Yes, friends, Big Man and I had to switch on our heating system this past Sunday for the first time, after a gorgeous Saturday with a high of over 75 degrees. Sunday dawned clear and sunny, but COLD (at least to a New Orleanian!), with temperatures in the 40s and 50s. And last night, with its fierce wind, was quite cold indeed.
Luckily, with the way that heat rises in a New Orleans home, our bedroom upstairs has been quite comfortable, not only with no heat turned on (and no extra blankets or comforters on the bed), but even with the little dormer window left open for ventilation.
Meanwhile, everyone in New Orleans has broken out all the serious winter clothing, gloves, scarves, heavy sweaters, big coats, and all of that, giving Big Man much amusement. While he allows it's been "pretty chilly" the last few days, he won't call this weather cold YET. The biggest concession he's made to the new temperatures is a sweatshirt.
We wait to see when we'll have to turn on the upstairs heat -- and when Big Man will think it's cold!
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Monday, November 22, 2010
The Season of NO
This is the best time of year, the season that comes to New Orleans twice every year, but is of varying duration. It is the season of NO -- no air conditioning, no heater. Some days you hardly need your ceiling fans. It is the season of enjoying the mild temperatures, and enjoying even more the lower utility bills. We all love this season, each time it comes, and wish it could last longer.
Today, though, tested my endurance, because although it is actually November 22, the temperature shot up to 80-something. I had to really stick to my resolution and not turn the a/c back on. It's late November! I'm NOT turning the air conditioning back on! I mean it! (OK, let me admit, no matter what day or what month it is, if it goes up to 90, I am darn well cranking the a/c up.)
I wonder what day will be the first day I have to turn on the heater? (Readers up North, if there are any, I'm sorry to have to brag like this.)
Today, though, tested my endurance, because although it is actually November 22, the temperature shot up to 80-something. I had to really stick to my resolution and not turn the a/c back on. It's late November! I'm NOT turning the air conditioning back on! I mean it! (OK, let me admit, no matter what day or what month it is, if it goes up to 90, I am darn well cranking the a/c up.)
I wonder what day will be the first day I have to turn on the heater? (Readers up North, if there are any, I'm sorry to have to brag like this.)
One of the Very Best Days EVER!
Through the generosity of one of my parishioners, Big Man and I received a pair of tickets to yesterday's Saints game in the Superdome. Since this parishioner is a long-time season ticket holder, these were no ordinary tickets -- they were seats 1 and 2 on row 17, section 138 on the Saints side. Yes, that's right, 17 rows up from the field! To make a good thing even better, the tickets came with a parking pass on the top floor of the Superdome garage, simple easy walking distance from gates F and G (the gates closest to the seats).
We've been holding the tickets for about a month or so now, and the anticipation has been driving us crazy. Since our terrific parking place would allow us to have our own personal tailgate party, we thought long and hard about the food. After much discussion, we decided on alligator sliders on pistolets. We arranged to borrow my sister L's little propane stove, that she and her husband usually keep on their boat, to do the grilling in the back of the van. We got sugar-free creme soda and Italian bubble water (his favorite!) for Big Man, and Abita pecan ale for me, and of course Zapp's special Who Dat chips.
The trick was finding the gator burgers. We knew that the Boudin Shop outside of Cecilia, Louisiana, carried frozen full-size gator burgers, but that's quite a drive. Last Monday, our shared day off, we drove out to Cajun country to try to find gator burgers much closer to home. We enjoyed our day, and explored several really neat Cajun meat markets, buying shrimp boudin and white boudin and andouille, but no dice on the gator meat, ground or otherwise. After a long day of touring around, having fun being together and seeing new things together (completely new to Big Man, but a renewal for me), we finally, 30 minutes before closing time, ended up in West Baton Rouge in a place called Bergeron's. There, we hit the motherlode: andouille, boudin, meat pies, stuffed pork chops, boned and stuffed chickens, turduckens, cracklin's -- and alligator meat. At this point, we were so relieved to find gator at all, I just decided to use my meat grinder and make my own gator burgers.
On Saturday, I prepared our feast. I ground 2 pounds of tenderloin alligator meat along with one egg (next time I would add another egg to hold things together), about 3/4 cup fresh bread crumbs (I used whole wheat end slices I've been saving), about a 1/2 cup of chopped onion and red and green bell pepper, 3 or 4 garlic cloves, a hefty sprinkling of Chef Paul Prudhomme's lemon pepper seasoning, and about a tablespoon of Provencal herbs (from La Madeleine). I mixed this all up together, and then formed small football-shaped patties, wrapping them carefully in clear plastic wrap to keep them separate, and then covered the whole shebang with foil wrap. Then I made my own caper sauce: Creole Tomato Salad Dressing, Creole mustard, Blue Plate mayonnaise, and drained baby capers; and put it all in a small watertight plastic container. So far so good.
To our great good luck, Sunday dawned a beautiful sunny warm day with clear skies. (It was so warm, in fact, that we had to turn the air conditioner on at church to take the edge off.) I rushed home after services and coffeehour, determined to spend as much time as possible at the Dome enjoying the atmosphere. While I heated up the dozen pistolets, we packed up the ice chest with the foil-wrapped package of gator burgers, the caper sauce, the creme sodas, the bubble water, the beers, and the obligatory bag of official Saints ice. Into a canvas bag, I threw in 2 black-and-gold fleur de lis embroidered towels, a spatchula, a knife to spread the sauce, the Who Dat chips, 2 Mardi Gras cups, and a small pile of heavy-duty paper plates. One TV table and 2 chairs, and we're ready to roll.
After double and even triple checking to make sure we had the tickets and the parking pass, we took off. Everything was like a dream -- the happy people under their canopies, radios and boom boxes blaring, the bright sun, the blue sky, and us with these great tickets. Just as promised, there was our terrific parking spot on the roof on the Dome lot, surrounded by excited Saints fans. We lifted open the back of the van, creating a sunshade, and set up our chairs. I draped each chair with a personal Saints hand towel as a big napkin. Big Man popped open a couple of cold ones, and we set up the propane stove and got it going on high. When it was sizzling, I carefully laid out 6 gator burgers and sliced open the warm pistolets, slathering them with caper sauce. I scattered plates with the chips, and while the burger grilled, Big Man and I sat and surveyed the scene around us.
Under the clear sky and shining sun, all around, Saints fans were dressed in jerseys and variations on black-and-gold clothing (including one guy in wildly striped pants in the expected colors of black, white and gold), some with big crazy hats, and some with elaborate make-up and props to complete their looks. (Us too: Big Man wore his long-sleeve Saints T-shirt with black jeans with his leather vest over it, topped by his top hat with old-gold satin band; I wore black knit pants with my sister L's flashy black short-sleeved scoop-necked top, all sparkly with gold glitter -- which I am still trying to get out of everything. I wore my gold fleur de lis earrings -- present from Big Man last year -- and I wore big flashy black and gold fleur de lis beads around my neck. I topped off my outfit with the black feather and gold metallic boa, gift form my sister-in-law R. We looked GOOD.) Everyone was happy and smiling, enjoying the day and each other, eating up all kinds of good food, drinking (of course), calling to each other, lifting their faces up to the sun (I swear I got some sunburn!), just loving the whole experience.
When the burgers were ready, I scooped them into the prepared pistolets and we chowed down happily! Big Man congratulated me on the tailgate, and frankly, I was pretty pleased my own self.
It got on to after 2 pm, and we began the reverse process of packing everything back up. We again double-checked on the tickets, grabbed the bag of Zapp's, and began the stroll to the gates. The Dome security has 2 lines to get in, one for men and one for women. A woman security guard patted me down briskly, and another guard kind of "bounced" my purse to make sure I was not trying to bring in any alcohol. (Guess we could've sneaked in the chips if we hadn't already scarfed them down.) Big Man and I met back up again inside the Dome and it didn't take any time at all to find our seats, right on the aisle, so close to the field! (We were so close that during the game we could clearly see Drew Brees's frustration on the sidelines after throwing an interception down in the Red Zone. Poor fellow.)
We thoroughly enjoyed the game and everything about it -- all the foofaraw, the national anthem sung by the Imagination Movers (the crowd was really too old to appreciate them), Drew's big "Who Dat" chant to start things off, the people watching, the costumes, the hollers, the Wave, the Kiss Cam, the Fit Cam, the Saintsations, and of course the game itself. We got to stand up and get crunk several times, which was the most fun at all. We took pictures with our iPhones, and every now and then hugged and kissed, saying, "Isn't this the BEST?? Isn't this wonderful??"
In the 4th quarter, with the Saints way ahead, some folks began leaving early to beat the traffic, but Big Man said we were there for the duration and wouldn't leave til they shot off the smoke cannons to say the game was over. And that's just what we did, seeing the official end of the game and then joining the giant crowd leaving. We went into the restrooms (which were empty!), and then took our time getting back to the car. Out on the walkway around the perimeter of the Dome, we were part of the huge throng of happy excited people, taking pictures with the costumed characters, loudly chanting "Who Dat." An almost-full moon glowed down on us. Everyone was happy and so were we. We were in no hurry.
