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.

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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.

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.

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.

Between the conflicting reports coming out of New Orleans, and the replays of old fly-over footage that don’t tell me anything about my neighborhood, and the downed phone lines and cell towers that prevent me from hearing the safe, secure voices of my family and friends, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a big ball of raw emotion right now. Still, in the schizophrenic tug-of-war between the left and right sides of my tiny peabrain, I’m slowly making some progress.

So, while I could devote even more time to self-indulgent navel-gazing, it’s probably in my best interest to jump to the next phase:

Does anybody want to hire a talented writer/grantwriter/graphic & web designer/fundraiser/marketing professional? I know someone who’s available, and he’s got a portfolio to share. Just drop me a line…

I can’t tell you what it’s like to be in New Orleans right now. I can only tell you what it’s like to want to be there.

Obviously, I want to know that my house is okay. I’m not too worried about the things in it–we managed to secure most stuff before we left–I just want to know that it’s still standing. It’s a stupid psychological thing, but to me, if the house is still standing, there’s a possibility that things will return to normal at some point down the line.

I want to stop thinking about the minutiae of my daily life. I want to stop thinking about work, and the multiple jobs I had running at the print shop in Metairie–a print shop that is most likely underwater now–and how that’s going to affect my marketing plans for the year. I want to stop thinking about our theatre company and how our schedule is going to be seriously thrown off, and how we’re going to have to postpone the Facts of Life: “Carrie” project that we’ve been giggling about for years. I want to stop thinking about other things, other plans, other projects that will have to be cancelled, put off, or drastically re-envisioned. I want to stop thinking about paychecks and bills and all the practical things that I don’t usually think about–things that, thanks to direct deposit and online bill payments and other modern miracles, would normally manage themselves.

I want to stop watching the news. It’s deadening, and the broadcasters are prone to get things wrong. Yesterday, reporters kept talking about a levee break in the 9th Ward (my neighborhood), when, in fact, the break was in the Lower 9th Ward, which is further away and is separated from us by another system of levees. I guess the confusion is to be expected when you’ve got non-New Orleanians trying to make sense of our byzantine neighborhood naming systems–but that doesn’t make it any less unsettling.

Not least of all, I want to express my gratitude to our hosts. The mayor is saying that we won’t be able to get back to town for another week, and that utilities won’t be up and running for several more. I love spending time with Drew and Don, but I feel very, very uncomfortable imposing on them for that long. Hell, I wouldn’t feel right camping with my own family for that long. But Drew and Don have been nothing but accommodating.

And to CNN: would it kill you to do a flyby of the Faubourg Marigny? I mean, really, just one good pass up Royal Street…

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, as you’ve likely surmised, the boyfriend and I have evacuated. (I mean, I may be nonchalant and glib when it comes to hurricanes, but I ain’t no dummy.) We’re with the Drew in Lafayette. We’ll be here ’till Tuesday morning at least–maybe a little longer, depending on how things go and when la Nagin et al decide to let us back in. Bottom line: we’re here, we’re safe, we’re comfortable, we’re among friends. Still, I wouldn’t object if you were to send some luck and love vibes our way. See y’all soon…

Katrina and her deadly, deadly waves

Dear Evacuation Monkeys:

This one is different. You officially have my permission to freak out.

Last time, as you’ll recall, we were faced with Dennis, a Category 2 who decided early on that he was gonna hit somewhere between Mobile and Pensacola, and he didn’t change his mind, not once. But Katrina (to my knowledge, the first hurricane named for my fave checkout girl at the St. Claude Robert’s) is way more shady and way more powerful. A couple of days ago, she was all like, “I just can’t get enough of that Pensacola stuff!” And then she was all, “No, baby, Panama City: that’s where all the fine men are, and where there’s fine men, Katrina will follow!” Now, apparently, she’s looking for a daiquiri and some red beans, ’cause she’s set to arrive on Bourbon Street bright and early Monday morning decked out in her Category Four finery.

