Last night I looked back over the script for Grenadine and realized there are still lots of holes to fill in–lots of blank spaces where jokes should be, lots of songs left to write. And don’t even get me started on the technical stuff I’m going to have to tackle between now and opening night; the wig-styling issue alone is enough to make me wanna curl up and D-I-E die. (By some strange coincidence, the company members who left town just happened to be the same ones who felt most comfortable amongst rat-tail combs and Aquanet.)

Still, there are several bits that make me giggle–like this one, which leads into what I hope will be an Elvis-y parody of “Gloom, Despair, and Agony on Me” as sung by Loweezy from Snuffy Smith:

PINEY: (Breaking down) Who knew that marryin’ my dead sister’s husband would lead to so much tribulation? If only I coulda resisted the powerful urgings of my womanly loins! Oh, woe is me! (Sobs) …It’s a sad, sad state of affairs, Madge, I tell you what…

(Longish pause)

MAGDE, THE ACCOMPANIST: (Sighs) Maybe you’d like to sing about it?

PINEY: (Standing up, straightening herself) If you don’t mind. Somethin’ in the neighborhood of “C”.

Well, at least I think it’s funny. But then, I rank incest right up there with meat and the letter “k” when it comes to guaranteed comic material….

So, last night we had a read-through for our upcoming show. We were missing a couple of people due to work schedules, and we had to move the whole damn thing to a friend’s house because of a massive power outage in my neighborhood, but we read it, by gum.

I have to say though, it was a little weird. It was weird writing it by myself, ’cause I’m used to bouncing ideas and lines off my buddy, Flynn, but he evacuated to Atlanta during the storm, and he doesn’t intend to return. We plan to collaborate on projects in the future, but for this one, I dunno…. I’m pretty busy at the moment, and trying to co-write a piece with someone hundreds of miles away seemed a bit much. But maybe more importantly, I think I just wanted to prove to myself that I could write it alone. I don’t know that it’s as funny as it would’ve been with Flynn’s help, but I did it nonetheless.

It was also a little weird writing it and reading it without most of our core actors. Grenadine is our company’s holiday show, and of the eight or so regulars we’ve had in the piece, five have moved on or are otherwise unavailable. Problem is, over the years, each of these actors has really become her/his character; Jason is Sierra-Britney, Roy is Loretta. I eliminated those characters for this version of the play, but it still feels weird not to have them (or the actors who play them) in the show.

Still, the most important thing is that the show is written. It’s different than it has been–the actors are different, the characters are different, the tone is different–but it’s written. And we’re going to perform it in December. It may not prove to be a brilliant business decision, but hey, somebody’s got to do it, right? I mean, there all these actors and directors mumbling about “I guess there’s not gonna be any theatre in New Orleans for a while….” Well, no shit! Nothing’s going to happen if you don’t get up off your asses and do something. Sheesh…

The most frustrating thing, of course, is that we’re getting it from both sides. The pessimism, I mean.

Many New Orleanians who’ve returned are still making dire predictions about repopulation and the restoration of basic services, despite the fact that both have progressed far more rapidly than officials had initially predicted. To these people–the nay-sayers and half-emptyers living within the city limits–I ask, “Why the hell did you move back? Why didn’t you just stay in Atlanta or Houston or Dallas or wherever your cousin or brother or aunt invited you to live ’till all this was over? If you’re not going to offer a solution or at least some constructive criticism, then please do us all a favor and politely get the fuck out.” Seriously, we’ve got a city to rebuild, and we’ve got no one leading us, and the last thing we need is a chorus of sniveling pantywaists whining, “It can’t be done!”

We’re getting the gloom-and-doom treatment from the outside, too–especially from the media. Case in point: a friend of mine runs an after-school arts program for at-risk youth, and she was recently contacted by a reporter from a national news outlet who’s writing a story on the current state of education and the arts in New Orleans. My friend has been completely on the ball the whole time, but apparently the reporter didn’t want to hear it. The interview went something like this:

Reporter: So, how do you feel about the fact that you’ve lost so many children to the storm?

My Friend: I beg your pardon?

R: Well, so many of the kids you serve are now scattered across the country, and you have no way to get in touch with them….

MF: Actually, we’ve had access to our files the whole time, so we’ve been in constant contact with our students by cell phone and email.

