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Monday, October 31, 2005
Construction workers are trying to kill me. In fact, they're trying to kill all of us: my neighbors, the cutie from the coffee shop with whom I occasionally flirt, that crazy old woman who shuffles around in a patchwork coat 12 months out of the year, everyone.
If they wanted to get creative in their "Final Solution" for New Orleanians, these skilled manual laborers might hurl hammers at us from atop seven-story scaffolding. Or maybe line the roads with [still more] roofing nails. But no, these guys--and yes, they're mostly guys--are going about it the old fasioned way: they're trying to run us down in the streets.
The first couple of times it happened, I gave 'em the benefit of the doubt. "They're new to town," I thought to myself. "They haven't gotten the hang of our roadways just yet." Then, I found myself face-to-face with a late-model Ford F150 hurtling the wrong way down Royal Street at about 40 miles an hour.
The driver clearly saw me, saw that my hands were full trying to guide four nutty, hyperactive hounds across the street, but he didn't stop. He didn't even slow down. I waved my arms, yelled something to the effect of "You're driving the wrong way down a one-way street, asshole," but he just flipped me off and kept going. This has since happened half a dozen times--oddly enough, usually when I'm walking the dogs.
The problem is this: in New Orleans' older neighborhoods, most streets are just wide enough for one lane of parked cars (since few of us have driveways) and one lane of traffic. Add a third car-width to the mix, and civilization as we know it begins to crumble. If you've ever driven along the few two-way streets Uptown and had to negotiate the right-of-way with someone coming from the opposite direction, you know what I mean.
So to all you contractors from Wisconsin or Florida or wherever contractors come from, lemme say two things: (1) thanks for coming, 'cause we need the extra help, and (2) if you choose not to read our "one way" and "no turn" signs, you should know that I bruise and sue very easily.
Friday, October 28, 2005
MISCELLANY
Among the surprising number of festivities planned for this holiday weekend is the New Orleans Bookfair, a seriously boffo literary free-for-all featuring scads of indie publishers, readings from indie stars, and other indie-type events. So, you know, if you're into the whole "indie" thing, you should head on up to Barrister's Gallery and check it out. [Note: the Bookfair's website is screwy at the moment, so you can't see a full listing of events, so you'll just have to trust me on this one. But c'mon, would I lie to you?] New Orleans' citywide curfew starts at 2am, right? But this is the weekend that Daylight Savings Time comes to an end, meaning that at on Sunday at 2am, we wind our clocks back an hour. I wonder how many curfew-breakers are gonna try to use that one as an excuse. I saw it on The Daily Show the other day, but I didn't really believe it. Now, however, I see that Beirut's Daily Star is reporting it, too, so it must be true:
As with any family moving to the Arab world from the West, "The Simpsons" quickly discovered they'd need to make some adaptations to their lives if they were to connect with the natives. First, they would change their names - the family now called Al-Shamshoons; the father, once Homer, now goes by Omar; his mischievous son Bart, now Badr.
There would be fundamental changes to their lifestyles as well. Omar, once a fan of tossing back a few beers with friends, now goes to the club or the ahwa (coffee shop) and sips on sodas and juice. The list goes on. Donuts have been replaced by kakh (Arabic cookies); bacon is done away with altogether as it is against Islam; and the kids, once a rowdy bunch of conniving delinquents, are still just as cunning but mind their manners with their parents a bit more.
-- The Daily Star
You'd think with all the hurricane mishegas and Harriet Miers' withdrawal and the impending indictment of Scooter Libby, CNN might have its hands full. You'd think so, but you'd be wrong:
George Takei, 'Trek's' Sulu: I'm gay!
Body hanging from tree mistaken for Halloween decoration!
Missing U.S. cat found--in France!
[NB: creative punctuation, mine]
Thursday, October 27, 2005
It's no secret: I've had a lot of foreign objects in my body. When I was a kid, I was prone to swallow things better left to the piggy bank. A few years later, I discovered the delights of piercing and spent a good deal of time paying complete strangers to shove hunks of metal through my ears, my tongue, my lip, and other parts. Then as a mature adult...well, there are some things better left unsaid.
