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Friday, September 30, 2005
And another thing: remember former FEMA fat cat Michael Brown ranting to legislators earlier this week? Remember how he claimed that FEMA's post-Katrina efforts went smoothly in Mississippi but tanked in Louisiana because of the state's "dysfunction"? Well, not only does Brown conveniently overlook the fact many Mississippians expressed anger at FEMA in the days following the storm, but Brown's critique also fails to take into account the fact that the two states suffered in very different ways.
It's like comparing mangoes and papayas: Mississippi, like parts of St. Tammany and Tangipahoa Parishes in Louisiana, saw storm surge, which receded fairly quickly. New Orleans, however, experienced floodwaters that took weeks to pump out, forcing evacuations that otherwise might have been unnecessary. Clearly, neither FEMA nor the city nor the state were ready for that. For Brown to say that his minimal efforts should have worked under the extreme conditions in New Orleans when they barely worked in Mississippi and on the Northshore is disingenuous to the point of absurdity.
Instead of comparing states, Brown should be comparing situations. FEMA seems to rank in the C to C+ range for its response in most parts of the region, but he gets a D- or an F for New Orleans. Not that Nagin and Blanco don't share some of the blame, mind you, but for Brownie to lay it entirely at their feet is ridiculous.
Thursday, September 29, 2005
At last, a plan for (most of) us!
Mayor C. Ray Nagin announced today that the City of New Orleans is streamlining access into targeted areas of Orleans Parish while continuing to safeguard previously flooded areas. The City will begin allowing re-entry in the targeted zip codes of 70112, 70113, 70114, 70115, 70116, 70118, 70130 and 70131. Those areas include Algiers, the Central Business District, the French Quarter and Uptown.
Business owners in these zip codes may re-enter beginning tomorrow, Thursday, September 29, 2005. On Friday, September 30, 2005, residents in those eight zip codes will be allowed back in New Orleans.
On Wednesday, October 5, 2005, residents and business owners in the rest of New Orleans, with the exception of the Lower 9th Ward, can return.
-- from the City of New Orleans' latest press release
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
We left our house a month ago. Actually, we left our house a month and nine hours ago, to the minute: 11:55pm. It was dark, we were in a hurry, but we thought we'd be back soon, so we didn't think about things too much.
Today, it's a little weird to think of New Orleans as home; it's almost like we've moved. We've settled into a routine here, a daily ebb and flow that's not too different from the one we followed in New Orleans: I get up before dawn, make coffee, check email, do some work, hit the gym, struggle to stay up for The Daily Show, and wake up when Jonno comes to bed. He follows the same schedule, more or less, but he's about eight hours behind--or 16 hours ahead, depending on how you look at it.
Eventually, we'll have to deal with the problems of living in post-Katrina New Orleans. At the moment, though, the worst problem of all this--apart from imposing on our friends in Lafayette and living in a state of neverending uncertainty--is the resentment some of us are feeling toward friends who've moved on.
Now, I know that folks who work in service and other industries have found themselves in desperate straights. I know that waiters, hairstylists, gardners, New Orleans public school teachers, and many, many others haven't been paid in over a month. I know those people and their families need food, clothing, and shelter, and they can't get any of that at home. Logically, I understand that those people have to find work elsewhere to stay alive.
Still, I can't help but feel slightly angry when I hear of folks who've abandoned ship (so to speak). New Orleans was and is a group project. By living there, we signed on to that project, implicitly throwing our hats in the ring with everyone else. We believed we were in it together. Friends who speak of leaving now sound like deserters.
Let me make this clear, though: my sentiments are not like those of Mr. Codrescu, who lamented that New Orleans after Katrina will be a different city. I acknowledge that. In fact, I embrace that. I'm not sentimental about some mythical New-Orleans-that-was. Leave that stuff to the talented people at WYES. I'm not the kind of person to spend much time looking back; I'm looking forward to a new, better city.
No, my sadness is that we've lost some very helpful hands in building this new, better city. Things that could and should happen--great things, great opportunities--will be carried out by fewer people. People who could be very useful, visions that could be uniquely clear, won't be around to offer support and guidance.
But whatever. I'll get over it. So will everyone else. Things will go forward. No one is irreplaceable.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
My favorite part of the mayor's new Safety and Security Re-Entry Information bulletin? The opening sentence: "On behalf of Mayor C. Ray Nagin and the City of New Orleans, Welcome Home!"
What's so good about that, you ask? Well, grammatical eccentricities aside (I mean, what communications director in his right mind would capitalize "Welcome Home" like that?), this oh-so-cheery opener is followed by no less than 17 skull-and-crossbones-style warnings to returning citizens. To paraphrase: Welcome back! You could die here!
My least favorite part? Item #9, which contains contact info for something called "Remains Management" (225 763 5480 or 225 763 5760, if you're interested). What the hell is that? Is it for dead pets? Dead people? Is that supposed to serve our funerary needs until Bultman is back up and running? I could call and find out, but do I really want to know?
Monday, September 26, 2005
Lesley and I met shortly after she began her freshman year at Millsaps. My then-girlfriend, Margaret, and I spotted her in the University Center, decked out in Decatur Street goth-wear, haughtily perusing a course catalogue. Being the suave, sophisticated sophomore that I was, I complimented her on her sassy black leather backpack. She made a snarky, disparaging remark to Margaret. A friendship was born.
Lesley is largely responsible for the life I've built in New Orleans over the past decade and a half. She's from the city, and on weekends we'd pile up in my Mustang and her Duster and head down to her parents' house for some college-style binge-reveling. She introduced me to her hometown circle of friends, and in no time at all, I'd developed quite the social network in New Orleans. Shortly after graduation, I imposed on one of them for a few weeks, sleeping on his sofa while I looked for a job and a place to live. For months and years afterward, those were the people I called when I needed help or wanted to have some fun.