R: But surely there must be many who are still missing and presumed dead?

MF: No, we’ve reached all of them.

R: None dead at all?

MF: Um, no….

(Awkward pause)

R: Well, certainly you must lament the fact that your seriously underprivileged students have lost their arts training–the one thing that provides structure and joy to their otherwise depressing, dead-end lives?

MF: Fortunately, in nearly all cases we’ve found alternate programs for them in the cities and towns to which they evacuated.

R: Of course, you must be heartbroken to know that they’ll never be coming back.

MF: Actually, many have already begun to move back–especially those from the Westbank. Many lost homes in the storm, but we’ve spoken to their parents, and nearly all of them want to return as soon as possible.

R: But I spoke to another arts educator who said it would be years before New Orleans had enough children to make programs like yours viable!

MF: I don’t know who you’ve spoken to, but we’re planning to start offering classes again in January.

R: I see…. Well, thank you for your time. I’m so sorry for your many, many losses. I know your road to recovery will be a long and arduous one. The nation’s thoughts and prayers are with you. Godspeed! (Click) …Hello? Hello?

So Andy and Soledad and anyone else with a press pass who might be listening: enough already. If you Cassandras have nothing to report but tragedy and despair and woe, maybe you should shuffle off to Bangladesh or Myanmar or the Sudan where there’s more than enough to go around. Just leave us out of it.

Drafts of two letters presented Monday to Nagin’s Bring New Orleans Back Commission contained a list of the panel’s members — minus Archbishop Alfred Hughes, who was left off. Three other commissioners’ names were incorrect.

The two letters, to state Attorney General Charles Foti and the state Board of Ethics, were designed to clarify the commission’s legal status and which state laws apply to its deliberations and actions.

The Rev. Fred Luter was listed as “Later,” and musician Wynton Marsalis as “Winton.”

But the most curious error was the way developer and banker Joseph Canizaro’s name was rendered: “Joe Caviar.”

—NOLA.com

It’s nice to know that despite all the lay-offs and budget cuts and general craziness, New Orleans’ City Hall is able to conduct business as usual with its crack team of highly specialized, inadequately educated, commission-loving bureaucrats.

Michael died so long ago, I can’t remember much about him. Maybe his face. His goofy walk. The way he’d light a cigarette–though, to be fair, that’s only because I have a photo of him in action.

The only thing that’s still vivid in my memory is Michael’s laugh: a short, booming “HA!” that was as funny as any joke. We’d be working, and I’d make a wisecrack, and I’d look up at him, and he’d have this poker face, and I’d say to myself, “I guess I’m not the comedian I thought I was.” Then his mouth would open up a bit, and his lips would broaden into a smile, and his big, brown eyes would sparkle, and “HA!” Then he’d usually turn and go about his business, shaking his head. I don’t know if he was seriously amused or if he was just humoring me.

It’s not the same with other people who’ve died. My grandmother, for example: I remember lots about her. Her dry sense of humor, her many tones of voice, the way she’d kneel and put an arm around my waist as she taught me to cast from a rod and reel. But I knew her so long and she died so slowly, I guess I had a while to build up a repository of memories. Michael died suddenly, with no warning at all, after I’d known him only a few years.

Today, I learned that another friend has died, suddenly.

Jason and I worked together years ago, in the kitchen at Lucky Cheng’s. As the only two even-keeled folks in a room full of hot-tempered nutcases, we tended to stick together. That was fine by me: he was a total hottie and unofficial posterboy of the bi-curious 9th Ward boys. He also had the ultra-hip thing going on, co-starring in the locally produced cult classic, Squishy Does Porno. Yowsa.

As you can imagine, working in a French Quarter kitchen among drag queen waitresses was kinda wild at times, and both of us had our moments (if you know what I mean), but as the years went by, we each settled down. Jason stayed in the service industry and landed a job managing one of my favorite restaurants in New Orleans. I saw him there just a couple of months ago, when Jonno took me out for my birthday dinner. Jason immediately ambled over and hugged us, just as he always did. The place was packed, but his tone was warm and calm. He kissed me on the cheek and wished me a happy birthday, then went about the business of making other people happy.

