Voodoo Rue's New Orleans

The Detritus of Dreams

2011-12-05T15:43:00.000-06:00

The detritus of dreams pools around ankles
leaves crackling, twigs snapping
a late-night melody of wasted youth transposed into
a symphony of a wasted adulthood

A roller-coaster speeds wildly along its track
its riders screaming in exhilaration
except for one lacking lap bar or safety belt
clinging to the grime-coated seat

A girl misses her father and imagines him back to visit
in the middle of a crowded street at Mardi Gras
an unlikely place to find him even if he were still alive
he hated crowds

A solitary traveler walks at dusk down an isolated road
its surface pockmarked with the faces of past lovers
she tries to tread lightly but in the end
painful impressions are all that remain behind

There is always movement but never progress
always flight but never escape
a train enters a tunnel but never emerges from the other side
a car plunges headfirst into an icy river

And I cannot breathe

One Year (8/29/06)

2011-08-29T20:55:00.000-05:00

Posting an old piece, as today is K + 6...the Katrinaversary.

One Year (8/29/06)

10:25 a.m.

365 days ago right now I am
having a love/hate relationship
with the television
introspective
knees to chest on carpet
wrinkled pajamas
covered in layers of fur
from numerous refugee felines

I am still
optimistic because
the winds have changed
veered slightly to the east
slowed down
and passed through
with a roar
but without claws and teeth
not as hungry as she looked

The air is hot and damp
in Mississippi
but my eyes are still dry
I am not yet changed completely
not yet witness to the winds
that would tear the shutters
off the house
across the street
while I watched

Much later I would be
in the dark
in more ways than one
and when the shock rolled in
its waves would carry me north
instead of south
uprooted like the
tree-victims
fallen along the empty street

Copyright © 2006 Melissa Lewis

Doooooooooom…

2011-08-24T12:39:00.003-05:00

I seem to be taking a lot of flack from friends since yesterday’s quake rocked the East Coast. Here I am visiting friends and family in Northeastern Pennsylvania and enjoying NOT being in the heat in NOLA for a change, and suddenly there’s an earthquake.

Personally, I didn’t feel a thing, although friends of mine did. It’s unlikely I would have noticed anything, as I was wandering around the Harford Fair with a high school pal of mine, and any rumbling of the earth that we might have felt was mostly likely camouflaged by the tractor pulls going on behind us.

Now, with Irene skirting up the East Coast, the berating continues. My reputation as the Harbinger of Doom is not intentional, though it’s not entirely unwarranted either. In 1972, the year after I was born, the Northeast got creamed by Hurricane Agnes. In the late 90s, after moving with a friend of mine into a small town in Northeastern PA, an F3 tornado tore through the area, leaving a path of destruction a half-mile wide. In May of 2001, I moved to New York City and several months later was watching one of the towers fall from the corner window of my midtown office building. In June of 2005 I moved to the Big Easy, and…well...we all know how that story ended.

I can see where these coincidences are perhaps a little…eerie. But I’ve never really destroyed anyplace I’ve simply been VISITING rather than living. So for now, at least, can you people please stop trying to run me out of town? I’m leaving next week anyway, so you can all stop offering to come over and pack my bags for me.

I sweat, therefore I am.

2011-08-15T21:51:00.000-05:00

And that is pretty much what summer in New Orleans feels like. I feel like I’ve done nothing blog-worthy in months. And really I haven’t. Okay, so there was Mardi Gras, and St. Patrick’s Day, and friends visiting, and my 40^th birthday celebrated in my favorite bar. Maybe it’s not that I haven’t done anything blog-worthy, but that really, at heart, I’m just a lazy piece of shit.

It does feel like the last few months have been spent doing nothing but sweating. Working from home is nice, but I miss my central air in my old apartment. When I’m not working, I’m either twiddling my thumbs waiting for my clients to pay me, or I’m out somewhere causing a disturbing amount of damage to my liver.

Most of the time I feel living in New Orleans is like being on a permanent vacation from which I have to take a break every now and then to do some work. But right now I need a break. Our heat indexes started topping 100 as early as June, and this month has included at least a week of excessive heat warnings and heat indexes ranging from 110 to 115. This week is slightly more bearable, as it feels like it’s only about 100 during the day.

I’ve already postponed one trip home this summer because of deadlines and late payments. I plan on taking that trip this week, up to cooler climes in northeastern Pennsylvania, to family and friends and mornings on my mother’s porch drinking coffee.

Of course, I’m making this trip right about when hurricane season is starting to pick up, so there will be no unplugging from my constant surveillance of the dozen or so weather Web sites I keep vigil over every year from June 1 to November 30.

But for now, I have nothing to complain about. I’m just looking forward to my trip home. In two weeks, I’ll really be looking forward to my trip back to NOLA. For now, I just really needed to remind myself what it feels like to put words to page. Because, in the end, words are really all I have.

Poem for Shamarr Allen

2011-05-06T14:00:00.000-05:00

Another oldie getting added to the blog:

For Shamarr Allen at DBA June 7, 2007

I have no defense against

a trumpet that rages

from tender to tempest

in the blink of an eye

And I can't tell

if those brass bends

are filled with heaven

or a hurricane

What kind of grace

does it take to blow

notes like that

into a soul

Notes that breathe

a wicked fire

that smells like

desire and satisfaction

That tempt and forgive

and tease and lay bare all

the naked beauty

of a single note

hanging

in the air

it's more than just a show

Poem for Paul Sanchez

2011-05-06T13:56:00.000-05:00

I don't know how this didn't wind up in my blog before, but here it is. I suspect there's an updated version floating around here somewhere, but I can't find it at the moment.

For Paul Sanchez at DBA June 7, 2007

Rolling along
with the good times
this songwriter's shine
has enslaved me

might be the only
thing that can save me
from the parched dryness
of my wordless places

This storyteller's stage
is an oasis where even a poet
can feast on something
besides her own lonely phrases

and the room is
all but empty
and the stage is
all but bare

and there is desperation
in my inspiration
and it comes with
a melancholy aftertaste

But this is the only place
for poets tonight
beneath the lights
or at the bar

and here I am
and there you are

Copyright © 2007 Melissa Lewis

Mardi Gras Roundup, Part 1

2011-03-15T17:13:00.001-05:00

Last Tuesday, everywhere else it was just a Tuesday. But here, in the Big Easy, it was the fattest of Tuesdays…Mardi Gras—that special time of year when my body seems to acquire more liquor, beads, and bruises than any other. In truth, I still adore Mardi Gras, though I’ve been told that I will eventually tire of it. I find that hard to believe, but you never know.

I’ve previously blogged in detail about my first Mardi Gras, so I’ll just sum up the highlights this time.

Carnival season begins officially on January 6, but the real parade season starts a few weeks before Mardi Gras, kicked off by Krewe du Vieux, the witty, irreverent, and often dirty parade that rolls through the Marigny and the French Quarter. KdV rolled on February 19 this year, rather later than usual because of the late Mardi Gras. I’m always thrilled to have the wonderful friends I have here in New Orleans, and I’m even more thrilled when it just so happens that they live along the parade route, as my friend Pat does along the KdV route. Pat has an adorable apartment and makes awesome food (I found out what heaven tastes like…candied bacon) and graciously opens her home to friends and extended friends for a great time. And the parade passes right in front of her apartment. What could be better?

(As an interesting aside, someone asked me how they determine when Mardi Gras falls each year. I knew it was tied to Easter and Ash Wednesday, but I’ve never really looked into why the date of Easter changes yearly until a friend asked me to put my Google Ninja skills to work and find out. To sum up, what I found is that Easter is based on lunar cycles and falls on the first Sunday AFTER the first full moon AFTER the first day of spring. Got that? Yeah, it took me a while too.)

Following KdV, I had almost a week’s rest to get ready to jump right into the Uptown parade season, which started on Friday, February 25 with the Krewe of Oshun. Saturday followed with the krewes of Pontchartrain, Sparta, and Pygmalion, and Sunday featured Carrollton and King Arthur.

By Monday I was ready for a break and trying to make a deadline for an important client. Something had to be sacrificed, and this year it was the Krewe of Druids on Wednesday, which happened to roll on my deadline night. Sorry, Druids. I’ll get you next year.

Deadline met, by Thursday I was exhausted and excited for the krewes of Babylon, Chaos, and (most importantly) one of my all-time favorites, Muses. My dear friend Celeste rides in Muses, and for the past three years has taken care to throw Anne-Marie and me some stellar schwag. This year, I was really hoping for a decorated Muses shoe, the throw for which they are most famous. (I note in an early blog how I was almost sacrificed to the coconut gods for a Zulu coconut during my first Mardi Gras…this seems to be a theme for me.)

As Celeste’s float approached, we crossed the street and waited for her with our sign (made by Anne-Marie) and a bead bag to catch anything she might toss. The crowd surged. The shoe came down, and apparently it wasn’t the only thing that went down, as the last thing Celeste saw from the float’s upper level was a policeman pulling me out from under the float by my pants. Thanks to Smirnoff vodka, I have no recollection of this brush with death. I know only that in the end I wound up with a huge bruise on my knee…and a shoe. Celeste immediately sent me a text to see if I was all right, thinking that she had killed me. I may have been too inebriated to respond.

I offered to share joint custody with Anne-Marie, but she declined, saying that it obviously meant more to me than to her.

Later that evening, on the walk home to my house, I took another tumble, again right in front of a police officer. This one I remember, and I recall him picking me up off the sidewalk and me saying: “It’s all right. I do this all the time. I’m Polish.”

I was bruised and battered and drunk, but the proud owner of a glittery Muses shoe. Totally worth it.

More to come. Stay tuned.

It’s the most wonderful time of the year!

2011-02-21T15:16:00.005-06:00

That’s right…not Christmas, not Easter, but Carnival time! That special time of year when the streets are crowded with gawking tourists, decent parking is impossible to find, and Bourbon Street drunks bare their wares more frequently than any other time of year.

All this aside, it’s still the most wonderful time to live in New Orleans. Costumes are being constructed, businesses are thriving, and residents seem (mostly) happy.

Because Mardi Gras falls so late this year, the weather is also warmer than usual, ensuring that more and more people will be willing to stand outside for hours to watch the parades pass by and collect assorted loot (beads, cups, stuffed animals, etc.).

This year, I’m determined to put together a costume for Mardi Gras itself. Until last year, I stayed in my Uptown neighborhood until all the parades of the day (Zulu, Rex, and the truck parades) rolled on by, then took my loot and relaxed at home with a drink or 12. (Catching beads all day, and occasionally getting hit in the face with them, can be exhausting.) Last year, after an especially long stall in the middle of Rex, I decided to go home, throw something together, and head to the Quarter. I went home and whipped together a skirt made of beads and threw on some various Mardi Gras accessories, most of which had been caught from other parades—headband, purple feather boa, MG-themed sunglasses—and headed downtown with my roommate.

The French Quarter on Mardi Gras is an absolute madhouse, not to mention a visual cornucopia of sights and sounds, colors and costume. It’s chaos and cacophony and brilliant, brilliant fun. The costumes alone are worth braving the crowds and making the trip.

Last year, for Halloween, I put my not-so-crafty self to work making a costume. I should emphasize here how not-domestic I am. I cannot sew. I barely cook. I have never endeavored to get all crafty and have never in my life owned a glue gun until now. My conversation with my mother (who happens to be incredibly crafty) went like this:

Mom: Watch out…glue guns are very hot.

Me: Duh. I think I’m smart enough to use a glue gun.

Five minutes later, post-phone conversation:

Me: YEEEOOOOWWWW that’s hot!!! Oops, I think I just glued my finger to the table.

In the end, the costume (a voodoo doll) came out acceptable enough. So this year I’ve decided to put my craft non-skills to work again in order to make a costume for Mardi Gras. This calls for a trip to costume shops, the Salvation Army, and Michael’s craft store. The only thing standing in my way now is this little thing called “working for a living.”

Working from home is both a blessing and a pain. I’d love to get started on my costume now, leaving myself lots of time to screw it up and have to start all over. But I don’t think my clients would appreciate blowing off my looming deadline because of the importance of Mardi Gras. They don’t live here. They just don’t understand.

Fortunately, my current deadline falls a week before Mardi Gras, leaving me that much time to get my imagination rolling and try to come up with something. I have ideas floating around in my head but lack the artistic vision to bring them to reality. I’m a word girl, not an artist. But I’ll do the best I can.

Whatever the result matters not. It’s all part of the experience. It’s the love of Mardi Gras, of parades, of friends, and of New Orleans. In the end, it’s all about the joy and fun of sharing the day with others.

Laissez les bon temps rouler!

Peaches

2010-10-28T21:39:00.003-05:00

My street smells like peaches

in the middle of the night

when I’m drunk

Or perhaps that’s just what I imagine

so tired of the scents of

crowded bars and cigarettes

and stuffy cabs on

humid nights so withering

that I forget it’s autumn and not

the middle of summer

as I stumble over darkened

root-fingers that want me to stay

and sit among the leaves

and scampering anoles

and tell tall tales about the night

I was accosted by the peach trees

Everything I never wanted to know about leprosy…

2010-03-31T19:57:00.001-05:00

…I learned from James Carville. Yes, THAT James Carville. Seriously.

Last weekend I attended the 24^th annual Tennessee Williams/New Orleans Literary Festival, an extravaganza of wordiness and worldliness, featuring writers, publishers, performers, and literary experts from around the country.

I didn’t get to take advantage of everything the fest had to offer, but I did get to enjoy some fantastic events and meet some fantastic people.

On Thursday night I competed in the festival’s poetry slam, held at One Eyed Jack’s and hosted by New Orleans’ own Chuck Perkins. It was my first time competing in a slam, though I’ve been doing readings for years. My friend Becky showed up to show some support, and while I didn’t win, I didn’t really expect to. There were tons of fabulous poets there, including the slam poets; Chuck Perkins; and my friend and festival organizer, poetry goddess Lane Lane Miller.

On Friday, as a favor to Laura, I helped out at the festival’s information booth, directing fest-goers to events, restrooms, restaurants, ticket sales, etc., and checking in authors, panelist, and board members. While I had put the previous night’s slam out of my mind already, I was thrilled to have a least a half dozen people recognize me throughout the day as one of the competitors and congratulate me on my performance. Even though I well aware that there were many poets there who were better than I was and never really intended to win, being recognized repeatedly for doing a good job made my day.

Like other festival volunteers, I received a panel pass for the remaining days of the festival, which I took full advantage of. Saturday I began the day with “Conversation with James Carville,” which led right into “Kept In, Kept Out: The Haunting Secrets of Carville, Louisiana,” a panel that featured James Carville, Jose Ramirez Jr. (author of Squint: My Journey with Leprosy), Neil White (In the Sanctuary of Outcasts: A Memoir), and Marcia G. Gaudet (author of Carville: Remembering Leprosy in America).

While most people are accustomed to hearing James Carville speak as a world-renowned political consultant, listening to him recount his days as a young boy growing up in rural Louisiana was a refreshing and fascinating change.

Carville (which was renamed to its current name in 1909…the postmaster’s name was Carville) was the home of the national Hansen’s Disease Center, which operated for more than 100 years as a “leprosarium” and for a short time as a federal prison. Hansen’s disease is more commonly known to most people as leprosy, though Hansen’s disease is the correct and acceptable name.

Aside from James Carville’s memories of growing up in Carville, for me the most interesting panel member was Jose Ramirez Jr., a native of Laredo, Texas, who in 1968 was diagnosed with Hansen’s disease and banished to the Hansen’s Disease Center. His story was gripping, and his struggle to recover and then to educate others on the truth about Hansen’s disease was inspirational.

At one point in the discussion, Ramirez challenged his audience to go out and educate ten people on what they had learned that day. Here’s what I learned.

The word “leper” is NEVER acceptable, as its connotations are far more negative than just a description for persons suffering from Hansen’s.

Hansen’s disease, while challenging to diagnose, as it requires a biopsy and a specific test, is easily curable. It’s a chronic bacterial disease and is treated with antibiotics. Persons diagnosed with it are most often treated as an outpatient and cured within 48 hours. Not treated. Cured.