Oddly enough, though, I'd never gotten a tattoo. I think they're nice and all--in some cases, I'd even consider them "boss," as the kids used to say--but I'd never found a design I'd be willing to live with for the rest of my life.
You see where this is going.
Last Saturday, happy to be home and looking for something to do in our slowly reawakening city, the boyfriend and I moseyed over to Electric Ladyland for some good ol' fashioned needle-jabbing fun. I'd decided weeks ago that it was high time to tackle my so-called virgin skin, and Jonno wanted something new--a birthday treat for himself and means of commisserating with me, I suppose. A couple of hours later, we walked out, new-ish men.
Apparently, we're not the only ones who've gotten this idea. Still, I thought some photo documentation might be appropriate. I've pixellated the works themselves; if you wanna see 'em, just ask for a peek next time you're in our neck o' the swamp...
Jonno went first. He had a clear idea of what he wanted, and the artist was ready to go. Alas, though the guy assigned to me was a total sweetie, we were not, as they say, on the same page. It took some haggling to get it right.
While Jonno was in the chair, he decided to have the work on his arms touched up--something he'd been meaning to do for a couple of years. Later, waiting for dinner at our beloved and very reopened Angeli, I thought he looked like a punkster with some DIY tefillin on his way to the Wailing Wall.
There are probably less painful places to get a tattoo than the upper back--but of course, I didn't know this 'till after the process had begun. This is me cringing as the needle bumped against my spine.
The obligatory work-in-progress shot. If you look closely at the top of the photo, you can see Jonno peeking through the noren to get the pic.
Nearly done. Can you tell my endorphins have kicked in?
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
One of the hands-down funniest moments at Monday's circus of freaks dress rehearsal for It Takes a Village of Idiots neighborhood association meeting came during the segment I like to think of as "Ask Officer Trying-to-be-Friendly," when one of the only sane people in the room asked the policeman at the mike to clear up the confusion about curfew.
Frankly, I was glad the guy asked, because I'd asked a dozen people myself, and I'd gotten a dozen different answers. 6pm. 8pm. 12am. 2am. Technically 12am, but they're not being assholes about it in the Marigny. Technically 12am, but they're not stopping white folks. Technically 12am, but who gives a crap 'cause they don't have enough officers to enforce it anyway....
Anyway, the officer blithely responded that curfew was 8pm. This did not sit well with the crowd. In fact, their reaction was not unlike the one congregants at Touro Synagogue might give David Duke if he were to walk in one Friday night and announce that the Holocaust was a sham. Basically, there was lots of screaming and breast-beating and rending of hair (very "Greek tragedy," very Oresteia), with everyone yelling their own version of what they'd heard from their neighbor's brother-in-law, who used to work in city hall.
Ultimately, no consensus was reached, and we all left confused. So, perhaps in response to that--or perhaps in response to the (admittedly low-key) festivities planned for this weekend--the Mayor has issued an update/extension of the curfew for most of New Orleans. It's officially 2am - 6am. Remember, kids: you read it here second. (That's our unofficial motto around here, BTW: "We bring you the news you could've read somewhere else!")
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
I'd never been to a meeting of my neighborhood organization, the Faubourg Marigny Improvement Association. They regularly convene in the basement of St. Paul's Lutheran, which is right around the corner from my house, but the meetings are always potluck, and I'm not much of a cook, so rather than show up with nothing, or bearing something that might kill off half my neighbors, I've generally avoided the get-togethers. Which is just as well, 'cause I think my parents would, like, totally flip if they knew I'd set foot in a Lutheran church.
Last night, though, I broke with tradition. Meeting notices were posted on the many, many refrigerators lining the streets (they're bigger than light poles, and you can spray paint 'em, too!), all saying that our councilperson Jackie Clarkson was going to be there with reps from Entergy and the NOPD and the Sanitation Department and so on. Since I'm unable to take most of those folks and the services they offer for granted right now, I figured it was in my best interests to attend.
