Recovery Pen

update

2006-06-22T21:27:00.000-07:00

Here's a nice piece of evidence for anyone accusing me of procrastinating...

Back in May, I got a paying gig blogging, so I'm not going to be posting here very often, if at all. Anyone interested in reading my work, please go to:

www.bloggingneworleans.com

You can click on my name--Amanda Anderson--to read my work without reading the other blogs, although of course those are worth a read too. (Well, some are worth the read...)

See you there!

Miss A

child in the palace

2006-05-02T13:03:00.000-07:00

A week ago, you never would have guessed that Jazzfest would happen. Sure, there were billboards advertising the event with the tagline The Healing Power of Music, but billboards advertise lots of things which are not true: businesses which have closed, politicians who never get to lead, products that never quite live up to their five-foot-tall representation.

Bob and I don’t live far from the Fairgrounds, where Jazzfest splays itself out onto several music stages, dozens of food counters, and numerous tents of artists selling their wares. Maybe inside the Fairgrounds, they were ready. But outside the Fairgrounds, where people swarm the streets and porches after the music stops, it was a dead zone. Walking our dogs, we had to tug them away from curbside trash every few yards. Flood lines ran along the houses, many of which seemed abandoned. Few cars went by. It was hot and silent, and our ears filled with the sound of our two panting dogs.

What a difference a few days make. The city must have hired gnomes (who are, after all, even cheaper than Hispanic labor) to collect the trash and sweep the sidewalks in the dead of night. Liuzza’s By The Track, the bar at ground zero of post-Fest loitering, set up their tents outside. Children with lemonade stands and other ad hoc vendors with coolers were ready on Friday morning when the festival opened. It all looked so normal—in our charmingly abnormal way—that several passers-by were surprised to see that the coffee shop wasn’t fully open for business.

The Fair Grinds, purveyor of free-trade coffee as well as local art, had taken water in the flood and is in the middle of an ambitious renovation project. Without the approval of the health department, they couldn’t open to sell coffee. But they could open to give coffee away, which they’ve been doing since before we returned in late October. They’ve got free wireless internet, too, which has saved me many a time. Most importantly, they’ve served as a non-alcoholic neighborhood center, where friends can touch base with friends and get the most local news around. I can’t say enough good things about Elizabeth and Robert, the proprietors, who run the shop and serve as ersatz parents to the community.

For Jazzfest, Elizabeth and Robert let me display and sell my hats in front of their shop. Better yet, they had allowed a sponsor (www.neworleans.com) to provide free iced coffee to passersby in hopes that they would sign up for their mailing list. I spent most of the weekend there, hopped up on the free caffeine, luring Jazzfesters with the promise of coffee and hoping they would buy my hats.

In my imagination, sales were great! I couldn’t walk five feet at Jazzfest without spotting one of my satisfied customers wearing their new hat. In real life, sales were not quite as good. Let me just say that I almost picked up the classifieds to look for a job. For as many people who stopped to enjoy free iced coffee, there were ten times as many who didn’t pass the shop, or who strode by too fast to notice the goings-on.

One can learn so much from real life. For example, I learned that many people just don’t like hats. I guess I already knew that, but in my millinery zeal, I assumed that everyone else would magically absorb my hat-madness. I also learned that most people interested in wearing a hat to Jazzfest already have a hat as they walk toward the gate. Fascinating! I also learned some less obvious things, too. Most college-aged women ready to party want cowboy hats, a different style than the straw gambler hats I’d decorated. Also, on a windy day, the importance of having a way to tie the hat onto the head is inestimable. The sun is a hat artist’s best friend, for only the sun can really sell a hat. But alcohol helps, too. (Alcohol is responsible for my happy ending, where I put my hats in a big box, take them to the drunken crowd at Liuzza’s, and finally make a few bucks.)

Spiritually, it was a good experience for me to sit still at the Fair Grinds while the chaos unfurled around me. I got to sit and chat with people I’d seen around for months, for years, but never made the time for. Susan with the little Pomeranian. Peter the grouchy ne’er-do-well with an art-school background. And dozens of people whose names escape me, as I introduced myself to at least ten thousand people in the past three days. But one can only sit for so long, especially if one is Miss Amanda, while the crowd disperses in the direction of a festival. Then the air becomes heavy and the feet start to itch, an itch which only dancing can cure.

When I got inside the Fairgrounds, I was shocked at how familiar everything appeared. It didn’t look like the place had been flooded like the rest of the city, which it had; nor did it look like the Grandstand roof had been ripped off during the hurricane, which it also had. In the maelstrom of the media’s Katrina coverage, the clips of the Fairgrounds were the closest thing we had to gauge the destruction at our house, less than a mile away. But here I stood, on the grounds nine months later, and it seemed as if the vendors and decorations and the stages and the food had all been there since last year’s Jazzfest, had sat dryly and politely through the monster storm and were ready to be enjoyed again. To most people, including my out-of-town guests who had grumbled about the consolidation of some stages, I suppose the Fest seemed quite different. The Blues Tent was gone, replaced by a stage at the east side of the grounds, and there weren’t any Thursday Jazzfest days. Oh, and the ticket price had gone up, too, just like everything else in the city. It was tempting to lash out at complainers, to scream at them: “Do you know how unbelievably lucky we all are to have a Jazzfest at all? Do you know how hard it is to do anything here, let alone pull off this giant event?” But fortunately, I’d realized that people’s complaints were their way of grieving, their way of coping with the many changes here in New Orleans, so I quietly let them vent.

Because the Fest seemed so normal, my own grief took me by surprise. But first we had a rollicking time with Eddie Bo at the Fais-Do-Do stage. For you northerners, the Cajun phrase Fais-Do-Do roughly translates to Get up and Dance, which I did with my new friend Django, a five-month old baby who loves swaying to the music almost as much as sucking on my finger. We left the set early, though, to make our pilgrimage to the Jazz Tent to hear Herbie Hancock play.

Now I am not a big jazz person. I enjoy the masters, Miles and T. Monk and those guys, but contemporary jazz leaves me cold. Herbie, though, that cat lodged himself in my young head from the time when I first heard “Rockit” on a 33-rpm album. It was down in Barbara Klein’s basement dance studio, where I briefly studied jazz dancing, and that tune lodged like a bullet in my brain. Which is to say that it changed me forever. To this day, the mere mention of Herbie Hancock sends me into a “Rockit” trance, and I will hum that tune for hours. (To get your Herbie on, go to http://www.vh1.com/artists/az/hancock_herbie/artist.jhtml where you can actually watch the Rockit video! Vintage fun!)

Like any pilgrimage, ours was fraught with difficulty. The Jazz Tent was absolutely full, and the ushers weren’t letting anyone block the aisles. Bob and I squished ourselves down on a tiny spot next to the aisle, hoping not to get kicked out. We sat, cramped, for a good twenty, thirty minutes, watching the ushers escort people out as new people filed in.

I decided to call my friend Laurel, who had lived in New Orleans but moved to Austin after riding out Katrina amongst the looting and the chaos. It was her birthday, but she was stuck in Texas instead of being at the Fest where she belonged. Although I couldn’t hear her above the din, I shouted into my cell phone that she should stay on the line to hear Herbie play. It wasn’t the same as being there live, but it was the best I could do.

He began. As his fingers struck the keyboard, I felt it in the pit between my heart and my stomach. You know that place, the spot where deep fear and great love resound. My mouth began to water, and then the tears came. All the grief I lock inside—grief for Laurel being so far away, grief for the devastated world around me, grief for the dead, grief for the living—all of that grief gushed out of me. I bent forward with my head down, like a child trying to hide.

When all the grief had poured out of me, I cried new tears of joy. Laurel had hung up, but I still felt her there. She was there among us, all of us who had been through the worst but still showed up to the Fest, ready to be happy again. What an amazing place to live in, New Orleans, Louisiana, which could experience warlike devastation and still bring in Herbie Hancock to a packed house less than a year later. He’d segued into “Watermelon Man,” known forever in my mind as “Biddy Biddy Bop,” thanks to some pop group who’d covered him with those lyrics. (If you remember who that group was, please contact me immediately. It’s killing me!) Having Herbie there to play for us, evoking such grief and joy within me, was nothing short of a triumph.