On our level of the parking lot, we could see a long line of cars waiting to leave, but we were not in a hurry at all, and live close enough to the Dome that it's not an issue, so we just sat in the car, with the radio playing, making some calls (bragging to people!), talking over and reliving the game's highlights. We were so happy.
Finally the line went down and we drove down all the ramps and headed home under the moon. We were two of the happiest people in the city, and we woke up that way this morning as well.
One of the best days EVER!
We've been holding the tickets for about a month or so now, and the anticipation has been driving us crazy. Since our terrific parking place would allow us to have our own personal tailgate party, we thought long and hard about the food. After much discussion, we decided on alligator sliders on pistolets. We arranged to borrow my sister L's little propane stove, that she and her husband usually keep on their boat, to do the grilling in the back of the van. We got sugar-free creme soda and Italian bubble water (his favorite!) for Big Man, and Abita pecan ale for me, and of course Zapp's special Who Dat chips.
The trick was finding the gator burgers. We knew that the Boudin Shop outside of Cecilia, Louisiana, carried frozen full-size gator burgers, but that's quite a drive. Last Monday, our shared day off, we drove out to Cajun country to try to find gator burgers much closer to home. We enjoyed our day, and explored several really neat Cajun meat markets, buying shrimp boudin and white boudin and andouille, but no dice on the gator meat, ground or otherwise. After a long day of touring around, having fun being together and seeing new things together (completely new to Big Man, but a renewal for me), we finally, 30 minutes before closing time, ended up in West Baton Rouge in a place called Bergeron's. There, we hit the motherlode: andouille, boudin, meat pies, stuffed pork chops, boned and stuffed chickens, turduckens, cracklin's -- and alligator meat. At this point, we were so relieved to find gator at all, I just decided to use my meat grinder and make my own gator burgers.
On Saturday, I prepared our feast. I ground 2 pounds of tenderloin alligator meat along with one egg (next time I would add another egg to hold things together), about 3/4 cup fresh bread crumbs (I used whole wheat end slices I've been saving), about a 1/2 cup of chopped onion and red and green bell pepper, 3 or 4 garlic cloves, a hefty sprinkling of Chef Paul Prudhomme's lemon pepper seasoning, and about a tablespoon of Provencal herbs (from La Madeleine). I mixed this all up together, and then formed small football-shaped patties, wrapping them carefully in clear plastic wrap to keep them separate, and then covered the whole shebang with foil wrap. Then I made my own caper sauce: Creole Tomato Salad Dressing, Creole mustard, Blue Plate mayonnaise, and drained baby capers; and put it all in a small watertight plastic container. So far so good.
To our great good luck, Sunday dawned a beautiful sunny warm day with clear skies. (It was so warm, in fact, that we had to turn the air conditioner on at church to take the edge off.) I rushed home after services and coffeehour, determined to spend as much time as possible at the Dome enjoying the atmosphere. While I heated up the dozen pistolets, we packed up the ice chest with the foil-wrapped package of gator burgers, the caper sauce, the creme sodas, the bubble water, the beers, and the obligatory bag of official Saints ice. Into a canvas bag, I threw in 2 black-and-gold fleur de lis embroidered towels, a spatchula, a knife to spread the sauce, the Who Dat chips, 2 Mardi Gras cups, and a small pile of heavy-duty paper plates. One TV table and 2 chairs, and we're ready to roll.
After double and even triple checking to make sure we had the tickets and the parking pass, we took off. Everything was like a dream -- the happy people under their canopies, radios and boom boxes blaring, the bright sun, the blue sky, and us with these great tickets. Just as promised, there was our terrific parking spot on the roof on the Dome lot, surrounded by excited Saints fans. We lifted open the back of the van, creating a sunshade, and set up our chairs. I draped each chair with a personal Saints hand towel as a big napkin. Big Man popped open a couple of cold ones, and we set up the propane stove and got it going on high. When it was sizzling, I carefully laid out 6 gator burgers and sliced open the warm pistolets, slathering them with caper sauce. I scattered plates with the chips, and while the burger grilled, Big Man and I sat and surveyed the scene around us.
Under the clear sky and shining sun, all around, Saints fans were dressed in jerseys and variations on black-and-gold clothing (including one guy in wildly striped pants in the expected colors of black, white and gold), some with big crazy hats, and some with elaborate make-up and props to complete their looks. (Us too: Big Man wore his long-sleeve Saints T-shirt with black jeans with his leather vest over it, topped by his top hat with old-gold satin band; I wore black knit pants with my sister L's flashy black short-sleeved scoop-necked top, all sparkly with gold glitter -- which I am still trying to get out of everything. I wore my gold fleur de lis earrings -- present from Big Man last year -- and I wore big flashy black and gold fleur de lis beads around my neck. I topped off my outfit with the black feather and gold metallic boa, gift form my sister-in-law R. We looked GOOD.) Everyone was happy and smiling, enjoying the day and each other, eating up all kinds of good food, drinking (of course), calling to each other, lifting their faces up to the sun (I swear I got some sunburn!), just loving the whole experience.
When the burgers were ready, I scooped them into the prepared pistolets and we chowed down happily! Big Man congratulated me on the tailgate, and frankly, I was pretty pleased my own self.
It got on to after 2 pm, and we began the reverse process of packing everything back up. We again double-checked on the tickets, grabbed the bag of Zapp's, and began the stroll to the gates. The Dome security has 2 lines to get in, one for men and one for women. A woman security guard patted me down briskly, and another guard kind of "bounced" my purse to make sure I was not trying to bring in any alcohol. (Guess we could've sneaked in the chips if we hadn't already scarfed them down.) Big Man and I met back up again inside the Dome and it didn't take any time at all to find our seats, right on the aisle, so close to the field! (We were so close that during the game we could clearly see Drew Brees's frustration on the sidelines after throwing an interception down in the Red Zone. Poor fellow.)
We thoroughly enjoyed the game and everything about it -- all the foofaraw, the national anthem sung by the Imagination Movers (the crowd was really too old to appreciate them), Drew's big "Who Dat" chant to start things off, the people watching, the costumes, the hollers, the Wave, the Kiss Cam, the Fit Cam, the Saintsations, and of course the game itself. We got to stand up and get crunk several times, which was the most fun at all. We took pictures with our iPhones, and every now and then hugged and kissed, saying, "Isn't this the BEST?? Isn't this wonderful??"
In the 4th quarter, with the Saints way ahead, some folks began leaving early to beat the traffic, but Big Man said we were there for the duration and wouldn't leave til they shot off the smoke cannons to say the game was over. And that's just what we did, seeing the official end of the game and then joining the giant crowd leaving. We went into the restrooms (which were empty!), and then took our time getting back to the car. Out on the walkway around the perimeter of the Dome, we were part of the huge throng of happy excited people, taking pictures with the costumed characters, loudly chanting "Who Dat." An almost-full moon glowed down on us. Everyone was happy and so were we. We were in no hurry.
On our level of the parking lot, we could see a long line of cars waiting to leave, but we were not in a hurry at all, and live close enough to the Dome that it's not an issue, so we just sat in the car, with the radio playing, making some calls (bragging to people!), talking over and reliving the game's highlights. We were so happy.
Finally the line went down and we drove down all the ramps and headed home under the moon. We were two of the happiest people in the city, and we woke up that way this morning as well.
One of the best days EVER!
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
OMG! The Rads Are Breaking Up!
Quite a shocker announcement in this morning's Times-Picayune, that the Radiators, the perennial funk-rock-R&B fusion band with a gigantic local following, was breaking up as of the summer of 2011. (See the story online at http://www.nola.com/music/index.ssf/2010/11/the_radiators_plan_to_disband.html)
New Orleans-area bloggers are having a field day, with comments ranging from "NOOOOOO!!!!" to "I can't bear it!" and "First the Beatles, now the Rads, what's next??" Thirty-three years is an awfully long time for a band to be together, but most of us just sort of assumed that the Rads would go on and on, for eternity.
Today's announcement assured fans that all upcoming gigs would honored (like MOMS and Jazz Fest) and that there would be a giant farewell concert in the city in June 2011. Small comfort, though, to those of us who just felt the Radiators were an eternal verity in our lives, one piece of continuity in a chaotic world.
What will MOMS be without the Rads' constant groove? Who knows?
To the Radiators from a big fan -- It's been great, guys, y'all are the absolute BEST. Wish each of you much success in whatever you do.
Fish head music forever!!