I toyed with the idea of picking up something from the grocery store for the potluck portion of the evening, but then I remembered there aren't any grocery stores open in the 'hood, so I nixed it. Big deal: I didn't bring anything, I wouldn't eat.
It's a good thing I didn't bother. There were several hundred people from both the Marigny and neighboring Bywater in the room, and practically no one brought food. Frankly, everyone seemed a little too edgy to eat. While most of us have power and water and phone and cable service, none of us have gas service yet, which means no hot water, which means no hot showers. At the moment, we're living like old French whores.
Two remarkable things about the meeting. First, Jackie Clarkson--who's always struck me as a typically grandstanding politico--showed remarkable poise. Though there were clearly moments where she was laying the groundwork for her next campaign, by and large her comments seemed sincere and loaded with common sensical goodness. The same can be said for the various representatives on-hand--especially the Entergy dude, who was, safe to say, easily the least popular man in the room.
The second thing of interest: I realized how completely gentrified my neighborhood has become. Very white, very middle class, very "We could live Uptown but there's so much more character down here and the prices are cheaper, too." And, like, really, really gay. Not that I thought my boyfriend and I were the only cakeboys around, but man.... At times, it was like a chorus of asps.
Overall, the meeting was pretty good, pretty informative. The folks at the mike tried to give as many direct answers as they could, sometimes shouting their reponses so that the folks in the courtyard who couldn't fit in the room could hear. Some of the audience members were good, too, respectfully asking solid, important questions about past performance and plans for the coming weeks. But others...I mean, Jesus H! At one point, I fully expected to turn my head and see folks in mob caps bearing torches. A handful of my dumbass neighbors (mostly the ones who stayed for the whole ordeal and went kinda feral) thought that last night would be the perfect opportunity to yell at some overworked, thoroughly bewildered public officials in a crowded room--which, of course, got us nowhere. By the time the conspiracy theorists started in, it was time to leave. I didn't even get to hear when they're going to pick up my garbage. But then, I suppose I'm lucky to have garbage to pick up....
Sunday, October 23, 2005
So, the wedding was actually kinda fun--maybe not for those who'd been through weddings a billion times before, but for me, it was almost novel. I suppose that's partially 'cause I'm a homo (we haven't gotten the wedding thing down just yet) and partially because I come from a family with serious population-decline issues. I mean, as a kid, I went to funerals several times a year, but never weddings.
On the "pro" side, I got to see my dad and brothers for an extended period of time, which is pretty rare these days. I also got to see my mom, whom I haven't seen since she emerged from rehab back in April. (She's doing well, apparently, though she's aged some.) I had the opportunity to chat a good bit with an aunt I haven't seen since I hit puberty. The bridesmaids dresses were a nice coffee color, and their bouquets included orange and magenta, which gave off this high-80s, Denny's Restaurant feel--in a good way. And the cut of the tuxes was moderately flattering.
On the "con" side, the wedding was Baptist. Like, really Baptist. Southern Baptist. As in, both the wedding and the reception were held at First Baptist Church. The service was God this and Jesus that and subservience to your husband and blah, blah, blah. There was no alcohol in sight, which even my father mentioned--and he's a teetotaller if ever there was one. (Although, as host of the previous night's equally hooch-free rehearsal dinner, dad had no room to complain.) There was a wee bit of piano music, but nothing serious, and forget about the chicken dance. Oh, and to top everything off, I got cornered by another aunt whom I hadn't seen since before puberty who wanted a complete update on the status of New Orleans, but all I could think about was "Damn, auntie, I want the number of your plastic surgeon!"
Anyway, for the handful of you who were actually curious about all that, here's a couple of photos:
That's me, my dad, and my three brothers. I asked someone to use my camera for this shot, and in each pic, someone different was blinking. You already know what I look like, so I figured I'd take the hit.
Bride, groom, bridesmaids, and groomsmen. (My #2 brother and I aren't in the pic because we were mere ushers.) I thought it was kinda cool and unusual
and sweet that my brother tapped both my dad and my #4 brother to serve as Best Man--um, Best Men. But then, I'm an old softie.