Jazzfest is a palace of triumphs. I could type for hours and still not scrape the surface of it. Back at the Fest on Sunday, I witnessed more miracles. In the Gospel Tent, The Mighty Chariots of Fire lead vocalist shared the mike with a young boy, maybe eight years old. “Holy,” they each sang in turn, daring the other to sing it louder until the whole place shook. At Economy Hall, Walter Payton & Gumbo Filé played “Shout!” at top volume, and strangers danced together in an fever. Trombone Shorty’s trumpet screamed from the Jazz Tent, holding one note until jaws dropped and heads got scratched, wondering how such a small guy could hold so much lung.

I ended up in the field of thousands of fans waiting to hear The Boss play on the Acura Stage. It was nearly too much to bear—not only the immense crowd, but the music itself. Playing with the Seeger Sessions Band, the Springsteen sound of the day was folky bluegrass with a Celtic flavoring. The Boss sang about John Henry and Jesse James and about the Dust Bowl in Oklahoma. It matched the mud on the ground and the mud in our hearts. He spoke about visiting the 9th Ward, home to the worst destruction, and criticized “President Bystander” before launching into “How Can a Poor Man Stand Such Times and Live.” Nearby, a woman sobbed into her friend’s arms.

Later I heard that Springsteen went on to play more emotional tunes, such as “My City of Ruins,” and a somber “When the Saints Go Marching In.” I wish I could have been there to hear it, to feel it, to taste my own tears again. But I had to leave. I had hats to sell.

mayoral madness

2006-04-20T21:15:00.000-07:00

Hello New Orleans registered voters and well-wishers--

Big times here in our small town. The mayoral primary is this Saturday, which also happens to be Earth Day, an event which goes unnoticed here in New Orleans, with the exception of Whole Foods. I like to stock up on such popular items as organic cranberries in sauce and wheat-free bread crumbs at their annual Earth Day 25-cents-off Sale.

That said, Saturday should be a big day, here and in Vegas. I would assume D.C. is paying attention too, to see who they'll have to battle next in their struggle to keep the money out of our dirty, sinful hands and into the pockets of those poor, wartorn oil magnates. I hope you remembered them when you paid your taxes, that your money is going overseas while people here in the Big Unlucky are living in tin cans since their homes were destroyed by good ol' Made In The USA Collapsable Levees. Sure, FEMA trailers are fun for playing house, but when the 2006 crop of hurricanes come ashore, the trailers might lose their novelty.

I digress! Forgive me--all of our sores have been picked open by the relentless discussion of The Issues as we try to decide which liar running for office will have the best time courting Mr. Bush for federal dollars. It has been fascinating to watch The Seven (the top two tiers of candidates out of the twenty-something in the running, a group which includes civil servant-turned-jailbird Kimberly Williamson Butler and my old boss, Mac) try to give respectable answers to impossible questions on the spot. For you out-of-towners, here are some samples of what a potential mayor has to think about, plan for, and answer intelligently on television:

--How do you, as mayor, plan to stop hurricanes from forming in the Atlantic Ocean? What's your experience with implementing climactic change?

--What's your plan for getting impoverished, unskilled workers living across the country back into New Orleans where rents are bottoming out at $1,000/month?

--As our public school system has failed, what do you propose we replace it with? Are you willing to teach a few classes if we can't afford to pay teachers?

--Because our hospital infrastructure has been demolished, are you prepared to perform surgery at the few MASH-like units on the edge of town? By the way, what's your blood type?

--No real business wants to open in this apocalyptic scenario we call home. What imaginary businesses do you think can succeed in this environment?

And so on and so forth. There are also the City Council races to consider, but who has time for that, with so many colorful mayoral candidates to choose from? There's James Arey, the classical-music deejay who used Mayor Nagin's "Chocolate City" remarks as an excuse to discuss different varieties of vanilla plants in a televised debate. (Strangely, that was the only debate Mr. Arey was invited to.) As well, there's Manny Chevrolet, an entertainer running under the slogan "A Troubled Man For Troubled Times," which is funny enough, but rumor has it that he's beginning to take his own campaign seriously, evidence of the corrupting power of politics if there ever were one. And did I mention my old boss, Mac? I bring him up again because I had the opportunity to interview him for www.nolafugees.com, the same website which brought you Maggy's vulgarity-laced testimonial for the Mardi Gras Doggy parade.

So I'm pulling out here to let you see Mac for yourself. Go to http://www.nolafugees.com/Features/issues/9/campaign/primary.html and click on the face to read the interview. The techies at nolafugees seem to have knocked one too many back, because there's no scroll bar on several of the interviews, including mine. I find that it works best to highlight the text with the mouse and move it to scroll down. These are trying times, friends, so we all have to improvise.

politically yours,

miss a

my ghostwriting dog

2006-03-28T07:39:00.000-08:00

As I have made Career Change #352, milliner and fledgling costume designer, I do not have as much time to spend on my beloved blog. But fear not, dear readers! My loyal dog Maggy has agreed to help me out by taking up the slack.

Currently, her true-ish account of the Mardi Gras doggy parade, also known as Barkus, is posted on the nolafugees website. You may link to it here:

http://www.nolafugees.com/Features/issues/7/deboned@barkus.html

Nolafugees is the brainchild of fellow UNO alumni who used Katrina as a springboard to spread their irreverence to the web. It's the closest thing that NOLA has to The Onion, so check it out if you're so inclined. Be warned: there is adult language, middle fingers on display, and footage of a very drunk Joe Howard.

As well, Maggy's writing is also "of the streets" so think twice before forwarding it to your bible-thumpin' grandma.

And for your Spring Hat needs, check back soon for photos of Miss Amanda Costumier's Spring Line. We watched the New Orleans mayoral debate last night and I was grieved to see that not one candidate brought up our most pressing need right now: Super-Bitchin' Hats! (So many fallen shade trees, so many Carpetbaggers working under the Southern Sun with unprotected scalps and bald spots...)

Stay safe. Wear a hat.

mardi gras magnetism

2006-03-15T09:05:00.000-08:00

This IS the meaning of life!

--From a sign on a Mardi Gras float in the Krewe of Mid-City parade. Their theme this year was “Rode Hard and Put Up Wet,” and their floats had blue tarps covering their bottom portions, to hide where they’d been flooded.

* * * *

The challenge of Mardi Gras is the challenge of life itself—how to see it all, really see it and experience it, in a finite amount of time. Every year, I promise myself that I’ll stay up all night on Lundi Gras (Fat Monday) so that I can be awake when Tuesday dawns. Every year, I give in and snooze for a few fitful hours, but part of me is alert and hovering above the bed. I’m too excited to fully relax into sleep.

Mardi Gras is the only day of the year when I bolt out of bed as soon as I hear the 6:30 alarm. For on that day, I want too much. I want to catch a Zulu coconut from one of the black men in black face that parade uptown. I want to see a Mardi Gras Indian in their new suit of hand-sewn beaded panels and feathers stretching to the sky. I want to drink champagne with my breakfast king cake. I want to march with the Jefferson Buzzards as they wind their way from tavern to tavern. I want to join my fellow costumers under clouds of confetti and swirling banners so that we can second line together into the French Quarter.

Bob just wants his coffee. How lucky to be Bob!

It kills me that I can’t be everywhere at once, to witness the many ways that the townsfolk step into their buzz. From the gaudy to the dangerous, the passive to the manic, everyone wears the party somehow. This is why Fat Tuesday is so compelling to me—for one day, a Tuesday no less, everyone is committed to being happy. People who don’t want to be happy know to stay home. Even the Christians who protest the debauchery in Jackson Square, angry though they seem with their bible handouts and microphones, they too are revelatory in their righteousness.

Artists often prefer to portray painful human emotions rather than the pleasurable ones. But as much as we can learn from the emotions on the sour end of the scale, bliss reveals her own secrets. What do people carry with them as they stumble through their day? What makes their eyes light up? Who follows who, and what do they hope for? What do they say when two giant penises walk by?

I will never see all of it, but I can try. And the question that repeats itself every morning—do I join the parade or should I simply watch?—reaches a frantic urgency on Mardi Gras day. Either way, I have to decide quick or I’ll miss it. If I want to watch, Zulu rolls at 8 am. And if I want one of their coconuts, I better arrive early to get up front. If I want to parade, I need time to smear on body paint and adjust strap-on wings and glue finishing touches onto a headdress and lace up knee-length boots. The longer it takes me, the more magic I miss.