Lesley stayed in Jackson after she finished college. She's a Sommelier now, working at one of my favorite restaurants in the country (no relation to that other Bravo). She got married a couple of years back, and she just had her first baby, and she doesn't get home as much as she'd like, but New Orleans is still very dear to her.
Lesley was affected by Katrina just as deeply as anyone living in New Orleans. A week after the storm, she wrote an article about the city for the Jackson Free Press. The edited version they published is okay, but the full version is better--which is why I've posted it here, with a couple of added links.
A Toast to a City
This has been a tough week for me. My home town of New Orleans is under water. Under terrible, toxic water. Fellow New Orleanians are suffering, having lost everything, and I feel powerless to help them. Sure, I took several bags of non-perishable food, baby formula, blankets, etc., down to the Trademart, but I still feel as if nothing I could ever do would really help. At times like these it’s easy to get caught up in the bad stuff, almost to the point where I feel like I’ll never see my beloved city again. Of course I’ll return someday, but it will never be the same. The skyline without the Superdome will seem naked. As a child I watched, in complete awe, as it was constructed. Now, it seems, I’ll watch in utter disbelief as it is taken down.
Today I made it a point to recall only good things about New Orleans. Places already defunct even before Katrina, food I plan to eat again as soon as I am able, wines that will never taste as good as they did in that fantastic place.
About eleven years ago I worked at Bayona Restaurant on Dauphine Street. I was but a lowly hostess there, but was given so many opportunities to try great wines and eat fantastic food. Susan Spicer, the chef, would often pop up to the hostess stand with a sample of something she was working on for an evening special and ask me to taste it. “Do you think we should go with that tonight?” she’d ask. Then the Sommelier would arrive with a taste of wine wondering “Do you think this works with that sauce?” It was my first experience with a real Sommelier and my first true exposure to the marriage of wine and food. I remember “approving” a coupling of a lobster appetizer and a Kalin Chardonnay, feeling so proud and honored when Chef Spicer told the staff at the pre-shift meeting that “Lesley LOVED this!”
Bayona’s then Sommelier, Michael Fisher, left the restaurant to open his own place, a wine bar on Decatur Street call Vino! Vino! To say that I was a regular there would be a gross understatement. The wines by the glass were constantly changing, offering a curious new oenophile like myself a great opportunity to develop my palate. The kitchen offered basic bread and cheese boards with sides of whipped whole butter and roasted garlic. Humble yet fancy, I thought. It was here that I first tried a Spanish sparkling wine. Crisp and refreshing, but with beautiful richness from the Chardonnay grapes the wine was made from. Michael told me all about the Cava district, where these wines are produced, and I drank enough of the stuff to have believed that I was actually IN the Cava district… It became a staple for me and my pals. Bottles and bottles were consumed amongst laughter and stories and great friends.
My roommate and I lived at Napoleon Avenue and Baronne Street, just a few blocks from Martin Wine Cellar. At least once a week we would have lunch there in that incredible deli, then take our time roaming the isles and pointing out wines we’d had before, wines we could never afford, and wines we’d be taking home with us that day. One of the cool things about that place is that they are always offering samples of wine and cheese featured each day, neither of which we ever refused. I discovered Eberle wines there, which might never be available here in Mississippi. (If you see it anywhere, BUY IT!) We sure were broke, but we always had money for cheese and wine…
In 1999 I attended the New Orleans Wine & Food Experience at the Convention Center for the first time. The La Louisiane ballroom was packed with hundreds of winemakers and restaurants showing off their wares. In three hours time I probably tasted a hundred wines and ate about 30 plates of food. A newly certified Sommelier at that time, I chatted with winemakers, proudly passing them my brand new business cards while inviting them to come to Jackson where I would showcase their wines at a wine dinner or some other fun event. My friend Karen and I ended up scoring some passes into a private party for the folks from the wineries where we hooked up with John Larchet, owner of the Australian Premium Wine Collection, and took him down into the Marigny to the R Bar, another favorite haunt of mine. There we drank Chimay, a strong Belgian Ale, out of big goblets, and listened to John tell us all about his son Benji, the namesake of his Hill of Content Benjamin’s Blend (Chardonnay, Sauvignon Blanc, Semillon). I remember being so hungover the next day that Karen and I both almost swooned upon entering a wine lecture at 9 a.m., where we were offered glasses of water by a man who said we looked like we could use it.
I hope that man is down there offering someone some water right now…
The last time I was in New Orleans in July I made tentative plans with a friend to go to a cool little wine shop in the Bywater, near the Ninth Ward, called Bacchanale that has wine tastings every Saturday afternoon. She said that the guy who runs it always has a lot of neat stuff like Vinho Verde and Gruner Veltliner open for folks to try, which is right up my alley…
I feel pretty certain that that shop is under water now, all of those great little wines floating in that putrid mess. But because of the spirit and resiliency of the people of New Orleans, I think that, in time, I just might make it to that little shop after all. In fact, I intend to.
Sunday, September 25, 2005
During Rita's march through Lafayette
Proof that adversity can make for some very strange bedfellows, indeed.
Saturday, September 24, 2005
So, Bush just held a press conference in Austin. In theory, it was to address the rescue and recovery efforts for Hurricane Rita, but in fact, it turned out to be little more than a photo op with Rick Perry, Kay Bailey Hutchison, Tom DeLay, and other folks of dubious distinction.
I'm not saying that the press conference was a sham. I'm sure that somewhere deep down, Bush really does feel sorry for storm victims. I'm sure, however, that he's equally sorry to see his public approval ratings hit the skids in the wake of Hurricane Katrina.