Hansen’s disease is not as contagious as people have long believed. In fact, no more than 5 percent of the population is susceptible to the bacteria that cause the disease.

The Hansen’s Disease Center closed its doors in 1999, but this place is now the site of the National Hansen's Disease Museum.

I could probably go on about how fascinating this panel was, but the rest of the festival was equally as informative and entertaining. After the panel on Carville, Louisiana, I attended one called “The Civil Way in Fact and Fiction,” featuring Robert Hicks (author of A Separate Country, a novel about General John Bell Hood) and Molly Haskell (author of Frankly, My Dear: “Gone With the Wind” Revisited). Hicks spoke about General Hood as a man and as a general, his life, and his leadership. Haskell’s book focuses on the making of the film Gone With the Wind, which I’m thinking it might be time for me to finally read/see.

I left that panel to head immediately to “The Business Side of the Publishing Industry: The Agent, Editor, and Publisher Connection,” in which the panelists, all experts in their fields, walked attendees though the details of finishing a book, acquiring an agent, finding a publisher, and communication with publicity experts to market your book.

While it was very informative, from my perspective, I won’t go into all the details. Suffice it to say that I’m acquiring a good base of knowledge in case I ever get motivated enough to write a book.

The same can be said of the following morning’s panel, “Books Unbound: How Digital Delivery Is Changing How Stories Are Told, Sold, and Read.” Sounds fascinating, doesn’t it? Eh. Probably not from an average reader’s perspective. But as a writer these are considerations that will affect me one way or another in the future, unless I never aspire to write a novel or story or book of poetry and just continue posting silly blogs for the rest of my days.

I took a break from my fest-going to partake of some refreshing libations at New Orleans’ best bar, the Erin Rose. With good prices, a largely local clientele, and an awesome staff, this is my favorite place in the city. If you haven’t been there and you live here, well, shame on you. If you live elsewhere and haven’t been there, that’s just one more excuse to come visit me.

Also occurring simultaneously as the literary festival this weekend was the New Orleans Roadfood Festival on Royal Street, featuring some great food from not only around Louisiana but around the country. Hats off to the barbecue joint from Texas, Louie Meuller’s Texas Barbecue, who brought their whole smoker with them. Man, that was some damn good brisket.

I followed up my brisket-filled mouth-gasm with an event that closes out the Tennessee Williams New Orleans Literary Festival each year — the Stella and Stanley shouting contest, the preliminaries of which are held in Jackson Square from one of the balconies of the Cabildo. Stella, in all her Southern charm, stood perched on the balcony awaiting her callers. Next to her was Stanley, last year’s winner of the contest. Twenty-five contestants competed in the contest, which was open to both men and women. I was pleased to see my friend Brian in the contest…nice job, Brian! Of the contestants in the preliminaries, three were women, but only one shouted for Stanley (even though I thought he was pretty good looking). I found that…interesting.

I didn’t stay for the finals of the contest, as I had spent the weekend ignoring my own clients and work and needed to go home to catch up. In true New Orleans fashion, I met up with my dear friends Andie and Charlie on the way home and wound up drinking far too much wine to get any work done. But it was totally worth it.

Overall, I’m a bit ashamed that I didn’t attend more of the literary festival when I knew about it last year. I’ve gained a great deal more insight into the publishing world than I had before, listened to participants’ heartfelt stories, and met some amazing people.

And I now have many more authors to add to my own Amazon wishlist. I may never finish reading…

When the Saints Go Marching In…

2010-02-10T14:47:00.000-06:00

Those who know me (and sometimes love me) know that I am a transplanted Yankee from a rural corner of Pennsylvania. Though I have always been and will always be a devoted Eagles fan first and foremost, I do love me some Saints. I have to, as New Orleans is my adopted home.

I was among the crowds on the streets of New Orleans when the Saints brought home the NFC Championship on January 24 by beating the Vikings with an overtime field goal, causing the city to erupt into a massive, spontaneous, citywide orgasm. The level of pure, unadulterated joy was something I’ve never seen before, anywhere.

In the two weeks between the NFC Championship game and the Super Bowl, New Orleans also went about its annual business of hosting the best party ever…Carnival, or Mardi Gras season. It’s one of the things the city does best, and one of my favorite times of year. While most people who have never visited New Orleans associate Mardi Gras with the drunken debauchery and crime displayed on shows like “Cops,” that’s not really what it’s about at all. Though trust me, the debauchery happens all year long on Bourbon Street, thanks to hoards of inebriated tourists. (And yes, I was once one of them.)

But Mardi Gras is so much more than that. Sure, it’s a party. Sure, there’s drinking, sometimes. But the popular myth that only by flashing their bodacious ta-tas to passing floats can women get beads is entirely untrue. That’s what Bourbon Street is for. All year long.

Along the major parade route, St. Charles Avenue, the streets are lined with families, friends, students, residents, tourists, etc. The kids are perched in ladders with attached seats that can be purchased at any local hardware store. The vibe is mostly friendly (except, in my experience, at Zulu’s parade, where I found the quest for the famous Zulu coconuts to be much more cutthroat).

Mardi Gras is much more civilized and much more family-oriented that some TV shows would have you believe. There are no barricades along the Uptown route. Children and adults are free to walk up to the floats to get beads, or stand back yelling, “Hey, throw me something, please!”

I find this year that yelling “WHO DAT?!” is also an effective way to get riders to throw you the loot.

The Super Bowl this year landed squarely in the midst of the city’s Mardi Gras celebrations. I watched the game from the best bar in New Orleans, the Erin Rose. The place was so packed that we watched the game from outside one of the two large windows at the front of the bar, where we had a great view of the big-screen TV on the wall.

No one in sports really expected the Saints to win this one. Sportscasters all over had pretty much handed an easy win to the Colts before the game ever started.

But the Who Dat Nation never lost faith. We yelled. We screamed. We hugged strangers in the street. We never gave up because the Saints never gave up.

The win was a beautiful thing for New Orleans. Once again, the streets overflowed with screaming fans, many shedding tears for something they’ve been waiting for their entire lives.

I’ve recently been called a traitor to my own team by jumping ship and sporting a black-and-gold Who Dat shirt. I’ve never in my life worn anything but my beloved Philly green, but I don’t think I’m a traitor. I don’t think I jumped ship either. Since Philly didn’t even make it that far, I don’t think they’d mind me supporting the city in which I live now…the city I love.

I donned the black-and-gold Who Dat shirt again for the Saints victory parade last night through New Orleans. While no official estimate of the crowds is available yet, once reporter guesstimated that there might possibly have been 800,000 people there, lined up to see their beloved Saints. Many people across the river on the West Bank waited hours to cross the river by ferry, and some never made it at all because of the crowds.

It wouldn’t surprise me at all if that 800,000 were accurate. I saw the crowds. I was crammed up against a barricade at Lee Circle for several hours before the parade even started and the crowds started gathering. It was an awe-inspiring experience, despite the cold and the wait.

What most people don’t realize, however, is that the crowd would have been just as large and just as enthusiastic had the Saints lost the Super Bowl. This is, after all, New Orleans in the middle of Carnival. This is a city with a soul like no other. New Orleans loves their Saints, and they love their parades.

I still believe that right now this city is the happiest place on Earth. Eat your heart out, Disney.

In summation of the old year and anticipation of the new…

2010-01-05T22:31:00.000-06:00

At last 2009 has departed, not with a bang but a whimper. It was a year of changes and adjustments for me, including getting used to this whole “working from home” concept when one is as catastrophically lazy as I am. It hasn’t always been easy, but it seems to be picking up. I’m adding clients and even, on occasion, getting paid by my clients, though at times reluctantly.

Overall, 2009 was better for me than 2008, which was a year of stress and loss and sorrow. That’s not to say that 2009 was fantastic, but it was certainly better. I’m planning for a stellar 2010.

In April of 2009 my brothers, sister-in-law, nephews, and niece came for their first visit to New Orleans. I spent my time playing tour guide and showing them around, learning unexpectedly that I adore the World War II Museum thanks to my older brother’s interest in it. All had a wonderful time, and my sis-in-law, Bean, has promised to send my brothers down again in April of this year for another visit, sans kids. Kiss my liver goodbye.

In 2009 I went home twice, the first time to attend my 20-year high school reunion and reconnect with people I haven’t seen since graduation. It feels like old times, only better, since we’re all grown up now.

I went home again for a few weeks in December for Christmas with the family, who I usually only see about twice a year. We drank, lost at Trivial Pursuit to my mother, picked on the kids, at a lot, and drank some more.

Throughout the year, I partook of festivals, live music, Mardi Gras both in New Orleans and out in Cajun country, parties, good times with friends…and all without a single evacuation.

Living here is like being on a permanent vacation from which I have to take a break every now and them to get some work done.

My resolutions for 2010 are simple: Exercise more, work more, play more, and, most importantly, write more. Write blogs. Write poetry. Write stories. Write anything. Enjoy life to its fullest, and then capture it on paper so that those who are not lucky enough to live here can still have a taste of life in the Big Easy.

So this might seem a half-assed blog, hastily written and posted in order to post something, but at least it’s written. Welcome to my world.

2010, here I come.

The USS New York Sails Past New Orleans

2009-10-22T13:05:00.010-05:00

On October 13, 2009, the USS New York left its birthplace in Avondale, Louisiana, to sail down the Mississippi River on its way to New York, where it will be commissioned before it moves to its homeport of Norfolk, Virginia.

The USS New York is a 684-foot-long amphibious transport dock ship with a crew of 360. Constructed by Northrop Grumman, the New York incorporates steel salvaged from the wreckage of the World Trade Center.

The New Orleans Times-Picayune posted several stories asking residents to get up early and line the bank of the levees to show support for the ship as it passed. They estimated that it would pass sometime between 7:30 and 8 a.m. By 7 a.m. I was waiting for the streetcar to take me to the Quarter. By 7:40 I had arrived and joined the crowd along the Riverwalk to wait in the muggy morning air.

For those waiting, visibility was a disappointing challenge, as the morning fog had not yet lifted, and the other side of the river was almost completely hidden. Barges traveled upriver and the Algiers Point ferry chugged back and forth, and some of us began to wonder if we would even see it pass.

Spectators around me began to hear from sources farther upriver that the launching had been delayed due to the fog.

At 9:45 the fog had still not lifted, but out of the mist appeared the shape of a ship. We waved our American flags and whooped and hollered and hoped that they might see us or hear us. Through the fog we could see that the deck of the ship was lined with sailors waving.

Just as soon as it had appeared, it disappeared into the fog and was gone.

It was a brief moment, but one for which I am entirely glad I dragged my often-too-lazy self out of bed. I felt it was something that I had to do.

In mid-2001, I left Philadelphia for my first job in New York City with a consulting firm on Madison Avenue. On September 11, 2001, we discovered one window in the southwest corner of the building that had a clear view all the way downtown to one of the Towers. We watched it as the flames engulfed it, then watched in horror as it fell.

We were soon evacuated from our building and took refuge with a coworker who lived nearby. At the time I lived in Brooklyn, so taking a subway home was out of the question. We watched the news all day while panicked friends and family tried to reach us. Some people walked over the bridges through the ash to try to get out of the city, inhaling the dust of the dead and the destroyed.

Later that evening my subway line was reopened and I was finally able to get home. Two days later, back at work, a bomb scare and evacuation sent us home again.

Leaving New York was never an option for me afterward, though some friends begged me to return to Pennsylvania. I loved New York and would never give up on it like that. I refused to leave on anyone’s schedule but my own. I still love New York, to visit, but I’m continuing my adventures in other places now.

I’ve on occasion taken visitors to New York to Ground Zero, but it’s a hard thing to see. I still get a lump in my throat, the same one I get from listening to “God Bless America” during the seventh-inning stretch at Yankee Stadium.

I’ve never written about September 11. While I’ve written copious amounts of poetry and blogs about Katrina and its lingering effects on not only me, but also the city of New Orleans, I’ve never been able to put pen to paper to adequately express how much that day in New York affected me.

But I am certain that—though I may never have found the right words—9/11 made an indelible mark in shaping who I am as a writer, as an American, and as a human being.

A letter to the editor appeared on NOLA.com on October 18, 2009, from the commanding officer of the USS New York, Curt Jones, thanking Louisiana residents for lining the levees and showing their support. They could indeed hear and see the people who came to see them.

Personally, I’d like to thank each and every member of that crew for the work they’ve done and for the work they’ll be doing, tirelessly defending our country and protecting its citizens.

Thank you, USS New York.

Godspeed.

Voodoo Rue's PA-cation, Part 2

2009-09-01T18:38:00.000-05:00

Someone asked me—after reading my Facebook updates about my road trip home—where home is. Is it New Orleans? Or is it Pennsylvania? Am I leaving home or going home?

I had finally arrived at Lake Winola, Pennsylvania, after an adventurous road trip with (drunken) stops in Nashville and Roanoke. The weather was surprisingly cool, especially compared to the torturous heat we had just endured throughout June in New Orleans, with heat indexes of 110.

It was a nice change to relax and not drive, to stare at a TV instead of the road, and to annoy my mother by constantly complaining about everything she watched on TV.

It had been an unusually cool summer in PA, and I was surprised and pleased. The days were beautiful, and the nights cooler than expected—I even had to pull out my flannel pajamas. The mountains around the lake looked beautiful. One of the reasons I love road-tripping home so much is that I don’t realize how much I miss the mountains until I start seeing them again, somewhere in Georgia or Alabama or Tennessee. I lose track.

I didn’t spend much time at home relaxing, as every trip home is always hectic with trying to see everyone at once. I spent a day jumping up and down on a trampoline with my friend’s two little boys. I spent a night catching up with old friends at the Dalton Carnival, partaking of deep-fried pierogies and cheap beer-tent libations. I’ve learned since migrating south that Southerners are unfamiliar with the joy that is pierogies, and this little Polish girl from Pennsylvania misses them.

The occasion for this trip home was my 20-year high school reunion. I know. It’s scary. I can’t believe it’s been that long. The Lackawanna Trail High School Class of 1989 reunion was held at Keystone College, yet another of my alma maters.

While the idea of a 20-year reunion might be intimidating, it seems that Facebook was able to alleviate much of the stress for a lot of people. We knew a great deal about each other’s whereabouts, spouses, children, careers, hobbies, and just about everything else. I had even joked that since we talk so much on Facebook that we were going to wind up in a room with nothing left to talk about.

The opposite was true. Thanks to Facebook, the ice was already broken for most people, I think, and I had a great time. I have to say, the people in my class look amazing, and some haven’t changed at all since high school. (You know who you are, Michelle.) Some are just louder and full of cheesy Chuck Norris jokes. (That would be me.)

The reunion ended too early for us at the hall and continued at the closest bar, where it did not end until the bar closed.

The experience was totally worth the road trip home, and I’m looking forward to the next reunion, whenever that may be and wherever I may be at the time. (Paris, perhaps?)

My trip also included a weekend trip back to New York City, to traipse around my old stomping ground. I spent most of the time in Hell’s Kitchen, my favorite neighborhood, and made sure to visit Central Park. I do love Central Park and wish I could pick it up and move it to New Orleans. I love the hills and the rambles of Central Park, but I love the Spanish moss, live oaks, and the rogue alligator on the loose in Audubon Park. It doesn’t get any cooler than having and alligator running around free in the park, does it?

My friend Matt and I paid a visit to my favorite restaurant, the Delta Grill, a Louisiana-inspired restaurant. I also made sure to spend some quality time at my two favorite places, the world-famous Don’t Tell Mama piano bar, and Kennedy’s Irish Restaurant. At Don’t Tell Mama, the staff is mostly the same since I left, though they have lost some wonderful entertainers who have passed way, moved away, or left for personal reasons. It’s still the best entertainment anywhere in the city for a Broadway fanatic like me.

At Kennedy’s, on any given afternoon I can still find the old regulars at the bar, telling the same jokes. The bartenders are still the same cute Irish lads who greet me with a kiss on the cheek and still remember what I drink, even after all these months.

