September 2006 Archives

There is something about the arrival of fall weather that stimulates the primal urges.

Food urges, that is.

I suddenly want to eat all the time, I'm digging out cookbooks 'cause I want to cook all the time, I have zero patience for crap food.

The oysters are back, Casamento's is open so I can walk a few blocks to get a dozen for an appetizer, a cup of oyster stew and a fried oyster dinner (trifecta!). The snowball stands are closing down one by one and running out of syrup so I have to try strange flavors like blackberry. I've given up on WWL in the afternoons and now Tom Fitzmorris is my only true radio friend.

I'm already planning my Thanksgiving menu.

Almost nothing could stand between me and the gorgonzola pasta at the Austin Whole Foods pasta bar, which I was addicted to this time last year and which I miss terribly. I have visions of mint chocolate chip ice cream. I need to find a decent katsudon in New Orleans because what I had in Austin is irreplaceable.

I need homemade popcorn with melted European butter on it and I need it now.

I'm all flushed, I feel faint. Maybe I'm pregnant.

Ray

"Now you might not be able to sing it out loud, but you can hum it to yourself, and you know what the words are..."

I didn't write it, but I could have. I really could have.

I haven't felt this good about a sporting event since the Red Sox won the World Series.

OK, it wasn't nearly that good, but it's definitely been the sport high point of the last two years. (Other than Liam playing catcher.)

I got to be on the floor during the Green Day/U2 set, with the Arabi Wrecking Krewe, Uncle Lionel and Benny from the Treme Brass Band, and about 800 high school students. The music was just OK; the sound was actually really terrible where we were standing so we could barely hear it. We were definitely not there for the musical experience as much as to serve as extras for the ESPN broadcast. I think the folks at home had the best seats.

After 30 some odd years, I might have to finally become a Saints fan. It means I'm going to have to become a football fan, but a small price to pay.

What a great fucking day.

Click the link if you're curious. I got it bad.

I got twenty things I could write about and I can't seem to make myself care enough about any of them to write interesting stuff about them. And the thought of actually creating a blog post with actual links just smacks of effort.

I helped gut Morwen's house last week. We accomplished a lot. We have a lot more to go. A metaphor for the gutting of the city. The T-P reports last week that some groups are saying that at current levels of volunteerism, it will take 2-3 years to finish gutting houses. Not rebuilding. Just gutting. And I get pissed that it even requires volunteerism at all to do something like this, and then my anger fades into exhaustion and, eh, I can't even muster the energy to link to the damn article.

Pictures in the flickr page, if you're interested. Over there, on the left.

I helped gut Kidd Jordan's house a few weeks back. Kidd told great stories, not just about the traditional jazz players he knows, but about some of the real out honkin' and squirtin' experimentalists that I used to listen to a lot...Evan Parker, Peter Brotzmann, Joe McPhee. Kidd saw Coltrane play to an almost empty house a few weeks before his death. Played with Sun Ra. And I didn't know this, but I went to Franklin at the same time as a bunch of the Jordan clan, and also at the same time as Wendell Pierce from The Wire.

The above paragraph should be rich with links in case you don't know who any of these people are, but...effort, man. There are pictures in the flickr page...over there on the left. No, left.

I might get to be on the field during the U2/Green Day set at the Saints game tomorrow. If I can get off work. That might be fun. If I can get off work.

I can't really blog about work because guys from work read my blog now. But y'know, these days I'd rather be smashing moldy sheet rock. The pay is lousy, though, and kids gotta eat. But I can't really blog about work.

I don't really care where Nagin is.

I'd really like to spend some quality time with some pints down at Molly's, but, well, y'know....maybe I'll just wander down to Molly's and drink some Red Bulls one of these days.

Roller derby was fun, wasn't it? Pictures...you know where to look.

I got a flat tire today. And it wasn't even a roofing nail, so I didn't lose my Katrina tire cherry. I just fucked up parallel parking and pinched the sidewall on the curb. Shit, I coulda got a flat that way back in Texas.

I can't decide which are more self-important and irritating, sex bloggers or political bloggers (locals and close friends excluded...OK, mostly I mean kos and atrios, and almost all sex bloggers).

I have a half-dozen chronic health issues of the perpetual annoyance variety that all decided to come visit in the same month. The kind of chickenshit ailments that make you wish you had a tumor, so at least they could take it out and you could actually have something worth bitching about.

I can't even be arsed to come up with a proper ending for this post.

Oh, and the new season of The Wire is quite cool.