Still, if I were Bush's publicist--and thank goddess I'm not--I might have cautioned him against appearing in an official capacity quite so soon. See, if I remember right, it was three days after Katrina before GW bothered to cut short his vacation for a fly-by of the Gulf Coast--in a jet plane, no less. (It was four days before he saw the area at closer range, by helicopter.) For Rita, though, Bush has set up camp in one of the affected states less than 12 hours after the storm made landfall. That leaves poor Georgie open to a number of critiques--all of which will soon follow, I'm sure:
- Bush cares more about his home state than about his troublesome, eccentric neighbor to the east.
- Bush cares more about the largely white, relatively affluent population of southeast Texas and southwest Louisiana than the predominantly African American, relatively poor population of New Orleans (a critique that overlooks Houston's HUGE African American and Hispanic populations, but whatever).
- Bush cares more about shoring up support for his public policies than actually protecting and caring for the citizenry.
And sad to say, I think there's a bit of truth behind some of those comments. 'Cause while it'd be nice to believe that the press briefing was held to express hope for the rebuilding of damaged areas, it was pretty apparent Bush is even more anxious to rebuild his numbers at the polls. Not a great move, if you ask me.
But of course, you didn't.
Update: Brian Williams has never been my favorite journalist, but he shares an interesting story about the various motivations behind another president's response to a major hurricane in New Orleans.
Friday, September 23, 2005
Attention Wolf Blitzer, Aaron Brown, Paula Zahn, et al:
I am no longer listening to you. Any of you.
For nearly four weeks, you've asked the same questions over and over and over, and although the respondents have changed, the responses have not. So please, allow me to clear up things once and for all, okay?
Yes, we plan to return to New Orleans. I mean, have you been there?
No, we do not think the Feds moved quickly enough after Katrina. Not that our state and local officials are blameless, mind you, but their slip-ups pale in comparison to those of FEMA.
Yes, we plan to have a spectacular Carnival this year. Don't believe me? Come watch the Krewe du Vieux parade from my house. Or join me for the Satyricon Ball; I've got a couple of extra tickets.
No, Kathleen Babineaux Blanco is not an accomplished public speaker. Maybe if she took those rocks out of her mouth....
Yes, there may be something to this whole "global warming" thing. Not that BushRoveHughesRumsfeldRice will pay it any mind, of course.
No, we do not think god hates us. Obviously, she hates Port Arthur, Texas.
Yes, I would totally nail Ray Nagin. You'd hit it, too, wouldn't you, Aaron? I have it on good authority that you've got a thing for tha flava.
No, we are not making gumbo to pass the time. It's too damn hot.
Yes, Anderson Cooper can have my phone number. (Call me, Andy!)
Got it? Great.
Tersely,
Richard
"Surreal" isn't seeing photos of my New Orleans, muddy and desolate and nearly uninhabited. "Surreal" isn't preparing to ride out a massive hurricane less than four weeks after the worst natural disaster in US history. Hell, "surreal" isn't even Jan Crouch's gravity-defying coiff.
No, ladies and gentlemen, "surreal" is watching Martha Stewart show Liza Minnelli and Ben Vereen how to boil crawfish. Has the world gone stark-raving mad?
Thursday, September 22, 2005
From the Times-Picayune:
The morning before Hurricane Katrina roared into New Orleans, Dave Howard got a call from his supervisors at the Sewerage & Water Board directing him to report to work at Jahncke Pumping Station No. 14 alongside the Lake Pontchartrain levee in eastern New Orleans.
. . .
[During the storm] the pumps kept running with one exception: A spell of two days early in the crisis, when the city’s water supply gave out and the pumps had to be shut down before they overheated.
During that lapse, Howard and his cohorts – including electricians John Alexander and Bobby Brouillette and diesel mechanic Steve Tregre - devised an alternative: They’d run one pump at a time until the temperature in the gear boxes reached 150 degrees. Then they’d shut it off and fire up the next one until it, too, was nearly fried.
The Thursday after the storm, Tregre came up with a better idea: Use the water from the Jahncke Canal, which the station pumps into the lake, to cool the pumps. Sure, the water was nasty and full of debris, but these were desperate times, with at least three feet of water – full of feeding alligator gars - pooled around the station and nearby homes virtually inundated.
"Pumping Station Operators Ride Out the Storm," 9/20/05
Okay, so the fact that these pumps stayed up and running for most of the time is remarkable. So's the fact that the engineers were able to keep them operational even without a reliable cooling mechanism.
What's of interest to me, however, is those alligator gars. I mean, have you seen those freakin' things? That's some shit, yo.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Two massive storms in one month? An escalating cultural war between the left and the right over the role of religion in public life? A political war between America and Iraq (and the Taliban, too, I suppose) that's spiralled into a religious war between Jesus and Allah? Even as I write this, thousands of ecstatic evangelicals are probably flipping through the Book of Revelations quicker than your average pornhound fast-forwards through dialogue. Armageddon would seem to be at hand, indeed.
Well, except for the part about Rita hitting Texas. I have a suspicion that Pat Robertson et al think of Texas as the Western Hemisphere's answer to the Holy Land. If Yahweh were to damage it with one of them there hurricanes, well, that might put the whole prophecy thing in jeopardy...
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
I don't know how it happened, but I think I've become Catholic.
For over three weeks, my home has sat abandoned, uninhabited, and uninhabitable 130 miles away. On Saturday, my car broke down in Baton Rouge, an hour from my current home. Later that day, I lost my keys somewhere in New Orleans, and they never resurfaced. Last night, the piece de resistance: I decided to borrow my host's bike and trek to the gym, thinking that a good workout would clear my head a bit. It did, but just as I was heading back, my front tire blew out, forcing me to schlep the bike the three miles to the house.
So as I was walking home down Lafayette's busy main drag, pushing the bike with one hand, holding my duffel bag with the other, sweating in the 90+ degree heat and goddess-knows-how-much humidity, I was really, really tempted to complain. But then, just as I was about to scream out "Why hast thou forsaken me?" or something similarly drama-queeny, I thought, "No, dumbass, you have no right to bitch about anything. You still have a home, a job, your partner, your pets. There are hundreds of thousands of people who fared far, far, far worse than you. Now just shut the hell up and deal."