The happy couple, departing the reception after we'd tried unsuccessfully to pelt them with rose petals. It was pretty, though.
Two interesting things. First, that's not the groom's SUV--he owns a truck, and a nice one at that, but the bride preferred leaving in something slightly more conventional.... And second, the couple elected to go to Key West for their honeymoon. They were there
for all of 24 hours before they were forced to evacuate in the face of Wilma. Considering they both got hit hard from Katrina, it all seems slightly inauspicious. But then, my powers of clairvoyance aren't what they used to be.
The mister and misses--by far, the thinnest people in the whole place.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
One more wee trip out of town, and then I'm done. I'm heading to Baton Rouge this morning for a meeting, then on to Lafayette to retrieve the boyfriend from the airport (he's been away for almost two weeks). Then finally home, all of us: Jonno, me, cat, dogs, everyone.
And on the subject of boyfriends: I was listening to NPR the other day, and Joan Didion was on, and I've never been a big fan of hers, but she had the best quote about love. She was talking about true love and long-term relationships, and I can't remember the quote exactly, but basically she said that the fundamental characteristic of long-term, profound relationships is the constant need to share things with your partner. And I dunno about you, but in my experience, that's pretty accurate: I see this or read that, and the next thing I know, I'm screaming out, "Hey, Jonno, getta loada this!" I don't know why that is, but it is.... So, um, rack one up for Joan, I guess.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
If you've ever met me, you know I'm not the circuit party type. All that jet-setting and gyrating and gym time: I've just never had it in me. Never had it, never will. Well, probably never.
Still, I have to admit that among the many encouraging signs of New Orleans' rebirth, the fact that the annual, ultragay Halloween party is still happening (albeit on a smaller scale) somehow makes me happiest of all. Ordinarily, it wouldn't be my cup of tea--or GHB, for that matter--but this year.... I mean, I'm not making any promises, my current kum-by-ya state of mind may have faded by then, but at the moment, the ladies can count me in.
Hell, at the very least, it's a nice, cheap date, right?
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
So, I got back to New Orleans yesterday. There weren't any parades to herald my return. My house hadn't been festooned with garlands, or even toilet paper. But the hounds were overjoyed to run in what's left of the garden. I suppose that's something.
Frankly, I hadn't known what to expect. Despite my strong feelings for the city, what drew me back were the facts: I knew I wanted to continue living in New Orleans, I knew I'd been imposing on friends for many weeks, I knew my electricity was on and that water was drinkable, I knew my house wasn't going to tidy itself. I added all those up, and logically it made sense to head home. I guess that's how I make most decisions--I figure out what's sensible and the emotional stuff usually follows.
Last night, the emotions followed. Like I said, my wi-fi at the house wasn't working, so I schlepped my laptop to Mimi's to check email over a beer or two. When I arrived, the place was mostly empty (it was around 5pm, and for some reason, they'd just opened the doors), but as the sun sank lower and lower into the most beautiful sunset I've ever seen, people began filtering in. I watched from the corner of my eye as friends who hadn't seen one another in nearly two months hugged and kissed and asked the same set of questions again and again and again. There was a palpable feeling in the place, and the only word to describe it was giddiness. We were happy to see one another, happy to see the beginnings of normalcy, and most of all, happy to see a damn good beer menu.
Of course, being the good Jew-in-Training that I am, I couldn't watch all the goings-on without feeling a twinge of guilt--survivor's guilt, to be precise. I knew that while people in my neighborhood were all smiles and toasts, just ten blocks away, folks didn't have such luxuries. And as much as I'd like to shut all that out of my mind and focus on me, me, me, it ain't gonna happen. Not just yet. As my daddy might say--and often did, over the course of last weekend--we've all got a long row to hoe.
Monday, October 17, 2005
Just got back to New Orleans for good. The house and garden need some serious attention, and I can't get my wi-fi to work, but Mimi's is nearby, and they've got wi-fi and very cold beer. If my boyfriend were with me (he's still out of town), I'd be happier than I've been in a very long time--maybe ever.
