Construction workers are trying to kill me. In fact, they’re trying to kill all of us: my neighbors, the cutie from the coffee shop with whom I occasionally flirt, that crazy old woman who shuffles around in a patchwork coat 12 months out of the year, everyone.

If they wanted to get creative in their “Final Solution” for New Orleanians, these skilled manual laborers might hurl hammers at us from atop seven-story scaffolding. Or maybe line the roads with [still more] roofing nails. But no, these guys–and yes, they’re mostly guys–are going about it the old fasioned way: they’re trying to run us down in the streets.

The first couple of times it happened, I gave ’em the benefit of the doubt. “They’re new to town,” I thought to myself. “They haven’t gotten the hang of our roadways just yet.” Then, I found myself face-to-face with a late-model Ford F150 hurtling the wrong way down Royal Street at about 40 miles an hour.

The driver clearly saw me, saw that my hands were full trying to guide four nutty, hyperactive hounds across the street, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow down. I waved my arms, yelled something to the effect of “You’re driving the wrong way down a one-way street, asshole,” but he just flipped me off and kept going. This has since happened half a dozen times–oddly enough, usually when I’m walking the dogs.

The problem is this: in New Orleans’ older neighborhoods, most streets are just wide enough for one lane of parked cars (since few of us have driveways) and one lane of traffic. Add a third car-width to the mix, and civilization as we know it begins to crumble. If you’ve ever driven along the few two-way streets Uptown and had to negotiate the right-of-way with someone coming from the opposite direction, you know what I mean.

So to all you contractors from Wisconsin or Florida or wherever contractors come from, lemme say two things: (1) thanks for coming, ’cause we need the extra help, and (2) if you choose not to read our “one way” and “no turn” signs, you should know that I bruise and sue very easily.

MISCELLANY

• Among the surprising number of festivities planned for this holiday weekend is the New Orleans Bookfair, a seriously boffo literary free-for-all featuring scads of indie publishers, readings from indie stars, and other indie-type events. So, you know, if you’re into the whole “indie” thing, you should head on up to Barrister’s Gallery and check it out. [Note: the Bookfair’s website is screwy at the moment, so you can’t see a full listing of events, so you’ll just have to trust me on this one. But c’mon, would I lie to you?]

• New Orleans’ citywide curfew starts at 2am, right? But this is the weekend that Daylight Savings Time comes to an end, meaning that at on Sunday at 2am, we wind our clocks back an hour. I wonder how many curfew-breakers are gonna try to use that one as an excuse.

• I saw it on The Daily Show the other day, but I didn’t really believe it. Now, however, I see that Beirut’s Daily Star is reporting it, too, so it must be true:

  As with any family moving to the Arab world from the West, “The Simpsons” quickly discovered they’d need to make some adaptations to their lives if they were to connect with the natives. First, they would change their names – the family now called Al-Shamshoons; the father, once Homer, now goes by Omar; his mischievous son Bart, now Badr.

  There would be fundamental changes to their lifestyles as well. Omar, once a fan of tossing back a few beers with friends, now goes to the club or the ahwa (coffee shop) and sips on sodas and juice. The list goes on. Donuts have been replaced by kakh (Arabic cookies); bacon is done away with altogether as it is against Islam; and the kids, once a rowdy bunch of conniving delinquents, are still just as cunning but mind their manners with their parents a bit more.

  — The Daily Star

• You’d think with all the hurricane mishegas and Harriet Miers’ withdrawal and the impending indictment of Scooter Libby, CNN might have its hands full. You’d think so, but you’d be wrong:

  George Takei, ‘Trek’s’ Sulu: I’m gay!

  Body hanging from tree mistaken for Halloween decoration!

  Missing U.S. cat found–in France!

  [NB: creative punctuation, mine]

It’s no secret: I’ve had a lot of foreign objects in my body. When I was a kid, I was prone to swallow things better left to the piggy bank. A few years later, I discovered the delights of piercing and spent a good deal of time paying complete strangers to shove hunks of metal through my ears, my tongue, my lip, and other parts. Then as a mature adult…well, there are some things better left unsaid.

Oddly enough, though, I’d never gotten a tattoo. I think they’re nice and all–in some cases, I’d even consider them “boss,” as the kids used to say–but I’d never found a design I’d be willing to live with for the rest of my life.