Basically, I guilted myself into submission. Sounds pretty Catholic to me, don't you think? My Southern Baptist daddy is gonna have a conniption fit.
Sunday, September 18, 2005
Home, briefly
  
When I turn the corner, the house looks mostly as we left it. There are a couple of strips of weatherboard missing from the second floor, but they came off weeks ago when we were just starting the tropical storm alphabet, during Cindy. Most of the homes around me are fine, too. An awning torn off, a few tree limbs down. Nothing too big.
I get closer and see that our dormer window is gone. On the far side of our house, the neighbor's 30-foot-tall loquat tree has fallen. It slid alongside our house on its way down, taking out the fence, a couple more sideboards, some windowpanes, and one complete window. The hand of Fatima is still hanging by the front door, though. So is the snooty French, "Attention: Chien Lunatique" sign. There's a mark spraypainted on the front of the house, presumably by the National Guard. I can't translate it entirely, but I think it means "No dead bodies inside."
The door is heavy and swollen. That's not surprising: midway through September, it's still sweltering and very, very humid in New Orleans. I give the door a kick and breathe a sigh of relief: nothing's changed. Glass on the floor from a shattered window, but otherwise, it's okay.
There's no smell of death in the air. I'm hopeful for Lola.
I get to the kitchen, and there are still two full bowls of cat food on the floor: the SPCA must've come early on and taken her away. I put my bag on the table and call around just to make sure. No answer. Great.
I open the door to the study and make my way to the back. It's high noon, so there's no light coming directly through the windows. It's dark and stifling. Jonno made me a list of clothes and supplies. I just want to get them and get out.
I look around and see that there's not much damage. Some more small trees and shrubs are down in my neighbor's yard. A handful of my potted plants have died. I walk back to the kitchen to get my duffel bag and start packing.
Then I see her: a long, low lump stretched across a side table. I take a step toward her and call out "Lola?", but she doesn't respond.
The pieces quickly fall into place: during the storm, the door to the study slammed shut, trapping her in the back of the house for nearly three weeks, a few crucial feet away from bowls of food and a tap that's still dripping. Lola's eyes are slits, green and lifeless. I call her name again, stroke her back, but nothing.
Without thinking, I say, "I'm sorry." I keep repeating it: "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." I say it again and again as I walk back to the yard, and though the words stay the same, the inflection changes: now, I'm furious. I'm furious at the SPCA, the Humane Society, every organization I contacted one day after the storm and who've obviously been conducting rescues in the area. I'm furious with neighbors who could've checked on her. I'm furious with friends who could've gotten in. But of course, I'm most furious with myself. Lola is feisty and stubborn, and on the handful of occasions I've tried to put her in carriers, I've lost significant amounts of blood. In the rush of our evacuation, it was simpler to leave her behind in a well-stocked house. I never anticipated that something as simple as a tricky doorlatch, an inch-long piece of metal, would decide whether she lived or died.
I pick up a shovel and start to dig, but the ground is strangely hard. I'm sweating like a pig, maybe two or three of them. I grab a post-hole digger and try again. It's no easier. I'm still repeating "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." It gives me a focus, something to keep my mind occupied, something to keep me from feeling too sad and guilty just yet. I'm making no progress with the digging. It's going to be a very shallow grave.
I hear a tiny clinking and a meager "meow." The neighbor's cats must've started using my water garden for drinking. I glance up, expecting to see the usual assortment of toms and black cats, and there's Lola, standing in the back door, looking at me.
It's one of those moments when I really, truly don't believe my eyes. It's like after someone's died, you think you see them from the corner of your eye, but you turn your head and realize there's no one there at all, or maybe it's just a coat rack, or perhaps a passerby happens to have a gait similar to that of your mother or grandfather or best friend from college.
A full five seconds later, I rush over to Lola, pick her up, and bring her to the kitchen. I put her next to the running tap, but she's not interested. Maybe the water smells contaminated to her, or maybe she's been drinking from the toilet for the last 20 days. I place her on the ground by the food, and her mood changes. For the first time, I notice that she's skeletal, and she's clearly starving.
I leave her to eat while I start packing. Five minutes later, I've put her in the cat carrier I brought from Lafayette, and we're out the door. I take her back to my office, where my coworkers and members of the National Guard (who have commandeered our offices, turning them into a temporary base of operations) peek in on her. I leave her in their hands and rush off to look in on other homes and pets. No luck with the outdoor cat at a friend-of-a-friend's house. I leave her as much water as I can in an upturned trashcan lid and move on. I pass by another friend's home and notice she's lost a bit of her roof--nothing too big, but she'll want to know. I take a picture and move on.
I arrive at my pal Jim's house, which looks to be in very good shape. I see that the National Guard has come by his place, too; they spraypainted their mark on his sidewalk, which is more considerate than what they've done at mine, I suppose. Beside his door, there's another mark--it says "SPCA" with a big "X" by it. Cool: they didn't get my cat, but at least they got to Jim's. I enter the house, just to make sure.
I call around, looking in all the hiding places I know she likes. Finally, I peek under the bed, and sure enough, there she is: curled up in a ball, hidden in the lining under the box spring. I prod her a bit, and she meows. After a bit, she slips to the floor, and I try to put her in a second carrier I've brought, but she's shy and runs away. Ten minutes later, she runs behind the bathtub, and I know she's not coming out. I open the three gallons of water sitting on the kitchen table and fill up every mixing bowl and saucepan I can find. I turn on the tap just a trickle (though his water isn't running yet), crack open every can of cat food in the pantry, look in on her once more, lock up and go. She's gotten by for several weeks on far less, and with power coming back on and people gradually returning, I'm hopeful she'll do okay 'till I can get back again.