More on all that later. For now, here's a memento of my weekend with the folks. It's a pic of something--goddess only knows what--lying in my dad's garage. I don't know what constitutes a "rotating driveline hazard," but I'm pretty sure we don't have them in New Orleans. I thought it was funny. But then, my dad would probably find the tipping-soda-machine warning pretty funny...
And just so you know: few people in my family--or in Mississippi in general, for that matter--would be skinny enough to fit through that corkscrew thingy. Maybe he borrowed it from some supermodel soybean farmer...
Trapped...Mississippi...no internet...no booze...slowly dying...send help now...
Friday, October 14, 2005
An Open Letter to the Citizens of Lafayette
Please, don't hate us.
You see, for nearly seven weeks, we New Orleanians have been dealing with issues of betrayal. At first we felt betrayed by the feds and the governor and our hometown officials. Now, as we begin moving home, we feel betrayed again, only this time the hurt is much deeper, much closer to our hearts, because it's being caused by our friends and neighbors who have chosen to move on.
Sure, we understand that many people lost everything. We understand that many people weren't having such a great time before the storm and should've left long ago. We proclaim loudly and at every opportunity, "I don't blame anyone who wants to relocate." But the fact of the matter is that New Orleans, like any city, is its people, and when people abandon a city, those left behind feel betrayed somehow. It's made even worse in New Orleans, a city that doesn't ask for fidelity, but lures you into it anyway.
Today, however, we find ourselves on the other end of the stick. Over the past weeks, you've all been overwhelmingly kind. You've opened your doors, shared your roads, and although our accents aren't quite right, you've made us feel completely at home. Today, as many of us pack up and move back to our deeply scarred, beloved city, we suddenly feel as if we're the ones who are doing the betraying. We're leaving you, our hosts, after we've spent weeks getting to know you. Most of us knew the relationship would be temporary, but we're still sorry to have to break it off.
So please, don't hate us for abandoning ship. We can't help ourselves. Besides, we'll just be a few miles down the road. We'll write and visit often, I promise. We'll always think of Lafayette like we think of our favorite aunt: we don't get to see her everyday, but when we do, she makes us feel like we're family. Like we're home.
Thank you. For everything.
Sincerely,
Richard
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Well, I guess this is it. Almost, anyway. Tomorrow I'm going home for good.
Okay, technically speaking, I'm heading to Mississippi first, where I'll take part in my brother's wedding. (It's brother #3, the one standing front-and-center in the photo on the left.) I'll hang out with the family for a couple of days, maybe take the hounds up to the farm and let them run around, then drive to New Orleans on Monday. I'm not exactly sure how I'll get into town, since the bridge from Slidell has sustained considerable damage, but I guess I'll find a way.
I know it won't feel like home just yet. I mean, hell, I haven't been there for nearly two months. I've almost started to forget what it's like, you know? I suppose nothing would seem like home after that long an absence....
But even after I work myself back into a routine, even after I can roll out of bed and walk to the coffee pot with my eyes closed tight, it'll take a while for my neighborhood and the city in general to feel...comfortable. I know this, you know this, it's nothing new. But it's a little daunting, now that it's right in front of me.
Still, there's nowhere to go but forward. Bottom line: the city has changed, and we'll just have to deal with that until we can fix it up like we want it. I figure it's like everything else in life: if you think about it too much, you'll freak out or fuck up. So I'm not thinking, I'm just doing.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Over New Orleans' 287-year-long history, its inhabitants have employed a variety of phrases to greet folks on the street. Many have used the old stand-by, "How'd you do?" Others--including our city founders--have asked, "Boujour, ca va?" And of course, in the 9th Ward and beyond, they use "Where y'at?" Well, they used to....
These days, we're back to "How'd you do?" It's not quite the same as the original "How'd you do?", which was always meant as a rhetorical question, with no proper response other than another "How'd you do?" The "How'd you do?" we're asking today is past tense, and it refers to a specific event: "How did you do?" It's also earnest. We really want to know how they did. Did their house flood? How much water did they get? Was anything salvageable? Where did you go? Are you coming back?