A pirate walks into a bar with a steering wheel sticking out of his pants. The bartender says, "Hey, pal, did you know you have a steering wheel sticking out of your pants?"

The pirate says, "Arrrrr! It's drivin' me nuts!"

(Sank you. I am here all of the week.)

Various New Orleans bloggers, with the support of the Arabi Wrecking Krewe, will start gutting Gentilly Girl's house this Sunday at 9:00 am. More info on the ThinkNOLA wiki.

If you can join us, please do.

It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled, or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena; whose face is marred by the dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions and spends himself in a worthy course; who at the best, knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who, at worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly; so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory or defeat.

In July of 1992, Gina and I flew into Austin from San Francisco for some job interviews. The city life in the Bay Area was starting to wear us down and we were both homesick for the heat we grew up with.

In the Dallas airport, we ran across this issue of Texas Monthly:

and we were ecstatic. Despite what everybody back in SF thought about Texas, we knew we were moving to a liberal oasis and we were going to have the coolest Democratic governor in the country.

Even after she left office in 1995, Ann would pop into our lives from time to time. She lived in our neighborhood in Clarksville so every once in a while we'd see her at the Fresh Plus buying groceries in her gym suit. Her hair was always perfect.

Gina once stood next to her at the Fresh Plus deli counter (where Cippolina is now) with toddler-age Cassidy; Cass was completely grubby as only toddlers can get, with a runny nose on top of it all, and Ann turned around and said "Oh, how cute". Gina is still embarrassed that she was really thinking "bad mom".

We'd see her sometimes at her regular booth at Las Manitas. I thinik I heard she always ordered the migas con hongos, which are indeed spectacular.

Later near the end of my drinking years, I saw her on Dennis Miller's show talking about her own history of drinking and sobriety, and she was one of the first people to really plant the idea in my head that you can be sober and still be funny and interesting. And coincidentally, when I finally found my AA sponsor, he turned out to be a friend of both Ann and Liz Carpenter, the two most famous Democrat ex-drunks in Texas.

Ann is the last elected official that ever represented me that I was really truly enthusiastic about.

I've been saying it since 1995, and I will keep saying it. Ann, you're still my governor. You'll always be my governor.

I won't say "rest in peace" because I can't imagine that a little old thing like dying is going to make you want to rest. I'm sure you're still givin' them hell.

I have his bumper sticker on my car. I signed his petition. I started to wonder about him when I found out that he voted for GWB in 2004, but I still kinda liked the guy.

Then this:

"The musicians and artists have mostly moved back to New Orleans now," he said, according to KHOU-Channel 11. "The crackheads and the thugs have decided to stay. They want to stay here. I think they got their hustle on, and we need to get ours."

I need another New Orleans sticker to cover up your sorry ass name on my bumper, 'cause I'm ashamed to be seen as a former supporter.

Fuck you, Kinky. And if Willie agrees with you, then fuck Willie too.

I'm so goddamn glad I'm not in Texas any more. And I hope everybody else gets to come home from Texas real soon.

Assholes.

The debut bout of the Big Easy Rollergirls takes place this Saturday, at Blaine Kern's Mardi Gras World in Algiers. Doors open at 6pm, show starts at 7. Tickets are $15 and it's guaranteed to be a blast, so come out and cheer for the most badass architect/MILF on eight wheels, Little Miss Ruffit:

I would like to mobilize the volunteer spirit of the Rising Tide to help out one of our own. Morwen Madrigal, a.k.a Gentilly Girl, has found that she can't gut her house by herself, and the waiting list to get help from places like ACORN is over four months long. With the looming city deadline for gutting being a moving target, this is rather nerve-wracking for her as it is for everyone else in her situation.

By coordinating through the ThinkNOLA Wiki and pulling a crew together, I think we could make a big dent in the job in one or two days.

Here's what I want y'all to do. Sign up on the wiki if you can help out, and put down your date preferences. Then take a look at the list of equipment needed and tell us what you can loan or donate from that list. If you can donate any cash to the cause, please put that down as well.

Even if you can't be there on gutting day, let us know if you can loan us some of the rarer equipment like wheelbarrows or respirators.

The dates I'm proposing are any/all of:

* Sunday, September 17
* Saturday, September 23
* Sunday, September 24

We'll work on any of those days when we can get at least 3 or 4 volunteers. (I left Saturday the 16th off since that's the day of the Big Easy Rollergirls bout so I know everybody has a conflict that day.)

