the gras must go on

*Editor's note: This piece was sent in for publication, so it states things that regular blog readers will know. FYI.

Before I moved to New Orleans, I was leery of Mardi Gras. It seemed so trashy, the orgy of drunken frat boys gawking at sleazy girls. The gaudy floats being pawed at by crowds. The piles of plastic beads littering the streets. Not that I was a prude, by any means, but seeing so many people crowded together, stumbling and flashing right out in the street—in the daytime, no less—it just felt wrong. Being from Chicago, I had my indiscretions, but inside, and under the safe cover of night.

I’m certain that if I wasn’t living in New Orleans, I’d side with the Mardi Gras naysayers. For how can such a devastated city even think about throwing a party, let alone go into hock to do it? With so many of their neighbors stranded far from home, its residents must be heartless libertines to carry on with such disregard for the less fortunate. From afar, the racism is so explicit—rich Uptown whites spending thousands of dollars to parade while poor blacks from the East and the Lower Ninth have nowhere permanent to live. If I were still up north, I’d definitely be against the whole thing.

But I live here in New Orleans. I lived here for eight years before the storm, and I’m still here. How tempting it is to leave, to find a place where the houses aren’t scarred with Xs left by rescuers, where the streets aren’t piled with trash, where blocks of ghostly, abandoned houses stretch for miles. Even for those of us, like myself, who only suffered minor storm damage, we still can’t receive magazines in the mail or get a phone line or buy basic necessities after eight pm, even if we drive to the suburbs. Six months after the storm, and New Orleans is still separate from the United States of convenience and commerce.

So now when people suggest we forgo our Mardi Gras, I only chuckle to myself. To cancel Mardi Gras would be like outlawing hilarity or forbidding satire. It ain’t gonna happen. Even if the parades didn’t roll, the locals would, black and white alike. When you live here, you learn that Mardi Gras isn’t about beer and beads—although both are plentiful—but about alchemy. What else can turn an overweight lawyer into a dainty fairy? Or a mousy secretary into a raging diva? Or a bankrupt, ruined city into a sparkling play land?

No, we don’t have the money. But the money isn’t going to come from pouting. It’s not going to come from sitting around quietly and waiting for government handouts. It’s only going to come the way it’s always come—by our standing up tall and trumpeting our spirit to the world.

No one suggested that New Yorkers give up Christmas back in 2001, when their money for gifts could have gone to the families of the tragedy. And now, no one need suggest that we forfeit our chance to parade our feelings in the streets. Ask the members of the Krewe of Nemesis, who spent this past Sunday on floats rolling by the flooded and gutted houses of St. Bernard Parish. I doubt any krewe member lives in his home—as every house in this parish was affected by the storm—but they still returned to their city to parade, to promise each other that they haven’t been beaten. The rest of us here have an obligation to get out on Fat Tuesday and frolic with our neighbors.

So join us if you like, leave us if you like, but no one stops the dance. We’re frustrated with FEMA and wearing our blue tarps. We’re angry at all levels of politicians and carrying their heads on platters. We’re spray painting water lines on our costumes and dancing forward.

The Last Frontier

This blog is dedicated to the people of the Lower Ninth Ward. May they feel at home, wherever they are.


Once upon a time, a lost city put houses on unstable land. The land was unstable because it was near the waters, but the city built a cement wall to keep the waters out. Many people moved to the unstable land because they had nowhere else to go. They raised their families and built churches and bars. They called it home, and their children called it home. As time passed, their children’s children called it home. And so it was home, even if it was humble and a little run-down.

Then one day, a storm came. Many people stayed for the storm because they’d weathered other storms and survived. Other people stayed for the storm so they could protect their homes. Still other people stayed for the storm because they didn’t have the money to go anywhere. And so they stayed.

But the storm was powerful, so powerful that it blew a barge through the cement wall. The waters rushed over the unstable land. It was the middle of the night and the power died. The water quickly rose. Some people drowned in the dark. Other people climbed into their attics. A few people escaped by swimming out of their homes and hanging on to the trees while the terrible wind tried to rip their bodies apart.

The next day, the sun came out, but the water remained. Their home was now a dead lake. The dead lake stunk with the smell of sewage and corpses. People waited on their rooftops to be rescued. The sun was blistering hot and mosquitoes rose up from the water. No one came to rescue the people. They waited and waited. Still no one came. Instead, they rescued each other. Some people had boats but other people swam through the wretched water to escape.

The people who made it out of the water stood on a bridge. They were thirsty and hot. Many of them were old or sick. They had nothing except the wet clothes on their bodies. Still they had nowhere to go. No one was in charge, and everyone in the lost city was going crazy because of the heat. Some people in the city felt so crazy that they shot at other people with guns. Because there were guns, other people were too scared to save the bridge people.