Because of the special significance of this year’s Mardi Gras—the first chance for our city to really celebrate since the storm—my franticness hit an all-time high. Not only was I compelled to costume, but my costume had to be outstanding. This is why Bob and I were up until 2 am on Lundi Gras. Not because we were out listening to music or getting drunk, but because we had to rivet metal plates together and affix wings to the back of my costume. Never mind that I didn’t know how to work with metal—not aluminum, either, but galvanized roof flashing. Never mind that Bob was sick of crafting costumes. I had a mission and no one was sleeping until it was completed. (Our friend Julie, who we’d invited over for a Lundi Gras slumber party, got bored watching us and went home to bed.)

My mission began in late October, when we returned from our evacuation to find the city in ruins. As we drove through the darkening streets to our house, it became clear that we were alone. Windows were still boarded for the storm. Doors flapped open on their hinges, with no one to secure them shut. Abandoned cars and discarded refrigerators lined the streets. Feral animals lurked in the piles of trash. Night fell, and no lights shone to combat the darkness.

Of everything we saw, the refrigerators got to me the most. And it wasn’t even the blocky appliances themselves, but the magnets still hanging to their doors that sunk a sad pit in my gut. How could I not compare these tiny relics to the residents of New Orleans who were also forgotten and left behind? The first magnet I took was a gold ceramic angel. She fit perfectly in my hand, so as we wandered through the damage, my nervous fingers had something to hold onto.

The farther I wandered, the more magnets I found. Everywhere I looked, something begged to be saved. Not only did I find more angels, but I found cartoon characters, poems, photos, and ceramic fruits and vegetables by the truckload. Even the banal magnets for banks and drugstores, pizza joints and insurance companies seemed significant. Would these businesses ever exist again? Who would remember them?

I cleaned the magnets—many of them crusted with dead maggots—and put them in a shoebox. They weren’t for me to keep, so I waited until Mardi Gras to show my neighbors what I found. My costume would have been much easier to make had I simply glued the magnets to my getup. Instead, I needed to wear metal so I could return the magnets from where they came—to the streets.

So I didn’t see the Zulu parade this year. I didn’t catch any Mardi Gras Indians either. Instead, I spent much of Mardi Gras morning figuring out how to ride my bike without all my magnets falling off. But we made it to the French Quarter to join the other costumers. Many of them wore blue tarp or red tape. They had water wings and inner tubes, just in case the flood water were to rise again. One group dressed in prison jumpsuits had a sign announcing themselves as the Federal Emergency Masturbation Authority. As always, there were showgirls and cowgirls, voodoo dolls and rag dolls. One could go blind from the wigs and the headdresses and the visions from the sea. From the turbans and the titties to the warriors and the kitties—everyone played their part.

I planned to give the magnets to other costumers, to everyone else who cared enough about the city to venture the streets looking ridiculous. But I found that after keeping these magnets for months, I didn’t want to give them away indiscriminately. At first, I limited myself to other people in metal costumes, so the magnets wouldn’t get lost during the day’s chaos. I zeroed in on bicyclists and people in wheelchairs. As well, I gave a tomato magnet to a girl in a giant Campbell’s soup can, and a cluster of grapes to her friend in a metal cage painted as a bottle of Absolut. I had too many magnets to keep up the rigorous search, though, and by the day’s end, anyone who wanted a magnet got one.

I can only hope that my magnets made it safely to their new refrigerator homes, that they’re back to work holding up grocery lists and baby photos. As for me, I’ve decided to keep the Mardi Gras spirit alive throughout the year so I don’t have to cram everything in one day. Hence my decision to start a costume business with an emphasis on incorporating recycled materials. We’ve got 35 years worth of trash down here, and someone’s got to do something beautiful with it. Stay tuned, dear readers, stay tuned…

See Mardi Gras photo postings below. From "Where every man is king..." to "Shrimp Cocktail." Happy Lent, y'all!

where every man is king and every lady an angel

2006-03-15T09:00:00.000-08:00

Bob is the secret king of New Orleans because he's too smart to run for mayor. I dress like a metallic angel in a wish to hover above the earth. Next year, will I be able to craft real wings?

the always-darling Julie Tridle

2006-03-15T08:56:00.000-08:00

Hi Julie! Hi!!!!

hood ornament

2006-03-15T08:52:00.000-08:00

this car was part of my costume, if only for a minute.

voodoo don

2006-03-15T08:48:00.000-08:00

one thing I love about Mardi Gras is how certain costumed strangers (like Don here) perform as touchstones throughout the day. we saw Don first thing in the morning and kept running into him at different venues later on. we can all help each other mark time, can't we--when we run into an old friend or a new stranger, look into their eyes and laugh: "Hey, you're still here?"

king of the krewe de tata

2006-03-15T08:44:00.000-08:00

a local warrior

2006-03-15T08:38:00.000-08:00

a journalist, bill is here in New Orleans trying to help us straighten out our mess. I heard that he got kicked out of a HANO meeting (Housing Authority of New Orleans) for asking too many questions. as an armchair journalist, I'm glad we've got warriors like bill asking the tough questions.

even FEMA does the gras

2006-03-15T08:32:00.000-08:00

hail the drunken chicken

2006-03-15T08:28:00.000-08:00

so true!

2006-03-15T08:10:00.000-08:00

although I suspect the dykes here are doing the best they can...

henry and me

2006-03-15T08:05:00.000-08:00

this was taken later in the day. Henry was Neptune, and made the clay figurines on his sash all by himself! He's come a long way, that Henry.

shrimp cocktail

2006-03-15T07:58:00.000-08:00

the gras must go on

2006-02-25T13:01:00.000-08:00

*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

2006-02-07T13:09:00.000-08:00

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

2006-02-01T20:25:00.000-08:00

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

2006-02-01T20:22:00.000-08:00

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.

power crisis!

2006-01-27T10:57:00.000-08:00

Currently, every difficult situation here can be traced to The Flood. The waters receded nearly five months ago, and yet they remain.

For example:

Because our central air and heating unit is on the ground, it was destroyed by The Flood. Because the unit was destroyed, we have no heat. Because Bob doesn’t want this scenario repeated next hurricane season, he decided to install the new unit on a platform outside of the attic. Because he needed to work on the attic opening to achieve this, he set a ladder up against the house. Because a gust of wind blew the ladder into our power line, we lost power. Because Entergy is still backed up from complications due to The Flood, they haven’t showed up to fix our power line.

Welcome to Day 20 without electricity. I was up north for days one through nine, so Bob got to sit in the dark house by himself, with only a head cold to keep him company. Foolishly I thought Day 10 would bring power.

But no. Day 10 brought me to my knees. As happy as I was to see Bob after being away for three weeks, I didn’t want to see the rest: Still there are piles of trashed lumber and moldy insulation on the curb. Still broken branches hang from trees. Still so many businesses remain shuttered, their plastic awnings in tatters. Still Xs on the buildings proclaiming the state of things: no one home.

My stomach was already churning when we pulled up to our house. Then I learned that one night while I was gone, someone decided that our dark house was the place to drop off a storm-damaged car. The abandoned vehicle, with its smashed roof and busted windows, sat to the south of our place. To the west, a giant pile of dirt and neighborhood refuse stood outside my kitchen window.

If only I could find refuge indoors. But because of The Flood (and our own seeking natures), we’ve brought home more furniture than our building can reasonably contain. It’s become difficult to walk around during the daytime, and you can just forget it at night. So all of my careful hoarding has brought me to this: a house which I don’t fit into anymore.

Our clutter, the city, our cluttered city—it’s out of my control. Where can I start? Inside, I look helplessly at our stuff. I can’t ditch the antiques or the good deals or the potential projects. I’d be foolish to rid myself of the magazines full of information which I might need someday or the books which I haven’t read or the gifts given to me with love. Add Bob with his antiques and good deals and projects and tools and it’s amazing that the place hasn’t set on fire yet.

Maybe not that amazing—we are still without electricity.

Clearly I need to just bite the bullet and hold a yard sale. A large yard sale, with balloons and bribes for people to take our stuff away. Free cookie with purchase!

But no yard sale could do much for the outside. I could empty my house, but the mess of the city will remain. And even when the trash gets picked up (have faith—our newly-acquired abandoned car went away last week), The Flood’s staying for a long time. People around here talk about nothing else. The newspapers have nothing else to say. Before I went away for the holidays, I was one of those people obsessed with the dramas of the storm and ready to grasp its opportunities.

Now I’m not so sure. While away, I spent a week in the snowy mountains of Vermont, playing in the woods and nestling in a cozy cabin. Then I spent two weeks in Chicagoland, busily working on several projects and enjoying the urban energy. So many voices to be heard, so many different things to be said. In New Orleans, now, there is only one note. And instead of playing that note, maybe I want to go somewhere else, somewhere peaceful and clean.