You see where this is going.

Last Saturday, happy to be home and looking for something to do in our slowly reawakening city, the boyfriend and I moseyed over to Electric Ladyland for some good ol’ fashioned needle-jabbing fun. I’d decided weeks ago that it was high time to tackle my so-called virgin skin, and Jonno wanted something new–a birthday treat for himself and means of commisserating with me, I suppose. A couple of hours later, we walked out, new-ish men.

Apparently, we’re not the only ones who’ve gotten this idea. Still, I thought some photo documentation might be appropriate. I’ve pixellated the works themselves; if you wanna see ’em, just ask for a peek next time you’re in our neck o’ the swamp…

Jonno went first. He had a clear idea of what he wanted, and the artist was ready to go. Alas, though the guy assigned to me was a total sweetie, we were not, as they say, on the same page. It took some haggling to get it right.

While Jonno was in the chair, he decided to have the work on his arms touched up–something he’d been meaning to do for a couple of years. Later, waiting for dinner at our beloved and very reopened Angeli, I thought he looked like a punkster with some DIY tefillin on his way to the Wailing Wall.

There are probably less painful places to get a tattoo than the upper back–but of course, I didn’t know this ’till after the process had begun. This is me cringing as the needle bumped against my spine.

The obligatory work-in-progress shot. If you look closely at the top of the photo, you can see Jonno peeking through the noren to get the pic.

Nearly done. Can you tell my endorphins have kicked in?

One of the hands-down funniest moments at Monday’s circus of freaks  dress rehearsal for It Takes a Village of Idiots neighborhood association meeting came during the segment I like to think of as “Ask Officer Trying-to-be-Friendly,” when one of the only sane people in the room asked the policeman at the mike to clear up the confusion about curfew.

Frankly, I was glad the guy asked, because I’d asked a dozen people myself, and I’d gotten a dozen different answers. 6pm. 8pm. 12am. 2am. Technically 12am, but they’re not being assholes about it in the Marigny. Technically 12am, but they’re not stopping white folks. Technically 12am, but who gives a crap ’cause they don’t have enough officers to enforce it anyway….

Anyway, the officer blithely responded that curfew was 8pm. This did not sit well with the crowd. In fact, their reaction was not unlike the one congregants at Touro Synagogue might give David Duke if he were to walk in one Friday night and announce that the Holocaust was a sham. Basically, there was lots of screaming and breast-beating and rending of hair (very “Greek tragedy,” very Oresteia), with everyone yelling their own version of what they’d heard from their neighbor’s brother-in-law, who used to work in city hall.

Ultimately, no consensus was reached, and we all left confused. So, perhaps in response to that–or perhaps in response to the (admittedly low-key) festivities planned for this weekend–the Mayor has issued an update/extension of the curfew for most of New Orleans. It’s officially 2am – 6am. Remember, kids: you read it here second. (That’s our unofficial motto around here, BTW: “We bring you the news you could’ve read somewhere else!”)

I’d never been to a meeting of my neighborhood organization, the Faubourg Marigny Improvement Association. They regularly convene in the basement of St. Paul’s Lutheran, which is right around the corner from my house, but the meetings are always potluck, and I’m not much of a cook, so rather than show up with nothing, or bearing something that might kill off half my neighbors, I’ve generally avoided the get-togethers. Which is just as well, ’cause I think my parents would, like, totally flip if they knew I’d set foot in a Lutheran church.

Last night, though, I broke with tradition. Meeting notices were posted on the many, many refrigerators lining the streets (they’re bigger than light poles, and you can spray paint ’em, too!), all saying that our councilperson Jackie Clarkson was going to be there with reps from Entergy and the NOPD and the Sanitation Department and so on. Since I’m unable to take most of those folks and the services they offer for granted right now, I figured it was in my best interests to attend.

I toyed with the idea of picking up something from the grocery store for the potluck portion of the evening, but then I remembered there aren’t any grocery stores open in the ‘hood, so I nixed it. Big deal: I didn’t bring anything, I wouldn’t eat.