It was a quick trip. I miss New York sometimes but am happy to ride streetcars instead of subways now, to wear shorts in the winter instead of coats and scarves, to sit on balconies and not fire escapes, and to enjoy parades with abandon instead of just watching from behind a barricade.

I left two days later to begin my journey back to New Orleans, with the flu. I felt like crap but still loved being on the road. I stopped only once, outside Chattanooga, Tennessee, to rest my weary, mucus-addled brain, and arrived home the following afternoon.

So which is home? New Orleans or Pennsylvania? Both. I have spent almost 30 of my 38 years in Pennsylvania, and I still have many good friends there. It will always be home. I spent more than five years total in New York City, so even still I feel at home there. But more than anything I have forged a deep relationship with New Orleans since coming here prior to Katrina, and this is definitely my home.

It seems no matter which way I’m traveling, I’m always headed home.

Voodoo Rue’s PA-cation: Part 1

2009-08-02T14:06:00.004-05:00

Though I love New Orleans, every now and then it’s nice to get away…from the crime, from the heat, from how easy it is to start off every morning with a drink, if one chooses. While I’m overdue for a real vacation (like say…to Paris), I did manage yet another road trip home in early July. The reason…my 20-year high school reunion.

It would have been much easier to fly, but I love driving. I especially love driving in the summer, when, unlike my trip home for Christmas, I know I’m not going to hit a major snowstorm on the way up north.

My co-pilot for this trip was Miss Pat, another New Orleans resident and PA native who happened to want to go home for a visit as well. While the drive is usually about 19 hours in total, we decided to break it up into a couple days and see a few sights along the way.

Fist stop, the Dickel Distillery in Cascade Hollow, Tennessee. While not quite as well-known as Jack Daniels, this distiller of Tennessee whisky has nonetheless been around since 1870. I’m not a whisky drinker myself, but I have to admit the tour was fascinating. Also interesting is that most of these counties in Tennessee where such famous liquors are created are dry counties. So while one might buy a bottle as a souvenir or gift, there are no tastings. Sucks for you whisky drinkers.

We soon hit the highway for our next destination, Nashville, where we checked into the Renaissance Hotel, napped, and prepared for a night out. After dinner at some restaurant whose food was clearly not memorable enough for me to remember the name, we strolled along Broadway and some of the side streets, stopping occasionally at random bars. This part of Nashville is fun and busy, yet somehow still quaint. Eventually we landed at Wanna B’s, a karaoke bar on Broadway. I don’t think we intended to stay until damn near 3 a.m., but we were having a good time, doing shots and enjoying the singers. While karaoke bars have the potential to be uber-cheesy and horrible, we were impressed with some of the talent we heard in this one. This is Nashville, after all, home of many aspiring country music singers. My personal favorite was the guy who sang “Come Sail Away”…as Cartman. A brilliant tribute to South Park.

We stumbled back to the hotel quite late, past the darkened back entrance of the Ryman Auditorium. Our hotel had beautiful glass elevators that looked out over the city on the way up to our 20-something-floor room. That’s just bad news for any hotel when an unstoppable mooner like me is about. Hope you enjoyed the pasty white full moon that night, Nashville.

Day two: Onward to Roanoke, Virginia, where my good friend Jen Bath has been living for a few years now. We arrived in the evening, tired and hungry. Jen drove us around downtown Roanoke, which definitely has its lovely spots, before taking us to dinner at Macado’s, a nice little pub with an impressive sandwich menu. The food was good, the weather beautiful, the service nice (our server even gave Pat and I free shot glasses in honor of our first visit there).

Afterward, Jen drove us up to see the Roanoke Star, also known as the Mill Mountain Star. According to Wikipedia, it’s the “world's largest freestanding illuminated man-made star,” clocking in at 88.5 feet tall. The star can be seen from all over Roanoke, including from Jen’s front yard. The top of the mountain near the star also boasts a lovely scenic overlook from which you can see all of Roanoke lit up in the dark.

Exhausted after our long day, we went back to Jen’s to retire for the night and get ready for the next leg of the trip…home to PA. In the morning, we avoided the highways by going through some of the more rural parts of PA, like Lancaster and Gettysburg. We arrived near Philly near late afternoon, and once Miss Pat was settled in at her folks’ home, I hit the PA turnpike north. I expected heavy traffic and delays, but while there was construction and heavy traffic, it moved at an impressive clip for most of the way. I pulled into my mother’s driveway just before dark.

It’s good to be home.

Stay tuned for Part 2 of Voodoo Rue's PA-cation.

My letter of complaint to the Travel Channel

2009-06-26T13:07:00.003-05:00

(Sadly, I had to shorten it to get it to fit in their comment box, as they provide no e-mail address for contacting them.)

To whom it may concern,

I’m writing to express my displeasure with a recent comment made on Samantha Brown’s “Passport to Europe.”

I enjoy most of the shows on the Travel Channel and think Ms. Brown does an excellent job with her shows. However, I do take offense to this.

On a recent trip to Nice, France (I’m not sure how old the episode is…I watch a lot of reruns), Ms. Brown celebrated Carnival with a bystander. She asked the gentleman if he had ever been to Mardi Gras, and he replied that he had. She responded by saying: “I wouldn’t take my kids to Mardi Gras!”

This statement shows that Ms. Brown has clearly never attended a Mardi Gras outside of the beads-for-breasts mayhem that goes on in the Quarter, on Bourbon Street. Those cheesy “activities” have nothing to do with Mardi Gras and go on year-round. No truck-pulled parades have rolled through the Quarter since around 1975. Those parades, in fact, come for miles down St. Charles Avenue, starting at Napoleon, and the streets are lined with families during the Mardi Gras season. Only in New Orleans do hardware stores sell ladders with seats already attached to the top of them, for the kids. Take a look at pictures of St. Charles Avenue on Mardi Gras day, and you’ll see just how family-oriented it is.

Nearer to the madness of the Quarter, the police set up barricades to keep the crowds away from the floats. Farther uptown in the route, there are no such barricades, and adults and children alike are free to run up to a float for good “throws,” and I can attest that the riders do give the best throws to the children.

Please understand that I am not some offended parent…I don’t even like kids…but I do live close to the parade route and have been here for two Mardi Gras (or would that be Mardis Gras?). Yes, it’s very crowded, but so was Nice, from what I could see on television. But the police are out in force, and they don’t tolerate any inappropriate shenanigans along the parade route, nor do parade-goers who have brought their children.

I realize that in many ways New Orleans an anti-paradise. Our crime is sky high, our city officials are corrupt and incompetent, and the summer heat could fry an egg on the sidewalk. However, please realize that this is a city that relies on tourism for its survival (not to mention levees), and a blanket statement as such about a celebration that is VERY family-friendly away from Bourbon Street is damaging…for all of us.

Thank you for your time and attention.

Sincerely,

Melissa Lewis

Memorial

2009-05-26T21:39:00.005-05:00

In April of this year, my family came down to New Orleans to visit. It was the first time here for most of them. Sometimes it’s easy to take the things in your own backyard for granted, until someone opens your eyes.

We did all the predictable tourist stuff…toured the French Quarter, rode the streetcar, went to Audubon Park, walked on the Moon Walk and looked over the Mississippi, took a swamp tour at Honey Island, drank like fish. I dragged them all over New Orleans. They had no plans and no intentions and were happy following my lead.

The only thing my brother Mike asked is that we visit the National World War II Museum. Since Mike generally asks for very little (at least from me…his wife and kids might disagree), I was happy to oblige. It’s not generally my subject matter of choice, even knowing that my own grandfather had died in World War II. I don’t watch many war movies or documentaries, nor do I read much on the subject.

The National WWII Museum opened in New Orleans on June 6, 2000, 56 years after the invasion of Normandy, thanks to the efforts of author and historian, Dr. Stephen Ambrose (Band of Brothers). That being said, it is truly one of the best and most fascinating museums I’ve ever been to, and I think as a family we spent somewhere between three and four hours perusing the exhibits. I appreciated the small theaters scattered throughout the museum, showing short films that documented the progression of the war. Seeing articles that actually belonged to soldiers fighting the war—rations, weapons, letters, etc.—made it seem more real.

Visiting the museum piqued my interest in World War II, and I soon found myself on Netflix renting the series Band of Brothers, mostly because of my new-found interest in the subject matter, and only a little because I’m recently crushing on Frank John Hughes, one of the stars of the movie. Out of five stars, I’d give the series six. It’s fantastic, overwhelming, enlightening, and heartbreaking.

Soon I was asking my mother for more information on my grandfather, and she pointed me toward the Indiana Military site. My grandfather, a native New Yorker, was a 1^st Lieutenant in the 106^th Infantry Division, 422^ndRegiment, DHQ. His division was activated in 1943 in Fort Jackson, South Carolina, and then transferred to Camp Atterbury in Indiana for advanced training before leaving for Europe. According to the 106^th Infantry Division Web site created by Carl Wouters, “The 106th was the last of 66 US Infantry Divisions to be activated during WWII. Being one of the more unfortunate higher numbered divisions, the 106th were repeatedly stripped of manpower that was needed elsewhere.”

My mother was able to glean some information from diaries left by my grandfather and from survivors of his regiment, at least one of whom STILL keeps in touch with her to this day.

She wrote on the Web site:

“They arrived at the front on December 11-all green troops. Since officers were allowed to ship an additional trunk....my father did. His men thought it wasn't like him to do that. When he got to the front lines, he opened it up. It was filled with long johns and dry socks for his men. That's the kind of man he was.

Around Dec 16, he was on his way (to or from) headquarters when he and other soldiers were captured and taken prisoner. One man escaped-got back to his lines-and told them Lt Krol had been taken prisoner. A rescue party was formed. (with many volunteers).

From his men we heard............There was a group of 11 to 16 GI's being guarded by a Nazi soldier. The soldiers were in the open-forced to lie down in the snow. As the rescue party drew near..........my father saw them and ran in the opposite direction to draw the attention of the Nazi guard. He succeeded. He was killed, the rescue party saved the others. He earned a Purple Heart and a Silver Star.”

The Indiana Military Web site also includes a scan of the obituary from the New York Times and of the official notification my grandmother received telling her that her husband was killed in action at the Battle of the Bulge.

While the Allies eventually triumphed, the Battle of the Bulge resulted in approximately 81,000 American casualties, many of those fatalities, one of which left my mother without a father when she was little more than a year old.

I wish I would have known my grandfather. My mother tells me that he had a degree in English, and I think he and I would have had a lot to talk about.

My father served in the military as well. He was in the U.S. Navy in the 1960s, stationed on the USS Saratoga. Fortunately, my father left the Navy long before the Saratoga was deployed to Vietnam in the 70s.

My father was a quiet man a rarely spoke of his time in the service. My knowledge comes from what I learned from my mother, what I’ve seen in several books, and the very little he told me, mostly only when plied with a few beers. He traveled to many different places, but I think he preferred home. The only souvenir I have from his travels is a decorative wall hanging that says “Souvenir of Malta — Island of Sunshine and History.”

He may not have spoken much about his time in the service, but he was most certainly proud of it, and often sported a U.S. Navy hat.

Today I am still learning about the wars this country has fought, about my grandfather, about my father, and about the hardships endured by all. It’s a humbling experience, and it has made me feel both grateful and ungrateful at the same time for all the things in this life that I don’t appreciate.

When crime hits too close to home . . . again

2009-05-03T14:28:00.000-05:00

I have so many things that I want to blog about. I want to blog about my trip into the Barataria to go canoeing with the alligators. I want to blog about my family’s first visit to New Orleans and our trip to Honey Island Swamp and to great places like the WWII Museum. I want to blog about the awesome CD release party of Shamarr Allen and the Underdawgs.

But once again I find myself caught up in the never-ending cycle of news stories centered around violent crimes. This time the crime was one that my friends were witness to. In the wee hours of Saturday morning, some psycho opened fire on his estranged wife and her friend in the middle of a crowded bar, my FAVORITE bar, the bar in which I feel most safe and most welcome. The woman died, and the friend was severely injured.

According to the news story on NOLA.com, the victims had just gotten off work at a local hotel and were relaxing with a cocktail when the husband, who had been arrested there earlier in the week, stepped through the door and opened fire.

It breaks my heart to realize not only that crime CAN and DOES happen everywhere, but also that my friends were there and could easily have been injured.

I realize that this crime was the product of a domestic dispute and that little could have been done to prevent it. (The husband was arrested earlier this week and a restraining order was filed against him.) But it comes on the heels of so many other violent crimes throughout the city:

On Friday night a 24-year-old man was shot in the face and hip just blocks away from the site where a 35-year-old woman was killed when someone opened fire. On Saturday a bullet-riddled body was found on Airline Highway. (Yes, I know that’s Jefferson Parish, but it’s still close enough to be frightening.) Just the other day, in Marrero, a 14-year-old boy was shot in the head with an assault rifle. A seven-year-old boy was shot when his father stopped to buy drugs with his two kids in the car.

The most telling part of incidents was one line in the initial story posted on NOLA.com concerning the death of the 35-year-old woman. According to the story, a fight began in the parking lot of a gas station, one opponent wielding a baseball mat, the other a machete. The line to which I’m referring: “He said he called police but they did not come.” After the men left, one returned with a gun, firing into a crowd and killing the woman, an innocent bystander.

What’s wrong with this picture? This is not an isolated incident either. In 2007 NOLA.com posted an article concerning an attempted rape on Royal Street. The police were called but never arrived.

On May 1, NOLA.com reported that the NOPD admitted that it had “misreported” recent rape statistics. This on the heels of a story of a young woman who was kidnapped in the Quarter, raped, and dropped off in Gretna. The NOPD is investigating the kidnapping, but neither Orleans Parish nor Jefferson Parish wants to investigate the rape charge. The two parishes are fighting like my brother and I used to over who had to wash the dishes. “I don’t want to! I did it yesterday! It’s his turn!”

“It’s not my job! It’s yours!”

Who’s job is it? Who is to be held accountable? While our illustrious (insert sarcasm here) Mayor Nagin is defending his every suspicious move by claiming that those who would like some accountability are simply politically motivated and are hurting the recovery of New Orleans, the beat goes on.

Where are the crime cameras? Why do the traffic cams work so well as catching speeders and red-light runners, generating income for the city, but none of those crime cameras work?

While Nagin is busy giving non-answers and Police Superintendent Riley is busy cooking the books on crime stats, the city that I love is flailing. Who is going to help?

Yesterday’s sign of the times came in a phone call to my mother, who is very much in love with New Orleans, though she does not live here. I realized how bad things have gotten here and how bad the news looks to others when she said to me: “I think it’s time you moved home.”

The problem is, I already am home.

Mardi Gras in Cajun Country

2009-03-31T00:00:00.005-05:00

If only the city of New Orleans were as efficient at erecting and repairing homes as the crawfish are at building them in a yard in Carencro.

Well, the highlight of this year’s Mardi Gras season was a trip out to Cajun Country with Anne-Marie. We left on Friday, February 20, late as usual. We headed through the dark along the crowded highway past Baton Rouge and over the Atchafalaya Basin, passing signs along the way for places like Bergeron’s Boudin and Cajun Meats.

By the time we reached Lafayette, it was close to 9 o’clock, and we were starving, so we headed right for Randol’s Restaurant and Salle de Dance. I liked it immediately when I saw the huge carved alligator outside the entrance. We were excited about the prospect of finally getting in some Cajun dancing, but there were only a few people on the dance floor, and far too many kids for me.

Randol’s is a good-sized restaurant, and by the time we finally got a seat and ordered dinner, the band was just winding down for the night. Near the end of their set, I got to enjoy one of my favorite waltzes, the Lover’s Waltz, while I dined on my Bon Temps Poulet (Good Time Chicken).

We started the next day early, heading over to land owned by Anne-Marie’s family in Carencro, right along the Carencro parade route. The lot was filled with cars, Harleys, RVs, and Cajuns having a good time. After meeting up with Anne-Marie’s friend Leigh and her daughter, we parked ourselves along the parade route and waited.