New Orleans-area bloggers are having a field day, with comments ranging from "NOOOOOO!!!!" to "I can't bear it!" and "First the Beatles, now the Rads, what's next??" Thirty-three years is an awfully long time for a band to be together, but most of us just sort of assumed that the Rads would go on and on, for eternity.
Today's announcement assured fans that all upcoming gigs would honored (like MOMS and Jazz Fest) and that there would be a giant farewell concert in the city in June 2011. Small comfort, though, to those of us who just felt the Radiators were an eternal verity in our lives, one piece of continuity in a chaotic world.
What will MOMS be without the Rads' constant groove? Who knows?
To the Radiators from a big fan -- It's been great, guys, y'all are the absolute BEST. Wish each of you much success in whatever you do.
Fish head music forever!!
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Another Accident at Annunciation Park
I've blogged about this before, how many accidents there are at the corner of Annunciation and Race Streets, where Annunciation dead-ends at Annunciation Park. The accidents I've written about before have all occurred at night, or in the very early morning hours. I always thought they were a function of driving in an unfamiliar area at night, since the lights that run through the Park could trick someone into thinking that Annunciation Street continues straight through.
But the accident that occurred last week was in broad daylight. It was about 9 am on a weekday morning and I was in bed, contemplating getting up, when I heard the familiar thudding sound of a car hitting another car square on. (Big Man is always joking about how he's gonna start parking the van at Annunciation Park, so the next accident will wipe out a vehicle we should never have been gulled into buying.) I jumped out of bed, threw on a caftan and hurried downstairs.
I joined a small throng of neighbors who had gathered on the sidewalks and porches to view the scene -- a grey car that had just gone straight through the stop sign on the corner, smashing so hard perpendicularly into the brand-new tricked-out pimped-up pick-up truck owned by the family in the house on the corner that two of the wheels had snapped right off.
We heard later from the cops investigating the scene that the driver said he had fallen asleep at the wheel. Guess he's lucky to be alive. Hope for my neighbor's sake he had good insurance, for their truck is surely totalled.
Months ago, I wrote to complain about this corner and the many accidents there to TV's Action Reporter Bill Capo, but I guess it didn't ring his bell. he's never done a story on it, and the city has never installed stop-sign warnings earlier in the block, or a double-arrow caution sign at the dead end.
People who've lived in the neighborhood longer than we have say the accidents we've seen are not even the half of it. But apparently it's not enough for the city to do anything about.
But the accident that occurred last week was in broad daylight. It was about 9 am on a weekday morning and I was in bed, contemplating getting up, when I heard the familiar thudding sound of a car hitting another car square on. (Big Man is always joking about how he's gonna start parking the van at Annunciation Park, so the next accident will wipe out a vehicle we should never have been gulled into buying.) I jumped out of bed, threw on a caftan and hurried downstairs.
I joined a small throng of neighbors who had gathered on the sidewalks and porches to view the scene -- a grey car that had just gone straight through the stop sign on the corner, smashing so hard perpendicularly into the brand-new tricked-out pimped-up pick-up truck owned by the family in the house on the corner that two of the wheels had snapped right off.
We heard later from the cops investigating the scene that the driver said he had fallen asleep at the wheel. Guess he's lucky to be alive. Hope for my neighbor's sake he had good insurance, for their truck is surely totalled.
Months ago, I wrote to complain about this corner and the many accidents there to TV's Action Reporter Bill Capo, but I guess it didn't ring his bell. he's never done a story on it, and the city has never installed stop-sign warnings earlier in the block, or a double-arrow caution sign at the dead end.
People who've lived in the neighborhood longer than we have say the accidents we've seen are not even the half of it. But apparently it's not enough for the city to do anything about.
Harvest the Music
The free Wednesday-night concert series concluded last Wednesday with a tremendous triple-threat concert by bluesman Little Freddie King, the Krown-Batiste-Washington Trio (which usually plays the Maple leaf), and then the great Allen Toussaint with special guest trumpeter Nicholas Payton (whose father, musician and educator Walter Payton, had just died this week). An amazing display of the depth and breadth of talent in New Orleans, the closing concert was easily the best of a very, very fine lot.
"Harvest the Music" really outdid themselves this year in ensuring something for absolutely everyone in New Orleans who loves music. The series was kicked off back in September (when it was still hot) with Anders Osborne (who is a great musician but really needs a haircut and a shave!), moved into Cowboy Mouth with its fervent fanbase, then hit the high notes with Rebirth and then Dr. John and the Lower 911 (with the Treme Brass band to open).
As a special teaser to the excited -- and capacity! -- crowd, Allen Toussaint strolled onstage to play piano and sing while Mac played guitar withe vengeance, something he doesn't do that often. (You'd've thought that by billing it as "Dr. John and the Lower 911" that the set would've been all new, angry songs post-K and post-BP, but you'd've been wrong. Mac also played a lot of the old favorites that had the crowd singing along, and, memorably on "Gilded Splinters" the crowd added the appropriate "Oooohh"s at the exact right spots.)
The ever-popular Kermit Ruffins and his band the Barbecue Swingers followed Mac the next Wednesday. I love how Kermit is not afraid to really entertain an audience, and interact and joke with the folks. And now the HBO series "Treme" is bringing him a more national following, a good thing.
After Kermit, it was MOMS revisited with a 2-hour groovin' set by the Radiators. The Rads were, as always, completely into their own groove, and it was a kick to see so many people we know from the MOMS Ball out in the Square (only, with more clothes on than we usually see them!).
Then it was Ivan Neville (yes, Aaron's son) and the aptly named Dumpstafunk, great stuff -- especially Ivan's take on the "Sopranos" theme song "Got Yourself a Gun." Lots of Neville family guesting, which always happens in an Ivan set.
Appropriately, Allen Toussaint was set as the season's closing act, and as always, he did not disappoint. The classics, the beloved old R&B numbers he wrote for Lee Dorsey and Benny Spellman (Allen informed us that Benny is still alive, and living now in Pensacola! Wow! Who knew!), the song that grew into a post-Katrina anthem "Yes We Can Can" (even though it was written years before It happened), and as a special favor to me, "Fortune Teller." I tell you, I sang along with every single word.
I also want to send a shout-out to the great food at Harvest the Music, with special kudos to the fried softshell crab and the char-grilled oysters. Yum and double-yum! The pulled pork over the creamy grits was nothing to sniff at either. Prices were extremely reasonable and two people could eat and drink for about $30.
As Allen closed out the festival and his set, he said how wonderful it was to live "in the greatest city in the world!" and then he started to walk away form the mike, but caught himself, came back and added, "And everybody, come home." Yes, indeed.
"Harvest the Music" really outdid themselves this year in ensuring something for absolutely everyone in New Orleans who loves music. The series was kicked off back in September (when it was still hot) with Anders Osborne (who is a great musician but really needs a haircut and a shave!), moved into Cowboy Mouth with its fervent fanbase, then hit the high notes with Rebirth and then Dr. John and the Lower 911 (with the Treme Brass band to open).
As a special teaser to the excited -- and capacity! -- crowd, Allen Toussaint strolled onstage to play piano and sing while Mac played guitar withe vengeance, something he doesn't do that often. (You'd've thought that by billing it as "Dr. John and the Lower 911" that the set would've been all new, angry songs post-K and post-BP, but you'd've been wrong. Mac also played a lot of the old favorites that had the crowd singing along, and, memorably on "Gilded Splinters" the crowd added the appropriate "Oooohh"s at the exact right spots.)
The ever-popular Kermit Ruffins and his band the Barbecue Swingers followed Mac the next Wednesday. I love how Kermit is not afraid to really entertain an audience, and interact and joke with the folks. And now the HBO series "Treme" is bringing him a more national following, a good thing.
After Kermit, it was MOMS revisited with a 2-hour groovin' set by the Radiators. The Rads were, as always, completely into their own groove, and it was a kick to see so many people we know from the MOMS Ball out in the Square (only, with more clothes on than we usually see them!).
Then it was Ivan Neville (yes, Aaron's son) and the aptly named Dumpstafunk, great stuff -- especially Ivan's take on the "Sopranos" theme song "Got Yourself a Gun." Lots of Neville family guesting, which always happens in an Ivan set.
Appropriately, Allen Toussaint was set as the season's closing act, and as always, he did not disappoint. The classics, the beloved old R&B numbers he wrote for Lee Dorsey and Benny Spellman (Allen informed us that Benny is still alive, and living now in Pensacola! Wow! Who knew!), the song that grew into a post-Katrina anthem "Yes We Can Can" (even though it was written years before It happened), and as a special favor to me, "Fortune Teller." I tell you, I sang along with every single word.
I also want to send a shout-out to the great food at Harvest the Music, with special kudos to the fried softshell crab and the char-grilled oysters. Yum and double-yum! The pulled pork over the creamy grits was nothing to sniff at either. Prices were extremely reasonable and two people could eat and drink for about $30.