I don’t know what to do next. I could blame my melancholy on The Flood, but there are other folks who’ve been energized by the angry waters. A psychologist would suggest that I could trace the roots to my childhood family relationships, but my family’s tired of my blame. (While I was home, one family member even accused me of using this blog to “sully our family name”! Good grief!) Perhaps I should blame American culture, with its relentless focus on production and consumption. Since I am producing nothing and consuming very little, it’s fair to say that my existence is specious at best. It sure doesn’t feel that way, though. Something about feeling half-dead that reminds one of how truly, painfully, alive one is.

But on the good side, Valentine’s Day is coming, which means that chocolate will soon be cheap and readily available. And I pray that our mayor’s gaffe will—if nothing else—make that commodity easier to find…

irony and the average hipster

2005-12-20T12:18:00.000-08:00

It was only a matter of time....

After recently writing about the hate crime in my neighborhood, and titling my post with the "n" word, I knew some feathers somewhere would be ruffled. I'd braced myself for vitrolic emails back, calling me a racist and worse, but none came. I relaxed.

Last weekend, however, I got wind that someone was indeed offended by my "n" word title. According to my source, the offended person understood that I meant no harm but still refrained from forwarding my blog to a black friend. Ouch!

Now there are two knee-jerk reactions to this news. My peace-loving, nonconfrontational side (I would say "the feminine," but I'm not ready for any more flak on matters of political correctness) would immediately change the title, deleting the "n" word forever from my blog. Conversely, the rebellious provocateur in me (the aggression-craving male?) would dig in her heels and never submit to self-censorship.

Fortunately, I'm getting too old to be jerking my knees around--very unyogic, to say the least. So I've been rolling this dilemma around in my head and pondering why indeed I felt compelled to use the "n" word. And this is what I found, thematically categorized for clarity (my own):

a. Provocation

I'd be lying if I didn't fess up to being a provocateur. If my therapist were here, she would contribute something about my need for attention due to a solitary upbringing, an emotionally-absent father, etc. etc., but she got laid off as part of the Katrina downsizing. Since we no longer have a paid professional on staff, I'll have to pinch-hit. Despite my tough demeanor (!), I'm actually a burning tangle of emotions. I am easily provoked--although I don't always show it--and feel that indignation should be shared. Like a chocolate truffle cake--if I were to eat the whole thing, I'd get sick. Therefore, you have some, too.

When I heard what happened to our neighbor, I was pissed. And when I wrote about it, I was still pissed. Pissed enough to provoke my readers with the "n" word? Perhaps so.

b. Absurdity

In this day and age, the idea that someone would leave a note telling a "nigger" to leave the neighborhood seems absurd to me. Please don't write in telling me that racism is alive and well--I know, I know. Still, it's absurd. We all have racist thoughts from time to time, across the board--but to be so uncouth as to call names, and to be so cowardly as to leave it in a note--well, that's just silly. I thought I'd exemplify this silliness by titling the blog "niggaz in the hood," as if this were news to anyone.

c. Linguistic Discrimination and Forbidden Fruit

As a writer, it angers me that some words are off-limits. Granted, many fewer words are off-limits to me as a female in the 21st century than would have been fifty or even twenty years ago, but that makes it even more tempting to use the few bad words left. I'm not talking about curse words, which have become paler and paler as time goes on--hell, you can practically say "shit" and "fuck" at the damn dentist's office these days--but about more specifically-hurtful words, such as faggot or nigger or chinaman or hebe.

Let me say that as a kind-hearted, well-meaning soul, I want to hurt no one. Let me also say that as a writer, these words fascinate me to no end. Imagine yourself a painter who could use all the colors except the ones at the ends of the spectrum. Wouldn't you be dying to paint a sun in infared, even if you risked blinding some of your viewers? Or a filmmaker who wasn't allowed to tape inside a prison? Wouldn't that be the first place you'd want to roll film?

As well, I wonder if I could get away with using the "n" word if I were black. Or, perhaps I'd get even more flak by denigrating (an interesting term, no?) my people. It's a moot point, though, since the darkest I can pass for is Irish, and only with a black dye-job.

d. Semantics

On an intellectual level, I wonder if "nigger" could be redefined in our lifetime. I know some black folks use it as a term of endearment to each other, rendering the word harmless. I like the idea of having an explosive word available to channel supreme anger at someone deserving of it. Regardless of color. Examples could include: "Those niggers at FEMA still haven't sent my check." Or, "That fucking nigger in the white house is going to be the death of us all." (Political messages free of charge.)

Emotionally, though, I doubt this would happen, as I know the "n" word still carries such an emotional charge of hate. It's because of niggers like the person who's been tormenting my black neighbor that keep this word powerful. And it's a crime, because even though the "n" word is just a word that could be defined any old way, the hate is real.

In sum...

I fear this blog belies my English-school past. Ah, well. And I also fear that my exploration of this word might alienate more readers, especially black ones. Hope it doesn't, because I'd love nothing more to hear back from readers of all colors interested in this issue. I've invested several hours of my life so far trying to figure this all out and hope it comes to some good.

I also wonder if not sending my blog to black friends because of my using the "n" word isn't a sort of racism in and of itself. It's a considerate racism, not wanting anyone's feelings to be hurt, but it's denying them a chance to sound off on the issue. Then again, deliberately sending my blog to black friends for the sole reason of their blackness could be defined at racism, too. Which goes to show that the more I write, the more confused I get. And with that in mind, I"m signing off.

getting the dirt

2005-12-15T12:42:00.000-08:00

Recently I made contact with an oral historian out of Austin. She’s been recording accounts of Hurricane Katrina and its aftermath from the survivors themselves. It’s a wonderful project, of course, to collect stories from the people who experienced this tragedy firsthand. Not only does the story-telling have therapeutic value for the survivors, but their testimonies will serve history by forming a tapestry of truth, as reflected in the project’s name: Alive In Truth.

At least, this is the idea. Feel free to visit www.aliveintruth.org to hear for yourself. I can’t speak with much authority here because I haven’t yet tuned in, the reason being that much of my post-Katrina life in New Orleans already involves listening to the people around me tell their stories. Even before the storm, this part of this country hosted a myriad of story-telling heritages—from the gothic Southerners to the colorful Cajuns to the passionate Blacks to the dramatic Drunks—and it follows that now, after being in the national limelight, no one here can shut up. This is fine by me, since it seems that one of my purposes in life is to hear what the people have to say and then blab it on to the next guy.

So naturally I got behind the Alive In Truth idea, figuring that I could hone my interviewing skills and contribute to the annals of history. And, in post-Katrina style, I am making rapid progress: in the month since I’ve decided to contribute my services, not only have I purchased a tape recorder, but I have done one interview.

However, I am learning what thousands of journalists worldwide already know: it ain’t the same on tape. Let me use Miss M, my lone interviewee thus far, as an example. When we first reunited with Miss M a few weeks ago, she regaled us with tales of staying in the French Quarter during the storm. One of the juiciest tidbits—and dare I say, the most poignant “truth” she shared—involved the SWAT team, a crack house on her street, and the mother of one of the crack proprietors. I would love to share more, except that when I met with her again for the interview, she pointedly did not want this tale retold. She gave me a fine, animated interview, but it paled against the impromptu storytelling we originally got over red wine and a mouthwatering eggplant ragout.

Still, I plan to keep interviewing my fellow New Orleanians. Later this week, I’ll be taping another friend who stayed during the storm and was evacuated by the authorities. I doubt the second retelling of her experience will be as vivid as the first, but I’m still looking forward to recording history as narrated by the common gal.

In the meantime, I’ve been shoveling dirt. The community garden across the street from us has been leveled so that the owner can fence it off for private viewings of his metal sculptures—art trumps vegetables, in an upset—and so mounds of soil sit curbside. Having been a community gardener, as well as the only one left in the area, I have an interest in dirt, especially the rich, dark, mostly-organically fertilized dirt that’s been left for the trash man.

Not to say that shoveling dirt is my highest priority or first-choice chore. That dirt’s been sitting there for days, waiting for a loving shovel to scoop it away. So with rain forecast for last night, yesterday afternoon I rolled my wheelbarrow over. I began shoveling and promptly struck a hunk of concrete with a jolting clang. I began again, lifting and tossing soil littered with grassy roots, oyster shells, and the occasional brick. As glamorous as it sounds, shoveling dirt isn’t something I’d want to do all day, or even more than two wheelbarrow’s worth. But it is a double wheelbarrow.