The Carencro parade reminds me a lot of the truck parades that roll down St. Charles after Rex on Mardi Gras day . . . a never-ending procession of decorated trucks and floats, the riders of which are generally a great deal more generous in throwing beads and other throws than some of the Mardi Gras krewes.

The parade in Carencro seemed to last forever. Many floats were advertising businesses (like the Stop Supermarket, which boasted the area’s best cracklins), and some were just plain silly, like the Kroo de Crotte and the Krewe de Krunk Krazie. Some were themed, like the Kameaux Krewe, featuring riders wearing camouflage, and several boasted outhouses on the back.

All were shiny purple, green, and gold tributes to the joy of Mardi Gras season. By the time we were done, we were all covered in beads and overloaded with cups and other cheap souvenirs of the day.

We soon found ourselves in Lafayette at Mittie’s house, visiting with Stephanie, Leigh, and Mittie, while all their children played outside and waited for yet another parade . . . the evening parade through Lafayette.

It rained constantly throughout the parade on our little group of merry-makers. The parade route wasn’t crowded, and though it was sometimes hard to see through the rain, we all managed a pretty good collection of loot. My best catch was a medallion that said “Krewe of Bonaparte, Lafayette, Louisiana.” Not bad for my first trip to Lafayette.

Eventually we decided to hit up a bar in Lafayette for a drink on the way home. We were cold and tired, but it seemed a shame to be in Lafayette and do nothing. We chose a place in town, but the music was too loud, the place was too crowded, and we were simply too tired from a long day of bead-whoring to fully enjoy it.

Anne-Marie’s family’s home in Carencro is cozy and warm, and her bookcase is enough to make any Louisiana nut like me drool—so many books, so little time. Her grandmother and mother were responsible for authoring a series of children’s books featuring a character named Clovis Crawfish, as well as other regional histories. I’d love to take my time exploring that bookcase.

Carencro is, like most of the South down here, completely flat, but there are still plenty of stretches of unspoiled nature and big yards, like the one outside the house.

On Sunday morning, I learned about some very industrious crawfish. I assumed that crawfish lived entirely in the water, but that’s not exactly so. They’ll build themselves homes in any yard where the ground is wet, and they’re quite efficient at it. On Sunday morning, Anne-Marie’s yard was covered with both old and new crawfish piles. I guess this is why crawfish are often referred to as “mudbugs.”

Sadly, our juvenile attempts to get them out of their holes by poking sticks down them went unanswered.

Overall, the weekend in Cajun Country was a relaxing and rewarding experience. Like most people I’ve met in Louisiana, the folks in Lafayette and Carencro are just that . . . good, polite, hospitable folks . . . and I believe they are a shining example of the term “Southern hospitality.”

The Most Clever Gift

2009-02-15T15:42:00.009-06:00

My Christmas gift from Anne-Marie and her son, Zack: a homemade voodoo doll and a bottle of roux (a mixture of flour and fat, most often butter or oil, used as a thickening agent and the base of many Louisiana dishes) = Voodoo Roux!!!

I love it!

Mardi Gras 2009

2009-01-26T16:27:00.004-06:00

Another Mardi Gras is fast approaching. In addition to the opportunity to wear some ridiculous Mardi Gras hats I’ve managed to find, I think this year’s Mardi Gras will be even more interesting than last.

This year, my good friend Anne-Marie has invited me to Carencro, Louisiana, to experience a Cajun Mardi Gras with her family. And by “her family,” I’m told that that pretty much covers the entire town of Carencro, in one way or another.

This past weekend, the girls and I got out our dancing shoes and went to see Beausoleil avec Michael Doucet at the Maple Leaf. I’ve seen Beausoleil a few times before, but it’s been a while since I’ve listened to good, live Cajun music. There was a pretty good crowd at the Leaf, and we were pleased to see so many people dancing, and quite a few willing to ask a gaggle of single young women to dance. Anne-Marie is Cajun and can really cut a rug.

I’ve learned that even though I do have rhythm (I do! I swear!), I pretty much suck at Cajun dancing. It’s not that I can’t learn steps . . . I think it’s mostly because I’m terrible at following a lead. I’ll need a lot more practice before I can do anything but make a fool of myself out in Cajun country. Good thing that every Sunday at Tipitina’s there’s a Cajun fais do-do featuring Bruce Daigrepont.

According to Anne-Marie, Cajun mothers would put their children to sleep with the words “fais do-do” (go to sleep, or make sleep). After the children were asleep, the adults were free to dance the night away.

This may be my chance to get in some much-needed practice, so we both hope to make it to a few fais do-dos before the big weekend in Carencro.

Regardless of whether or not I get the hang of it or just wind up looking like a dodo myself, I’m sure that Mardi Gras 2009 will be a spectacular adventure.

Do you think they’ll like my hat?

Stand up. Speak out.

2009-01-10T13:52:00.001-06:00

Two years ago, the group Silence Is Violence was formed following the brutal murders of musician Dinerral Shavers and artist Helen Hill. In January 2007, the group organized a historic citywide march on City Hall to demonstrate the public outrage over the murder rate.

Two years later, New Orleans is still, per capita, the murder capital of the United States and one of the most dangerous cities in the world.

Wow. We’re number 1.

Yesterday, residents all over the city once again attended citywide rallies. In addition to a morning motorcade in memory of Dinerral Shavers and Helen Hill and an evening procession for one of the smallest and most recent victims, Ja'Shawn Powell (murdered, it appears, by a father who didn’t want to pay child support), citizens also gathered on the steps of City Hall at noon, where the names of the year’s homicide victims were read aloud.

In all, about 50 residents attended the memorial. They came dressed in red out of respect for their lost loved ones. They dressed their babies in red. They dressed their dogs in red. They stood silent while friends and relatives of murder victims recited their names and ages.

But where is the outrage sparked by that march in 2007? It seems sometimes as if the outrage has been replaced by resignation and a sad acceptance.

One hundred eighty names were on the list. While all murder is shocking, I was even more shocked by the ages . . . far too many in the 16, 17, 18, 19, 20 age range. Far too many. Far too young.

Also attending the rally were several city council members. Commenting after the reading of the names was new District Attorney Leon Cannizzaro, who expressed his office’s desire and intent to involve themselves in the process of criminal investigations far earlier than D.A.s of the past.

He seems sincere and competent, and that makes me hopeful, but not yet optimistic. I’ll be optimistic when New Orleans finally has a competent new mayor and a competent new police superintendent. I’ll be optimistic when criminals are finally kept in jail instead of slipping through the eternally revolving door at the D.A.’s office. I’ll be optimistic when witnesses of violent crimes are sheltered and protected instead of harassed, threatened, or killed.

New Orleans is a beautiful city. It’s MY city now too, whether or not I was born here. It breaks my heart when I talk with people who are too frightened to visit. The city is rich with culture and atmosphere, food and friendliness, sunshine and jazz. We shouldn’t be simply saddened and resigned to violence and crime . . . we should be outraged. In the end, communities must come together to protect not the guilty, but the innocent . . . ourselves, our neighbors, our children, our friends.

Silence IS violence.

Stand up. Speak out.

Deadliest City...

2008-10-08T14:17:00.005-05:00

It sounds like it could be the Discovery Channel's latest nail-biting reality series, but here it's just another headline. It is reality.

The Advocate, a Baton Rouge-based newspaper, reported today that New Orleans has been declared tops in the nation in "brutal, homicidal violence." The study, conducted by Washington-based Web site foreignpolicy.com, listed New Orleans, along with Caracas, Venezuela; Cape Town, South Africa; Moscow, Russia; and Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea, as one of the the top murder capitals of the world.

According to the FBI statistics, in 2007 New Orleans averaged 95 murders per 100,000 residents. Per capita, it's the largest murder rate in the United States. 5 people have been killed in the last two days, according to nola.com this morning.

Numbers and statistics and headlines may seem unreal when viewed in black and white. Often, it's not until crime touches us in some way, no matter how small, that we realize how vast the epidemic is.

This past weekend, while engaging in my usual Sunday afternoon boozing at the Erin Rose, my friend Anne-Marie drove into the Quarter to meet me. When she offered to drive me home, I jumped at the chance to save on cab fare and catch a ride.

When we got back to the car, we found that it had been broken into and rifled through. While nothing major was stolen, except for a few dollars of emergency cash, this fairly common occurrence is just the smallest ripple in the pond.

In addition to feeling violated by the break-in, Anne-Marie now has to worry about whether or not the criminals walked away with any of her personal information. She's getting an alarm system for her house and breaking out her shotgun, just in case.

So what's the solution? Martial law? Vigilantism? My thoughts: Personal responsibility, coupled with a small dose of vigilantism.

A recent story in the Times-Picayune told the tale of a robbery gone wrong when a passerby intervened, shooting one of the would-be robbers. While this might seem extreme, to me it seems cosmically just. Very little has been done to lessen crime in New Orleans. Our red-light traffic cameras work spectacularly to catch red-light runners and speeders, but our crime cameras are still not up and running, and the number of violent crimes keeps in rising and the NOPD is working diligently to pin some of those crimes on dead men who were in jail at the time.

Perhaps what it takes to bring down crime will be to put not the fear of God into criminals, but the fear of the average resident. I don't have any sympathy for the would-be robber, who may have lost a kidney and may be paralyzed for life. I'm positive that he would have shown the same compassion for his victim. If it ever comes to choosing between my life and the life of some criminal, I'll take me any day.

This weekend, Anne-Marie and I are going gun shopping. We've been to the gun shows, fondled various weapons, and both pretty much decided on our choices. (She's opting for a revolver, while I'm leaning toward a 9mm.) She's passed her gun safety course, and I'm signed up for mine. Within a few months, we'll both also have concealed carry permits.

We will certainly not become vigilantes. What we will be is armed, safe, and smart women, capable of protecting ourselves. We both pray that time never comes, but we won't be unprepared if it does.

I'd also like to get a guard alligator for my courtyard, but I don't think my neighbors would approve.

A Monster Named Ike

2008-09-12T14:33:00.002-05:00

New Orleanians breathed a collective sigh of relief recently as the much-anticipated forecast models shifted Hurricane Ike into Texas. Not that we wish bad things upon most Texans (except for the Dallas Cowboys), but we are still broke and exhausted from our recent Gusta-vacation. Much of south Louisiana is still devastated, and recovery will take a very long time.

However, Ike is proving to be quite the monster in the Gulf. The following is from the blog of Dr. Jeff Masters from Weather Underground:

"Hurricane Ike is closing in on Texas, and stands poised to become one of the most damaging hurricanes of all time. Despite Ike's rated Category 2 strength, the hurricane is much larger and more powerful than Category 5 Katrina or Category 5 Rita. The storm surge from Ike could rival Katrina's, inundating a 200-mile stretch of coast from Galveston to Cameron, Louisiana with waters over 15 feet high. This massive storm surge is due to the exceptional size of Ike."

That's a frightening thing to consider . . . how close New Orleans came to disaster again. Despite the fact that Ike passed more than 200 miles south of us in the Gulf of Mexico, the New Orleans area has been experiencing tropical storm force winds and rain all day. The alley between our house and the neighbors' was flooded this morning. I avoided the side entrance, thinking that I'd keep my feet somewhat dry if I just left through the front door.

That was not the case, as my car was sitting in about three inches of water from the rains, which were starting to pond on both St. Charles and Carrollton this morning. The wind outside still sounds like it's about to tear the roof off my office building in Metairie.

I just spoke with a friend in Houston. They, like many of their neighbors, are staying behind as Ike takes aim at Texas. They might have evacuated had she not just given birth via C-section, and she's just in too much pain to spend hours in a car. So now I have to worry about her as I track Ike's progress across the Gulf.

The National Hurricane Center's site also now shows two areas of disturbed weather that need to be watched. Thankfully, both currently have only a low potential for development.

I'm tired. I'm tired of packing and tired of staying up all night monitoring storms. I'm tired of worrying and stressing and planning. I'm tired of the wind and rain and tornado warnings.

Why do we do it? Why do we risk ruin and despair every year? What makes it worth it? For many people, New Orleans is home. For some, like me, it's my adopted home. So what makes us stay?

Maybe we all love it here.

Or maybe we're all just crazy.

Complimentary "Dead Hooker Under the Bed" Smell

2008-09-07T17:26:00.004-05:00

Finally, our long week away from home and hours of weather-watching are over . . . for now.

Our stay at the Dead Roaches on the Floor Motel lasted four nights, four night of wondering where the dead-hooker-under-the-bed smell in my friend's room was coming from, not to mention what looked suspiciously like bloodstains on the curtains of my room.

We concurred that the hooker head been killed in my room and stuck under the bed in hers. She didn't have the nerve to check to see if the body was still there.

Our evacuation to Mississippi culminated with the untimely but not unexpected death of my car. Yes, I could have paid a fortune to fix it and then come back to New Orleans needing to get a new one anyway. So I ditched the Dodge in lieu of a more reliable Toyota. We were riding in style.

Bumblefuck, Mississippi, was actually a little town about 100 miles south of Memphis called Grenada. While the squalid conditions of our hotel turned us off initially, not to mention the creepy men hanging out in front of our doors drinking beer and staring at us, the people of Grenada turned out to be friendly, courteous, and helpful, from the bartenders at our favorite spot in Grenada (there's not much to choose from), Jake and Rip's, right down to customer service rep at the garage that gave me my car's final diagnosis (death sentence).

We left Grenada early Wednesday afternoon to head back. Traffic was heavy, but unlike our escape from NOLA, at least this time we had air conditioning. We barreled our way down 55 South until traffic finally slowed to a crawl and were were forced to rethink our route. With my friend Jen in charge of the road atlas, we hopped onto a service road and quickly came to a two-lane highway leading pretty much right down into Louisiana. It wasn't long before we were on the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway (the longest bridge in the world) and almost home.

We arrived at dusk, just in time to find we had no electricity. We'd also heard on the radio that there was a curfew in place, so finding someplace to go for food or cool air was out of the question. We spent a hellish night sprawled out trying to stay cool and get some rest.

My roommates arrived home the next day. They had gotten stuck on another route and ended up in the middle of Baton Rouge, without gas, in the middle of this night, in the middle of a curfew.

We cruised the neighborhood to check out the damage, noting that the National Guard were stationed in front of all the Rite Aid stores. Rite Aid was hit harder by looters during Katrina than Walgreen's. Why? Well, because Walgreen's doesn't sell beer or booze. It's nice to know that someone was protecting all that alcohol.

Overall, power was still out for most of the area, trees were down, windows blown out. In fact, my roommate lost two panes of her window to the storm. Thankfully, that was the extent of our damage.

It seems our voodoo dance must have worked after all. Never underestimate the power of a rubber alligator. Thanks, Boudreaux.

Thursday afternoon we left our steamy house and headed over to the Maple Leaf, hearing that they had electricity . . . and food. Indeed, in an incredible display of generosity, the Leaf had been feeding the entire neighborhood with free food all week. Patrons at the Leaf seemed tired of being without power in their own homes, but genuinely happy to be back.

Thursday also brought another night of hot, sleepless discomfort. By mid-afternoon on Friday, however, as we all lay around sweating and stinking, the power was finally restored. We whooped and cheered and immediately turned the AC on.

It's Sunday now. Power has been restored to many parts of the city, but the streetcar still isn't running, and I miss hearing it rumble by my house.

Things are slowly getting back to normal. People are coming back, city workers and residents are clearing debris, and New Orleans is getting back to business as usual.

I worry about New Orleans as I watch Hurricane Ike. While our Gusta-vacation went smoothly, I've heard numerous people say they wouldn't do it again, that they'll take their chances with a storm. This kind of complacency will inevitably lead to another Katrina-like debacle, and I only hope that Mother Nature is kind to us for the rest of this hurricane season.

As for me, I'm still watching Ike. He's looking like he's going to Texas, but I'm keeping a close eye on him anyway, just in case he changes his mind. I will not be complacent. Should Ike appear ready to visit Louisiana, my ass is hitting the highway . . . again.

I worried a great deal last week that Gustav would close the book on New Orleans for me. For now, at least, I take comfort in knowing that for both of us, NOLA and me, the story goes on.

I wanna go home . . .