As Allen closed out the festival and his set, he said how wonderful it was to live "in the greatest city in the world!" and then he started to walk away form the mike, but caught himself, came back and added, "And everybody, come home." Yes, indeed.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
All Saints & All Souls
While we New Orleanians certainly can be a hide-bound, stick-with-tradition bunch, one beloved old tradition seems to be slipping a little, if not actually fading. The custom of visiting and decorating the graves of the beloved dead, the "ancestors," for All Saints Day just doesn't seem as big a deal as it once was. (Big Man says I have to get over it, that all traditions evolve and some of them even die off, but this was sad to me.)
There was time, pre-Katrina and before, when All Saints Day was a school holiday, and when you'd arrive at the cemetery, there'd be crowds of people. There'd even be some kind of a vendor outside the gates, selling hot dogs or cotton candy. There would be almost a strange carnival-like atmosphere, as folks arrived by the carload, arms laden with potted chrysanthemums to adorn the graves of loved ones. When I used to make the trip to the family tomb at St. Vincent's Cemetery in the Upper Ninth Ward with my father and my son, back about 15-20 years ago, we would meet people from his old neighborhood around Bunny Friend Playground, and there would be a lot of hugging and back-slapping and "How the heck are ya?" talk.
Back in those days, it was supremely easy to obtain your mums for the cemetery trip, because every large grocery store in town had potted mums to sell. Some even set up tents in the parking lot to sell you the mums the easiest way possible. And near almost every cemetery, there'd be a large or small florist, providing flowers for those who arrived without. It's sure not like that anymore!
Big Man and I had a hell of a time finding mums, and wasted a considerable amount of time and gas looking. And when we got to the cemeteries that were on our list, we were often the only people there. The graves at Cypress Grove, through the giant neo-Egyptian pylons of the entrance, where we visited the founding minister of our church from the 1800s, were sadly neglected. We saw only tourists with maps and cameras, no families. A few tombs had fresh roses, but it was a poor showing.
At Lakelawn, where we honored Louis Prima with a bouquet (and thanked him for, in a way, bringing us together), we did see a small family gathering in front of the Sons of Italy group tomb, with folding chairs like they were going to stay for a while. That did my heart good -- that was more like it! We rolled down the car windows and wished them a Happy All Saints and they did the same to us. Before we drove away, we peeked into the Hyams tomb with the superb sculpture of the angel prostrate with grief, with the blue light from the back stained glass window pouring down. I pushed my iPhone through the gap in the door, and took what I think is a very good picture. (The door was locked and chained, while it had been open last year; apparently -- sadly! -- there had been some vandalism.)
When we arrived at St. Louis No. 1, a good 5 or more minutes ahead of scheduled closing time, we found the gates chained shut, with frantic tourists trapped inside. They closed the cemetery early on All Saints Day, for heaven's sake! I couldn't get over it, and the thought of leaving there without putting our hard-won floral tributes on the graves of 19th century Voodoo Queen Marie Laveau and New Orleans's first black mayor (and my friend) Dutch Morial had me practically beside myself. I tried to thrust the bouquets toward the tourists inside, begging them to put them on Dutch and the Lady's graves -- and they disclaimed all knowledge of these two famous side-by-side tombs. I nearly wept with frustration.
The cemetery caretaker showed up with a key, to let the tourists out, and I begged to go in, just for a minute, to complete my errand. He relented, reluctantly, and I slipped past him, nearly running to their tombs (which, after all, are close to the entrance). I laid a bouquet at Dutch's grave and whispered to him that while the Landrieu family were not his personal favorites, I still thought Mitch was doing a good job as mayor. Then I made a few steps to the right and put the flowers at the base of the Lady's tomb. I did not have time to make the ritual circuit around the tomb, or make any X's (and anyway, I had no requests to make, only gratitude), so I just laid my head on her marker and made silent thanks for past favors granted, and for our life in New Orleans. Big Man took his hat off, and placed his hand on the side of the tomb, and then we kept our promise and left, thanking the caretaker on our way out. (But really, why was he locking up so early on ALL SAINTS DAY??)
That left 2 cemeteries to go, and no time to do it, so we resolved to complete the ritual on All Souls. Of course, then it had to rain on All Souls, so we did those last 2 in the drizzle. First, we headed to my father's family tomb at St. Vincent's. It seemed to me that the condition of the cemetery had not improved since last year -- there was still a LOT of tombs needing repair. But what did make me happy was that there were many many bouquets and pots of mums in that cemetery. At some point, possibly yesterday, there had been quite a few families there. I was sorry to have missed them, but felt good about their showing up.
Our last stop was Holt Cemetery, the old potter's field behind City Park, to leave flowers for Buddy Bolden, the city's first innovative, famous cornet player. The rain was falling pretty hard by now, so Big Man held the big golf umbrella over me as I arranged the flowers in the glass vase on the ledge of the granite monument for King Bolden. (Readers of this Blog may remember that Bolden's actual grave has been lost and a group of fans a few years before Katrina paid for a large granite memorial a few yards from the entrance, just on the shell driveway.) Also left on Buddy's monument were a handful of jujube candy, and leopard-print key, and another bouquet, sans vase. We stood by as the rain poured, and thanked Buddy for the music and assured him he was remembered. We had to follow the shell drive all the way around to get out, and noticed lots of decorations and loving attention to the graves. Interesting that here at Holt it seems the traditions were being observed.
There was no point being that close to the original Bud's Broiler without eating, so we ended our All Saints/Our Souls ritual there.
There was time, pre-Katrina and before, when All Saints Day was a school holiday, and when you'd arrive at the cemetery, there'd be crowds of people. There'd even be some kind of a vendor outside the gates, selling hot dogs or cotton candy. There would be almost a strange carnival-like atmosphere, as folks arrived by the carload, arms laden with potted chrysanthemums to adorn the graves of loved ones. When I used to make the trip to the family tomb at St. Vincent's Cemetery in the Upper Ninth Ward with my father and my son, back about 15-20 years ago, we would meet people from his old neighborhood around Bunny Friend Playground, and there would be a lot of hugging and back-slapping and "How the heck are ya?" talk.
Back in those days, it was supremely easy to obtain your mums for the cemetery trip, because every large grocery store in town had potted mums to sell. Some even set up tents in the parking lot to sell you the mums the easiest way possible. And near almost every cemetery, there'd be a large or small florist, providing flowers for those who arrived without. It's sure not like that anymore!
Big Man and I had a hell of a time finding mums, and wasted a considerable amount of time and gas looking. And when we got to the cemeteries that were on our list, we were often the only people there. The graves at Cypress Grove, through the giant neo-Egyptian pylons of the entrance, where we visited the founding minister of our church from the 1800s, were sadly neglected. We saw only tourists with maps and cameras, no families. A few tombs had fresh roses, but it was a poor showing.
At Lakelawn, where we honored Louis Prima with a bouquet (and thanked him for, in a way, bringing us together), we did see a small family gathering in front of the Sons of Italy group tomb, with folding chairs like they were going to stay for a while. That did my heart good -- that was more like it! We rolled down the car windows and wished them a Happy All Saints and they did the same to us. Before we drove away, we peeked into the Hyams tomb with the superb sculpture of the angel prostrate with grief, with the blue light from the back stained glass window pouring down. I pushed my iPhone through the gap in the door, and took what I think is a very good picture. (The door was locked and chained, while it had been open last year; apparently -- sadly! -- there had been some vandalism.)
When we arrived at St. Louis No. 1, a good 5 or more minutes ahead of scheduled closing time, we found the gates chained shut, with frantic tourists trapped inside. They closed the cemetery early on All Saints Day, for heaven's sake! I couldn't get over it, and the thought of leaving there without putting our hard-won floral tributes on the graves of 19th century Voodoo Queen Marie Laveau and New Orleans's first black mayor (and my friend) Dutch Morial had me practically beside myself. I tried to thrust the bouquets toward the tourists inside, begging them to put them on Dutch and the Lady's graves -- and they disclaimed all knowledge of these two famous side-by-side tombs. I nearly wept with frustration.
The cemetery caretaker showed up with a key, to let the tourists out, and I begged to go in, just for a minute, to complete my errand. He relented, reluctantly, and I slipped past him, nearly running to their tombs (which, after all, are close to the entrance). I laid a bouquet at Dutch's grave and whispered to him that while the Landrieu family were not his personal favorites, I still thought Mitch was doing a good job as mayor. Then I made a few steps to the right and put the flowers at the base of the Lady's tomb. I did not have time to make the ritual circuit around the tomb, or make any X's (and anyway, I had no requests to make, only gratitude), so I just laid my head on her marker and made silent thanks for past favors granted, and for our life in New Orleans. Big Man took his hat off, and placed his hand on the side of the tomb, and then we kept our promise and left, thanking the caretaker on our way out. (But really, why was he locking up so early on ALL SAINTS DAY??)