To keep my spirits up, I considered the value of my dirt-shoveling. I thought about the millions of people worldwide who would jump at the chance to take home such fine soil. Third-world patriarchs trying to feed their starving families on land whose topsoil blew away in a long-ago drought. Grubby city urchins desperate for the nutrients in a home-grown tomato. American suburbanites who drive out of their way to pay several dollars for a bag of dirt. It seems doubtful that anyone would pay cash money for what I was shoveling, knowing that it was Katrina Flood dirt, but I’m confident in its quality. The dude who runs our neighborhood gardening program stayed through the storm and assured me that the floodwaters in our part of town may have been a little salty but not toxic. And in my hour or so of shoveling, I didn’t see any human bones or mutant worms, so I’m not going to worry.

I took a break from my shoveling to coax Maggy out from under the house, which involved going into the neighbor’s yard. This is how I met E. J., leaning up on his truck out front, smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer. He’d been hired to put up sheetrock on my neighbor’s flooded first floor.

Like everyone I seem to meet, E. J. wasn’t shy about sharing his tragic tale. He owned two houses: one in Lakeview, which got seven feet of water, and one in Chalmette, which was not only demolished, but demolished at the center of the Murphy Oil Spill. True, the good folks at Murphy Oil were cleaning up the mess, but E. J., being a man that worked with his hands, knew that you don’t clean up oil (pronounced by E. J., who grew up in the Nint’ Ward, as earl) with soap and water alone—you need a degreaser. Or a degreezer, as the case may be. And E. J. may be a man who works with his hands, but he knew that the $20,000 Murphy offered him and all the other beneficiaries of the earl was useless without a guarantee that his property would be completely cleaned. Murphy Oil did intend to send out their private environmental agents to evaluate the toxicity, but would guarantee nothing in writing. Still, the Murphy representative assured E. J. that they would adequately clean everything, including his swimming pool and the water in it. E. J. responded that if his pool water was clean, he could rent a pump and pump the pool water into the canal which Murphy already had cleaned for $1.2 million or maybe billion (didn’t have my tape recorder for this conversation). The Murphy rep didn’t like that idea.

E. J. didn’t sign for the $20 grand. Even though I’d never met him before, I was proud of E. J. He planned to wait things out and focus his efforts on his place in Lakeview. Like everyone else here, it’s all he can do: wait and distract himself in the meantime.

So I’ve been shoveling dirt. And I would have offered E. J. some, seeing as his Chalmette soil will be leaking oil for years to come, but he’d already been ribbing me about my manual labor. “Your man should be doin’ that,” he told me, nodding towards the wheelbarrow.

I said that I didn’t mind, that it kept me in shape. “Aw, come on,” E. J. said, trying to be my friend. “You shouldn’t be workin’ like that.”

He pointed to the low-rent section of the neighborhood behind my house. “Get one a’ dem niggers over there to do it,” he mumbled, hiding the words in his mouth.

here comes Santa Claus

2005-12-12T13:33:00.000-08:00

Christmas is here as much as it's going to be here, says me. Bob and I were walking the pups Saturday night when we spied a big hoo-ha going on at the Catholic school on the bayou. Spotlights were flashing and a crowd had assembled.

As usual, I wanted to go towards the crowd and Bob wanted to move away from it. So he stayed on the edge while I, accompanied by my trusty dog Maggy, ventured into the fray. We found a bunch of schoolkids and their parents watching a small girls' choir singing Xmas songs. Their voices were fairly weak but pretty. Maggy got plenty of attention from the kids who all wanted to pet her--Pyro, like his daddy, prefers to stay out of the limelight.

Then I heard the emcee announce that Santa was coming down the bayou in his pirogue. (For you un-Cajun types, a pirogue is the swampland term for a canoe) He's kidding, I said to myself, as such a sight would be too strange even for New Orleans.

Of course I was wrong. For what to my wandering eyes did appear but five canoes floating down the bayou clear. Decked with red and green Christmas lights, the canoes came single file, the last one towing a boat where Jolly Old St. Nick sat! Like the rest of the crowd, Maggy and I moved to the shore to greet Santa. Strangely, Santa didn't have any toys in his boat, but a child next to me said that Santa was coming to take orders. We'd have to wait until Christmas Eve for our toys. With Santa's shaky disembarkment from his pirogue, though, I was a little worried about getting my toys. For if Santa fell into the soup, surely he'd get eaten by a gator and Christmas would be destroyed. Fortunately, the old guy made it safely. He staggered up to the mike, a little winded from his excursion, and the emcee had to remind him to wish the crowd a Merry Christmas, but Santa was on the bayou and that's what counts.

On our way home, we wandered by Chad and Michael's house. Another surprise--they finally got their FEMA trailer! It had towels, blankets, dishes: the works! They weren't supposed to use it, as they were instructed to wait for another FEMA subcontractor to hook up the electricity, but an extension cord fixed that dilemma. (Did you know it takes 4 different crews to install a trailer? No wonder no one has them yet.) I believe they're going to have a trailer-warming soon, so I've been scouring the trash for cans of Campbells' Cream of Mushroom for a trailerworthy recipe. No luck yet, but the Red Cross did bring Jello for lunch, which I'm saving for their party.

It was an evening of miracles. My only concern now is that Santa can get to us in Vermont, where Bobby and I will be on Christmas Eve. Will his pirogue filled with toys be able to navigate through the snow? Let's pray that Santa has a backup plan.

niggaz in the hood

2005-12-09T10:36:00.000-08:00

Oh. Lord.

So here we are, living amongst the garbage, trying to make do without heat or phone or internet service--I'm slowly spending my life savings at coffee shops just to check my email--and we're adapting the best we can. Just when I think things might be okay, as I'm selling cards and collecting eggs and not getting overwhelmed by depression, I get this slap in the face one morning:

We have friends living a few blocks away from us, across the street from a black woman who's "devacuated" and is back at home. This week, someone not only stole her Christmas lights but smeared dog shit on her car and left her a note saying that half the niggers have left this block--you need to get out too. Or something to that effect.

Now many things pain me about living down South, and I admit that racists live everywhere, but at least where I come from, if you don't like black people, you stay away from them and that's it. With these dogshit-and-scare-note-tactics, however, I feel like I'm trapped in some bad afterschool special on racism. I mean, who does this sort of thing? Was the perpetrator someone who'd lived here before the storm and feeling bold now that there are fewer black people around? Or--and this scares me more--was the perpetrator a newcomer, attracted to the idea of a newer, whiter New Orleans?

Either way, if you are reading this, you feces-fondling facist, please hang yourself from a tree so that the rest of us can get on with recoloring our city. Not that there's any chance of you reading my humble little blog, but you never know. Bob's planning on mounting a surveillance camera, so if you come back, we'll find you and stuff you so full of white-bread-soaked-in-mayo that you'll be puking up white. Afterwards, you'll get to find out how this angry white lady plans to use a flaming cross on your behind.

Yes, yes, I'm trying to learn to be compassionate, etc. and even have compassion for the angry and disillusioned. But really, folks, I've got to stand tough on hate crimes in the hood. And inthe meantime, I'm going to bring our neighbor some flowers.

Speaking of frightening infiltrations, this will be the first Mardi Gras ever to get corporate sponsorship. As down as I am on taking ugly money, Mardi Gras has got to roll. So this year, we'll be wearing Nike shoes to the parades, drinking Bacardi and Coca-Cola, and wearing Pampers so we won't have to use the ad-plastered Port-A-Lets. The upside, though, is the potential for costuming--breasts emblazoned with corporate logos? Buttocks bearing Budweiser branding?

For more enlightened commentary on topics New Orleans, check out my friend Dale's blog, at:

floodandloathing.blogspot.com

And keep an eye out for white supremacists carrying smelly garbage bags....

the birthday blog

2005-12-03T09:50:00.000-08:00

Funny--no matter how much computer experience one has, the machine is still in charge. I'd just penned several paragraphs and suddenly, thanks to one stray keystroke, they're gone. So today, on my 32nd birthday, my computer reminds me that nothing is permanent, ever.

Last night we gorged on Italian food with my birthday buddy, Cat, and her husband Joe. Cat turned 32 on Dec 1, so we decided to split the difference and celebrate our birhtdays on the 2nd. Nothing like good Italian food to make one feel fatter and older. :) And for dessert, I turned Cat on to Nocello, giving her the gift of knowledge of a damn festive liquer.