2008-09-01T23:20:00.002-05:00

It looks like this eternal day of watching and waiting might finally be over.

Overall, New Orleans got very lucky in terms of damage. The Industrial Canal in the Ninth Ward was overtopped for quite some time, but there were no breeches. The eyewall of Hurricane Gustav made landfall some 70ish miles to our southwest, devastating Cajun country and towns like Houma and Lafayette along its way. A levee in Plaquemines Parish came very close to failing.

I have to say that local government did a bang-up job in the way of preparation. Bobby Jindal was impressively on the ball. I'm no fan of Republicans, but that man has earned my deepest respect this week. Not only did he appear in constant press conferences all week to keep residents informed of the danger, but he also arranged for the evacuation of a majority of New Orleans citizens who had no means to leave on their own.

I only hope that if another evacuation takes place this year (and my gut says it will), that today's close call does not lead to complacency on the part of residents. Today's anticlimactic conclusion for New Orleans does not mean that every story will have the same ending.

Our mayor, C. Ray (not lately), came home from the Democratic National Convention just in time to get his name in the headlines, but I'm convinced that it was Jindal pulling all the strings. Nagin is simply a puppet who no one really takes seriously anymore.

It was announced before the storm that there would be no shelters of last resort, and that anyone caught outside of their own property after a mandatory evacuation was called would be arrested. Looters would be send right to Angola.

NOLA.com is now reporting that two people were arrested. Ninety to ninety-five percent of coastal Louisiana evacuated, in one of the impressive displays of efficiency that I've ever seen and the largest evacuation in Louisiana's history.

It seems that many lessons were learned and taken to heart three years ago.

Now we're waiting for news on when the city will reopen. It looks like we'll be stuck in Hotel Hell for yet another day, as the city will most likely not be open for residents tomorrow.

I'm pretty sure that the stain on my curtains here at the Dead Roaches on the Floor Motel is blood. I'm pretty sure that the smell in my friend's room is something dead. I suspect that the victim was killed in my room and hidden under the bed in hers (judging by the odor) and was more than likely just removed before we arrived.

We met several people from New Orleans this evening at Jake and Rip's, the barbecue joint across the street. I thought my car was in trouble . . . until I met someone who landed in this town because he lost the tranny on his car. At least mine is still running . . . for now. I'm a lucky girl today.

I'm tired, and I haven't slept well for days. I want to not think about Gustav, or Hanna, or Tropical Storm Ike, who looks to be headed into the Bahamas in about a week, or the new tropical wave emerging off the coast of Africa that looks as though it might also get a name this week.

I want to not think about anything. I want rest and peace and the comforting rumble of the streetcar passing in front of my house. I want my own bed and my own pillow on which I can finally dream my own dreams instead of nightmares of enduring loss. Sometimes even my dreams have bruises, but most of the time they also have a rhythm and a song to lead me home.

I just want to go home.

Down to the wire...

2008-08-31T22:53:00.002-05:00

It's now less than 12 hours from Gustav's landfall on the coast of Louisiana. Unbelievably enough, I'm still receiving phone calls from friends who JUST found out what was happening. This seems unbelievable to me, whose life is consumed by this current crisis, but I realize that the world does not revolve around the Big Sleazy for most people outside Louisiana.

After Katrina, countless people suffered post-traumatic stress syndrome resulting from the disaster. Somehow, I think that even if New Orleans remains relatively unscathed after Gustav, that most people will STILL suffer from PTSD after the fact.

Here in Mississippi, my friend and I spent the day a Lake Grenada, a lovely little haven in the hills of Mississippi, at which we could while away our troubles for a little while. While floating in the cool water, I was almost able to convince myself that the constant hum in my ears was caused by distant outboard motors, and not by the not-so-distant freight train of my own fears roaring through my brain.

At dinner at a local barbecue joint, we both fought off tears as we realized how close to triumph or tragedy we really are.

When this is over, if all is said and done and we head back to an intact New Orleans, we're all still going to need a vacation and a prescription for Prozac.

Jen and I are in for the night, with the TV tuned to MSNBC. Jim Cantore is now in Houma, Louisiana. Sadly, that means that Houma is fucked. For those who don't know who Jim Cantore is, he's the Weather Channel's very own Weather Ninja. The saying goes that if Jim Cantore shows up in your town right before a storm, you know you're the target and it's time to get the hell out of Dodge.

Gustav is scheduled to make landfall somewhere around 8 a.m. Monday morning. We will not be sleeping tonight. We are exhausted, but there will be no rest for us until this drama has played itself out entirely and Gustav has taken his final curtain call.

This story could not possibly end like this, could it?

2008-08-30T16:17:00.003-05:00

Well, could it?

That's what I keep asking myself from the Dead Roaches on the Floor Motel in Bumblefuck, Mississippi, where I am currently holed up after a torturous search for open hotel rooms.

We left before they called for the mandatory evacuation. After about seven hours in the car, with the battery light coming on and my constantly having to pull over, shut off, and restart the car, we finally found a fleabag hotel that would take our fleabags . . . two rooms for two refugees and two feline furballs, please.

Gustav is now expected to become a Category 5 hurricane in the Gulf by tomorrow morning. The models shift west. The models shift east. The models are playing tug-o-war with my sanity. Regardless of which shift comes next, Gus will have a huge impact on the Gulf, and I fear for my city. He's a monster, and we are officially under a hurricane watch.

There's a tiny part of me that says that Gustav will not destroy New Orleans . . . that small voice in my brain that believes that the Fickle Finger of Fate could not possibly be so cruel as to take my father and my city from me within a span of just a few months.

I, for one, am not ready to close this chapter. I have not been to nearly enough parades, or Jazz Fests, or secondlines. I have not sat on my porch nearly enough times waving at the tourists passing on the streetcar. I haven't written nearly enough poems about the musicians who inspire me, like Paul and Shamarr and John. I haven't gotten nearly drunk enough on shots of Jaegermeister at the Erin Rose on Sundays.

My hotel hell room has no wireless connection, but my friend's room does, so I will not leave her alone. I'm not ready to face the hours of unknowing desperation alone. My room has a refrigerator, but it doesn't work, so I'm forced to drink my beer quickly. Hell, we're lucky we've got running water in this dump. The soda machine has cobwebs that probably date back to the 1980s. Then again, we're lucky to have found a dump with two vacant rooms.

Waiting is torture. I want to write my own story and not wait for the ending to be written for me.

This is my story, and this cannot possibly be how it ends, can it?

No really...it was an exercise in preparedness after all.

2008-08-29T22:34:00.002-05:00

Just a quick note, as it's getting late and I find myself working manically to prepare.

As of now . . . about 10:30 p.m. on Friday night . . . Hurricane Gustav is still looming just south of the Gulf of Mexico. Orleans Parish officials have announced that contraflow (both sides of the highways going north) will begin Sunday morning, possibly Saturday night. Jefferson Parish officials have announced that their mandatory evacuation will commence tomorrow morning.

I live close to and work in Jefferson Parish, so my ass is hitting the highway tonight/early tomorrow to avoid the traffic.

While the models are showing Gustav taking a west turn and heading more toward western LA/Texas, we're still in the National Hurricane Center's three-day cone of uncertainty, and Gus hasn't even hit the Gulf of Mexico yet. Despite the trends, all bets are off, as Mother Nature is notoriously unpredictable.

Better safe than sorry, methinks, so we're bugging out and heading north. After all, it is Labor Day weekend, and it certainly can't hurt to be sipping drinks by a pool somewhere instead of waiting out a potential storm.

So we'll see how far my car makes it. I need a vacation anyway.

Here's hoping that Gustav continues west into anywhere else but southeast Louisiana. I really don't want to see any fellow Louisianians get the brunt of this storm either, but I think wishing Gustav would disappear in a poof of smoke is probably unreasonable, despite the voodooish ceremony my roommates and I performed involving two voodoo dolls and my rubber alligator, Boudreaux.

What can I say? We tried.

By the way, am I the only one who thinks it's just wrong to give a hurricane a name whose first four letters are "GUST"?

An exercise in preparedness? Or an unhealthy obsession?

2008-08-22T10:27:00.002-05:00

I’m being told increasingly often these days that I’m far too obsessed with the weather.

In my defense, I do have reason to be a little obsessive in the middle of hurricane season, in a city below sea level. In some ways I think I’m still suffering from a Katrina-induced paranoia. But my habits and obsession aren’t new…they’re simply a great deal more pronounced than they used to be.

I’ve always had a fascination with severe weather. I don’t often understand much of the mechanics behind it, as I barely passed my science classes in high school and college, but still it fascinates me. I used to sit for hours watching marathons on the Discovery Channel about tornadoes ripping up the Midwest, typhoons flooding helpless coastal towns, mudslides bringing homes careening down the side of a mountain, and, of course, the hurricanes.

At the time, my fascination was just about limited to this never-ending parade of TV documentaries. When the movie Twister came out, I watched it over and over again, not because it was a good movie, but because I wanted to be out chasing twisters too.

Years ago, my friends Jen, Irene, Jim, and I went driving around in the middle of some severe weather in our hometown of Bumblefuck, Pennsylvania. We were forced to turn back because of falling trees, but the adventure was exhilarating. Two days later our area got hit with an F4 tornado with a base a half-mile wide. It was devastating for the area . . . and fascinating.

Now, this “hobby” of mine includes about 15 weather Web sites bookmarked on my computer, weather forums, books about Katrina, and my constant companion at home, the Weather Channel.

I spend every day lurking on the Gulf Coast Weather Forums. With Topical Storm Fay poised to re-enter the Gulf of Mexico now and head west, I can scarcely stay away for longer than three minutes at a stretch. This is like crack to me. I’m a complete addict . . . from June 1 until November 30.

In fact, I just took a break from typing this to go check on Fay’s progress. I can’t help myself.

With new invests (94L and 95L) skulking about in the Atlantic, I expect my behavior will change little for at least the next few weeks. I’ll be exhausted but unable to pull myself away from the computer, watching the models and my clock and realizing that eventually I’ll have to sleep. Eventually, I’ll have to get some work done too. It’s a shame that this whole “working for a living” concept is getting in the way of my weather watching.

There are worse things to obsess over, and there are even worse things that I obsess over, but generally not all day, every day, for six months.

So is this healthy? Is it preparedness or paranoia? Fascination or fear? Intense interest or cause for an intervention? Am I going crazy?

I don't know. I'm not even sure that I care. But I don't have time now to consider an answer to that. I need to go check the weather.

Cyclogenesis (a work in progress)

2008-07-28T14:07:00.002-05:00

My madness is a
cyclical interloper
blowing in on a summer wind
and staying far too long

There is
warm water to the south
that makes my mouth dry
and leaves me parched

I've run out of wine
but can't seem to find the time
or the inclination
to buy more

There are
masses of spine-bent supplicants
praying to their deities
on bended knees

as if tokens left for saints
or voodoo queens
by fair-weather believers
can save us now

I barely blink
think the fan blades
whirring overhead
have it easy

In my next life I want to be
an inanimate thing
live a life without fear coiling
around in my belly

I want to choose
stillness and peace
over sweat-stained sheets
and dread

and the roaring fear
behind my ears
that is almost drowned out by
the frantic beating in my chest

It is impossible to rest
and keep the stillness
but with every little movement
there is a little death

Between breaths there is
confusion and convection
and a spinning, subtle misdirection
and always the waiting

This is always
how the madness begins
and ends

7/28/08

Move it or lose it.

2008-06-18T12:33:00.003-05:00

Such was the case this past Sunday in my Uptown neighborhood. After being awakened by a thunderous storm early in the morning, my roommates and I congregated in the kitchen for a short chat, amazed at how loud the storm was and how long it lasted.

After returning to my room, I soon heard my roommates calling me from downstairs.

“Melissa! You’d better move your car!”

We’ve had several heavy rainstorms since I’ve been in the new apartment, yet none of them had left our street flooded. This storm, however, dumped around 6 inches of rain on the metro area in a short span of time, leaving our pumps working madly to keep up.

From the front porch I could see that the water was nearly a foot deep in front of our house, and the cars parked in front were clearly in danger of getting flooded. Due to a lack of parking on the Avenue the previous day, my car was around the corner.

After ringing the neighbors’ bell to alert them of the condition on the street and suggest they move their cars, I moved my own to a street five blocks away that looked to be a little higher and drier.

As I trudged back home through the murky water, the rain continued to fall and the thunder continued to roll, and I almost prayed (I don’t pray) that I wouldn’t be struck by an errant bolt of lightening while sloshing beneath the ancient live oaks.

My glasses were so fogged up and wet that it was impossible to see, so I took them off. I’m blind as a bat, so it was impossible to see regardless. Several times I stepped off a sidewalk into the street, only to find myself in water that was above my knees.

Once home, I dried off and decided the only thing left to do was take a nap, and so I did.

When I woke up about two and a half hours later, the sun shone brightly, the sky was blue, and the streets were dry. By the time I was ready to make my Sunday pilgrimage to my favorite bar in the Quarter, the day was hot and humid, and there was no trace, at least in front of my house, of the deluge that had occurred only a few hours earlier.

By the time it was over, numerous streets in Orleans Parish were underwater. At least 30 property owners in Jefferson Parish report flood damage, and the Times-Pic showed a photo of two kids in an inflatable boat floating down a street in St. Charles Parish.

Looking back, I wish I had thought to dig out my camera and take some pictures, but it never occurred to me.

My roommate’s car did not fare so well as mine. Parked directly in front of our house, it took on a few inches of water, and I've no doubt that at least one of my neighbors' cars flooded as well. I got lucky, especially since my car is a piece of shit, and a few inches of water might have caused the entire thing to fall apart completely.

All in all, it might have been a grand, if inconvenient, adventure, were it not for the fact that this storm may have been a dreadful harbinger of things to come.

I know, I know…I always sound like little Miss Gloom and Doom, but it’s for good reason. Our pumps and drains could not even handle a thunderstorm, albeit a monster one. How on earth are we going to manage something bigger?

Time will surely tell. In the meantime, I’ll be keeping my eyes open and getting myself ready to “move it or lose it.”

Ready or not, here it comes...

2008-05-15T13:00:00.002-05:00

I'm enough of a worrywart to begin with, but recent events throughout the globe have me even more pensive than I would normally be. In Myanmar, the official death toll is now more than 43,000, but the Red Cross estimates the number of deaths to be somewhere between 68,833 and 127,990. Myanmar's military, the junta, are currently poised on the precipice of their very own Katrina debacle, on a much broader scale, as they refuse to allow foreign aid workers into the country to help distribute aid to the survivors.

In China, the death toll from a killer earthquake could reach 50,000, with more than 12,000 still buried and more than 100,000 injured.

We're not even midway through 2008 and already a tremendous number of people have felt the cold hand of nature's unpredictable, volatile temper.

Is global warming the cause, as Al Gore has suggested? Or has Mother Nature just finally gotten so pissed at our treatment of her beloved Earth that she's fighting back? And do these recent disasters portend an even more dangerous year?

Ready or not, here it comes...hurricane season. A mere 16 days to prepare. Are we ready? Our floodwalls are filled with newspaper. Our levees are substandard. One can't help but wonder what's in store for us.

No one really wants to play the pessimist, but plans must be made, and while I try to keep my car in decent shape and my tank full, my personal plans haven't extended beyond that.

Am I prepared? Would I stay? Would I leave? What would it take? A tropical storm would probably not force me to evacuate, but a hurricane would most likely see me hitting the highway.

Where will I go? I've not even begun to think that far ahead. I spent the days after Katrina in Mississippi, then home in Pennsylvania, then back to New York City.

I relied heavily on friends and family during that time, but it was months before I returned to retrieve my belongings and a year and a half before I returned for good.

I have no intention of going that far north again should the need to evacuate arise. I want to be able to come back.

I have to come back.

But am I ready? No, I am not ready. I'm not ready at all. But ready or not, here it comes...