That left 2 cemeteries to go, and no time to do it, so we resolved to complete the ritual on All Souls. Of course, then it had to rain on All Souls, so we did those last 2 in the drizzle. First, we headed to my father's family tomb at St. Vincent's. It seemed to me that the condition of the cemetery had not improved since last year -- there was still a LOT of tombs needing repair. But what did make me happy was that there were many many bouquets and pots of mums in that cemetery. At some point, possibly yesterday, there had been quite a few families there. I was sorry to have missed them, but felt good about their showing up.
Our last stop was Holt Cemetery, the old potter's field behind City Park, to leave flowers for Buddy Bolden, the city's first innovative, famous cornet player. The rain was falling pretty hard by now, so Big Man held the big golf umbrella over me as I arranged the flowers in the glass vase on the ledge of the granite monument for King Bolden. (Readers of this Blog may remember that Bolden's actual grave has been lost and a group of fans a few years before Katrina paid for a large granite memorial a few yards from the entrance, just on the shell driveway.) Also left on Buddy's monument were a handful of jujube candy, and leopard-print key, and another bouquet, sans vase. We stood by as the rain poured, and thanked Buddy for the music and assured him he was remembered. We had to follow the shell drive all the way around to get out, and noticed lots of decorations and loving attention to the graves. Interesting that here at Holt it seems the traditions were being observed.
There was no point being that close to the original Bud's Broiler without eating, so we ended our All Saints/Our Souls ritual there.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Rainbow
Yesterday, I was looking out my window at the church office, and saw the trees bending and swaying with the cold front that was moving through. There were dark clouds that portended rain, but it wasn't raining yet in the church neighborhood. Stuff -- leaves, small twigs, loose papers and débris -- was blowing around, and the movement caught my eye.
It was late afternoon, the sun sinking down somewhere behind the church. As I watched, to my amazement and delight, a full and clear arch of a rainbow appeared in the sky in front of me. Full color spectrum, full arch. You hardly ever get to see that.
Thanks, God, I needed that. (Now, please let that cold front bring cooler temperature and lower humidity for good this time. I'm looking to turn that air conditioner OFF.)
It was late afternoon, the sun sinking down somewhere behind the church. As I watched, to my amazement and delight, a full and clear arch of a rainbow appeared in the sky in front of me. Full color spectrum, full arch. You hardly ever get to see that.
Thanks, God, I needed that. (Now, please let that cold front bring cooler temperature and lower humidity for good this time. I'm looking to turn that air conditioner OFF.)
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Anniversary Lunch
Recently, Big Man and I celebrated our wedding anniversary. With Big Man's regular gig on Bourbon Street every night, we couldn't do dinner, so we planned on lunch. Big Man laid down the decree: "Hundred dollar lunch! Really celebrate!" So we ran down the list of restaurants to see where we wanted to enjoy our anniversary lunch. (Of course we have a list! Doesn't everyone in New Orleans have a list of the restaurants they've heard about but haven't eaten in yet?) We toyed with several possibilities, read a bunch of online reviews, and finally decided to go to Boucherie on Jeannette off Carrollton. Trying to describe it to Big Man, I said, "It's like they take typical South Louisiana cooking and then bring it up a level" and he came back with, "South Louisiana cooking is already regular cooking that's been brought up a couple levels!" So I replied, "Think of this then as cooking several levels up!"
I had eaten at Boucherie about a year or so ago with my sister D, as a pre-theater dinner before we saw a production of "Member of the Wedding" at the Bean Theater at St. Matthew's on Carrollton. We had been super-impressed with the menu and the food, and I had mentioned the place to Big Man back then, and even brought him a menu, but we had not yet had a chance for the two of us to go. Since then, however, the place had really taken off, and has been written up favorably in several national publications. The online reviews were off-the-charts positive, with the worst thing anyone said being that the service at night was awful and the place packed. Tells you something.
So we made a reservation and off to lunch we went. We got a table right away, in the main room inside. (Tables were available on the front porch, but it's still too hot in New Orleans for that.) We began perusing the October menu (offerings change seasonally at Boucherie) and trying to make decisions. But Boucherie makes things easier for you by having "small plates" and "large plates." While a few of the large plates looked tempting, the idea of ordering a lot of small plates really grabbed us -- because, as Big Man likes to say, more is more.
While we worked on our choices, we savored their delicious strong coffee -- really, some of the best coffee I've had in a New Orleans restaurant. They serve it with a few lumps of raw sugar, which is not only a nice touch, but is less sweet than regular sugar. Good thing we don't keep that stuff around the house, or I'd be putting sugar in more things. I mean, I don't even put sweetener in my coffee, and I liked the taste of that.
In the end, this is the list we came up with, splitting everything: grilled romaine caesar salad (sounds crazy, but was still crispy and cool, with a great smoky flavor); French Market pumpkin stew with rashers [of their own smoked bacon] (this was totally amazing! chunks of pumpkin in an amazing broth that turned out to be *duck broth* -- OMG -- with big thick slices of bacon -- I will so totally be trying to duplicate this for Thanksgiving!); the steamed mussels over collard greens with crispy crackers made of *grits* (tender sweet mussels, vinegary spicy greens and *oh wow* those crackers!!); grilled shrimp over grits cakes (yes I know that's two kinds of grits in one lunch, but still); duck confit (this was the hardest small plate to split, as it was just one good-sized duck leg with crispy skin on the outside and tender-as-butter meat on the inside -- but as it was our anniversary, Big Man got the bone to gnaw on); fried boudin balls with a creamy horseradish dipping sauce (they make their own boudin, so it was meatier than expected and less rice than expected).
By the time the boudin balls came around, we were nearly satiated. In fact, to be truthful, we had to ask them to package up the last three boudin balls and the sauce to take home. But please don't think we skipped dessert altogether! We do not have that kind of self-control. Big Man ordered the warm bacon-brownie (yes, that's right!) and I had to try the Krispy Kreme Donut Bread Pudding ('nuff said).
We had let it slip to our waitress that it was our wedding anniversary, and so both desserts arrived with lit candles. We blew them out to general applause and took little nibbles of our desserts. OK, that's when we started groaning, as in, "Oh my God, this is SO incredible." We had to ask them to package up the rest of the desserts to take home to moan over later. The bill came, and with our usual generous 20% tip, it came to $85.
So we ate like royalty til we were stuffed at a 4-star level place, and it didn't even come to $100. Y'all be sure and go.
I had eaten at Boucherie about a year or so ago with my sister D, as a pre-theater dinner before we saw a production of "Member of the Wedding" at the Bean Theater at St. Matthew's on Carrollton. We had been super-impressed with the menu and the food, and I had mentioned the place to Big Man back then, and even brought him a menu, but we had not yet had a chance for the two of us to go. Since then, however, the place had really taken off, and has been written up favorably in several national publications. The online reviews were off-the-charts positive, with the worst thing anyone said being that the service at night was awful and the place packed. Tells you something.
So we made a reservation and off to lunch we went. We got a table right away, in the main room inside. (Tables were available on the front porch, but it's still too hot in New Orleans for that.) We began perusing the October menu (offerings change seasonally at Boucherie) and trying to make decisions. But Boucherie makes things easier for you by having "small plates" and "large plates." While a few of the large plates looked tempting, the idea of ordering a lot of small plates really grabbed us -- because, as Big Man likes to say, more is more.
While we worked on our choices, we savored their delicious strong coffee -- really, some of the best coffee I've had in a New Orleans restaurant. They serve it with a few lumps of raw sugar, which is not only a nice touch, but is less sweet than regular sugar. Good thing we don't keep that stuff around the house, or I'd be putting sugar in more things. I mean, I don't even put sweetener in my coffee, and I liked the taste of that.
In the end, this is the list we came up with, splitting everything: grilled romaine caesar salad (sounds crazy, but was still crispy and cool, with a great smoky flavor); French Market pumpkin stew with rashers [of their own smoked bacon] (this was totally amazing! chunks of pumpkin in an amazing broth that turned out to be *duck broth* -- OMG -- with big thick slices of bacon -- I will so totally be trying to duplicate this for Thanksgiving!); the steamed mussels over collard greens with crispy crackers made of *grits* (tender sweet mussels, vinegary spicy greens and *oh wow* those crackers!!); grilled shrimp over grits cakes (yes I know that's two kinds of grits in one lunch, but still); duck confit (this was the hardest small plate to split, as it was just one good-sized duck leg with crispy skin on the outside and tender-as-butter meat on the inside -- but as it was our anniversary, Big Man got the bone to gnaw on); fried boudin balls with a creamy horseradish dipping sauce (they make their own boudin, so it was meatier than expected and less rice than expected).
By the time the boudin balls came around, we were nearly satiated. In fact, to be truthful, we had to ask them to package up the last three boudin balls and the sauce to take home. But please don't think we skipped dessert altogether! We do not have that kind of self-control. Big Man ordered the warm bacon-brownie (yes, that's right!) and I had to try the Krispy Kreme Donut Bread Pudding ('nuff said).