Jason died last Sunday. I’m told it was a drug overdose, but that sounds strange to me. Jason and I and most of our crowd have been living the straight and narrow for some time now–well, as straight and narrow as things can be here. Not that I doubt my source, but I have to wonder: was it an accident? Could it have been intentional? And if so, why? I mean, no, it’s not the happiest time to live in New Orleans, but he was such an upbeat guy, how could he have been that depressed?

Of course, the weirdest thing–the whole reason for this rambling, maudlin post–is that I remember Jason’s laugh best of all.

ATTENTION POLITICALLY MINDED WEB DEVELOPERS

After the 2004 election fiasco, yours truly decided to register a few potentially viable, politically oriented domains–partly because I thought my friends and I might develop them, and partly because I wanted to keep them away from Karl Rove, James Dobson, and other creatures of the night who might use them for evil. A couple of my pals did the same, then passed the domains onto me.

Now I’ve got a handful of these things, and they’re up for renewal. And while I’d like to think I’ll have time to do something with them in the next year or so, I know I’ve got a city that needs rebuilding and a decimated theatre company that’s trying to move forward, so launching a new, politically active website anytime soon seems unlikely.

Bottom line: I’m giving away these seven domains:

valuevoter.net

valuevoter.org

valuesvoter.net

valuevoters.net

valuedvoters.com

valuedvoters.net

valuedvoters.org

Notice a theme?

Anyway, they expire on November 8th, so act quickly. They’re registered at RegisterFree.com, which is where they’ll need to be renewed, unless you transfer them somewhere else. I’ll hand ’em over free of charge–but of course, if you wanted to make a wee donation to moi, I wouldn’t object….

Well, after weeks of wondering who the hell was in charge around here, it looks like our startlingly inarticulate Governor Blanco has finally stepped up to the plate. Later this week, she’s convening a special session of the legislature to discuss levee repair, tax relief, and most importantly, revamping New Orleans’ public school system–’cause goddess knows, coming back to the mess of mold and stinky refrigerators is bad enough without having to deal with the Circus of the School Board Schmucks, too.

Now the only question seems to be whether our initially-promising-but-now-devastatingly-disorganized mayor will shut the hell up and listen, or will he and the school board and every other elected official in New Orleans put up their usual roadblocks and try to rebuild the [former] status-quo? I can only hope they realize that most of the folks who voted them into office will still be displaced by the time elections roll around, meaning that their days are numbered if they don’t start cooperating and making progress.

FYI, if you wanna take a look at Blanco’s complete to-do list, there’s a PDF of it here. I wouldn’t suggest reading it while operating heavy machinery.

It’s weird to some people: the fact that today, All Saints Day, is an official holiday for Orleans Parish parochial schools. In a normal year, you’d see hordes of children–most in school uniforms, but some dressed more formally–trudging into cemeteries around the city to tidy the graves of their ancestors. This, however, is not a normal year, and I have a sneaking suspicion that today will be a working day at most schools–which is too bad, really, ’cause with all the tree limbs and dead plants and high water marks, many of those graves could use some extra TLC.

That’s not to say that the day isn’t going to be celebrated. Voodoo priestess Sallie Ann Glassman will hold her traditional ceremony honoring the Day of the Dead (a slightly more pagan, less poetic name for November 1). If you’re interested, here’s the details:

• Time: 7:00pm

• Place: 3319 Rosalie Alley (off of Rampart, between Piety and Desire)

• Events: Day of the Dead ceremony, followed by a potluck supper, followed by a procession to St. Roch Cemetery to feed the dead

• What to bring: rum (especially Barbancourt); goat cheese; flatbreads;
  peppers or hot, spicy food; cigars; sunglasses with one lens; crosses;
  funerary items; money; images of St. Gerard; skulls; skeletons; purple
  black and white candles

• What to wear: white with a purple headscarf, or black, purple, and white (though Sallie Ann says that if all your purple and white is covered in black mold, by all means, come as you are)

• More info: call 858 334 5660 or visit the Island of Salvation Botanica at 835 Piety Street

Of course, some of you may remember that back in July, Sallie Ann led a hurricane ceremony, intended to protect New Orleans from violent storms. She says that ceremony worked, to an extent, because Katrina wasn’t technically “The Big One.” On the surface, that sounds like a bit of face-saving, but knowing Sallie a little, I imagine she’d also readily admit that the gods are fickle and don’t always give us what we want. Maybe someone should take this up with her tonight, since I can’t be there….

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]