We won't be doing a lot of actual demolition, we'll mostly be moving furniture and appliances (yes, fridges...more than one of them) and belongings. Morwen will be providing lunch.

Thanks to Adrastos for planting the idea.

Please volunteer your time or your tools on the ThinkNOLA wiki:

http://thinknola.com/wiki/Post_Rising_Tide.

And please spread the word through the blogs.

Thanks!

Me and Ashley and Folse got our poseur asses in the paper again, this time in the local. Another article about returning natives.

This one graces the front page of the Living section with a picture of the perfesser and the Ashlettes, so check out the paper copy if you can.

What an ultra-maroon:

Investigators executing a search warrant of Marinello’s residence and FEMA trailer Wednesday night found a bevy of evidence connecting Marinello to the killing, including a list of things to do after the crime, Lee said.

The list included throwing the murder weapon into a waterway and painting the bike, Lee said.

1. Throw away murder weapon.
2. Paint bike.
3. Drop off dry cleaning.
4. Lunch with C. Ray.
5. Pick up a quart of milk.
6. Establish weak-ass alibi.
...

I always enjoy first sitting down in the morning and checking a few of my favorite web sites to see what's transpired while I was sleeping.

But when I was up so late working the night before and then up so early in the morning that there is no news because I haven't actually been asleep more than a few hours, I feel deprived. Damn. In the entire globe of news and blogging, not a dang thing happened since I went to bed.

And when that happens two or three days in a row, I want to gnaw my own arm off to escape the keyboard shackles, and go back to bed.

I'm off to take the kids to school and get a 50-gallon drum of coffee. Y'all go make some news and post some shit before I get back, 'kay?

I'll have more on last weekend's Wrecking Krewe adventures at Kidd Jordan's house when I get a free moment to breathe, but I wanted to let everyone know that this Friday at 9am, the Arabi Wrecking Krewe will take up day two of gutting the Gentilly house of trumpeter Leroy Jones's mother.

After a very brief stint in the Jazz Studies Program at Loyola University's Conservatory of Music, Jones joined the musicians union and went on to pursue his career as a professional musician. He has played with nearly all the famous jazz bands in town, and has performed at festivals and clubs throughout the U.S., Canada, Europe, South America, Southeast Asia, Japan and Australia.

The past decade Jones has been a member of the Harry Connick, Jr. Orchestra, performed on numerous recordings with various artists, leads one of the Preservation Hall Jazz Bands and has two critically acclaimed solo releases, "Mo' Cream From The Crop" and "Props for Pops" on the Sony/Columbia label. Jones continues to travel and record the world over.

If you want to help out, email Sheik at sheik@arabiwreckingkrewe.com. No experience or equipment necessary. It's great fun and it's good for the soul.

"An Invest?! What is it?"

"It's an area of disturbed weather in the tropics that the NHC deems worthy of further investigation for possible cyclone development. But that's not important right now."
-- nash28

I know a lot more about how houses are constructed now, having spent the last few weekends taking houses apart with a sledgehammer and pry bar.

I'm also, like everybody else in this city, becoming an amateur meteorologist.

When I was a kid growing up here, we never paid attention to tropical systems at all except for actual hurricanes which were actually threatening New Orleans. Later in life, living in Austin, we used to watch tropical storms in the Gulf hoping they would spin a little rain our way to break the monotony of the summer drought.

In recent years, we've paid more attention even to mere tropical depressions, tracking the storms in their infant stages.

And since Katrina, we've gone back to the womb. I know I'm not the only person here who can tell you all about Invest 98L and Invest 99L. At parties we talk about the shear environment, the water temperature in the Gulf, and whether or not African dust clouds are going to protect us this week.

We're all such geeks now. Weather geeks, construction geeks, legal geeks, insurance geeks, prescription meds geeks...

“You always have to compare things.” --Ingemar, My Life As A Dog

I was planning to re-post something I wrote on this day last year. That was the night my family dragged me away from the TV and the computer and made me go bowling to get my mind off the storm. I've reread it a few times and I always thought it was a pretty decent piece of writing, about where my head was at on the Friday after the storm, after a week of tracking down missing family and watching the flood unfold from 500 miles away.

And then I read this.

One year ago yesterday, Professor Homan, whose daughter goes to school with my daughter, was swimming from his home to his university to check on his students. Supported by an inflatable pillow, his name and next of kin address on a piece of paper in a plastic baggy on a string around his neck just in case. Passing several bodies along the way.

It's times like this that my contribution as a "blogger", as a New Orleans "ex-pat", seems so trivial and stupid.