My birthdays have become so much happier now that I've given up on the reciprocity principle--giving gifts with the expectation of receiving them in return. It never works that way, so why pretend? And why not just give gifts for the joy of it? Besides, I've pulled so many treasures out of the trash in the last few months that I already feel abundant with stuff. Fortunately, I've stopped measuring my friends' love for me on what gets wrapped up and handed over. What a relief. We were raised in a very gifty household, where we were always encouraged to give a lot, and if you were uncertain, go ahead and pick up a little something. I'm glad we were raised that way, except for the downside: so hard not to judge others who aren't as generous. Or to measure generosity in material terms, when giving takes so many forms.

A little food for thought as Christmas descends upon us. Raise your hand if you're tired of Christmas, the buying and the wrapping, and the parties and the cards. Stand up and do it differently this year! Give yourself the gift of leisure! Jesus would want it that way! Trust me, as a fellow Decemberite, I've got a pretty good handle on how Our Lord likes His birthday. Instead of going to the mall, take your cash to small businesses, local artists, or the homeless shelter. Adopt a kitten and use it as an excuse to duck out of the festivities. What's more festive than a kitten and some Xmas ribbon?

Bob and I are trying to be festive. We've got our cards and will be at Festivus For the Rest of Us (yes, ripped off from Seinfeld) next week to sell our wares. I decorated a palm tree and put it in our livingroom. I hung a few ornaments on the bamboo plants I rescued from the office. And we're flying to Vermont, to keep the snow in Christmas. There will be a new baby and a six-year-old, so we're hoping Santa will show up. (I know I said I didn't care about gifts, but I beat the jolly fat man at cards and he owes me $50 which better show up Xmas morning....)

Meanwhile, I'm still trying to process this whole post-Katrina world, and rebuild the garden, and tend to my chickens, and stay sane. Also, now that I've gotten over 10 donated yoga mats, I'm ready for my next venture: Yoga Relief. Take note, locals: I'm offering FREE yoga classes at my house on Ursulines on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at 5 pm. Bring a mat if you have one. Bring water. Wear clothing which allows you to be flexible. Be patient, as I'm not an experienced teacher, just a willing one.

This year, my birthday wish is to be focused and follow through with my goals. I've been feeling so scattered, like my chickens, pecking all over the place in hopes of finding something tasty. Today, I resolve to follow one dream at a time. And I send out great thanks to my mother, who not only went to all the trouble to birth me, but also taught me that I'm not allowed to quit. So stay tuned, dear friends: stay tuned. In the meantime, have yourself a happy birthday!

Commerce, shameless commerce

2005-11-28T15:35:00.000-08:00

Hi everybody!

As Bob and I don't quite have the Amy Jo-Bob website down just yet, I'm posting this year's Xmas cards here for your viewing enjoyment. We've added two new cards in honor of our dear Katrina.

Card prices are as follows: $1.50/card (special internet price!)
$1.25/card for 20 cards or more
ask about discounts for even greater quanities
plus shipping

Cards are posted below. Also some new text from yours truly. If you'd like to order, email me at: theonlymissamanda@yahoo.com or call 815-382-5096.

Thanks!
Amy Jo-Bob

P.S. If you haven't gone to our website yet, have a gander: www.amyjobob.com

Still Swingin'

2005-11-28T15:29:00.000-08:00

Still Swingin'

Text inside:

(fleur de lis graphic)

We’re still swinging in New Orleans!
Happy Holidays!

Katrina Greetings

2005-11-28T15:27:00.000-08:00

Katrina Greetings

Text inside:

(fleur de lis graphic)

Here’s to keeping the holiday spirit alive!
Cheers!

Christmas Reflection

2005-11-28T15:24:00.000-08:00

Christmas Reflection

Text inside reads:

May the light of the holidays stay in your heart all year long.

Season's Greeters

2005-11-28T15:22:00.000-08:00

Season's Greeters

Text inside reads:

Slow down! Enjoy the holidays!

Cajun Christmas Tree

2005-11-28T15:15:00.000-08:00

Cajun Christmas Tree

Text inside reads:

Laissez les bon temps roule, cher!
(Let the good times roll, baby!)

Angel in the Oaks

2005-11-28T15:01:00.000-08:00

Angel in the Oaks

Text inside reads:

(image of the fleur de lis)

Sing it loud--sing it long!
Peace on earth--good will towards men!

community action

2005-11-28T14:49:00.000-08:00

Editor's note:

I wrote this blog last week, but couldn't seem to get it online until today. I only get so many chances to go online, as we still have no service at home (but Bob saw a Bell South truck in our hood today!) and have much business to cover. So pardon my tardiness.

11.22

Went by my old office today for the first time. It got six feet of water and the mold, she was a-bloomin’. My desk was in the same spot, but the computer monitor had crashed face-first onto the floor. 2 of the 3 bamboo plants were alive, so I rescued them. Of course humans must be rescued, and animals get rescued by the animal-lovers, but who will rescue the plants? This was my second plant rescue—the first being a potbound variegated something or other (no botanist am I) lying naked on the sidewalk.

the office looked both better and worse than I’d imagined. My desk calendar had floated to the middle of the room—for some reason these small details are more disturbing than the big ones. some stuff seemed salvageable—office supplies on top shelves, CDs in my desk, my bobblehead statue with a photo of Bob’s cute little mug on the face. I scored some Christmas wrapping paper, white out, pens, and letter-sized envelopes with only a slight scent of mold. Perfect for my newest letter-writing campaign.

I may be stupid to believe that writing letters to Congress will make a difference, but I’ll take that risk. Saturday afternoon, I’d penned a letter arguing for federal financing of quality levees (that means standing up to a Cat 5), emailed it out to everyone on my email list urging them to do the same, and planned to email my letter directly out to as many senators and reps that my laptop battery would allow.

Of course community action is never so easy. Do you realize that those motherfuckers representing us (pardon my french—I hope my moniker isn’t too understated) don’t simply list their email addresses online? No, no—one has to fill out an “email form” for each of them, which requires that the emailer in question include their postal address. You know what that means—any emails with postal addresses outside of the congressman’s jurisdiction go straight into the ether. No, thanks. If I’m going to take the time on a Saturday afternoon to write a letter, someone on the other end is going to read it, hell or high water. (That expression has such special meaning, down here in the Big Swampy, these days…)

So I decided to go to each congressman’s website and copy their snail-mail addresses down so I could send letters the old-fashioned way. Before I could get to that irksome step, however, the Sunday’s paper did it for me. For the first time in my memory, the Times Picayune (the New Orleans daily paper—it’s no NY Times, it’s not even the Chicago Trib, but it’s better than just guessing at the news) had a front-page editorial. Perhaps the world really is coming to an end. Anyway, the editorial called New Orleans citizens to write for the same reason that I wanted to write—no one’s going to speak up for us except for us. And the feds aren’t just going to hand our corrupt state a pile of money, even though they should. The logic is simple. Devastation occurred because levees failed. Levees failed because the Army Corps of Engineers (feds, all) did the math wrong. Oops! Reports have been coming in that the posts were 7 feet short, some of the walls up to 16 feet short. Oops, oops. Now to give them credit, the Army Corps did ask the feds for more money to shore up the levees, but the feds turned them down. A wartime sacrifice, I guess. No money equals no levee repairs equals devastation which will cost super extra money.

So many have made comparisons to the 9-11 tragedy, that I shall make one more. Let’s pretend that instead of terrorists bombing the World Trade Center, that it collapsed because the government skimped on its structure and a strong wind blew down. You think New Yorkers would let the feds just skip out on the tab? No goddamn way.

Which brings me to my letter-writing campaign. Not only did the Times-Pic urge its readers to write, they also listed 18 addresses of the most powerful boys in the bullpen. Basically, they did my work for me. And I was low on envelopes and fancy, serious letter-writing paper, but now that I’ve raided my old office, I’m all set to give those boys not only a piece of my mind, but with a slightly-moldy scent.

So this is what I’m doing with my unemployment. And frankly, I’m growing to like it.

from the pulpit

2005-11-24T15:45:00.000-08:00

give thanks, y'all. even if you think it's cheesy, it's just one day a year:

if you get to eat pie, give thanks

if you can stand up straight, give thanks

if you've got a hot shower, give thanks

if you think for yourself, give thanks

if you're not a turkey, give thanks

if you make people laugh, give thanks

if you've ever been in love, give thanks

if your house ain't buried in mud, give thanks

if you can read my words, give thanks--definitely give thanks.

love y'all,

miss a

First Annual Egg Day

2005-11-16T10:48:00.000-08:00

Wonderful news from Down Under:

Our chickens laid their first egg this morning! Hurrah! I assume it wasn't a group effort, but as we don't know which one laid it, I'll give all three the credit.