Finally military people came to take the bridge people away. They dropped them off amongst thousands of other thirsty, hot people who had nowhere to go. They told the people to line up for buses, but the buses never came. Everyone just stood in lines with very little to eat and drink. More people died. Some people stole food. Other people stole stuff like TVs and shoes because they were mad at the unfair world. Then the cameras took pictures so everyone everywhere could see how bad the people were for stealing.

Meanwhile, the leaders argued about what to do. The mayor had no money to help the people. The governor couldn’t decide how to help the people. The president didn’t care about the people because they didn’t vote for him. Finally the president pretended to care so he wouldn’t look bad. Then buses took the people away so they could be safe and start new lives somewhere besides the lost city.

Now the dead lake has dried up and everyone who lived there is gone. Some people want to go back, but other people won’t let them. The lost city has too many problems to help people move home to the unstable land. Besides, all the houses are ruined in some way. Some are just moldy and stinky, but other houses are now piles of collapsed lumber. Many houses were swept off their foundations, so they’re gone except for a concrete slab and some floor tiles.

Today tourists come to the unstable land to see the damage. It’s perfect for tourists because it looks scary like a war field, but it’s safe because the waters and the people are gone. Tourists can pretend they’re on the frontier, except that instead of tumbleweeds, there are waves of dried mud. Junk of all sorts stays lodged in the mud: ruined clothes and rusty lawnmowers and broken radios, everything that people use in life. Tourists might even spot a sewing machine or a lawn flamingo in the mud.

When tourists go to the unstable land, they stare at the cars blown up onto fences and the trees crashed into walls. The barge that let the water in still sits ashore, and the tourists take pictures of it. Some of them stand in front of the barge and smile for the camera. They are happy because their home wasn’t ruined this bad. As the shutter clicks, they shout, “We love Lost City!”

If one were to look carefully at the dirt, a tourist might find something still intact. Maybe it’s a colorful ashtray or a jelly jar. It could be a salad plate made out of china. The tourist might wonder how so much could be ruined, yet a delicate china plate survived. But it did. Not only did it survive, but it reminds the tourist, who never knew anyone in the unstable land, that someone real lived there. Someone really lived there. It was someone’s home, but it may never be again.

all strapped up

Just a quick note to let y'all know that Bob and I got power back on Saturday afternoon. Earlier in the day, my neighbor had come by to alert me to an Entergy truck on the next block. I got the Entergy guys to come by, but they said they couldn't do anything because we had a pipe that needed strapping down. The Alpha guy, whose nametag read "Slim," said that if he had gotten our work order, he would have just driven by because of this blatant violation of energy protocol. This brought up a disturbing theory: perhaps our three weeks without power weren't because of Katrina, but because of our sadly unstrapped state.

So after the Entergy truck left without fixing anything, I broke some dishes over my head and called Bob. He picked up the $1.50 worth of hardware and took the five minutes to strap the pipe down. We then put in a new work order. An hour later, an Entergy truck came by and we were rolling! Yeeee----haw!

Of course, it was only a matter of hours before the entire neighborhood lost power due to a bout of rain. So instead of watching TV, we went to bed. Thus another usual day in an unusual place drew to its close.

the truth of the union address

Good Evening Ladies and Gentlemen:

It is my sincerest honor to have this opportunity to discuss the state of our great, great nation. I am proud to be your correspondent during these trying times. As I reap no glory nor financial reimbursement for my words, you can be assured that I—unlike our Commander in Chief—have no motivation to gloss over the truth.

Last night, Mr. Bush emphasized our need to finish what we started in Iraq, so that the American loss of life will not have been in vain. He used many stirring phrases to remind us of the importance of liberty for all peoples, and even showcased the grieving family members of a deceased soldier. I feel for that family, and all military families everywhere, for their path holds a difficult choice: embrace a lie or confront a heaving anger. Cindy Sheehan, the peace activist, is a spokesperson for anger, the inconceivable anger of losing a child to war. How much easier it would be for her to believe in the cause, to believe that losing her child was not only a duty, but an honor. But this is not what she chose, and whether or not we agree with her, it is clear that her zealousness reflects the pain of losing faith. The military family in last night’s presidential audience opted instead to nobly accept their sacrifice as a necessary part of history. Is it patriotism or simply a coping mechanism? You make the call.

“Peace does not come from retreat,” our president stated in his defense of our continued military presence in Iraq. Now I admit that I have never gone to war, nor do I have the physical prowess of a soldier, but I do know a few things about conflict and peace. If you don’t believe me, please visit my home while Bob and I are fighting. I’ll spare you the grim details of our arguments—which certainly could rival anything that occurs in the Middle East—but know this: we have never once achieved peace without retreat. At some point during the exchange of angry offense and resentful defense, one of us invariably retreats. We choke back the next insult, take a deep breath, and swallow our ego. We admit that maybe we were at fault. We vow that next time, we’ll communicate better or drink less or be more reasonable. We say that we’re sorry, that we made a mistake.

