This Just In

On CNN--
"Breaking News: Levees Not Good Enough?"

A duh.

Paris for Pres, C. Ray for VP

I changed my mind: Paris for Pres, C. Ray for VP. Oh my god, ingenious. I can't even explain how perfect a combination these two would be. I don't think you need me to explain; I think if you just follow your instincts, you'll understand.

Sandbags?/C. Ray for President

And the latest technology from the Corps of Engineers is...sandbags. Ill-designed levees, malfunctioning pumps, but heavy, blow-blocking high-quality sandbags. If the levees breach, the Engineers, hovering overhead in helicopters, will drop sandbags, silencing the thrashing, soil-busting storm surge.
Sandbags. I had planned to go to town on this word, punning like crazy, e.g. "The Corps of Engineers really sandbagged us" etc., but I'm really low on momentum.
Quite appropriately, the dictionary.com word of the day is "gubernatorial."

But hey, I am finding motivation in the words of our mayor, C. Ray Nagin. C. Ray is my boy. Calm, collected, loose-jowled and Deputy-Dog-moustached: "You need to be scared and you need to get your butts out of New Orleans right now."

And: "Looting will not be tolerated. Anyone caught looting in New Orleans will go directly to the Big House in the general population. You will go directly to Angola Prison, and God Bless You if you go there."

YEAH, GANGSTA.

Now, I'm pro-Obama and all, but C. Ray, he charms me, he makes me smile. He doesn't bother with any of that "we need a change" rhetoric, and he has his own slow, regionally-attuned way of talking--which usually gets him in trouble. But this time, C. Ray is prepared. Those who normally criticize his free-wheeling, strutting, drawling style, won't be able to say he didn't evacuate the city as professionally as anybody could have.

I'd rather listen to C. Ray any day, over the Weather Channel forecasters who project like sportscasters--seriously, just get a job at ESPN, or direct some of that on-your-toes energy towards a pick-up game of football in your backyard, 'cuz with Gustav there won't be any intercepting, no chasing down winds and last minute save-the-day sacking before he reaches the end-zone; and over the CNN goons with their seriously expert skills at paraphrase and their facebook updates. C. Ray doesn't affect, scramble, or sweat. He just tells it like it is.

Gustav, WTF

Anonymous posted a comment on yesterday's post:

"I think now's the time for blogging on hurricane futures. Where would you go if NOLA flooded again? Would you ever come back? What are you thinking this week as Gustav approaches? How will you prepare? If you could loot one store what would it be?"

Right now, I'm in Boston on vacation, and as my flight back to Nola is scheduled for Sunday morning, I think I'm going to have to work out alternate plans with the airlines. Or else, kick it around here, breathing in the cool, weightless air, marveling at the sightings of slim cops on bicycles--huh?--watching Vicky Christina Barcelona every night using my friend's parents' membership passes to the local non-profit art house in walking distance--what? Maybe I'll fly out to LA, where my brother and my friends from college live; or catch up with my Dad in a hotel room in Houston; or to Phoenix with my mom.

I would never loot a store, ever, I can't even entertain the question. I'm nervous as hell and guilty, because I seem to always avoid the hellish evacuations everybody else has to endure--during Katrina, I was already up at college, beginning a drunken, irresponsible sophomore year, completely clueless as to what the fuck was going on with my city, and when I would see it or my family again.

Well, I'm bout to go by the non-profit movie house, keep up the pretenses of my vacay, although all I want to do is take pain-killers and numb myself with the weather channel's latest updates. Nobody up here will quite understand my obsessiveness, anyway...but stay tuned, because i will be using blogging as an excuse to dwell...

All right Chris Rose! That's my boy.

Chris Rose, you got the memo. Aka you read my blog, took what I had to say to heart, and now you are back! I guess the tough love really did the trick. Your article Friday totally pumped me up!  Fist to the sky.  Now I'm ready to take on the city as your side-kick, the Tonto to your Lone Ranger, Robin to your Batman.  Together, whether lauding, lampooning or lazin', we'll always be witty-willynilly with our words.

Rose's recent column "Excellence in Insanity; Hizzoner the mayor isn't the only one worthy of faint praise," on 8/22/08, previewed that night's awards ceremony at the Ritz Carlton Penthouse Suite, hosted by the "Excellence in Recovery Host Committee."  Ostensibly a benefit to recognize Katrina survivors who have significantly contributed to the recovery of New Orleans, the night instead featured C. Ray, bestowing upon him "The Award of Distinction for Recovery, Courage, and Leadership."  Friday night, the Ritz was surrounded by picketers, every-day-New-Orleanians incensed by the notion of bright lights upon our already too-shiny-headed mayor.  

The "Excellence in Recovery Host Committee" was led by Nagin's personal photographer, some dude who goes by first-name only:  Bernardo (no, not that Bernardo--"This girl has beautiful eyes....She thinks I'm an asshole....Come to my bed"). The committee is comprised of a few other folks, City Council President Jacquelyn Brechtel Clarkson and former Entergy New Orleans CEO Dan Packer, who both have told the press that they thought they were honoring survivors, not the mayor.  