It’s a good thing I didn’t bother. There were several hundred people from both the Marigny and neighboring Bywater in the room, and practically no one brought food. Frankly, everyone seemed a little too edgy to eat. While most of us have power and water and phone and cable service, none of us have gas service yet, which means no hot water, which means no hot showers. At the moment, we’re living like old French whores.

Two remarkable things about the meeting. First, Jackie Clarkson–who’s always struck me as a typically grandstanding politico–showed remarkable poise. Though there were clearly moments where she was laying the groundwork for her next campaign, by and large her comments seemed sincere and loaded with common sensical goodness. The same can be said for the various representatives on-hand–especially the Entergy dude, who was, safe to say, easily the least popular man in the room.

The second thing of interest: I realized how completely gentrified my neighborhood has become. Very white, very middle class, very “We could live Uptown but there’s so much more character down here and the prices are cheaper, too.” And, like, really, really gay. Not that I thought my boyfriend and I were the only cakeboys around, but man…. At times, it was like a chorus of asps.

Overall, the meeting was pretty good, pretty informative. The folks at the mike tried to give as many direct answers as they could, sometimes shouting their reponses so that the folks in the courtyard who couldn’t fit in the room could hear. Some of the audience members were good, too, respectfully asking solid, important questions about past performance and plans for the coming weeks. But others…I mean, Jesus H! At one point, I fully expected to turn my head and see folks in mob caps bearing torches. A handful of my dumbass neighbors (mostly the ones who stayed for the whole ordeal and went kinda feral) thought that last night would be the perfect opportunity to yell at some overworked, thoroughly bewildered public officials in a crowded room–which, of course, got us nowhere. By the time the conspiracy theorists started in, it was time to leave. I didn’t even get to hear when they’re going to pick up my garbage. But then, I suppose I’m lucky to have garbage to pick up….

So, the wedding was actually kinda fun–maybe not for those who’d been through weddings a billion times before, but for me, it was almost novel. I suppose that’s partially ’cause I’m a homo (we haven’t gotten the wedding thing down just yet) and partially because I come from a family with serious population-decline issues. I mean, as a kid, I went to funerals several times a year, but never weddings.

On the “pro” side, I got to see my dad and brothers for an extended period of time, which is pretty rare these days. I also got to see my mom, whom I haven’t seen since she emerged from rehab back in April. (She’s doing well, apparently, though she’s aged some.) I had the opportunity to chat a good bit with an aunt I haven’t seen since I hit puberty. The bridesmaids dresses were a nice coffee color, and their bouquets included orange and magenta, which gave off this high-80s, Denny’s Restaurant feel–in a good way. And the cut of the tuxes was moderately flattering.

On the “con” side, the wedding was Baptist. Like, really Baptist. Southern Baptist. As in, both the wedding and the reception were held at First Baptist Church. The service was God this and Jesus that and subservience to your husband and blah, blah, blah. There was no alcohol in sight, which even my father mentioned–and he’s a teetotaller if ever there was one. (Although, as host of the previous night’s equally hooch-free rehearsal dinner, dad had no room to complain.) There was a wee bit of piano music, but nothing serious, and forget about the chicken dance. Oh, and to top everything off, I got cornered by another aunt whom I hadn’t seen since before puberty who wanted a complete update on the status of New Orleans, but all I could think about was “Damn, auntie, I want the number of your plastic surgeon!”

Anyway, for the handful of you who were actually curious about all that, here’s a couple of photos:

That’s me, my dad, and my three brothers. I asked someone to use my camera for this shot, and in each pic, someone different was blinking. You already know what I look like, so I figured I’d take the hit.

Bride, groom, bridesmaids, and groomsmen. (My #2 brother and I aren’t in the pic because we were mere ushers.) I thought it was kinda cool and unusual

and sweet that my brother tapped both my dad and my #4 brother to serve as Best Man–um, Best Men. But then, I’m an old softie.

The happy couple, departing the reception after we’d tried unsuccessfully to pelt them with rose petals. It was pretty, though.

Two interesting things. First, that’s not the groom’s SUV–he owns a truck, and a nice one at that, but the bride preferred leaving in something slightly more conventional…. And second, the couple elected to go to Key West for their honeymoon. They were there

for all of 24 hours before they were forced to evacuate in the face of Wilma. Considering they both got hit hard from Katrina, it all seems slightly inauspicious. But then, my powers of clairvoyance aren’t what they used to be.