So for the president to make such a claim—that retreat is not a part of the peace process—he is not only miseducating the American people and sending the wrong message to other warring nations, but proving something that I’ve long suspected. Either his marriage to Laura is only a political prop, or more frighteningly, one of them is an emotionless cyborg. (Take note of his steady, beady eyes, my friends: take note.)

To find the truth, not only do we have to examine what is said, but also what is left unsaid. Many commentators have pointed out what our president did not include in his speech: any mention of an exit strategy for leaving Iraq. I appreciate this omission, because it was the most truthful part of his speech. My fellow Americans, we are staying in Iraq indefinitely, as our policy requires that we make that country as secure and safe as a suburban gas station.

I was heartened to hear our president admit to our nation’s oil addiction and promote development of ethanol technology. As a native of a corn-producing state, I fully support turning “yellow gold” into automotive fuel. However, this fuel also has its limits. Because harvesting corn depletes soil of its nutrients faster than any other crop, we could easily create a Dust Bowl of the 21st Century if we started guzzling corn juice the way we drink oil. If we were to suck our own land dry, we may have to expand our agricultural empire. Watch out, Mexico!

Although the president made mention of other fuel alternatives, such as switchgrass (?), he neglected to include the hardworking Americans who run their cars off of vegetable oil. True, most of these Americans are found in “hippie states” such as California and Vermont, but this technology can easily spread to Red states also. My in-house engineering department (namely, Bob) reminds us that vegetable oil is the perfect fuel because it perpetuates its own supply. As they run, veggie cars smell like the fuel they burn, which encourages consumers to dine on fried foods. Thus, the fuel source is replenished. So let’s use the fat-laden American diet to our advantage! And when we Americans start getting too large to fit into our cars, we will have to get out and walk, the most fuel-efficient transportation mode of all.

Speaking of fuel production, I would like to move my focus to the Gulf Coast. Many of us affected by Hurricane Katrina were using the president’s speech as a barometer for his devotion to our region. A three- or four-minute deliberation of the Gulf Coast situation would have certainly heartened the good folks here who have already suffered so much. But the truth is often found in the delivery, and we only got a passing mention of seven sentences. Although Mr. Bush did state that the federal government had appropriated $85 billion to the Gulf Coast, conventional wisdom holds: we’ll wait until the check clears. On a related note, the local news reported that the Army Corps of Engineers are threatening to stop trash pickup in New Orleans so that they can focus on construction efforts. Unfortunately, the City of New Orleans is not prepared to resume trash collection at this time. Although this may seem like a strictly local issue, if New Orleans is without trash collection services during Mardi Gras, the whole region—and quite possibly, the nation, depending on the wind—will be smelling the effects.

Perhaps because it was the State of the Union address, President Bush did appeal for greater cooperation amongst the two parties in Washington. That bipartisan politics is driving a wedge between the American people is no secret. I do admire Mr. Bush’s choice to wear a blue tie as a peace offering to the Democrats and blue-state denizens. However, seating audience members by party might be reinforcing the separation between the red and the blue. As well, they should probably remove the APPLAUSE signs above the stage indicating to the separate parties when they should rise en masse to support their partisan agenda points during the speech. Although I could not see what the audience members were looking at, I imagine that they were treated to high-tech signs lit up with a blue donkey kicking at the red elephant, and a elephant drenching the donkey with spray from its trunk.

The Democrats responded fairly predictably, reminding us of administration failures and using religious language to remind us of their own strong ethics. I can surmise that their choice of Virginia’s governor Tim Kaine, who’s only held office for two weeks, indicates the Democrats’ desire to be seen in a fresh light. Physically, Mr. Kaine was an excellent choice, proving to be as ethnic-looking as a white man gets, with a faint five-o’clock shadow and rakish, albeit mismatched, eyebrows. With Mr. Kaine’s background in missionary service, I believe we may have a presidential contender on our hands. I was also interested to learn that the Hispanic mayor of Los Angeles summarized and probably refuted Bush’s speech in Spanish for his own constituency there. Whether or not Señor Mayor touched on the potentially-explosive political implications for Mexico if we become an Ethanol Nation remains to be seen. If anyone out there is acquainted with him, please feel free to forward him my address.

On that note, I shall now close with a hearty thank you for your time and attention. Now more than ever, it is a challenge to be a proud American, but we all need to do our part to keep this nation from bulldozing the world. Recycle your cans, stay informed, and pray for peace.