like these changes. I don't blame them or wish to mock them for that. For me, though, it's about a hell of a lot more than what I write, and I could no more pretend to still be the PZB who wrote LOST SOULS or EXQUISITE CORPSE than I could pass for a 15-year-old (or a biological man, for that matter). Selah, as Hunter S. Thompson likes to say.