We had let it slip to our waitress that it was our wedding anniversary, and so both desserts arrived with lit candles. We blew them out to general applause and took little nibbles of our desserts. OK, that's when we started groaning, as in, "Oh my God, this is SO incredible." We had to ask them to package up the rest of the desserts to take home to moan over later. The bill came, and with our usual generous 20% tip, it came to $85.
So we ate like royalty til we were stuffed at a 4-star level place, and it didn't even come to $100. Y'all be sure and go.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Where to Eat in Perfect Weather
Do not let yourself be trapped indoors while the weather is this gorgeous! Go out and enjoy yourself! Lift your face to sun! Let the breezes mess up your hair!
Here are my recommendations for dining al fresco during these lovely fall days:
For those flush with cash, Commander's Palace courtyard.
For everyone else, the courtyard at Café Rani on Magazine Street (the best combo ever thought of -- New Orleans and Indian), or the porch at the Audubon Clubhouse. The Courtyard Grill on Magazine Street, front or back, where the Turkish food is off the charts good. For a light lunch, the outdoor tables at the Village Coffee at the corner of Freret and Jefferson Uptown.
For those across the Lake, the front porch at Rip's on the Lake in Old Mandeville, with its fabulous view of the lake and the great lake breezes.
Of course, this being New Orleans, this is only a partial and prejudiced list. Readers are invited to send in their favorite New Orleans-area outdoor eating spot.
Here are my recommendations for dining al fresco during these lovely fall days:
For those flush with cash, Commander's Palace courtyard.
For everyone else, the courtyard at Café Rani on Magazine Street (the best combo ever thought of -- New Orleans and Indian), or the porch at the Audubon Clubhouse. The Courtyard Grill on Magazine Street, front or back, where the Turkish food is off the charts good. For a light lunch, the outdoor tables at the Village Coffee at the corner of Freret and Jefferson Uptown.
For those across the Lake, the front porch at Rip's on the Lake in Old Mandeville, with its fabulous view of the lake and the great lake breezes.
Of course, this being New Orleans, this is only a partial and prejudiced list. Readers are invited to send in their favorite New Orleans-area outdoor eating spot.
Birthday Weather
(or, How to Write a Week's Worth of Perfect Weather Forecasts)
I got home late on Monday from a trip to Atlanta to perform a wedding ceremony for friends of my son's, so I didn't realize that the weather had changed until Tuesday morning -- my birthday. I've written before how I developed this magical-thinking notion when I was a little kid, about how the weather would change to fall for my birthday. (Of course it's not logically true, and yes, of course, I do know that, but it's how it felt and still feels to me.) And so here it was, my classic birthday weather: perfectly clear blue skies, lower temperatures (even if only slightly), low humidity, and soft breezes. I can tell you, it put me in a great mood.
Tuesday morning I had a business meeting (the only one I had scheduled all day) at the Mojo Coffee House, and it was a pleasure to walk there from the house. While getting my cup of coffee, I overheard one young woman tell the barrista to read the weather page on the back of the Living section of the Times-Picayune. The girl behind the counter said she had read it, but the first girl urged her to look at it again. I was intrigued, and looked over their shoulders.
As faithful readers of the T-P know, the weather takes up a half-page at the back of the Living section and is printed in full color, with a close-up map of the Gulf Coast region, with whatever relevant weather patterns shown in symbols across the map. Tuesday's map showed the region clearly, with no clouds or arrows over it, and dotted with sun-circles from Galveston, Texas, all the way to Panama City, Florida.
Below that is the 5-day forecast, again, with a symbol for each day's weather and a brief word description of the weather predictions for those days. On Tuesday, the little boxes for Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday all held bright sun-balls. And for each, the Times-Picayune writer, apparently reluctant to repeat the same thing over and over, outdid him- or herself in describing the week's perfect weather:
Wednesday -- "beautiful with bright sun"
Thursday -- "mostly sunny and pleasant"
Friday -- "delightful with plenty of sun"
Saturday -- "Sunny, breezy and pleasant"
Sunday -- "plenty of sunshine and nice"
But don't believe it -- with humidity this low and temperatures in the low 80s during the day and the low 60s at night, lovely breezes, and no clouds in the sky -- they just should have written PERFECT across the whole week and been done with it.
I got home late on Monday from a trip to Atlanta to perform a wedding ceremony for friends of my son's, so I didn't realize that the weather had changed until Tuesday morning -- my birthday. I've written before how I developed this magical-thinking notion when I was a little kid, about how the weather would change to fall for my birthday. (Of course it's not logically true, and yes, of course, I do know that, but it's how it felt and still feels to me.) And so here it was, my classic birthday weather: perfectly clear blue skies, lower temperatures (even if only slightly), low humidity, and soft breezes. I can tell you, it put me in a great mood.
Tuesday morning I had a business meeting (the only one I had scheduled all day) at the Mojo Coffee House, and it was a pleasure to walk there from the house. While getting my cup of coffee, I overheard one young woman tell the barrista to read the weather page on the back of the Living section of the Times-Picayune. The girl behind the counter said she had read it, but the first girl urged her to look at it again. I was intrigued, and looked over their shoulders.
As faithful readers of the T-P know, the weather takes up a half-page at the back of the Living section and is printed in full color, with a close-up map of the Gulf Coast region, with whatever relevant weather patterns shown in symbols across the map. Tuesday's map showed the region clearly, with no clouds or arrows over it, and dotted with sun-circles from Galveston, Texas, all the way to Panama City, Florida.
Below that is the 5-day forecast, again, with a symbol for each day's weather and a brief word description of the weather predictions for those days. On Tuesday, the little boxes for Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday all held bright sun-balls. And for each, the Times-Picayune writer, apparently reluctant to repeat the same thing over and over, outdid him- or herself in describing the week's perfect weather:
Wednesday -- "beautiful with bright sun"
Thursday -- "mostly sunny and pleasant"
Friday -- "delightful with plenty of sun"
Saturday -- "Sunny, breezy and pleasant"
Sunday -- "plenty of sunshine and nice"
But don't believe it -- with humidity this low and temperatures in the low 80s during the day and the low 60s at night, lovely breezes, and no clouds in the sky -- they just should have written PERFECT across the whole week and been done with it.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Crazy Town: NFL Opener
The NFL, in their wisdom, chose New Orleans and the Saints to officially open the 2010-2011 professional football season, and last Thursday, September 9, as the date. (I assume the NFL was trying to avoid the 9/11 anniversary weekend and so chose a weekday.) They planned a concert with nationally-known recording artists -- pretty little Taylor Swift and the perennial Dave Mathews. There were, of course, complaints that more local acts were not featured. We were told that the NFL made these particular choices so there would be "wide national appeal for their national audience"! Like our New Orleans musicians don't have "wide national appeal"! What a crock!
While their choice of this city and this team for this event was sensible, yes, even wise, then they dropped the ball by figuring that they could run the thing themselves. No matter what you can criticize New Orleans for, and of course there are many things, we know how to run musical festivals and, for God's sake, parades! But apparently nobody at the NFL saw fit to use our expertise in these areas.
The giant concert stage took several days to build, over the granite steps of Washington Artillery Park over Decatur Street looking toward Jackson Square and St. Louis Cathedral. It was high-tech to nth degree, with fancy lights and what looked like millions of miles of cables. It was very impressive. The thing was, the parade was also supposed to go right down Decatur Street -- how was that supposed to work?? In order to stand in front of the stage, there was a lottery ticket process, in addition to the VIP-only area. Because of the parade, extra police and security had to posted on the day of the parade so that the crowd could be efficiently moved away from the stage for the parade to pass -- because the NFL wanted the concert AND the parade to go on *at the exact time and place*. (I guess to save on TV cameras?) It was a crazy idea.
On the days leading up to Thursday, the city went crazy. Stores on Magazine Street, from swanky dress stores to erotic lingerie shops, had window displays of black and gold merchandise. Even the expensive bridal shop was showing wedding dresses topped with Saints jerseys!! Saints banners -- Two Dat, Bless You Boys, World Champions, Do It Again, Our City/Our Boys, and of course, dozens of Who Dats -- fluttered from homes and businesses. The best was the giant handmade banner on the fence of Eleanor McMain School, which, besides the inevitable Who Dat sign, had done a portrait of Vikings quarterback Brett Favre sitting splay-legged on the football field, with the legend, "I've fallen and can't get up." (Big Man said it was cruel, but I thought it was funny.)