The mister and misses–by far, the thinnest people in the whole place.

One more wee trip out of town, and then I’m done. I’m heading to Baton Rouge this morning for a meeting, then on to Lafayette to retrieve the boyfriend from the airport (he’s been away for almost two weeks). Then finally home, all of us: Jonno, me, cat, dogs, everyone.

And on the subject of boyfriends: I was listening to NPR the other day, and Joan Didion was on, and I’ve never been a big fan of hers, but she had the best quote about love. She was talking about true love and long-term relationships, and I can’t remember the quote exactly, but basically she said that the fundamental characteristic of long-term, profound relationships is the constant need to share things with your partner. And I dunno about you, but in my experience, that’s pretty accurate: I see this or read that, and the next thing I know, I’m screaming out, “Hey, Jonno, getta loada this!” I don’t know why that is, but it is…. So, um, rack one up for Joan, I guess.

If you’ve ever met me, you know I’m not the circuit party type. All that jet-setting and gyrating and gym time: I’ve just never had it in me. Never had it, never will. Well, probably never.

Still, I have to admit that among the many encouraging signs of New Orleans’ rebirth, the fact that the annual, ultragay Halloween party is still happening (albeit on a smaller scale) somehow makes me happiest of all. Ordinarily, it wouldn’t be my cup of tea–or GHB, for that matter–but this year…. I mean, I’m not making any promises, my current kum-by-ya state of mind may have faded by then, but at the moment, the ladies can count me in.

Hell, at the very least, it’s a nice, cheap date, right?

So, I got back to New Orleans yesterday. There weren’t any parades to herald my return. My house hadn’t been festooned with garlands, or even toilet paper. But the hounds were overjoyed to run in what’s left of the garden. I suppose that’s something.

Frankly, I hadn’t known what to expect. Despite my strong feelings for the city, what drew me back were the facts: I knew I wanted to continue living in New Orleans, I knew I’d been imposing on friends for many weeks, I knew my electricity was on and that water was drinkable, I knew my house wasn’t going to tidy itself. I added all those up, and logically it made sense to head home. I guess that’s how I make most decisions–I figure out what’s sensible and the emotional stuff usually follows.

Last night, the emotions followed. Like I said, my wi-fi at the house wasn’t working, so I schlepped my laptop to Mimi’s to check email over a beer or two. When I arrived, the place was mostly empty (it was around 5pm, and for some reason, they’d just opened the doors), but as the sun sank lower and lower into the most beautiful sunset I’ve ever seen, people began filtering in. I watched from the corner of my eye as friends who hadn’t seen one another in nearly two months hugged and kissed and asked the same set of questions again and again and again. There was a palpable feeling in the place, and the only word to describe it was giddiness. We were happy to see one another, happy to see the beginnings of normalcy, and most of all, happy to see a damn good beer menu.

Of course, being the good Jew-in-Training that I am, I couldn’t watch all the goings-on without feeling a twinge of guilt–survivor’s guilt, to be precise. I knew that while people in my neighborhood were all smiles and toasts, just ten blocks away, folks didn’t have such luxuries. And as much as I’d like to shut all that out of my mind and focus on me, me, me, it ain’t gonna happen. Not just yet. As my daddy might say–and often did, over the course of last weekend–we’ve all got a long row to hoe.

Just got back to New Orleans for good. The house and garden need some serious attention, and I can’t get my wi-fi to work, but Mimi’s is nearby, and they’ve got wi-fi and very cold beer. If my boyfriend were with me (he’s still out of town), I’d be happier than I’ve been in a very long time–maybe ever.

More on all that later. For now, here’s a memento of my weekend with the folks. It’s a pic of something–goddess only knows what–lying in my dad’s garage. I don’t know what constitutes a “rotating driveline hazard,” but I’m pretty sure we don’t have them in New Orleans. I thought it was funny. But then, my dad would probably find the tipping-soda-machine warning pretty funny…

And just so you know: few people in my family–or in Mississippi in general, for that matter–would be skinny enough to fit through that corkscrew thingy. Maybe he borrowed it from some supermodel soybean farmer…