These are the high points of my day. The rest is a frustrating blur:
- My car blows its serpentine belt and water pump shortly after dawn, just as our convoy is leaving Baton Rouge to head into the city.
- Hours later, sometime between leaving Jim's house and the time we begin our trek back to Baton Rouge, I misplace my keys, and I still haven't found them.
- I'm surrounded by drama queens and other high-strung types for the better part of the journey.
- By the time we return to Baton Rouge and I have my car towed to Pep Boys, the store is closed; I leave my spare key and a note in the night drop, but who knows if they'll do anything about it.
- I have to ask my hosts--who have already put up with Jonno and I and our dogs for three weeks--to drive almost an hour to pick me up and another hour to bring me home.
- I'm too busy to eat or drink much all day, and from about noon until the time I go to bed, I have a splitting headache.
Still, a great day.
That was yesterday, and today, of course, I'm feeling guilty. There were so many other pets I could've helped if I'd planned better, if I'd known where to find them. I could've left water for the neighbor's cats. I heard dogs barking, and I could've tracked them down, left them water, too. I think my neighbor's dogs were still in the backyard--though there wasn't a National Guard mark on their house or the sidewalk, leading me to believe that they might be among the 10,000 or so New Orleanians who are still be holding out. (It wouldn't surprise me: they're of hearty Cajun stock.) Even so, I missed dozens of opportunities.
I'm starting to think I need a vacation.
  
Friday, September 16, 2005
MISCELLANY
- So next week, folks in certain areas of the city will be going home. Our neighborhood hasn't been invited back yet, presumably because portions of our ZIP code--namely, the 9th Ward and Lower 9th Ward--are still underwater. I can only hope that some of my fellow faubourgiennes are badgering City Councilwoman Jackie Clarkson by cell phone to fix the situation, 'cause her website sure as hell ain't working.
- For those still wondering about our cat, I have nothing to report. I hope that she was rescued by the SPCA, but when I went to the massive animal shelter set up in Gonzales, I didn't see her. Maybe she was taken to another shelter. Maybe I didn't see her (it's VERY chaotic over there). Maybe she's already escaped from the house by means of a broken window (I'm sure there were several from which to choose). I'll know for sure tomorrow, though: I'm being taken into New Orleans via police escort. It appears that my workplace has been taken over by the National Guard, and since we don't know how long they'll be there, my boss and I are retrieving some essentials. Rest assured, on the way back home, I'm going to stop by my house come hell or, well, high water.
- I've admitted before that I'm a low-level videogame geek. I've also admitted that I used to play D&D. A lot. I can say with a clear conscience, however, that I never, ever played Magic: The Gathering--although, this lil' web project might force me to reconsider.
- If President Bush is, as he said last night, responsible for the problems of Hurricane Katrina, I don't think I want him to be responsible for the solutions.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
An Open Letter to Andrei Codrescu
Dear Andrei:
May I call you Andrei?
Let me start by telling you how much I enjoy your work. You're extraordinarily articulate, and your critical eye is keen--which is more than I can say of most other kids from the former Soviet Bloc. Granted, your prose sometimes waxes a bit poetic for my tastes, and your writing can become unnecessarily dense, but all-in-all, you're a-okay in my book. We New Orleanians have been lucky to count you in our number.
However, I take some issue with your recent comments in the New York Times about our city's "doomed" future. Specifically, you claim that New Orleans' "great period" has come to an end as a result of the hurricane, but I have to tell you, Andrei: our "great period" was over long before you or I were born. Since before the collapse of Storyville, New Orleans has been riding on its past glories. The city has tried to grow and prosper, but we've been outpaced by upstart burgs like Cleveland and San Diego and--goddess forbid--Dallas. We can't compete with the corporate communities of those cities because our educational system, not to mention our geography, have put us at a disadvantage. Even our cultural communities are average, at best. Apart from our music and culinary industries--both of which are formidable--New Orleans is no real stand-out.
In case you're wondering, yes, I'm going somewhere with this.
The way I see it, what makes New Orleans great is its atmosphere. And I mean that in the most intangible sense possible. Tourists come to New Orleans thinking they want to taste the food and hear the music and drink the booze, but ultimately, what they walk away with is something grander and far more indescribable. And whatever that is, it's bound up in the people. And the people will be back--maybe not the same people, maybe not your friends, but people. And they'll be people who want to be there, who love the city's charm and romance and je ne sais quoi and plan to keep it rolling. I mean, there's a reason that a successful 2006 Carnival season is at the top of our city leaders' wish-lists right now: the krewes are the city, and by ensuring that they're alive and well, we're ensuring that the city is alive, too.
I guess my biggest problem with what you've said--both here and elsewhere--is that you're clearly a slave to nostalgia, and lemme tell you Andrei, there's nothing I hate more than nostalgia. It's selfish. It's static. It's a dead-end. You want nostalgia? Visit someplace like Savannah or Charleston: nothing but the Geritol crowd taking old-home tours for as far as the eye can see. New Orleans, however, is not nostalgic. Our city's romance is alive because we live it every day. So while the specifics of "your city"--your friends, your hangouts, your "great period"--may be damaged or gone forever, don't assume it's ruined for the rest of us.
In closing, I'd like to reiterate what everyone else in the country has been saying for the past week or more: San Francisco bounced back after the Big One in 1906. New York bounced back after September the 11th. Hell, even Atlanta bounced back after being burned to the goddamn ground. And to the inhabitants of those cities, each of those tragedies looked just as insurmountable as New Orleans does right now to you and me. Luckily, our capacity for memory--fresh, vivid, blood-red memory--is very short indeed. Even now, the floodwaters are receding from the streets, New Orleans is receding from the front pages, and soon we'll be getting on with the humdrum business of our lives. So keep writing it all down, Andrei, because in five years, you might not be able to recall how you're feeling now. We'll check in then, perhaps.