So, let the evacuation freak out begin. One small suggestion, though, to my fellow New Orleanians: rather than filling up your gas tanks and fleeing for the safety of Mississippi or Texas (yes, having “safety” and “Mississippi” in the same sentence looks weird to me, too), might I suggest evacuating up? It’s slow season for hotels right now, and many of the ones downtown have rooms available at reasonable rates. Best of all, the Quarter and the Central Business District are on fairly high ground, and buildings there are far less prone to lose power because their Entergy cables run underground. And lots of ’em take pets, which is a big bonus in my book.

But wherever you go–whether it’s the Windsor Court or Vickburg or, goddess forbid, Houston–feel free to carry along a modicum of New Orleans-style hysteria. Flash those Manson lamps at the Walgreen’s when you’re buying D batteries. Have a hissy at the Chevron station while you’re filling up. Slap your children in the Home Depot parking lot. Just keep yourself below the Margaret Orr level, will ya? And for goddess’ sake, don’t start fistfights with the elderly over the last loaf of Bunny Bread. It’s unfair, it’s unseemly, and that shit’s full of carbs anyway.

See you on the other side,

Rico

So, I’m reading this book about astrophysics and shit. It’s not exactly my field, but I’ve always been kind of an amateur, pansy-ass poindexter. Well, a professional pansy-ass, an amateur poindexter. You know what I mean.

Anyway, I’m reading along, and reading and reading and reading, and I’m getting cottonmouth because the stuff is so damn dry, when suddenly I stumble across a passage that’s loaded with meaning and shockingly beautiful–which gives me pause, not because it’s deep or anything, but because it’s exactly the sort of thing that leads to Really Bad Writing. Naturally, I thought I’d share it with you, then challenge you to gross me out.

The author is talking about supernovas and how these massive explosions ultimately create heavy elements, elements beyond the usual hydrogen, helium, and other stuff you find in stars. This new matter gets blown out into the universe, where it mixes and mingles with “the detritus of countless other supernovas”:

Over the ensuing eons, these heavy elements are scooped up into new generations of stars and planets. Without the manufacture and dissemination of these elements, there could be no planets like the Earth. Life-giving carbon and oxygen, the gold in our banks, the lead sheeting on our roofs, the uranium rods of our nuclear reactors–all owe their terrestrial presence to the death throes of stars that vanished well before our sun existed. It is an arresting thought that the very stuff of our bodies is composed of the nuclear ash of long-dead stars. [Emphasis mine]

The Last Three Minutes

Yes, people, we’re all stars. How’s that for the Poetry of Everyday freaking Life?

And now for the challenge: the person who writes the most ludicrous piece of fiction–perhaps a bit of prose, some dialogue, a poignant haiku–will get a special prize from yours truly. It could be a book, it could be an ashtray. It could also be my ragged-out, stretched-out jockstrap. I don’t know yet, but you’ll get it, and of course, I’ll post your demi-oeuvre here. So, get cracking and drop me a line.

Religious broadcaster Pat Robertson suggested on-air that American operatives assassinate Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez to stop his country from becoming ”a launching pad for communist infiltration and Muslim extremism.”

”We have the ability to take him out, and I think the time has come that we exercise that ability,” Robertson said Monday on the Christian Broadcast Network’s ”The 700 Club.”

”We don’t need another $200 billion war to get rid of one, you know, strong-arm dictator,” he continued. ”It’s a whole lot easier to have some of the covert operatives do the job and then get it over with.”

— New York Times and CNN

Maybe Pat’s finally gone off the deep end. Maybe Pat’s trying to spend his meager “political capital” before it hits the expiration mark (roughly November 2). But there ain’t no maybe about Pat’s god-fearing, god-forsaken Sansabelt britches: bitch has clearly gotten too big for ’em. I can think of someone other than Chavez who ought to be taken out…

Although, I have to admit, installing Pat as the director of the CIA would certainly make things more interesting, n’est-ce pas?