It's a sudden, overwhelming, communal compassion that makes us ask, tinged with morbid curiosity. Funny thing is, the folks who've lost everything, they don't mention it much. It's those of us who did okay that're the most curious.
Me, I ask because I'm holding out hope that my friends and neighbors across the city fared as well as I did. I know many of them didn't, I know it's stupid and naive and maybe even a little hurtful to ask. But if I keep asking, a part of me thinks that maybe people will just shrug and say, "Oh, we came out just fine. I'm headed to the Robert's. You need anything?", and life will go back to normal.
Monday, October 10, 2005
I'm generally a laid-back kinda guy. Most people would consider me easygoing, moderately patient, not so quick to anger. It takes a lot to get me riled up.
Ladies and gentlemen, I am officially riled up.
But why, you ask? The weather's great in Lafayette, New Orleans is slowly creeping back toward normalcy, and cell phone service is almost what it should be. Isn't that enough for you?
Yes, yes, of course it was--until some schmuck took it upon himself to respond to Lola's story with the most shocking, reprehensible, unsolicited email ever. Please, allow me to share it with you:
I can't tell you how relieved I was to learn that upon your return to your home, Lola managed to resuscitate herself enough to let you know not to continue to dig her little grave. Truly, that must have been a joyous moment for you. I've not met you or the kitty, but the news that she was still alive after having been alone for over a week brought tears to my eyes.
That having been said, I must say that it was an absolute abomination for you to even have considered leaving the cat alone during a hurricane. Although you thought it best to move your dogs to a place of safety, somehow you believed that your cat could fend for herself during the intense noise and water stoppage and potential looters rummaging through your house? I'm astounded at your insensitivity and your lack of foresight.
Assuming that you've spent more than just a few minutes with your cat, you must realize that cats are sensitive to strange or loud noises. They're averse to any change in routine. They require clean water and regular food. And all domestic cats need love and attention and physical contact with their owners, no matter how much they'd have you think otherwise. For you to blithely pack up your dogs and assume that Lola would be all right by herself is stultifying. I do not know any of the details regarding your hasty pre-storm departure, but any other cat owner would have packed Lola up into her kitty carrying case before anything else. I know I would have. Even a domestic dog has a shot at surviving by himself in the event of an unplanned separation from his owner. Cats do not.
My cat is item number ONE on the list of things to relocate to safety in the even of an emergency. That's because I regard him as my dear companion, my playmate, by nap buddy, my infant child, my travel pal and my confidant. If you do not regard your cat in this way, perhaps you'd best stick with your dogs, and give Lola to someone who appreciates the love and beauty and importance of an animal as lovely as she obviously is.
My hope is that you've learned from this experience. ALWAYS KEEP THE CAT SAFE. They don't always make good decisions on their own.
--Jon
Of course, I just had to respond:
Jon:
Thanks so much for your stern words of admonishment. You know, despite being displaced from my home for a month and a half, having my friends suddenly scattered across the country with no chance to say goodbye, suffering weeks of uncertainty about my own future and that of the city I love, and generally being part of the worst natural disaster in US history, I wasn't feeling quite bad enough about Lola's ordeal. I'm overjoyed to receive such a supportive letter from someone who's clearly been through comparable hardship in...where is that you're from? San Diego? I mean, under normal circumstances, I might take your tone as condescending, ignorant, even idiotic, but given all the experience you've had with hurricanes and such, I'm sure you speak from an informed position.
Cheers,
Richard
Did I overreact? I mean, have I not made it abundantly clear that I know I made a mistake? Did I not adequately explain my efforts to retrieve her in the three weeks prior to my return home? I don't know how many other ways I can say it: I screwed up, big time. I'll try not to let it happen again.
And yes, I was going to include his email addy, just for kicks. But then, I thought, that might just give him more opportunities to annoy people. If you really want it, though, it's yours for the asking....