Thanks so much for your time, and I hope to see you soon.
Your fan,
Richard
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
For all those who've asked, our cat is still missing. I've gotten no word from our acquaintance who was supposed to venture into the city. I doubt he's gone yet, and when he does, I don't know that he'll even have time to peek in on her.
Another botched opportunity: on Sunday, I was supposed to go to New Orleans with a very clever friend who'd figured out a way for us to get past the military patrols. I was all set, but then our wires got crossed (communication here is still a challenge), and he went without me. He was able to get to his house, but not to mine, alas.
There is some good news, though: when my friend got home, he found that a rescue team had already taken his cat. Even better, there was still a full bowl of food on the floor, meaning that the team arrived early on. So, since my friend and I put in our requests to the SPCA at about the same time, and since neither of our neighborhoods flooded, I'm hoping that Lola has already been rescued.
I have some work to do in Baton Rouge today, and afterward, I'm going to trek to Gonzales, Louisiana. That's where they're keeping all the rescued animals. Apparently, there's no system to the kennels at this point. You can't call and ask for a pet by name or location or markings or anything; you just have to go down and look for yourself. When you find a reasonable match, I think they have some rudimentary system for verifying the address where it was found. That's what I hope, anyway.
Monday, September 12, 2005
Before August 29, I think most of us took our friends for granted. We knew where they were, we knew how to reach them. We called or emailed them when we needed them, left them alone when we didn't.
Katrina changed all that. In scattering us to the four winds (literally), the hurricane has forced us to communicate with one another in more, I dunno, substantial ways. There's all the I'm-so-glad-you're-okays and the Where-are-you-livings and the Are-you-going-backs. Like the phone company, we've had to completely rebuild our networks--no more of this taking friends for granted stuff. That's kinda cool, if you ask me. I would've prefered getting the message via an afterschool special on network television instead of being forced from my home for several months, but whatever.
The downside of that rebuilding, of course, is that my inbox is now a toxic gumbo of emails, each demanding a response. Every day, I have to let a few more sit, and they've really begun to pile up. So if you've written me in the past two weeks, rest assured, I haven't forgotten you. I'm just avoiding you. For a bit, anyway. You'll hear from me soon, I hope.
One other good thing to come out of all this: the name "New Orleans" has been on the lips of so many newscasters and pundits that maybe everyone in the world will finally understand that calling our city "New Or-LEENS" is just plain wrong. Unless you're singing, of course...
Sunday, September 11, 2005
So, lots of people have brought up the subject before--including moi--and I know there are many others wondering the same thing: who in their right mind is gonna live in New Orleans when all this is over?
Well, I don't know about the "right mind" part, but I can be pretty sure that the people who go back home to stay--including yours truly--are the ones who want to be there.
Clearly, we're going to lose folks, especially refugees who've found work and homes and communities elsewhere. We'll probably lose some business people, too. And I don't blame 'em a bit--many of 'em lost everything they had, and even those who didn't are gonna have a long row to hoe to get things back on track. Apart from second-rate, carpetbagging contractors, no one's gonna have an easy time of it. Only those truly dedicated to the city are likely to stick it out.
That excites me.
This could be a great opportunity--an opportunity to do some cleaning, some straightening, some reorganizing of New Orleans, a chance to fix some of its less-than-endearing flaws. Yeah, we'll probably screw up somewhere along the way, but at least the possibility of improvement is there. That's enough to keep me going.
Hell, if we're lucky, we might even finally get rid of Tom freaking Benson. Ya hear me, Tommy? Your cavalier ambivalence toward New Orleans and your stupid, pandering, post-game second-lines have pissed me off long enough. Now might be a great time to pack your bags and get the hell out of Dodge. Good luck finding a sazerac in San Antonio.
Saturday, September 10, 2005
Some facts: I'm an optimist. I love New Orleans. I'm keeping my car gassed up and my bags packed so I can roll right on home the second they let us back in.
Some other facts: most of New Orleans' historic districts--the Quarter, Uptown, the Marigny--are fine, having sustained only minor damage in the hurricane. The character of the city that tourists and locals know and love won't change. Property values in the city will drop a bit, particularly in those areas that saw minimal flooding like like Mid-City and the Treme, but the majority of the historic homes there will survive.
Today, as I drove through miles and miles of mating lovebugs on my way to dad's place in Mississippi, I was pondering all of this, when suddenly I had a vision--a fantastic vision of New Orleans' future. And basically the vision was this: what if New Orleans suddenly became "The Place" again? You know, the happening, moving, so-hip-it's-not-even-on-the-radar hip place to be?
It's within the realm of possibility. I mean, New Orleans has character and charm and romance out the yin-yang. Other culturally rich places like New York, San Francisco, Santa Fe, and even Provincetown have become impossibly expensive, pushing the young, the artists, the drag queens--in short, all the interesting people--out of town. What if New Orleans will became their new home? What would that be like?
That's my vision.
Friday, September 09, 2005
So, no, I didn't get the cat. When we arrived in Jefferson Parish, I went up to one of the guys in uniform guarding I-10 (it's completely blocked to non-military/emergency traffic), and I batted my eyes and went through the whole Scarlett O'Hara/damsel-in-distress routine, but no dice. Apparently, I'd stumbled upon the last surviving heterosexual state trooper in Louisiana. He was from somewhere up near Shreveport. Maybe that explains it.
All isn't lost, though. While rescuing a buddy from St. Francisville yesterday (he was staying at a friend's plantation, which was beautiful, but the owners weren't so happy with his three dachsunds), I ran into an acquaintance from my neighborhood. He's a old-line New Orleanian, and through his numerous family connections, he's going to try to return to the city in the next few days to check on his business. Since his shop and warehouses are just a few blocks from my house, I've given him a key so he can at least let Lola out.