John Boutte (singing “American Tune” with Paul Sanchez at dba Thursday, March 20, 2008)

2008-03-27T21:54:00.004-05:00

He sings with his eyes closed
voice streaking from stage to sky
and back again
then whispering like a wish

That voice
could make an atheist believe in angels
make a breath or a sigh
seem like something divine

Light a dark room
with all the colors of a song
because there are more colors in the blues
than just blue

Gets inside your mind
cuts like glass then
heals the wound
it left behind

Is a hypnotist's watch ticking
ticking
ticking
you under its spell

until
you don't even realize
that you have stopped breathing
and are leaning forward

suspended
on the edge of your seat
as if ceasing all movement
will enable you to capture

every single note that follows

3/26/08

Super Sunburned Sunday

2008-03-27T21:31:00.002-05:00

I love parades. More specifically, I love parades in New Orleans. I love parades here so much that the following is a direct quote from an e-mail from one of my friends here (who does not share my passion for parades) after my St. Patrick’s Day parade adventures:

“It is good to see that you FINALLY AT LONG LAST got to attend a parade. I mean, my goodness, you poor thing. What's it been, over a month? That's inhumane. That's Gitmo-level shit right there, toots.”

Yeah, I am the uber-dork of parade-going.

This past Sunday was Super Sunday, an annual celebration/parade that falls on the Sunday before St. Joseph’s Day. Super Sunday features tribes of Mardi Gras Indians, decked out in spectacular regalia, who meet in the vicinity of the now-demolished C.J. Peete housing project in Central City to parade down Lasalle. The parade has no published route or time, and news of these details is generally spread by word of mouth.

The Mardi Gras Indians are a cultural phenomenon unique to New Orleans. The Indians have been parading since at least the mid-19th century. Formerly, these parades served as a means to settle scores, and violence was commonplace. Now the competitiveness between the tribes is mostly good-natured. The elaborate clothing is thought to be a mixture of Native American and African American traditions, and while the Mardi Gras Indians are not necessarily Native American, their traditions are a tribute to a shared history of discrimination and the aid provided by Native Americans in helping slaves to escape from their captors.

When my roommate and I arrived the streets were cluttered with spectators and Indians alike. Tribe members collected near Washington and Lasalle to begin the parade, stopping to pose spread-armed for eager picture takers. The Indian regalia are large feathered masterpieces with intricate beadwork depicting a variety of scenes. The costumes are massive, both wide and tall, and watching a group of Indians come marching down the street amidst the crowd was like watching a wave of colors break across a sea of people.

Interspersed with the tribes were various social clubs and brass bands, and this remarkable parade was also my first chance to second-line.

The second line is another unique New Orleans tradition where spectators become so involved in the music and the magic that they jump right on into a parade behind a band.

A second line is supposed to be a spontaneous event. Unfortunately, the rich tradition of second-lining has been cheapened and commercialized by the city government’s decision to require permits to second line, for a price, of course. How does one get a permit for something that’s by definition spontaneous?

Last year, an unpermitted second-line jazz funeral for a local musician was broken up by an excessive number of police who clearly thought those spontaneous paraders were the real criminals in the city, and the two ringleaders of the second line were arrested.

Glad to see they’ve got their priorities straight.

I’m assuming this past Super Sunday was all permitted and legal, because police even provided escorts and blocked streets along the route for marchers.

One of the brass bands, known as the Stooges, was led in the parade by Big Sam, a New Orleans trombonist and the main man in the band Big Sam’s Funky Nation. A crowd of second liners had amassed behind Big Sam, and I found myself pulled along with the tide of people. Watching a parade pass by is not nearly as fun as parading with it, dancing to the music and enjoying the day.

I followed Big Sam from the beginning of the parade route all the way to the end, to Taylor Park, which was awash with food and music and drink. My feet were sore and I was tired and hungry, but I felt completely satisfied at having participated in my first second line.

Unfortunately for me, I had left the house that morning without sunblock, a necessary item for someone as pasty white as I am. Being a redhead is a grand thing on St. Patrick’s Day, but it isn’t nearly so grand when one has been marching in the hot sun all day.

Monday brought the real pain of the sunburn, but amidst my repeated applications of aloe, I noticed something ironic . . . that the silver fleur-de-lis pendant I wear every day had left its pale shape behind in the redness of my chest.

I guess that’s just another way of keeping New Orleans close to my heart.

A Kiss for a Rose

2008-03-19T16:56:00.002-05:00

Well, not really a rose. More of a paper flower, but who am I to say no to kisses from handsome (well, friendly and spirited, at least) Irish men?

I recently received an e-mail from someone who called New York's St. Patrick's Day parade "conservative," "militaristic," and "joyless."

I don't know why I always find myself comparing events in New York and New Orleans (they may as well be in different universes), but I do.

The Irish Channel parade last Saturday on Magazine Street was the polar opposite to "conservative," "militaristic," and "joyless." Even this neighborhood that is so prone to violence could not deny its party atmosphere and joviality. The very same neighborhood where I heard the gunshots from recent murders had no violent incidences or deaths that I recall seeing in the Times-Picayune. (The same cannot be said for our beloved Mardi Gras this year.)

After parking our car deep in the Channel near Tchoupitoulas (I just like spelling that name), my roommate and I were quickly offered a drink by the inhabitants of one little shotgun house. We declined after tasting the concoction, which they called "jungle juice," but their generosity in offering was to be a indicator of the entire day.

Walking past my old apartment on Magazine, we stopped to chat with the new inhabitants, who were outside enjoying the warm weather and the sunshine on the porch (the very same porch from which I blogged about my friend the gecko last time). Like my roommate and I, the new tenant was a writer too. There is definitely something about this place that draws us here.

Across the street from my old abode was a house party featuring a sign that said, "$5. Beer. Food. Potty." Where else can you get all that for five bucks?

Playing on the front porch of the house was my roommate Sally's lovechild, the New Orleans Rhythm Conspiracy, a band that she helped to create. A white bucket was strapped to the fence so that passers-by could contribute to tip the band.

And believe it or not, they did. They danced in the street and dropped money in the bucket. Someone passing by stuck a big green shamrock-laden hat on my head, which I eventually passed along to someone else.

Admittedly, this was my first time indulging in green beer. I try to avoid it, but for $5.00 I wasn't going to be particular. Green is my favorite color, after all.

The parade rolled eventually, led by groups of tuxedo-clad Irishmen carrying paper flowers to exchange for kisses from the ladies.

There is no better time to be a redhead than St. Patrick's Day, even when one is not Irish. I had accumulated at least five flowers before the floats ever came by.

Unlike parades in New York, spectators are not confined behind barriers like animals (except in the French Quarter). We run around like children, beg for beads and flowers, and generally maintain a certain level of genteel Southern courtesy that does not exist above the Mason-Dixon Line.

I am still trying to convince myself that I'm not a Yankee, so please just nod your head and play along.

The parade itself is very much in the spirit of Mardi Gras. In fact, I saw many of those same floats during the MG parades. Giant leprechaun heads and shamrocks and riders with green hair populated the floats. Men in kilts and tams marched along playing bagpipes and drums and passing out more flowers.

Imagine my glee when I learned that, much like Mardi Gras, the riders on the floats also toss loot. In addition to beads, flags, cups, and assorted undergarments, the floats toss vegetables, the most popular being, of course, cabbage. I caught one head of cabbage and countless bags of carrots. I missed all the potatoes, though. I just wasn't quick enough for a spud.

By the time the parade was over, my arms and neck were covered with beads, and I had accumulated seven flowers, two plastic Irish flags, two garters (though I gave one to a guy wearing green leotards and a green tutu), three plastic cups, and one pair of green panties, which I'm saving for a special occasion.

I wound up stringing most of my beads along the wrought-iron fence in front of the house. I already have too many Mardi Gras beads and no place for them. But I kept everything else.

Somewhere in the trip back to the car I lost one of my flowers, but I still have the memory of every sweaty, drunken kiss from a stranger.

After all, they're always after me lucky charms. . .

How much snow do YOU have?

2008-02-22T19:23:00.002-06:00

I’ve become a porch-sitting, mother-taunting, NOLA-flaunting pain in the ass. It’s true. Just ask my mother.

I’m sitting on my porch wondering where I am. In all seriousness, I know exactly where I am, but my senses are still slightly skewed. February in New Orleans feels like June in Pennsylvania.

Our weather over the past few days (I’m obsessed with weather) has included forecasts for rain, hail, tornados, etc. The one thing it hasn’t been? Cold.

I called my mother again today, knowing that she was snowed in, having never made it to work and never even leaving the house.

She hates me. But in a good, jealous, motherly type of way. She loves New Orleans almost as much as I do. (I say almost because I get to throw in the additional argument that I was already forced to evacuate once and came back.)

She wants to move here too. She wants to get away from the cold, hard north to come down here and embrace the culture of creativity. With my writing, I inherited a tiny part of my mother’s creativity. She can do so much more.

So I’m sitting on my porch, working on my second glass of wine and watching a gecko cavort on the bare bush next to my apartment, leaping from bush to tree and back again, and listening to the jolly strains coming from the ice cream truck. Can you imagine? Ice cream in February? People passing by see me perched with laptop and glass of wine, shoeless and comfortable, and they say hello. They ask how I am.

I have many days when I suffer the pangs of regret over the things and the people I gave up to come here, to come back and feel this way. Today is one of those precious days, those rare days, when I have no pangs. When I am guilt-free. When I am teary-eyed but in the best way to be teary-eyed…not from sorrow, but from joy.

And I wish today would never end.

Bruised, but satisfied

2008-02-18T22:34:00.001-06:00

Mardi Gras evening...February 5

And now it’s quiet, at least Uptown. I’m exhausted after going to 29 or so parades in a week and a half and have decided to forego the madness of the Quarter. I’ve done my celebrating. My tally of injuries: one set of beads between the eyes during Krewe du Vieux; one dozen to the face during Morpheus; one bag of a dozen large white beads to the face during Endymion; and one large set to the face today, leaving me slightly swollen and exacerbating the sinus infection I’m currently suffering.

And every one was worth it.

Now NOLA and I can hunker down and snuggle together in our own post-Mardi Gras bliss, exhausted, bruised, but completely satisfied.

She is not without her scars, though. While my own Mardi Gras season was a study in perfection, the same wasn’t so true for others. Several parades were marred by violence, shootings, and death, accidental and otherwise. New Orleans has once again taken a beating, but in the end she’s still standing, and I think she always will because she has people, like me, who love her dearly.

Tomorrow she make look a little different, a little dirtier around the edges, a little run down, a little tired, but in the end just as beautiful.

Best catch of the season…

2008-02-18T22:31:00.001-06:00

Mardi Gras...February 5

Trucks, trucks, and more trucks. The truck parades roll immediately after Rex finishes its slow journey down St. Charles.

The truck parades are just that…trucks. Not floats pulled by tractors, not marching bands, not marching groups. Just trucks, dedicated only to throwing stuff to people like me. Two truck parades follow Rex—Elks Orleanians and Crescent City. There were about 93 trucks in the first parade and 50-some in the second. I lost count.

The trucks are decorated too, but not with the same detail as krewes who have the help of professionals like Blaine Kern. But in the end, just as much thought and love go into the truck floats.

The truck parade loot collection started out a little slow for me but soon picked up as I found a good spot.

There is a danger with all the objects flying around during Mardi Gras, and it takes a special kind of ability to pay attention to more than one thing at a time in order to avoid injury.

I don’t have that ability.

One strategy for getting goodies from float-riders is eye contact. You make eye contact with someone, put your arms out, and beg, then move on to the next rider. Unfortunately for me, you also have to pay attention to what the other riders are doing.

My short attention span and tunnel vision got me a big set of beads right in the face. Did I mention I have a sinus infection? My face was already in incredible pain before getting hit. It was almost unbearable afterward.

I considered going home and skipping the second truck parade. I really did. But I powered through it and, shortly after the second parade started, got what I consider my best catch of the season.

Now, others may pine for those Zulu coconuts or for Muses’ Rubik’s cube beads or for Rex’s Beouf Gras stuffed cows, but for a girl who’s Web site is voodoorue, whose blog is voodoorue, who’s MySpace is voodoorue, and who’s e-mail is voodoorue, getting a cheesy voodoo doll gave me a spectacular thrill. It was too perfect, like it was planned just for me, a gift from the loa, and I still consider that my best catch of the season.

I don’t even care that it still has the “Made in China” sticker on it.

The Loot (combined): 175 beads, 1 plastic drinking cup with a shoulder strap, 1 stuffed MG mini-soccer ball, 1 MG flying disc, 1 stuffed spider, 1 alligator squeaky toy, 1 little plastic football, 1 fake rose, 1 snake-shaped whistle, 1 plastic lei, 1 mini compact mirror, 1 voodoo doll

Rex rocks...

2008-02-18T22:29:00.000-06:00

Mardi Gras...February 5

After the madness of Zulu this morning, this afternoon turned into a perfect day. Perhaps one of my best days ever. Rex rolled at 10 a.m., making it down my way sometime after 11. My friend Nichole, the chef, brought out a couple chairs and we parked ourselves right next to the parade route, drinks in hand.

There were, as usual, delays along the parade route. A flirty soldier stopped by to chat, pulling a couple strands of beads from his pocket for us, then stopped back later to tell us the delays were caused by a problem with one of Zulu’s double-decker floats.

It was another long wait, but we were comfortable and had delicious libations to cheer us. It was the only parade I took a drink to. The temperature was about 75 (in February!…the Yankee in me is still astounded), and I was appropriately slathered in SPF 50.

When each float rolled by, we leaped up with everyone else, screaming “Happy Mardi Gras!” and “Throw me something!” When I got tired, I sat down, letting the kids rush the floats, put my hands up into the air and let the loot come to me. Those riders on the second level love to throw shit, and I made a perfect target. I had a drink and a bag of beads, the krewe was fabulous, the floats amazing, and the bands awesome.

I was in such a good mood that when I saw a tiny little boy who had been thus far unsuccessful in scoring a stuffed cow, I gave him one of mine. Imagine that…the kid-hater forking over her stuffed cow to a kid.

But don’t get the wrong idea about me. I soon got three more, and I’m keeping those for my greedy self.

In all, I don’t think anything about this afternoon could have gotten any better.

It was a perfect day.

The Loot: 46 beads, 3 stuffed cows, 7 plastic cups, 1 flying disc that says “Rex supports rebuilding New Orleans”

Me too.

I’m taking my coconut and going home…

2008-02-18T22:27:00.000-06:00

The one thing I hate worse than kids getting between me and my beads is drunk douchebags who are more than willing to toss you under a float if it means they’re going to get one of Zulu’s coveted coconuts.

I arrived early and planted myself at the front of the crowd. Unlike my more residential area of St. Charles from which I’ve watched most of the parades, Zulu turned onto St. Charles at Jackson, closer to bars like Igor’s. Everyone near me was shit-faced by 8 a.m. The crown was 7 or 8 people deep at times, and each time a float or rider with a coconut went by, the crown surged forward, pushing everyone into the float. Several times I feared that my face would get mashed into the side of the floats, and I wouldn’t want to ruin those great floats by getting my blood all over them.

Being short leaves me at a disadvantage. I put my hands up every time, and everyone around me would just put theirs over mine. I managed to catch two sets of beads. Then, the people next to me were turned around conversing when a rider on a passing float tossed a coconut, which landed squarely in my hands.

I left early. It’s the only parade at which I didn’t enjoy myself, and that’s by no means Zulu’s fault. Like all the parades, Zulu is unique and beautiful, and perhaps I should have just walked until I found a better location. But I was tired and have walked more than I care to think about in the last week and a half.

So, to the crowds at Jackson and St. Charles…fuck you. I got my coconut, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let you sacrifice me to the coconut gods so that you can get yours.

I’m taking my coconut and going home.

The Loot: 2 beads and 1 coconut

Where were you, Harry?

2008-02-18T22:25:00.000-06:00

Orpheus is another of those grand, indescribable spectacles. Like Endymion, this parade is huge—with 30 floats—and at one point features a train of connected floats. It really does look just like a train, and I’m still wondering how they turn corners with that.

My only disappointment was not seeing Harry Connick Jr., one of the founders of the Orpheus krewe. You see, Harry’s hot.