Was feeling sad because the community garden across the street is being reclaimed for a sculpture garden. The man who owns the property decided to use it to showcase his sculptures. Art versus vegetables, and art wins this round. One of the few times that I'm not supporting Art 100%. Bob and I will try to talk to the owner, Dr. Steve, to see if we can plant amongst his artworks. We'd share our veggies, of course.

But if the vegetable door is closed, the egg door is open! Everyone please eat an egg today to celebrate, wherever you are.

New Orleans has grown cool in time for the holidays. Because of power outages, I had to go to three coffee shops to get a cup of joe. Our own coffeemaker decided to break down this morning, with its usual excellent timing. Life during wartime--why pretend things are normal when I can't even get a cup of coffee?

People have asked what they can send. You can send flypaper, as it's such a popular item that it's hard to find. You can send soil for me to grow vegetables. You can send cash, as we're hoping to buy a truck for Bob's new construction venture. And you can always send chocolate. Warriors need chocolate.

If nothing else, send prayers. Pray for more eggs!

today's history lesson

2005-11-14T12:25:00.000-08:00

Anyone from Illinois who doesn't believe in rebuilding New Orleans would do well to remember the Chicago Fire. My cousin's husband Chuck passed this along, so please enjoy. I couldn't copy the cartoon, but feel free to follow the link:

http://www.nytimes.com/learning/general/onthisday/harp/1104.html

The National Hand of FellowshipArtist: Frank Bellew

This cartoon extols the generosity of Americans who contributed money to aid the victims of Chicago?s Great Fire of 1871. In early October, the conflagration burned for 29 hours, cutting a destructive swath through 17,450 buildings on 73 miles of streets, leaving an estimated 300 people dead, 100,000 homeless, and $192 million worth of property destroyed. News of the tragic event made headlines around the world, and donations to the Chicago relief fund, some of which came from foreign sources, totaled $5 million.
The rapid expansion of the railroad system in the North during the 1840s and 1850s made Chicago a boomtown. It became the main transportation hub for the West; the center of the region?s agricultural trade, with stockyards, meatpacking plants, and granaries; and the world?s lumber capital. Like many cities in nineteenth-century America, Chicago?s sidewalks and most of its buildings were made of wood (even brick buildings had wooden roofs covered with shingles, felt, or tar); there were barns with combustible material (hay or straw) within city boundaries; and since heating and lighting sources consisted of candles, oil lamps, fireplaces, and stoves, homes were stocked with kerosene and wood piles. Not surprisingly, fire was a constant danger and reality: in 1870, Chicago experienced 600 fires.
As the Chicago Fire Department warned, the situation in the fall of 1871 was dire. The city had received less than two inches of rain between July and early October, which drastically reduced water levels in wells and cisterns, and hot winds further dried the ubiquitous wood into kindling. Barns were filled with hay to fuel the main mode of transportation?horses?during the approaching winter months, while the fallen, dried leaves were raked into piles or swirled through the city?s gutters. During that dry season, fires erupted in various parts of the ?Windy City,? and the Chicago Tribune openly worried about a large one, ?which would sweep from end to end of the city.? Concerns were not calmed by the fact that only 185 firemen and 17 horse-drawn fire engines served the entire 18-square-mile city of almost 350,000 people.
Nearly half of the city?s firemen battled a fire on Saturday night, October 7, which consumed a four-block area on the West Side. At 9 p.m. on the next evening, a night watchman working atop a courthouse tower reported a fire on the West Side, and the telegraph operator at the central fire office dispatched the nearest fire company. The watchman then realized he had miscalculated by about a mile, but the dispatcher refused to correct the call for fear of confusing the fire companies. One company, though, did respond to the right location at 137 De Koven Street. Over the next 45 minutes, six other fire companies joined it, but they were unable to stop the spreading flames.
The site was Mrs. Catherine O?Leary?s cow barn, from which she ran a small milk business. The rumor spread that her cow kicked over a kerosene lamp while being milked. However, a fire official had to awaken Mrs. O?Leary and her family to warn them of the fire, the exact cause of which was never determined.In less than an hour, the entire block of houses in the poor immigrant neighborhood had been consumed by the fire, which then continued on to nearby sawmills and furniture factories. At about 11:30 p.m., winds carried the fire across the Chicago River to a horse stable and a gas works, and soon the oil-slicked river itself burst aflame. The massive conflagration swiftly engulfed the courthouse, the Chamber of Commerce Building, the post office, banks, churches, theaters, hotels, trains stations, ships, and other structures, some of which burned to embers within five minutes. The heat of the inferno rose high enough to disintegrate stone into powder and granite into lime, melt iron (2000º F) and steel (2500º F), and explode trees from their own heated resin. ?Fire devils??swirling columns of super-hot air?made the fire impossible to contain.
Panicked people on foot and in carriages jammed the streets, fleeing for their lives. Artist John R. Chapin of Harper?s Weekly narrowly escaped his burning hotel to sketch the fire from the Randolph Street Bridge. Even more unforgettable to him than the chaotic sight was the ?discord of sounds which will live in memory while life shall last?: ?Loud detonations ?[of]? buildings ? being blown up, added to the falling of the walls and the roaring of the flames?the moaning of the wind, the shouting of the crowd, the shrill whistling of tugs as they endeavored to remove the shipping out of ? danger?? From the sea of humanity rose cries of ?North! North!? as they raced before the fire that was moving into the more prosperous North Side, where thousands took refuge in Lincoln Park. On the South Side, buildings were dynamited to create a successful firebreak, while the fire continued on the North Side until it petered out at the edge of the city. On Monday night, the heavens opened to douse the remaining embers.
In the fire?s wake, the Chicago Relief and Aid Society, a private charity, raised $5 million from all over the United States and 25 foreign countries. The homeless were first housed in churches and schools, where they were given food, clothing, medical care (including the inoculation of 60,000 against smallpox), and other necessities. By mid-November 1871, 5000 ?shelter houses? (single-family cottages) had been built for the homeless. In fact, Chicago?s reconstruction began by the end of that fateful October week, and most of the downtown was rebuilt within a year. Thousands of tons of debris were pushed into Lake Michigan forming a new lakefront area on which the Crystal Palace and other buildings were constructed. In the 1880s, Chicago was the fastest growing city in America, as immigrants and rural migrants sought opportunity in the revived metropolis, where the downtown buildings?now made of steel and masonry?towered skyward. By 1890, Chicago?s population had almost tripled from the time of the fire to one million, making it the second most populous city in the United States.
Robert C. Kennedy

silent saturday

2005-11-12T12:03:00.000-08:00

At the Sound Cafe, ironically named as it is very quiet here. The other day the place was full, but still remained quiet as a study hall, with everyone tapping on their computers.

Word is that new Orleans isn't as much of a health hazard as people thought--no outbreaks of influenza or cholera or West Nile. Still, much dust in the air and I believe I've got the "Katrina Cough." Lots of dust in the air; my car is brown in color. Bob's got a mold allergy, but he's been fine. With several weeks of sun and (relative) dryness, mold is less a problem for us than the dust. Of course, we didn't get water inside, so we really have nothing to bitch about.

The main health hazard now is mental health troubles, of which we can certainly identify. My depression has been flourishing, if you can call depression flourishing, along with my cough. When we first returned, I was near-giddy to be back and to see how crazy the city looked. So many opportunities! So much junk on the streets! So many excuses to self-medicate!

As I've been laying off the self-medication, the depression has been sliding back. People who say that everything is "just great" here are either doped up or lying. Or, they live Uptown, where things are more normal. Bob and I, by being in Mid-city, are basically living on an island. We can't go anywhere without passing empty, devastated areas. On the farm, the silence was nice, but here, it's just wrong.

The other night, we were sitting on the couch with the door open (no air conditioning and still in the 80s in November) when we were hit with a blinding light. The police! No arrests were made, however; they were just checking out our open door. The only other vehicle on our street that evening was a Desert Storm Humvee.

Trying to stay motivated and active. I want to start giving yoga classes, but I need to procure mats and some space. From all our junk-hunting, our house is beginning to look like a blind grandmother's attic, so having classes at my spot is out of the question. Maybe at the park?