To make things a little more crazy in terms of logistics, it rained Thursday afternoon, pretty much straight up to the time the parade was supposed to roll. Of course, this being New Orleans, the town had taken this very, very seriously. City Hall was closed; most schools closed by 12 noon; even some law firms shut early. (Yes, I'll confess now: I cancelled a church meeting on Thursday evening.) When the rain finally stopped about 4:45 pm, officials started the parade early to take advantage of the stoppage. But they needn't have worried -- the clouds sped past and blue skies reigned til the sun set. The rain didn't matter at all, because Who Dat Nation was out in force.
Big Man and I parked the car in the area where he usually would've parked for a night at his Bourbon Street gig (100 block of Carondelet or St. Charles are his usual spots) and walked to the nightclub for Big Man to store his horn case til needed. Then we walked over to Decatur, corner Iberville. Along the way, indeed, starting at Poydras as folks streamed to the Superdome, there were crowds and crowds of people dressed in Saints jerseys, black and gold outfits, and various kinds of costumes. (There were also a few brave Minnesota fans in purple and the occasional blonde Viking wig, but they were vastly outnumbered.) Many people had created Saints themed outfits for their babies and small children, and thus there were big and little Reggie Bushes and Drew Breeses and Jeremy Shockeys. In other cases, moms had gone all out and decked little bitty girls in black and gold tutus, studding their hair with shiny fleur de lis barrettes and/or giant lamé bows. Some people had treated it like a mini-Mardi Gras, with big shiny black and gold beads and even some costumes.
There was a real spirit of comaraderie and community among the Saints fans along the parade route. A family near us had brought their elderly paw-paw in his wheelchair (and with his oxygen tanks!), pushed to the front by the barricade so he wouldn't miss a thing. Despite the signs saying "No chairs along the parade route" (I'm sure an NFL rule -- which cruelly prevents the elderly and disabled not in wheelchairs from hanging), two pretty Creole girls across the street were standing dangerously on folding chairs, shaking their booties to the bands as they went by. (By the way, Big Man says he thinks saying "pretty Creole girls" is redundant, since it's his considered opinion that all Creole women are, by definition, attractive.)
But the end result of this excitement and craziness was a big dud. The NFL staged the parade and concert for the benefit of their TV audience (and sponsors) and we, the New Orleans Saints fans on the street, were mere props. It was the choppiest, cheesiest parade I have ever not seen the end of. For one thing, the NFL decreed the parade had to stop *for every commercial*. Second, the parade also had to stop for the concert -- and the crowd on the street for the parade carefully stage-managed in front, and then just as artificially, moved back out of the way for the parade to continue after number. For us poor peons on the street, this meant in practice that the damn parade ground to a halt like every five minutes. It was awful. It was worse than Bacchus on its worst night.
We might have been able to stand it if the parade itself had been anything good. But even the bands didn't play when they got stuck in front of you, and the floats were nothing special, all floats we had seen before, with no signs to let us know who was supposed to be on board. And each and every float was marred by disgusting corporate logos and signs and banners (and those corporations won't get a boost from ME by complaining about them by name), and the throws, such as they were, were all cheesy corporate beads (that didn't even light up!) and a few NFL visors. I tell you, it sure brought home why we never, ever, ever want to allow corporate sponsorship of Carnival. It would ruin it for good.
We could only stand a little of this stupid start-for-a-little-while-and-then-stop-for-a-much-longer-while parade. (High point to me: seeing Deuce Macalister hoofing it hard down Decatur, to get to the Dome on time, because of course, with all this stop and start, nobody at the parade was gonna make kick-off.) Big Man and I caught a handful of stuff which we promptly gave away, and then we walked back to the good ol' Country Flame, a marvelously inexpensive and delicious restaurant on the edge of the Quarter. We got them to turn on the game channel and watched the end of the pre-game festivities on TV, seeing Dave Mathews joined onstage by Trombone Shorty and Kermit (so they did allow a few locals, after all), just before the gigantic fireworks finale. (They were sure impressive, and we could hear them clearly on Iberville.)
The NFL loaded so many damn commercials at the start of the game that we missed the coin toss and the start of the new Who Dat chant tradition, but we were able to view the handshake of the team captains and quarterbacks and all the raised forefingers to symbolize "we're all unified" that Drew Brees devised (that sweet young man must really like ritual).
The game was almost TOO exciting, with all the back and forth, and wasn't particularly pretty (but there's no such thing as an ugly win!), but the Boys did pull it out. Bourbon Street, which had been empty during the game, erupted and the fun began. It was like a mini-Carnival or mini-Superbowl on Bourbon, and Big Man and the band at the Blues Club played til 2 am. (And I stayed the whole time! But I can't do *that* too often, not as young as I used to be.)
While their choice of this city and this team for this event was sensible, yes, even wise, then they dropped the ball by figuring that they could run the thing themselves. No matter what you can criticize New Orleans for, and of course there are many things, we know how to run musical festivals and, for God's sake, parades! But apparently nobody at the NFL saw fit to use our expertise in these areas.
The giant concert stage took several days to build, over the granite steps of Washington Artillery Park over Decatur Street looking toward Jackson Square and St. Louis Cathedral. It was high-tech to nth degree, with fancy lights and what looked like millions of miles of cables. It was very impressive. The thing was, the parade was also supposed to go right down Decatur Street -- how was that supposed to work?? In order to stand in front of the stage, there was a lottery ticket process, in addition to the VIP-only area. Because of the parade, extra police and security had to posted on the day of the parade so that the crowd could be efficiently moved away from the stage for the parade to pass -- because the NFL wanted the concert AND the parade to go on *at the exact time and place*. (I guess to save on TV cameras?) It was a crazy idea.
On the days leading up to Thursday, the city went crazy. Stores on Magazine Street, from swanky dress stores to erotic lingerie shops, had window displays of black and gold merchandise. Even the expensive bridal shop was showing wedding dresses topped with Saints jerseys!! Saints banners -- Two Dat, Bless You Boys, World Champions, Do It Again, Our City/Our Boys, and of course, dozens of Who Dats -- fluttered from homes and businesses. The best was the giant handmade banner on the fence of Eleanor McMain School, which, besides the inevitable Who Dat sign, had done a portrait of Vikings quarterback Brett Favre sitting splay-legged on the football field, with the legend, "I've fallen and can't get up." (Big Man said it was cruel, but I thought it was funny.)
To make things a little more crazy in terms of logistics, it rained Thursday afternoon, pretty much straight up to the time the parade was supposed to roll. Of course, this being New Orleans, the town had taken this very, very seriously. City Hall was closed; most schools closed by 12 noon; even some law firms shut early. (Yes, I'll confess now: I cancelled a church meeting on Thursday evening.) When the rain finally stopped about 4:45 pm, officials started the parade early to take advantage of the stoppage. But they needn't have worried -- the clouds sped past and blue skies reigned til the sun set. The rain didn't matter at all, because Who Dat Nation was out in force.
Big Man and I parked the car in the area where he usually would've parked for a night at his Bourbon Street gig (100 block of Carondelet or St. Charles are his usual spots) and walked to the nightclub for Big Man to store his horn case til needed. Then we walked over to Decatur, corner Iberville. Along the way, indeed, starting at Poydras as folks streamed to the Superdome, there were crowds and crowds of people dressed in Saints jerseys, black and gold outfits, and various kinds of costumes. (There were also a few brave Minnesota fans in purple and the occasional blonde Viking wig, but they were vastly outnumbered.) Many people had created Saints themed outfits for their babies and small children, and thus there were big and little Reggie Bushes and Drew Breeses and Jeremy Shockeys. In other cases, moms had gone all out and decked little bitty girls in black and gold tutus, studding their hair with shiny fleur de lis barrettes and/or giant lamé bows. Some people had treated it like a mini-Mardi Gras, with big shiny black and gold beads and even some costumes.
There was a real spirit of comaraderie and community among the Saints fans along the parade route. A family near us had brought their elderly paw-paw in his wheelchair (and with his oxygen tanks!), pushed to the front by the barricade so he wouldn't miss a thing. Despite the signs saying "No chairs along the parade route" (I'm sure an NFL rule -- which cruelly prevents the elderly and disabled not in wheelchairs from hanging), two pretty Creole girls across the street were standing dangerously on folding chairs, shaking their booties to the bands as they went by. (By the way, Big Man says he thinks saying "pretty Creole girls" is redundant, since it's his considered opinion that all Creole women are, by definition, attractive.)
But the end result of this excitement and craziness was a big dud. The NFL staged the parade and concert for the benefit of their TV audience (and sponsors) and we, the New Orleans Saints fans on the street, were mere props. It was the choppiest, cheesiest parade I have ever not seen the end of. For one thing, the NFL decreed the parade had to stop *for every commercial*. Second, the parade also had to stop for the concert -- and the crowd on the street for the parade carefully stage-managed in front, and then just as artificially, moved back out of the way for the parade to continue after number. For us poor peons on the street, this meant in practice that the damn parade ground to a halt like every five minutes. It was awful. It was worse than Bacchus on its worst night.