Rose ridicules the event by creating fictional committees and awards to be distributed to our city's most recent governmental buffoons:  Eddie Price, David Vitter, William Jefferson, and Marc Morial.  (Why not Eddie Jordan, I wonder?)  In the case of Eddie Price, the Mandeville mayor who, intoxicated, rammed a city-owned vehicle through a toll-booth gate on the Causeway this June and escaped unticketed, Rose assigned "Mandeville's Magnificence in Magnanimous Munificence Committee" the honor of awarding him an "Excellent Adventures in Good Government Award." Senator David Vitter, who earned public shame through his exploits with prostitutes, received the "Listen up Dimwit Don't You Realize That People Are Going to Joke About this For the Rest of Your Life Award" from the "Excellence in Family Values Host Committee."  William Jefferson, the State representative most notorious for hoarding $90,000 in cash in his refrigerator during his 2005 term, was awarded the "Distinction in Fiduciary Refrigeration and Glaciation Award" by the "Excellence in Appliances Host Committee." Ex-mayor Marc Morial, whose term was a big crooked family party, was recognized by the "Excellence in Avoiding Prosecution While Seemingly Every Single Member of Your Family and Circle of Friends Trundles off to Prison Host Committee" with the "Distinction in Dubious Innocence Award."  And in a final disarming act of self-parody, Rose awarded himself the "Distinction for Indistinction Award," granted by the "Excellence in Vacuous Journalism Host Committee."

So, congratulations, Chris Rose.  Not only are you funny-looking, and funny, but you've learned to stop taking yourself so seriously.  Have you matured with grace?  Three years post-K, you've finally emerged from your stupor, righted your stagger and now you're turning on toe-shoes, tall and elegant around the room.   

...Almost. But you're hanging at Snake 'n Jakes? That's where you chill? Thanks for publicizing that in the paper; I'll be there. I guess Mae's must be so '90's for you, huh? (That's when you interviewed Mae, right? I saw your article on the wall, Christopher Rose.)

Well, you got it back...that fiya.

The Fleur-de-lis--Enough Already

No more! Just say no! No more tattoos, no more earrings, no more necklaces, no more bracelets, no more bumper-stickers, no more graffiti renditions, no more paintings, no more hand-bags, no more t-shirts, no more perfume, no more soaps, no more furniture.

New Orleans in August--A Dark Hole

First off, I apologize for thus far only blogging about the Westbank. I couldn't help it. I guess the muse comes in many forms...

August is a dark hole. I knew it would be, though I tried to counteract its inevitable effects with thoughts about how this year, August was going to be great, and there were all these things to look forward to. But this is no local tale of hamartia or hubris. It's very simple: August is a shitty, shitty, shitty month--as Martha Washington was a hip, hip, hip lady, man,--and there's nothing you can do about it.


(The Dark Hole, New Orleans's zodiac sign for August.)

Inside the dark hole, I found: a $350 Entergy bill (impossible, right?), tickets from the N.O.P.D., smoldering heat, no money, a drinking problem, bad decisions involving the opposite sex...

Thus far, I've tried really hard not to get all heavy and woeful and indulgent and full of shit about oh New Orleans, and oh we suffer and we drink and we're so intense, but sometimes August just does it to you.

What up, Chris Rose. Oh wait, I forgot, you got happy and you got just about as boring as fuck to read as when you were all really really broken-record depressed. Or maybe you're just laying low during these sad-bastard months.

I didn't mean for that to sound malicious...want to go to Mae's some time?

At least Mae understands The Apostrophe, unlike some people.

My housemates, co-workers, friends, everybody, are all grumbling about the malaise. I feel especially bad for those who have just moved here, suffering and misdiagnosing their pain.

"I feel like I am swimming around in water, my head is all foggy and drowning," says Frances Beck of Montgomery, Alabama.
"That's the dark hole," I say.
"I've never had such a bad August."
"Welcome to New Orleans," says Betsy.
"Nobody warned me about this. I wish somebody had told me so I could have planned for it."
"There would have been nothing you could have possibly done to mitigate these hellish circumstances."
"I exercise every day and I still am in a funk."
"Exactly."
"I guess I'm going to go to the coffee shop."
"The coffee shop won't help you!" We call as she goes out the door.

And so on, we mope around the kitchen, poking at noodles, or lie strewn across the sofa like dirty laundry. At least the peeper is gone, and we can let light into our dark cave.

And at least I have had fun talking about The Dark Hole. It's been a good excuse for just about everything, and it makes me laugh. There is always humor lurking deep inside in the abyss. A deep stillness, and then a crystal-clear chuckle.

I think I just figured out how the world will end.

"What should we do?" I ask Betsy.

Our eyes meet, and we agree: LET'S GO TO MAE'S