Perhaps I missed him, or perhaps he had other obligations and couldn’t find the time to ride in the parade that day, but he was sorely missed.

I stayed up late on Lundi Gras, exhausted but too wired to sleep and ready to rock Zulu at 8 a.m. on Fat Tuesday. It felt like Christmas Eve…the anticipation, the excitement. And I’d already gotten more gifts than I could have possibly imagined.

The Loot: 37 beads, 1 stuffed Siberian huskie, 1 stuffed ducky, 4 plastic cups, and 1 beer coozie

Arthur Hardy…you’re my god

2008-02-18T22:23:00.001-06:00

Lundi Gras…February 4

Arthur Hardy, I have no idea who you are, but I couldn’t have accomplished nearly as much this season with my Arthur Hardy’s Mardi Gras Guide. In fact, I bought two when I misplaced the first one. I later found it under a pile of laundry on my couch.

Yeah, the laundry piled up for the entire MG season.

The MG guide contains maps, histories, and schedules for all the Mardi Gras parades. The trick to using the guide, however, is to actually open it up and look at it, which I failed to do the night of Proteus and Orpheus. So accustomed was I to the parades starting at 5:45 and getting down to my area an hour later that I never looked to see when Proteus started. It was 5:15. I’d missed half of it. It was the only parade for which I showed up late.

I’m so ashamed.

Still, I thoroughly enjoyed the second half of Proteus, which was another fabulous parade. It was a great night overall, though by my estimation my loot collection was half what it should have been.

I hate being late. I’m sorry, Proteus. It won’t happen again. I promise.

The Loot: 12 beads, 1 jelly light-up seahorse, 1 stuffed something that looks like a cross between a voodoo doll, Frankenstein’s monster, and Dracula. I’m not really sure what it is.

From the Hulkster’s sweaty palms to mine…

2008-02-18T22:18:00.001-06:00

Bacchus rolled on Sunday evening. After spending most of the day outside at four other parades, I was exhausted, dehydrated, famished, and ready for more.

A girl asked if she could sit by me on the curb, and we struck up a conversation. I mentioned that I hadn’t had anything to drink all day and was looking for a vendor selling water.

It turns out she lived across the street and offered me her last beer. She came back from her apartment with my beer in a plastic Mardi Gras cup from some previous parade. It was even a Purple Haze…my favorite…and I think it was the most delicious beer I had ever tasted.

It turns out this was her first Mardi Gras too, and like me she had been to every parade and was a self-proclaimed bead whore. She moved to New Orleans to work as a chef, and had done just that, finding work at the world-famous Commander’s Palace.

It’s good to have someone to pass the time with while waiting for the parades to start. Once the parade rolled down toward us, we started our bead quest.

Bacchus’s special guest rider this year was Hulk Hogan, who was flexing and looking somewhat inebriated as his float passed. He flexed his “24-inch pythons” (are they still that big, Hulk?) and chucked a handful of doubloons off the float. Madness ensued, but in the end I wound up with one of the doubloons bearing the Hulkster’s cheesy visage.

Bacchus was yet another example of a spectacular parade, though I think I still enjoyed Endymion more. I caught a stuffed crawfish wearing a chef’s hat, which I gave to my new friend, the chef. She did, after all, sacrifice her last Purple Haze to a poor, dehydrated bead whore on St. Charles Avenue.

I think Mardi Gras brings out the spirit of giving in people. I gave up the bracelet given to me to a woman from New York. She was thrilled, and I was happy to make someone else happy.

That’s the spirit of Mardi Gras.

The Loot: 83 beads, 2 plastic cups, 1 stuffed baseball, 6 doubloons (including the Hulk’s), 1 jester hat (a gift from the chef in exchange for the crawfish)

Super Sunday...

2008-02-18T22:14:00.003-06:00

Sunday was another beautiful day. While waiting for the parades to start, I struck up a conversation with the woman next to me who was wearing a NY Giants shirt. She was visiting from NY, and it was her first Mardi Gras too. She was thrilled because they had just gone to see the Manning home, childhood home of New Orleans’ own football dynasty. It was Super Bowl Sunday, after all.

She liked my Mardi Gras bracelet. I gave it to her. That’s what Mardi Gras is about sometimes. I’m not particularly a Giants fan, but I hate the Patriots (not as much as I hate the Cowboys, but still…), so for her sake and my dad’s, I’m glad the Giants won the Super Bowl.

Overall, I think Mid-City was the most memorable parade of the afternoon for me, their floats being spectacular creations wrapped in colored foils. Well, maybe not wrapped in, but I really don’t know how else to describe it. Definitely eye-catching.

Babylon, rescheduled from Thursday night, rolled on Sunday as well. That’s five parades in one day, for those of you who are counting (Bacchus will be covered in my next blog). I spent about 12 hours that day on St. Charles Avenue, going home only briefly before Bacchus to eat and use my own facilities.

I'm considering changing my address to "The corner of 4th and St. Charles," since I've spent more time there in the past few weeks than I have in my own apartment.

The Loot:

Okeanos: 12 beads
Babylon: 7 beads, 5 plastic cups, 4 doubloons
Mid-City: 18 beads, 1 plastic cup, I super-bouncy ball, 1 doubloon
Toth: 7 beads (including 1 LSU Tigers medallion and 1 big ceramic bodice medallion that says “Divine Protector of Endangers Pleasures); 6 doubloons; 1 kazoo; 1 stuffed bear; 1 stuffed crab; 1 purple, green, and gold garter

Have you noticed that the more beads I get, the more details I recall about the parades? Hmmm…I guess I really am a bead whore. My memories can be bought and sold for little more than cheap plastic items.

Eat your heart out, Macy’s.

2008-02-18T22:10:00.001-06:00

Endymion…Saturday night, February 2

Growing up in the north and being a lifelong parade fanatic, I spent every Thanksgiving morning for most of my life watching Macy’s annual Thanksgiving Day parade on television. The first year I moved to New York City, I stayed for the parade. I met my friends in Penn Station and secured a decent spot along the parade route. I thoroughly enjoyed myself and was appropriately impressed.

Endymion makes Macy’s parade look like a ghetto welfare parade. Sorry, Macy’s, but Endymion is everything a parade should be, and more. I had a better time at this parade than at any other, despite being abandoned by my friends, who were tired of walking and tired of waiting. I can’t say that I blame them, but I’m such a bead whore that I refused to give up.

I crammed myself up against the barricade at Canal and South Rampart and waited amid the throngs of other impatient onlookers. Seeing a parade on Canal is a completely different feel from the family-oriented Uptown location from which I watched most others. It’s madness, but still fun.

Endymion is considered a super-krewe, the largest krewe in the history of Mardi Gras. The floats were huge, lighted affairs--with several connected together to create super-floats--loaded with revelers who seemed to enjoy tossing the loot almost as much as the parade-goers enjoyed catching it.

I didn’t expect a great collection of loot. The route was packed and there was lots of competition. I like to be prepared, however, so I stuffed a plastic bag in my pocket and waited.

I should have brought more bags. The beads were flying like mad, and by the time I was done, my bag was bursting at the seams, and my body was covered in the beads I couldn’t fit in the bag.

I started walking behind the parade toward St. Charles, laden with my tearing bag of gleaming plastic goodies. Fortunately, somewhere along the route I came across a bag tossed from one of the floats…a Mardi Gras-themed bag that holds the riders’ beads until they empty it and chuck it overboard.

I got lucky with that find. I wound up walking all the way home with my bag, which was so heavy I had to keep switching hands because I kept losing the feeling in my arms.

My feet hurt, my arms hurt, and I was too exhausted to walk down the street to the bar that’s only four doors away for a drink. But I wasn’t too tired to count up my loot and sit staring in quiet wonder at the fabulous pile for the next hour or so.

Endymion also has, in my opinion, the best medallion beads: purple, green, and gold ovals bearing a fleur-de-lis.

I think Mardi Gras has spoiled me for parades forever. I can’t imagine watching a parade where no one throws anything. I can’t imagine a parade without beads. I can’t imagine watching Macy’s parade again. I can only imagine that every other parade for the rest of my life will pale in comparison and leave me wanting more.

And you know that this bead whore is always going to want more.

The Loot: 124 (woohoo!) beads, 2 cups, 2 doubloons, 1 stuffed flower

Give my regards to Iris…

2008-02-18T22:08:00.001-06:00

Saturday afternoon, February 2

Iris and Tucks

Saturday morning the weather was improving and the streets were even more crowded. Rolling first on Saturday was Iris, and all-female krewe whose theme was “Give My Regards to Broadway.”

The show tune addict in me went nuts. I loved this parade, which featured floats of The Lion King, Oklahoma, Cats, and many more. I’m a huge theater fan, and after six years living in New York City have seen my share of musicals. I love them all. (Well, most of them.) And it’s something that I miss down here, so it warmed my heart to see tributes to them on display.

Hats off to Iris.

Following Iris was Tucks, celebrating their 40th anniversary. Tucks has some…let’s just say interesting throws. The special Celebrity Grand Marshall was supposed to be Christopher Meloni of Law and Order SVU, and I was disappointed when I didn’t see him. Perhaps he was hiding.

I did see special guest star Peter Mayhew, who played Chewbacca in the original Star Wars films. His car was surrounded by a contingent of storm troopers on foot, and the occasional bounty hunter. (I’m pretty sure I saw Boba Fett.)

Tucks gets my award for most functional float…the one with the outhouse on it. Brilliant. Funny and functional, and considering all the beer I saw being imbibed by marchers (dressed as birthday cakes), they needed that outhouse.

The Loot:

Iris: 67 beads, 4 plastic cups
Tucks: 49 beads (let me tell you, those little cone-shaped ones are a bitch to untangle); 1 plastic cup; 1 doubloon; 1 purple, green, and gold mini-toilet plunger (I told you they had interesting throws); and 1 stuffed toilet plunger

I want to be a Muse!

2008-02-18T22:05:00.001-06:00

Muses, the only all-female krewe that parades at night, rolled on Friday night, after being postponed by bad weather. Fabulous, brightly lit floats were separated by marching groups with names like the “Camel Toes Steppers.” It was clever, fun, and I want to be one when I grow up.

Who am I kidding? I’m never going to grow up.

Muses is also know for their shoe-themed floats and unique throws. My catches included a Muses glitter powder puff (which I used to glitter myself up for Endymion the following night, and beads with a miniature Rubik’s cube and shoe-shaped lip gloss. (I must admit, I haven’t yet figured out how to open the shoe to get to the lip gloss. Maybe it’s just a case of being smarter than the shoe, in which case I’m shit outta luck.)

I’ve spoken with many people who claim that Muses is their favorite parade of Mardi Gras season, and though I have another personal favorite, I’m completely enamored of Muses’ creativity and wit, not to mention the fun they were clearly having. Despite being rescheduled and very late, the crowd was impressive. Muses rolled last on Friday night, and by the time the parade was over, it was after midnight, though the hour did nothing to diminish the enthusiasm of adults and children.

It seemed at one point as if the parade had ended, but no one left. After about a half hour, the parade continued. I can only guess that Muses, like so many others, had suffered a breakdown of one of the floats, a common occurrence as the floats get larger and more detailed.

But that’s okay. No one minded the wait. Everyone has been waiting for a year, and I’m sure some, like me, have been waiting their entire lives for this. I don’t suppose a half hour is going to kill me.

The Loot: 16 beads (including the coveted Rubik’s cube beads and 2 shoe-shaped lip gloss beads, 1 shoe bracelet, 1 glitter powder puff, 1 light-up heart necklace, 2 cups

It's all a blur...

2008-02-18T22:01:00.001-06:00

Friday, February 1

Hermes, D’Etat, Morpheus

Friday evening was a little chilly, but that didn’t keep anyone away from the parade route. Hermes, whose theme was “The Garden of Earthly Delights” was followed by the ever-popular Krewe D’Etat. (That segue is another way of saying I don’t remember much about Hermes. That’s terrible, isn’t it?)

D’Etat is another funny, satirical offering on the Mardi Gras buffet, a skeleton-themed assortment of characters and some of the most sought-after throws of the Mardi Gras season, like a stuffed high-priest doll.

No, I didn’t get one. I pouted for a while, but I got over it.

Third on the line-up for Friday night was Morpheus. With Morpheus came my second injury of the season, after catching a dozen beads with my face. What can I say? It’s a talent. Morpheus’s theme this year was “Crescent City Dreams.”

I have a lot of those these days.

The final parade of Friday evening was the rescheduled Muses, but they get their own blog entry.

So there.

The Loot:

Hermes: 39 beads, 1 plastic cup, 3 doubloons
D’Etat: 13 beads, 1 blinky skull necklace, 1 jelly blinky skeleton necklace, 2 plastic cups, and 1 wooden doubloon
Morpheus: 53 beads, 2 plastic cups, 2 doubloons, and 1 bruised face

Mother Nature: 1, Mardi Gras 0

2008-02-18T21:58:00.001-06:00

Thursday, January 31

Thursday brought rain and cold, and while the weather was not quite as bad as it was the first night of Uptown parades, it was soggy enough to make Babylon, Chaos, and Muses choose NOT to go the same route as the waterlogged Oshun. I would have stood out anyway. Then again, I probably needed the rest.

Bless me, father, for I have sinned. Perhaps I need a spanking?

2008-02-18T21:55:00.001-06:00

Wednesday, January 30

Ancient Druids and Pygmalion

Hmmmm…well, they’re not really priests, but the all-male krewe of Druids parades wearing priest-like robes, and of course masks. They looked like Friar Tuck meets Michael Myers from the Halloween movies.

Creepy, but cool, and kind of sexy.

Druids was followed by the rescheduled Pygmalion, a 16-float procession that had postponed its scheduled post-Oshun parade and rolled instead on the much drier Wednesday night.

Included in the interesting catches from Pygmalion was a large plastic cigar that would have made Monica Lewinsky proud.

The Loot:

Druids: 53 beads, 2 plastic cups, 1 navy football, and 1 super-bouncy ball.

Pygmalion: 16 beads, 5 doubloons, 1 large plastic cigar, 1 glow stick

Hazy shades of purple, green, and gold…

2008-02-18T21:50:00.001-06:00

Because I’m a procrastinator and wait so long to do things, like blogging, my memories grow hazy and distant. In hindsight, I should have carried a notebook and wrote about each individual parade immediately after.

Because I’m a procrastinator AND a slacker, I didn’t, relying instead on my memory.

Clearly, the old noggin’ ain’t what it used to be.

Now it seems that Mardi Gras was all one long parade that lasted for days and days, each individual one blending into the next, creating a different shade within the same picture.

It’s a shame that my own laziness (coupled with exhaustion) has rendered me unable to recall every detail of each parade and do it justice, but I just can’t. Mardi Gras seems like ages ago, though it was just a few weeks. I’m already planning for next year and trying to decide how I’m going to use my beads to decorate my new apartment.

I’ll do my best to pay homage to each and every parade, but I make no promises.

Thank you…

2008-01-29T19:00:00.001-06:00

Carrollton and King Arthur (Sunday, January 27, afternoon)

The competition is getting tougher. Sunday afternoon brought better weather and more crowded streets, and lots of kids trying to get between me and my loot.

Lesson learned: I’m still taller than most kids who are say…under the age of 8. After age 8, it could go either way. I’m pretty short, but if I’m taller than them, then the laws of physics or whatever other science classes I failed in high school say that I’m going to get to the beads first.

Note to kids: If I happen to get to that stuffed animal or Frizbee or football or other shiny object first, don’t turn your little teary eyes up at me and think I’m going to fork over my treasure. I don’t like kids, and you’ll just annoy me. In fact, if your parents weren’t standing next to me, I’d give you a kick in the pants to get you out of my way.

I kid, of course (sort of).

I saw King Arthur twice, though the second viewing was completely unintentional. After enjoying it once Uptown, I hopped the bus and headed to the Quarter and my favorite bar, the Erin Rose, not realizing that the parade would be rolling up and down Canal Street. I really didn’t need to carry around any more plastic, but I couldn’t help myself. My prize score: a set of beads with a purple, green, and gold fleur-de-lis. It’s my favorite catch so far.