Sunday, October 09, 2005
Eleven Things I Can't Wait To Do When I Get Home
[in no particular order]
- Order my winter beverage of choice--Absolut on the rocks, dirty--without having to explain what "on the rocks" and "dirty" mean.
- Weed my garden, or what's left of it after six weeks of practically no rain.
- Welcome dozens of friends to my house for what is sure to be the Best Thanksgiving Ever.
- Watch the Krewe du Vieux from my corner, drinking myself silly before, during, and after the parade.
- Dance cheek-to-cheek with my boyfriend every time the band plays "If Ever I Cease to Love" at the Society of St. Anne ball.
- Assemble a cast, write a play, and direct it at One Eyed Jacks.
- Ride a bike absolutely anywhere, terrifying pedestrians along the way.
- Play a couple of games of bumper pool at Mimi's, then walk over to Big Daddy's for the real thing.
- Linger over two-hour dinners at Crepe Nanou, Tommy's, Commander's Palace, Cafe Degas, and Feelings. One-hour dinners will suffice at Pho Tau Bay and Deanie's (assuming it's still standing). I'd like to include Sid-Mar's on that list, but its future is in question right now.
- Head to La Peniche for a hideously high-cal, high-fat blue cheese burger, only to realize that it's Wednesday and La Peniche is therefore closed.
- Fall asleep on my own bed, surrounded by dogs, with the boyfriend in the next room, playing the Fiery Furnaces just a little too loudly.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Great. Just great.
About an hour ago, my Inbox disappeared.
I'm not sure how it happened. I plugged in an external drive that contained, among many other things, backup files from work, including email. Then a weird, never-before-seen "Clean Up" dialogue box appeared. Some files were scanned--I don't know which ones--and the box closed. When I went back to my Inbox, the 100+ emails that should have been in it were gone. All my stuff in subfolders is fine, it's just my Inbox that's missing.
You can imagine how thrilled I am just now.
So, basically, if you've written me in the last five weeks or so and you're still expecting a response (I use my Inbox as a tickle-folder), it ain't gonna happen. Sorry....
Well, the trip was pretty uneventful. We left on time, more or less, arrived in New Orleans hungry, and headed over to Slim Goodies, only to find Kappa locking up for the day (she was having to re-stock, meaning that the restaurant would be closed for the first time since she's returned). Eventually, we found ourselves at Clover Grill, enjoying a tasty though seriously curtailed brunch menu and catching up with a few friends.
When we finally got to the house, it was essentially as I left it a couple of weeks ago--same windows out, same debris on the street. The only difference was that this time there was a new notice on our front door: a photocopy on plain white paper explaining that the SPCA had come by and fed our cat.
This, of course, is after I'd already rescued the cat. It's also after I contacted the SPCA, the Humane Society, and every other pet care outfit in the country, telling them to take our house off the list because I'd already retrieved the cat I called about the day after Katrina hit.
It gets better. Even more entertaining than the lack of internal communication at the SPCA was their apparent desire to cause still more damage to our home: not content to enter the house using the same broken window the National Guard had used, the SPCA felt it necessary to dismantle the gate on the other side of our house, smash a windowpane, and break down a set of French doors. All for a cat that I told them wasn't there.
Now, I don't mean to sound ungrateful--I'm very, very appreciative of the SPCA and the Humane Society and every other organization that's been hard at work rescuing animals for the last five weeks. And ultimately, the damage to our house is so minor that I can handle the repairs myself: I mean, I'm pretty handy with a screwdriver, and I can re-set and glaze windowpanes in my sleep. Still, it's a little troubling to wonder how many animals might've died while the SPCA's teams were attempting to rescue pets that should've been crossed off their lists....
The rest of the trip was thoroughly unremarkable. Jonno and I were in the house for all of 30 minutes. He grabbed things for his impending trip, I boarded up windows, re-locked doors, and re-set the security system--though given the fact that we own nothing lootable except for a quirky, seven-year-old TV set, it was probably all in vain. We said a quick hello/goodbye to the neighbors who were slowly returning to the 'hood and who said they'd keep an eye on the place until I return full-time in a few days. Ta-da.