I feel guilty spending so much time and energy on a cat when I know others have lost homes and jobs and loved ones--not to mention photo albums, wedding rings, and refrigerators covered in children's artwork. Hell, I feel guilty for being able to sit here with a hot cup of Community Coffee and piddle on my laptop. I wish I could be happy with everything I still have, but I'm not.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
I'm leaving for New Orleans right now to help a friend's mother retrieve stuff from her apartment in Metairie (Jefferson Parish). I'm gonna beg and plead and commit random acts of espionage to get into Orleans Parish and retrieve my cat. I don't know how I'll fare, especially now that they're forcing absolutely everyone out of the city at gunpoint, but, you know: you don't ask, you don't get, right? Wish me luck.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
So now that water is finally moving into Lake Pontchartrain and the evacuation phase is winding down and some residents are even being allowed to return to their homes, maybe it's time to ask a couple of questions about New Orleans' future.
Here's what I mean: New Orleans is a town built on tourism, right? Service industry is king. And, of course, service industry workers--the people who toil in hotels, restaurants, and nightclubs--get paid practically nothing. Ergo, it should come as no surprise to the rest of the country that New Orleans has such a high percentage of poverty-level families because the city's major employer pays crapola. It's these families we've seen on TV for the past week, families who couldn't afford to leave, families who lived in flood-prone neighborhoods, families who have now lost everything.
So if these families, the working poor, weren't able to leave in the face of a major hurricane, do we really think they're going to be able to afford to come back? And if they do, what's there for them? No homes. No family. A city full of restaurants and hotels that will take time to get back up and running. All of which begs the question: how does an industry restart itself without a workforce?
There is, however, a bright side--or at least the possibility of a bright side. To draw people back, the service industry might have to start paying people a living wage. That'd boost the city's mean income and, quite possibly, New Orleans' quality of life.
Or maybe--and wouldn't this be interesting?--maybe New Orleans will set its sights on other economic engines. I mean, yes, tourism will always be an important part of the economy--after all, we're the most interesting city in America, right? But what if we were able to build our the city's new foundations upon a second industry? I'm not an economist, I'm not an entrepreneuse, so I don't know what that might be, but there's got to be something besides Hooters and the W and the Cat's Meow.
Monday, September 05, 2005
To the dozens of right-wingers who say that we brought it on ourselves; to the countless conservative Christians who believe Katrina was their god's attempt to cleans New Orleans of sodomites; please note:
The French Quarter was spared. The Faubourg Marigny was spared. The Bywater was spared. Most of Uptown was spared. These are the neighborhoods that we, the fags, dykes, and trannies of New Orleans, call home--not Lakeview, not Lake Vista, not the Lower Ninth Ward, not New Orleans East, not Arabi, not Chalmette. If god or Allah or Yahweh or whoever has it out for anyone, it would seem to be working families, immigrants (New Orleans East is home to one of the largest Vietnamese communities in the world), and the poor.
So the way I see it, either the hurricane was a random act of natural violence, or your god has really lousy aim.
Sunday, September 04, 2005
I know I've been spouting a lot of sappy, stoner-esque talk since this whole thing began, but you have to admit, it's all a little, well, mind-blowing (to borrow a well-worn stoner phrase).
I mean, think of it. Think of everyone you encounter on a daily basis.
The eccentric neighbor who spends way too much time gardening and way too little time fixing up his decrepit house. The crazy cat lady who stops you on the sidewalk in the unbearable noonday sun to tell you about her newest grandchild or her plans for this year's Christmas decorations. The guy at the coffee shop who makes your heart flutter each morning but who acts like he's never seen you before. The girl at the coffee shop who flirts shamelessly with you and has your order ready to go before you've even reached the counter. The security guard you've seen almost every day for the past five years but whose name you couldn't remember if she held her gun to your head. The secretary at the front desk who always eats lunch by herself in the same corner of the canteen and who'd be almost pretty if she'd get that hair out of her face and bought some clothes that actually fit. The woman at the bank who was just transferred to town after a lifetime spent in Minneapolis. The girl at the grocery store whose hair changes a little bit each week--at least, you think it does, so you compliment her on it, but she just looks at you like you're nuts, then puts your eggs and bread in the same flimsy plastic bag. The guy at the bicycle shop that you really can't stand because he's just so damn surly (not to mention cute). Your best friend's aunt, who had you over for dinner six months ago and to whom you still haven't written a thank-you note. The bartender at your favorite watering hole who only charges you for every other beer. The bartender at your backup watering hole who takes forever to mix a goddamn Absolut on the rocks, dirty. The woman who runs that theatre downtown where you were pleasantly surprised by the last play. That guy who was in that show with whatisface, your friend from, like, a decade ago--what was his name? The barfly who nearly puked on your half-naked, flip-flopped feet last week. That chick with the red hair, the Thursday night go-go dancer. The guy you used to call "White Chris" to distinguish him from the two black guys named Chris in your immediate circle of friends. That woman you saw on the corner last week with the granny-cart full of Flavor-Ice boxes and a little girl holding the hem of her housecoat. The waiter at that Vietnamese restaurant who was nice enough to bring you extra Basil leaves for your soup. Everyone you saw on the streets last Mardi Gras. Everyone who was at your house for New Year's Eve . Everyone who was at your house for New Year's Eve, year before last. That man who sits on your board who's a bank president and a total pillar of society and everything but who just refuses to remember your name. The woman who grooms your dog. That kid with the red hair who wiped out on his skateboard in front of your house. That guy in your yoga class who's nice and all, but seems like he's competing with you on some level. Your fraternity brother who you ran into on the street who's now working for some marine supply company in suburbia. The kid two houses over who said he can fix your roof, no problem. The kid's grandmother and grandfather, who live with him. All their relatives. All their friends. All of their relatives and friends.