It’s infectious, seeing the parade roll by again and jumping up and down waving your arms in the air and hoping the person throwing has a good aim. I couldn’t help myself. Unlike Uptown, Canal Street is barricaded, the crowds confined. I prefer my little Uptown corner near St. Charles and Washington, where I am free to chase after a float for a stupid stuffed frog if I choose to.

Overall, the spirit of Mardi Gras is still generous and celebratory. Thank you to the couple on vacation who gave me all your plastic cups because you didn’t want to carry them back to Chicago. Thank you to the people who liked my enthusiasm and gave me all your beads, just to make me happy. Thank you to the woman with the tiny dog in a harness, strapped to her chest to watch the parade, who gave me her alligator beads. And thank you to Beth, who I met at the Erin Rose and who gave me her Mardi Gras bracelet, just because I said I liked it. I’m going to look for you on Mardi Gras day, right where to told me to, on St. Charles and 8th.

And thank you, New Orleans, for really knowing how to throw a party, and for never letting anyone feel uninvited.

The Loot:

Carrollton: 2 plastic cups, 1 mashed up bag of candy corn, 3 dubloons, 36 sets of beads
Kind Arthur: 1 plastic cup, 92 sets of beads

I (still) love a parade.

2008-01-29T18:58:00.000-06:00

Sparta and Pegasus (Saturday, January 26, evening)

Saturday evening was chillier, and a good deal more crowded. I staked out a spot on the neutral ground, having been on the sidewalk for the previous parades. It was a different perspective until the drunk douchebags behind me started screaming and hollering and shoving, forcing me to shift back to the sidewalk side of the street.

Unlike many people on the parade route, I’ve been (surprisingly) enjoying the parades completely sober. No, this is not some New Year’s resolution to decrease my alcohol consumption and live a healthier lifestyle. It’s simply my realization that I have the world’s smallest bladder, and I am not willing to miss any part of this experience because I have to run home to pee every 10 minutes.

While my take of the loot was not so impressive for this afternoon, I still had no reason to be disappointed. In fact, I continually find myself amazed at the sheer number of marching bands in these parades.

The high school band geek inside me is tingling with glee. Actually, I’m not particularly musically inclined (I’ve had a piano since I was 10 and still suck at playing it), so I marched in the band front as a flag and a rifle.

I have to think it’s a great thrill to march in a Mardi Gras parade, but I wonder how some of these schools feel after marching in parade after parade. Does it still thrill? Or by then are they just sick of the crowds and the street and, in Friday’s case, the cold and rain? (I remember marching in Scranton’s holiday parade one year when the wind chill was 25 below zero. None of the marching bands could play…the instruments froze.)

But I digress into high school memories of wanting to march in a big parade, any big parade. Huge props to all the marching bands who make these parades great. I’m still jealous, even 20 years after high school.

What can I say? I love a parade.

The Loot:

Sparta: 34 sets of beads
Pegasus: 7 sets of beads, 1 bouncy ball

I ain’t too proud to beg…

2008-01-29T18:54:00.000-06:00

Pontchartrain and Shangri-La (Saturday, January 26, afternoon)

Saturday afternoon was most definitely warmer and drier than Friday night, thank goodness. (Side note: My sneakers STILL have not dried out from Friday, and it’s now Tuesday.)

The crowds are getting a little larger as the season rolls on, but St. Charles was still manageable for these two parades. One valuable lesson I learned from my armloads of loot at Oshun on Friday night was to bring a plastic bag, enjoy the first parade, pile the loot in the plastic bag, and start all over again. Yes, I live close enough to walk home with my goodies, but once I’ve staked out my parade spot, I’m not moving.

Lesson learned: As the floats get bigger and the generous souls tossing cheap plastic souvenirs are up higher and higher, rushing the float is not always the best strategy for maximum loot collection. If you’re right next to the float and no one is looking down over the side, you’re shit outta luck.

Strategy: Base my own proximity to the float on how tall it is and where the riders are located. On some floats they’re located low enough to actually hand you the goodies, in which case an enthusiastic smile will usually land you something.

Sometimes they make you chase them. I chased a float for a purple, green, and gold, stuffed frog. And I am not ashamed to admit it. Yes, he teased me mercilessly before finally giving it up, but it was worth it. It’s like Carnival foreplay, and I ain’t too proud to beg.

The Loot:

Pontchartrain: 7 plastic cups; one purple, green, and gold football; 32 sets of beads
Shangri-La: 1 plastic cup, 1 plastic flower, 91 sets of beads

I wish I remembered which one my froggie came from, but I waited to long to write about it and forgot!

I'm a bead whore...

2008-01-25T21:48:00.000-06:00

I am...I'm a total bead whore.

And this time, unlike my vacations to New Orleans in the 90s, I even got to keep my shirt on.

After selling my soul to the work gods to leave early and not get caught in the hell of parade traffic, I found that the cold weather and rain probably kept a lot of people away.

I bundled up again, forsaking an umbrella to keep both hands free for loot collection, and headed to St. Charles, a five-block walk. The rain continued all night, and the thunder and lightning made me wonder about the wisdom of standing under the tall oaks lining St. Charles.

But death by lightning strike was a small price to pay for the thrill of seeing my first big Mardi Gras parade roll down St. Charles. It was the Krewe of Oshun, and if I hadn't left my completely priceless Mardi Gras guide at work, I'd be able to write more about them, but I can't.

The floats were beautiful, the marching bands cold but energetic, and the whole parade a grand experience. My first score was a porcelain doll, making me glad to have forgone the umbrella in lieu of having both hands free. And I learned that a parade-goer does not just stand idly by on the sidewalk and wait for the beads to come to them. Oh no, one must rush the floats, hands in the air, screaming "Throw me something, Mister!"

Miss Marie, a coworker of mine, passed out blinking plastic bracelets the other day, and I made sure to wear mine...no way was I going to get lost in the dark.

And then the beads kept coming. Like the rain that pounded St. Charles, I found myself covered in plastic baubles. By the time I was done I had more than I could carry. That didn't stop me from picking the ones up from the street left by others who perhaps had enough already, or who perhaps didn't feel the need to dig around in the puddles on St. Charles for their souvenirs.

But I don't care. I'm a bead whore. And I want more.

I've had a crappy week. I've been sick with a stomach flu, had to buy new tires for my car, and miserable at work. I'm tired, cold, still sick, and broke. And I'm in tears. Not because of my crappy week, but because once again, I'm completely overwhelmed by how many different ways it's possible for me to love this city.

And now that I've finally dried out, I'm taking my tired, cold body and bundling up under my electric blanket so that I am warm and well rested when I get up tomorrow to do it all over again.

The Loot: One porcelain doll, one plastic Oshun cup, one little brown plastic football, one back scratcher, one stuffed rose, three broken strands of beads, and 118 unbroken strands of beads.

Oh yeah...

Now throw me something, Mister!

One free mouthful of sperm...

2008-01-25T21:46:00.000-06:00

That got your attention, now didn't it?

No, this is not my Christmas wish list, but rather the offer on a coupon received from the Krewe of Spermes at the 2008 Krewe du Vieux "Magical Misery Tour" Mardi Gras parade.

This was my first Mardi Gras parade, and this Krewe definitely popped my Carnival cherry with a bang. Wickedly funny and definitely dirty, the Krewe du Vieux is a non-motorized (no trucks or tractors) parade that rolls through the Quarter. Known for it's satirical, irreverent themes, this parade delighted crowds throughout the Quarter on January 19.

It was a cold night. Yeah, I know, I'm in the South now, and all my Yankee friends and family will tell me, "That's not cold...Wait till you hear how cold it was here!"

Better them than me, but it was still freaking cold here...in the 30s. I bundled up and took the bus into the Quarter, staked out a place under a lamppost on Conti, and waited. A couple next to me, Dee and Paul, struck up a conversation and made the time pass much more quickly. They were from Austin, Texas, but now live on St. Charles. Good people.

Note to self: Don't carry a camera to a parade. I spent so much time trying to photograph as much as I could that I missed a lot of clever stuff. Also, while trying to take a photo and not paying attention, I got pegged between the eyes with a strand of beads. Lesson learned: I'd much rather catch the beads than get hit in the face with them.

The parade itself featured tributes to Ray Nagin, David Vitter (I recall a "David Vitter's Lonely Whores Club" float), and Eddie "The Hat" Jordan, among others, not to mention a wide variety of other naughty themes.

One marcher pressed a vibrator to the side of my face as he/she walked by. I really hope it wasn't used.

Overall, my first first Mardi Gras experience was a spectacular salute to debauchery, which is everything I expect New Orleans to be.

The Loot: About six strands of beads (including one with a light-up skeleton), one Krewe du Vieux Magical Misery Tour plastic cup, one Mardi Gras marshmallow treat, one green Durex condom (hey, at least when you're getting busy, you're wearing one of the Mardi Gras colors), and the aforementioned coupon that reads: "This card entitles the bearer to one free mouthful of sperm!"

Also of note is a postcard from the Cult of Lafcadio. I'm too unmotivated right now to look into the history of Lafcadio Hearn, but the following quote is dated 1879 (according to the postcard):

"Times are not good here. The city is crumbling into ashes. It has been buried under a lava flood of taxes and frauds and maladministrations so that it has become only a study for archaeologists....But it is better to live here in sackcloth and ashes, than to own the whole state of Ohio."

I couldn't agree more.

Second Chance for a Second Line

2008-01-23T21:13:00.000-06:00

There was nothing as beautiful, or as ugly, as New Orleans in the summer. I moved there from New York City in June 2005, just in time for the hottest months of the year, into half of a pretty, cream-colored, Victorian double-shotgun house on Iberville Street. I shared with a girl who was a writer, like me, and her two cats, who battled with mine for territory, though there was plenty for all three. My favorite part of the house was the picture-perfect front porch, with green trim around the windows and doors, beautiful white columns, and a little iron rail across the front. The oppressive heat didn't make sitting on the porch feasible or comfortable, and I couldn't wait for cooler weather to sit outside and watch life saunter past me down the street (a saunter is as fast as it got in New Orleans). I longed to add a porch swing but never had the chance.

In the summer, everything in New Orleans slowed down until it almost stopped moving. The people slowed down to a crawl, and even the words that came from their mouths came more slowly. Sometimes the music moved so slowly that I could almost feel each note brushing against my skin as it floated past me on the street. The air was so thick and heavy that I could see the dirt suspended in it. Walking through it was like trying to wade across the Mississippi.

Everything in the city was always dirty. I was always dirty, from the moment I stepped out of the shower until the next time I stepped back in it. Even in the shower, the cleanliness of the water was suspect. I loved the fact that New Orleans was such a dirty city. Clean cities have no soul. Dirty cities always have something to hide. That's what makes them interesting.

When it rained, it came down so hard and with such determination that an umbrella was useless. It lasted for only a few moments before the sun came out again and steam rose from the street, baking it and eliminating any evidence of rain. Sometimes, during more powerful storms, the electricity on the streetcars would fail, leaving riders trapped, stranded without AC, sweating and stinking. I've twice experienced power outages on a streetcar. It didn't smell pretty.

I waded through the Quarter every day. I spent hours in the aquarium, contemplating leafy sea dragons and rockhopper penguins, just because it was air-conditioned. I walked the length of the Riverwalk Mall again and again, though I rarely bought anything. At night I would huddle around my cold bottle of beer in a little bar just off Bourbon Street and listen to people talk.

It was impossible to go anywhere in New Orleans and not become engaged in conversation. The people around me wouldn't allow that. It wasn't a city for the solitary soul. I would have had to possess a serious personality flaw or a tragic body odor affliction for someone to not speak to me, and even body odor didn't seem to deter many people.

On weekends I walked to the Sound Cafe in the Bywater for my writer's group meeting. On Thursdays I went to poetry readings at the Gold Mine Saloon, where the crowd was sometimes small but always enthusiastic. New Orleans is a city of words.

I had moved to New Orleans to write. My new friends told me to start writing as soon as I arrived, because if I didn't write my first novel within my first year, I never would. I would fall into the slow-moving, ambitionless rut that seemed to absorb so many people who lived or moved there. Then, they told me, I would spend my days drinking and talking about how I always wanted to write a novel.

My roommate tended bar in a little place on Frenchman Street called the Spotted Cat. I spent weekday afternoons in the Spotted Cat, listening to the jazz bands that played every afternoon. The place was cozy, and many of the bands would play without amps or microphones while passers-by pressed their faces to the glass doors and decided whether or not to come in.

Sundays found me tired but reluctant to stay home. Going to the Quarter required waiting for the streetcar, so instead I walked to the bar at the corner of Iberville and Carrollton to watch TV and chat with the bartender. I didn't have cable at home, and the bartender was cute. On the walk home I would have to side-step armies of scurrying cockroaches on the sidewalk. I didn't step on them if I could help it. I hated the sound of exploding roach guts.

I loved Bourbon Street like tourists loved Bourbon Street, with wide-eyed wonder, though to admit it makes me incredibly cheesy. Partiers could drink in the street in the French Quarter. In fact, it was encouraged, though their libation of choice had to be confined to a plastic "go-cup." The only thing I didn't love about Bourbon Street was the tourists. They moved too slowly for me. I needed to learn to slow down.

New Orleans was saturated with music. Parades seemed to spring forth from nowhere, jazz bands and marchers mourning or celebrating, depending on the occasion for the parade. Some needed no occasion, and most were followed by a second line, revelers who became so enraptured by the music that they followed along, dancing and rejoicing.

Even places where music played no longer couldn't escape their musical history. Congo Square vibrated with the ghosts of dancers drumming and writhing to African beats.

Every doorway on Bourbon Street erupted with the strains of blues, jazz, or zydeco. Kevin Austin sang at the Tricou House most weekend nights, and afternoons at other Quarter venues. He was a little blind guy who stood no taller than I did (I'm only five-two) and had the most beautiful voice I'd heard in New Orleans.

I wasn't working while I was there. I had saved for so long to move that I didn't need to work yet. I would have eventually. I'm not lazy. I dreamed of copyediting for the Times-Picayune, or across the river in Gretna for Pelican Publishing, or for one of the advertising agencies in the city.

I was doing exactly what I wanted to do upon arriving: drinking and reading and writing, talking to locals and tourists, and absorbing even more Crescent City history than I knew before I moved. Stories always sounded better coming from someone who lived in a historic building that I had heard about only in a book. One patron of the Erin Rose, my favorite Quarter bar, led me outside and pointed down Conti Street to the former home of Norma Wallace, the Madam of the last functioning legal brothel in the city before the Navy shut them down in 1917. He rented an apartment inside the building. Once someone I knew lived there, it ceased to be merely a building. It became a character in the drama that was New Orleans.

My days of leisure in the Big Easy ended on August 29, 2005. My roommate and I evacuated to Madison, Mississippi, to ride out the hurricane. For several days we had no power and got very little news. After two days we drove into Jackson to a local bar that had power and a television. For most patrons at the bar, it was our first look at what had happened to New Orleans and Mississippi. I think that moment shattered all of us.

Now, my life has reverted to the chaotic mess of a New York City copy editor hitting the streets to look for work, struggling to find myself and to find my words. I sometimes think the words I need are stuck in that lump I get in the back of my throat when I think about New Orleans, or read about it, or see one of the numerous TV specials about it, and they come out only when I cry.

I didn't celebrate Mardi Gras this year. I sat alone at home and listened to Louis Armstrong. There are no parades for Mardi Gras in New York, and there is nothing slow and easy about life here. New York is cold and hard, and so are some of the people who live here. It's hard to really see things because I'm moving so fast just to keep up with everyone else that the beautiful things are often just glimpsed as I speed by them.

I don't want to live like this. I don't want to run every day, and I don't want to be cold and hard. I want to sit on my porch. I want to revisit my leafy sea dragons and rockhopper penguins. I want to second-line with joyous abandon. I want to live my dreams, and right now my dreams are big and easy and shaped like a quarter moon hugging the Mississippi as it passes by.

Copyright © 2006 Melissa Lewis