So I've become a self-indulgent blogger. It was inevitable, I suppose. Now the world can see my journals so there will be no surprises at the end.

Homecoming

2005-11-10T14:51:00.000-08:00

11/2/05

Hey everybody!

Greetings from a ghostly town, where every day is Halloween. Regardless of whatever’s cropped up in your local media, be it the White Sox victory, political indictments, or more news from Iraq, I am here to report that the Katrina aftermath is still a huge story, huge as the piles of trash we drive by on every block.

Bob, myself, and both dogs returned to New Orleans a week ago Monday around dusk. As we drove past the Orleans Parish line, we began to smell the wreckage: dank sweetness of rotting garbage with an acrid note of mold. We journeyed on to find a new, silent world inhabited by salt-crusted cars and gaggles of abandoned refrigerators huddled curbside. Hard for me not to fixate on the refrigerators, symbols of how well humanity has adapted to care for itself; now defunct, the fridge panels are often crusted with maggots, gagged shut with duct tape. Some are spraypainted with “LOVE” or “LEVEE BOARD VICTIM.” Ours reads: “GOODBYE CRUEL WORLD.” I’ve begun collecting magnets from abandoned refrigerators—a way to keep a small part of old New Orleans. (Don’t worry, Mom, I’m using gloves when collecting junk.)

Our house is okay, although I didn’t have the courage to enter until Day Two of our return. The yard was strewn with branches from our live oak and a good foot-deep carpet of leaves. Almost all of our plants were dead, fried by the salt water of the flood. My garden is also completely dead, although our garden guy says the water here wasn’t too bad and we should be okay to plant again. The contents of our shed were strewn about around Bob’s Mustang, but she doesn’t look as bad as we’d feared. He had the Mustang insured for $12 grand, so its restoration will be one more project for the pile. Our back fence was blown down, which is happy news for the dogs, who got a good taste of freedom from staying on Mom and Dad’s farm.

Truth be told, being back in New Orleans isn’t much different from being on the farm. It’s quiet with odd smells. There are too many chores for the day to hold. People are constantly trying to feed us—a local church does a daily free lunch, and downtown there are people cooking at a park from 7 to 7. And with so few people back and so many fences down, the doggies can run through our neighborhood almost as freely as they used to on the farm. We don’t need to lock the front door. (The FBI website recently ranked New Orleans as the safest Metropolitan area in the US right now.) We’ve been out in the “fields” harvesting, except instead of vegetables, we’ve been gathering junk from the curbsides. Since many people aren’t returning, their landlords have hired workers to throw all their stuff out on the street. Bob’s sister Lisette is valiantly trying to furnish her apartments with the treasures she’s found in the trash. We have a new 40’s style stove and two tables, not to mention all my new fridge magnets.

Although the trash-hunting has been fun, it’s been difficult to be home. When we first returned, we had no electricity, gas, or phone service. We’re still without gas and phone, and rumor has it that we might not have gas until February, although other rumors say we should have it in two weeks. Who can say! For our first week back, we were staying at Lisette and Joe’s “compound,” as their house has four apartments. Our friends Michael and Chad were flooded, so the six of us were staying there. We had the attic apartment, but now that their tenant got her furniture, (by waking us up at 2:30 am, screaming like a banshee!) we’re back at home. We’re still showering, laundering, and cooking at the compound, though, and I guess we will be indefinitely. Nothing in our neighborhood, save for two bars, is open, so we have to go to other parts of town to get groceries or use the internet. Good thing that we’re used to moving at a slow pace.

When we first returned, we got to experience the very odd sensation to be in familiar surroundings so completely changed. I’ve done much gasping this week, to turn a usual corner and find a collapsed house or a missing wall. The menacing, shit-brown water line runs around the city—only a few feet in some places, up to the rooftops in others. Stores are empty. Most of the stoplights are down. Many homes are still boarded up as if waiting for the next hurricane. They’ve also been marked with the ubiquitous flame-orange X with its cryptic writing that describes who searched the place and what they found. In the worse neighborhoods, we often see 1 Dog or 2 cats DOA. We have gone to some of the worst-hit areas, including the spot in Lakeview where the 17th Street Canal was breached. Houses there were swept off their piers and ended up across the street. I’m sure the residents there consider themselves to have nothing, but there’s a lot there—lumber and bricks and garbage engulfed in the sandbars of silt. Also there are signs for class action lawsuits and gutting services and mold remediation and on and on. Then you can go to the other side of the levee to Jefferson Parish and life continues as normal, so after a good morning of gawking, you can get a bite to eat. Book your tickets now!

There are some signs of life. During the day, we can hear work crews going; this morning I was awakened by their loud music. Our neighborhood coffee shop isn’t officially open but has been serving free coffee while the owners work to restore one of my favorite parts of home. Just today the post office is able to deliver mail to our area, although you have to sign up for home delivery. One couple who just moved to the neighborhood, having lost their previous home, had a baby at their house last Thursday. The power went out a half-hour before their baby was born, so they had no hot water for the delivery. But their baby, a little girl they named Nia Nola, is a ten-pound beauty. Her mother is worried about becoming isolated, so I’ve already taken it upon myself to visit as often as possible.

As well, I found that one neighbor family had abandoned their dog in their ravaged yard. The first day I went to feed him, he was under another house. I put out a Tupperware container of food, which he grabbed and dumped out under the house. When I reached for the empty container, he grabbed that and tossed it farther underneath. So Grabby has become one of my new projects. Not only has he begun to let me pet him, he will now play, not only with me, but with Maggy and Pyro. He’s got really interesting markings, looks like a chow crossed with a hyena, and is only about 40 pounds. Needless to say, I want to adopt him, but Bob thinks that two dogs (and three chickens!) are enough. My plan is to put up flyers and get him a good home, unless Bob relents….

All the chickens are back in town, but they’re staying at the compound until we can get our yard in order. Because of all the garbage around, flies are in abundance, so the chickens will be eating well for awhile. (Yes, chickens love flies. And worms. And fruit. And spaghetti!) No eggs yet, but they should be coming any day now.

So we try to look at the bright side. Not only are we finding cool junk, but we have a chance to renovate. Everyone is so friendly, especially now that many of the fences are down. I’ve met more of my neighbors in the past week than I had in the year I’ve lived in this neighborhood. There are lots of jobs available and it feels like the future is ripe with opportunities. Being back, I know that quitting my job to write full-time was the right decision, although now my biggest challenge is focusing in one direction, as there are so many directions to go. As well, because FEMA declared our zip code to be a “high impact area,” I should be getting more money from them for up to a year. Viva America!

Which reminds me: Bob and I went to the Red Cross to get financial assistance and each received $330.00. The RC worker told us that the money wasn’t a loan, but “a gift from the American people.” So my fellow Americans, especially you who sent in checks, thank you from the bottom of my heart. You only have to look at our pictures to see that this disaster is a real one.

Now that I’ve got the big “we made it home OK” email done, I will try to write individual notes as much as I can. As I’ve said, I have to make a trip somewhere to use the computer, so please be patient. It’s a slow, slow world down here.

Be well,

Miss A

Yard Sale

2005-11-10T13:30:00.000-08:00

Yard Sale

At 17th Street levee breach

2005-11-10T13:29:00.000-08:00

VW ad?

2005-11-10T13:27:00.000-08:00

Adios Casa

2005-11-10T13:26:00.000-08:00

Boatmobile

2005-11-10T13:24:00.000-08:00

London Street Breach

Katrina Art

2005-11-10T13:23:00.000-08:00

Bob's sister Lisette, her husband Joe, and our friend Michael created this piece from a car which burnt during the flood. On Saturday, Joe towed this car into the street so someone would take it away. As of Wednesday, it remains.

2005-11-10T13:20:00.000-08:00

Wind Damage!

2005-11-10T13:19:00.000-08:00

Across the Street

Buy stock in refrigerators

2005-11-10T13:18:00.000-08:00

2005-11-10T13:17:00.000-08:00

Inside the Freezer

True Survivors

2005-11-10T13:16:00.000-08:00

These plants went seven weeks without water or sunlight. All the rest were dead. The aloe vera is getting its green back, but some of it rotted out. Cactus is slumping some, but I think she'll pull through.

2005-11-10T13:15:00.000-08:00

Bob's Stang

2005-11-10T13:14:00.000-08:00

Bob checking out shed

2005-11-10T13:12:00.000-08:00

Behind Our House

2005-11-10T13:01:00.000-08:00

New Town Dump