Funny thing is, even with all the mess on the streets and the general lack of people in the area and the understanding of just how long it's going to take to get things looking "normal," I can't wait to sleep in my own bed again.
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
So far, so good.
It's the first day in over five weeks that we're officially being allowed back into our neighborhood, and Jonno is up running. I'd asked him to be ready to depart at 6am, knowing that the roads are going to be P-A-C-K-E-D packed--I mean, it's essentially evacuation in reverse, without the benefit of contraflow. We're taking the back way home, down through bayou country, but I still think we're gonna hit traffic.... Anyway, Jonno's awake and in the shower and it's barely 5:30am. I wouldn't be surprised if the National Weather Service issued a bulletin today indicating that hell has, indeed, frozen over.
Our plan is a pretty simple: retrieve some of Jonno's things (he's leaving town for a couple of weeks on Friday), patch up the missing windows, duct tape the 'fridge and haul it to the street (we're not even gonna try to clean the bitch), have some brunch with our buddy Kappa, and head on back to Lafayette before most people have gotten through their front doors. I won't be able to go back permanently until I finish up a job here and participate in my brother's wedding--all in all, about another week and a half--but it's a nice first step.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
So, a break from Katrina stuff. Just for a bit.
Today, I'm thinking about Bush's newest pick for the Supremes. And I'm wondering if anybody else died a little inside yesterday as GW was going through his nomination schpiel, listing Harriet Miers' community activities. He was bumbling along, rattling off things like the state Bar Association, the YWCA, Goodwill Industries, Exodus Ministries.... And I was all, like, wait, wait, wait: did bitch say what I think he said? Exodus freaking Ministries?
As it turns out, he did. I suppose it could be this Exodus Ministries. Or the slightly less creepy Exodus Ministries. But I hope to goddess that Miers wasn't affiliated in any way with this version of Exodus, 'cause I've already got one ulcer working right now.
Does anybody know for sure? Oddly enough, The Advocate didn't even bother to mention it in their somewhat phoned-in coverage of the story. But then, they're not always the brightest kids on the swing set, if you know what I'm sayin'.
Monday, October 03, 2005
In recent weeks, I've seen many, many disturbing trends in media reportage on New Orleans--notably, facile discussions of race, misrepresentation of neighborhood demographics, and wanton usage of every gumbo and Mardi Gras cliche in the book. But by far the worst offense is some reporters' belief that New Orleans is part of the Delta.
Quick geography lesson, folks: when people talk about "the Delta," they're talking about an area in Mississippi, north of Vicksburg, south of Memphis, and west of I-55. If you've ever heard of people talking about "Delta Blues," that's the delta they're talking about.
"The Delta," however, is a long way away from the Mississippi River delta, which is located a couple of hundred miles south--oddly enough, in Louisiana, below New Orleans, at the mouth of the river. Like the Delta, the Mississippi River delta is a floodplain, but that's about the only similarity between the two regions.
The Delta is home to Mississippi's once-thriving, now-lackluster cotton industry. It's reasonably well populated, but the folks who live there are generally poor and black, many descended from slaves and sharecroppers. It's flat and featureless terrain, the logical birthplace place for a musical genre as woeful as the blues.
The Mississippi River delta, on the other hand, is home to very little. There are a handful of shrimpers and fishermen, maybe a refinery here and there, but not much else. The population is minimal, not least because global warming and coastal erosion have gradually washed away the few shreds of land that people can live on. As a result, it lacks the well-defined, celebrated culture of its sister to the north.
So I beg of you, despite what dreamboat Andy Cooper and his cronies may suggest, please don't come to New Orleans thinking you can pop over to the Delta for an afternoon of authentic Delta Blues (unless, of course, you're up for a fairly lengthy drive). I mean, yes, please, come to the city--I'll take you out for drinks!--but you'll have to make due with New Orleans Blues--which is just as good, if you ask me.
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