In short, everyone--everyone--for as far as you can see, everyone you'd encounter in the course of a normal day. Imagine all of them gone. No one is where he or she would normally be. Each and every one of those lives disrupted, on hold, indefinitely. No one you know is living a normal life, at home, comfortable.
See what I mean? Mind-blowing.
Saturday, September 03, 2005
So overall, I'm in pretty good spirits. Of the many, many things that have happened in the last seven days, I've managed to put most of them out of my mind. Call it willful ignorance. Still, there's one that continues to give me pause, cause me anxiety, nearly make me cry. It's this:
Jonno and I had at least five distinct ways we could have dealt with the hurricane, the first four of which were very, very wrong.
Option #1: Stay at the house. To be fair, this wasn't on the table for too long, since we've gotten in the habit of moving to hotels during hurricanes. Still, it's an option we considered.
Option #2: Stay with our friend, Martin. Now to be fair, Martin does live in the Warehouse District (well, did live there), and his place is on the second floor. I know his neighborhood didn't flood, and I'm sure it was among the last to lose power. We'd have been uncomfortable, but I guess we would've had wheels handy, so we could've eventually gotten out.
Option #3: Move to a hotel. This, in fact, was our real gameplan. We had reservations and everything. Then I got a call Saturday night saying that the hotel was going to cancel our reservation if Mayor Nagin called for a mandatory evacuation. Ultimately, though, I think Hizonner's evacuation order provided an exception for hotels and hospitals, so, theoretically, we could've gone this route--and been thoroughly stranded, since the area around the hotel flooded and would've rendered our car useless.
Option #4: Evacuate to Mississippi. My family is from Mississippi, and there were any number of places we could've stayed. All of them, however, were situated along the path that Katrina ultimately took. This morning, my dad, mom, and brothers are still without power. Yes, we would've been fine--better than if we'd have stayed in New Orleans--but very uncomfortable, and in a place where Jonno knew no one. Fine for me, not so good for him.
Option #5: Evacaute to Lafayette. Saturday night at 10:00pm, something happened. I was on the sofa watching TV, Jonno was working at his desk, and something just happened. Thunderbolt of clarity, blue streak of recognition--whatever you want to call it. I walked back to the study, Jonno and I looked at each other, and we both understood: We had to leave, and we had to leave IMMEDIATELY. And we had to go to Lafayette. That was it.
A week later, it's just beginning to sink in how completely lucky we are: lucky to have friends here; lucky that these friends have a place for us to stay; lucky that they love dogs; lucky to know other people in Lafayette; lucky to have an array of diversions to occupy our time; lucky to have been invited to stay as long as necessary to get our lives back in order.
I guess what I'm saying is that, statistically speaking, as far as evacuation options were concerned, there was only a 20% chance that we'd make the right choice. Jonno and I are very, very fortunate--probably moreso than most of the people we know.
Then, to make things really unbearable, add to it the zillion-to-one odds under which Jonno and I began our relationship: we met briefly in 1993, didn't hit it off; we met again four years later when I just happened to be in New York, happened to be at a party, happened to see this handsome man I'd been smitten with years earlier, and happened to be re-introduced by a mutual friend. The odds of this life--or any, I guess--are pretty staggering.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
I'm not the kind of guy who gets hysterical. Not usually. I try to keep it together, to see the big picture, to maintain a modicum of control. So what I have to say here may strike some of you as a little unusual, but I need to get it out. And I need to write it down because I'd turn into a big ball of sobs if I spoke the words aloud--of course, that's if I could even manage to track down some of the people to whom I'm speaking. Bear with me.
I'm sorry, Jonno. I'm sorry I dragged you away from your life in New York, lured you down to New Orleans and refused to let you go. I'm sorry I didn't take your complaints more seriously, sorry I didn't really look into other cities, other jobs. I'm sorry for the slow, deliberate accumulation of our lives--the house, the things, the pets, the friends, that gradually made it impossible to leave. I'm sorry we didn't take more with us that night, sorry to rush you, sorry that we're homeless for the next whoknowshowmany weeks.
I'm sorry, Lola. I'm sorry I wasn't more receptive to you when we first met, but I've never been much of a cat person. I'm sorry we hauled you down from New York, threw you into a house with dogs and things that weren't yours. But most of all, I'm sorry we left you behind. I'm sorry we didn't think longer-term, sorry we didn't consider the possibility that it might be a very long time before we could come back for you. I'm sorry that you're uncomfortable now and that you probably won't survive until we return.
I'm sorry, Drew and Don. I'm sorry we're taking up space in your brand new home--a home you bought together and that you should be enjoying, alone. I'm sorry we brought dogs and things and our messy, chaotic lifestyle. I'm sorry I don't know when we'll be leaving. I'm sorry that we're occupying so much of your attention when you have dozens of other friends and family to worry about.
I'm sorry, friends in New Orleans. I'm sorry I encouraged some of you to move to the city. To those who were already there, I'm sorry I begged you to stay. I'm sorry I didn't encourage you to pursue your dreams, ply your talents in other cities. I'm sorry we all find ourselves missing our hometown, reliving fond memories, and quietly lamenting the fact that things have changed, irrevocably.
I'm sorry, family. I'm sorry to make you worry. To my adopted family, I'm sorry I couldn't explain to you how much I love New Orleans, why I love it. I'm sorry I had to go there to build a life--a life that you tolerated, but didn't really understand. To Callie and Tiff, I'm sorry I drew you back to a city that you once loved but had kind of left behind.
I'm sorry, all of you. I'm sorry that you've spent so much time and energy worried about us, writing an endless stream of emails and phone calls and text messages full of help and love and everything else you could offer. I'm sorry I've sung the praises of the city, sorry to invite you down, sorry that your memories of the city are just as painful as mine, now.
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