We might have been able to stand it if the parade itself had been anything good. But even the bands didn't play when they got stuck in front of you, and the floats were nothing special, all floats we had seen before, with no signs to let us know who was supposed to be on board. And each and every float was marred by disgusting corporate logos and signs and banners (and those corporations won't get a boost from ME by complaining about them by name), and the throws, such as they were, were all cheesy corporate beads (that didn't even light up!) and a few NFL visors. I tell you, it sure brought home why we never, ever, ever want to allow corporate sponsorship of Carnival. It would ruin it for good.
We could only stand a little of this stupid start-for-a-little-while-and-then-stop-for-a-much-longer-while parade. (High point to me: seeing Deuce Macalister hoofing it hard down Decatur, to get to the Dome on time, because of course, with all this stop and start, nobody at the parade was gonna make kick-off.) Big Man and I caught a handful of stuff which we promptly gave away, and then we walked back to the good ol' Country Flame, a marvelously inexpensive and delicious restaurant on the edge of the Quarter. We got them to turn on the game channel and watched the end of the pre-game festivities on TV, seeing Dave Mathews joined onstage by Trombone Shorty and Kermit (so they did allow a few locals, after all), just before the gigantic fireworks finale. (They were sure impressive, and we could hear them clearly on Iberville.)
The NFL loaded so many damn commercials at the start of the game that we missed the coin toss and the start of the new Who Dat chant tradition, but we were able to view the handshake of the team captains and quarterbacks and all the raised forefingers to symbolize "we're all unified" that Drew Brees devised (that sweet young man must really like ritual).
The game was almost TOO exciting, with all the back and forth, and wasn't particularly pretty (but there's no such thing as an ugly win!), but the Boys did pull it out. Bourbon Street, which had been empty during the game, erupted and the fun began. It was like a mini-Carnival or mini-Superbowl on Bourbon, and Big Man and the band at the Blues Club played til 2 am. (And I stayed the whole time! But I can't do *that* too often, not as young as I used to be.)
Monday, September 6, 2010
Sunday at Café Negril
Lately Big Man's been gigging with John Lisi and Delta Funk from 7 to 10 pm (roughly, give or take) on Sunday nights at Café Negril on Frenchman Street. It's basically for tips, and it's big money or anything -- like we're not gonna pay the rent with it or go to the real Negril on it, but it's a fun, musically rewarding, low-stress gig. Big Man really enjoys it and so do I.
In terms of crowds, some Sundays are better than others (obviously) but since this is the Southern Decadence weekend, tonight is a good Sunday indeed -- a good number of folks, really enjoying the music, dancing, drinking, flirting. Good street traffic too. You could tell a lot of them were first-timers at Café Negril, 'cause they had no idea where the rest rooms were, and kept trying to walk across the raised seating area (where I am sitting) in front of the rest room area. (For the record, you can't get there from there, you have to walk around the railing-ed area to go to the rest room.) I'm starting to feel like the rest room traffic director.
Not many people smoking in the club tonight (thank God!), and so there's nothing to dilute the fantastic, mouth-watering aromas coming from the Taco Grill, operated by Ruben, same guy who has the taco truck at the gas station at the uptown-river corner of Louisiana and Claiborne. Ruben's from Honduras, and serves terrific cheap Hondurenos tacos, tamales, burritos, and quesadillas with your choice of beef, pineapple pork, chicken or veggies. (Ruben's occasional helper is an attractive young Latina with gold hoop earrings the size of bracelets.)
There's no cover at Café Negril on Sundays, and if you'd like a fun, inexpensive night out, with music and food, come hear Big Man and Delta Funk next Sunday. Maybe you'll see me there.
And if you go, remember: the band is playing for TIPS, so for heaven's sake, t'row a little somethin'-somethin' in the bucket.
In terms of crowds, some Sundays are better than others (obviously) but since this is the Southern Decadence weekend, tonight is a good Sunday indeed -- a good number of folks, really enjoying the music, dancing, drinking, flirting. Good street traffic too. You could tell a lot of them were first-timers at Café Negril, 'cause they had no idea where the rest rooms were, and kept trying to walk across the raised seating area (where I am sitting) in front of the rest room area. (For the record, you can't get there from there, you have to walk around the railing-ed area to go to the rest room.) I'm starting to feel like the rest room traffic director.
Not many people smoking in the club tonight (thank God!), and so there's nothing to dilute the fantastic, mouth-watering aromas coming from the Taco Grill, operated by Ruben, same guy who has the taco truck at the gas station at the uptown-river corner of Louisiana and Claiborne. Ruben's from Honduras, and serves terrific cheap Hondurenos tacos, tamales, burritos, and quesadillas with your choice of beef, pineapple pork, chicken or veggies. (Ruben's occasional helper is an attractive young Latina with gold hoop earrings the size of bracelets.)
There's no cover at Café Negril on Sundays, and if you'd like a fun, inexpensive night out, with music and food, come hear Big Man and Delta Funk next Sunday. Maybe you'll see me there.
And if you go, remember: the band is playing for TIPS, so for heaven's sake, t'row a little somethin'-somethin' in the bucket.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
The Fifth Anniversary
It's hard to know what to say about the 5th anniversary of the federal levee failure after the landfall of Hurricane Katrina in 2005. New Orleanians were of two minds about it -- those who wanted to cocoon, stay home, turn off all media, and try to not to think about the whole thing; and those who with varying degrees of mixed feelings, felt that the occasion should be marked.
Accordingly, the variety of commemoration events was enormous, running from the religious (several interfaith/ecumenical worship services were held at congregations of different faiths, from St. Louis Cathedral to small neighborhood Baptist churches, to the grand St. Charles Ave. Presbyterian Church, where the Uptown Interfaith group held its service, in which I participated), to the cultural/spiritual (several secondlines starting at levee breaks and proceeding through recovering or struggling-to-recover neighborhoods, and at least one voodoo ceremony), to the educational (lectures and programs at Tulane, Loyola, UNO, and Xavier on different aspects of What Happened), to the entertaining (countless concerts and musical events and of course the play in St. Bernard I already posted about), to the cinematic (Spike Lee's 2-part follow-up to When the Levees Broke, entitled God Willin' and the Creek Don't Rise; Harry Shearer's angry movie The Big Uneasy). News media outlets were everywhere, every network and organization you can think of and probably several small ones you wouldn't.
Nearly everyone who is anyone at all got interviewed. (Even *I* got interviewed! by a small public radio station owned by a university Up North.) Some people got interviewed too many times -- Ms. Leah Chase grumbled to me and a friend that she was "sick of bein' interviewed," and added, "Wish there was nothin' to interview me about."
While I did watch the Spike Lee documentaries (and as always, he gets some things right and some things wrong, but his heart is in the right place), and did watch some of NBC's Brian Williams' reports (god bless him for not giving up on us!) and the Frontline on the NOPD criminal misconduct, I mainly tried to avoid Katrina overload. Some pictures and films just bring it all back to me, and I don't want to end up paralyzed with grief and rage as I was 5 years ago. (At one point, Big Man actually thought he'd have to put me in a hospital!)
Yes, things are better -- not as many as you would think/expect/hope for the so-called "greatest country in the world" but still things are better and getting mo' better all the time. Just not as quickly as you'd want.
And some things, some people, some parts of the city, are gone forever, though we will remember them always.
Here's the Prayer of Remembrance I shared at the Interfaith Katrina Commemoration Service on Sunday night:
We ask for the presence of the Spirit of God
as we come together in a spirit of prayer and remembrance:
We remember our old sense of invulnerability,
how we used to think, “Hurricanes always turn away,” or
“Hurricanes always lose strength as they come onto land,”
and we wonder, will we ever feel so safe again?
Keep us safe, we pray, O God.
We remember family members, friends, acquaintances,
neighbors, members of our religious communities,
some of whom have died directly or indirectly from the Storm,
and others who have had to make the hard decision to live elsewhere.
We miss them, each and every one, each and every day;
in our lives, in everything we do, we keep them in our hearts.
Keep them within your care, we pray, O God.
We remember the simple yet important landmarks of our lives,
the fabric of neighborhoods, the homes, schools, businesses,
places of worship, restaurants, places intimate to us,
and those we only knew from driving by,
washed away or demolished, irrevocably lost to the Storm.
The lost city of our memories will remain with us;
we will forever be saying “where this and that used to be.”
Keep our city from losing dear and familiar landmarks,
we pray, O God.
When our hearts were broken and we were near despair
we remember what it took for us to come this far –
courage, hard work, humor, the celebrations of our culture and heritage,
the kindness of many many strangers,
and most of all, faith.
Help us keep the faith, O God, and remember us
as we remember and remember.
Accordingly, the variety of commemoration events was enormous, running from the religious (several interfaith/ecumenical worship services were held at congregations of different faiths, from St. Louis Cathedral to small neighborhood Baptist churches, to the grand St. Charles Ave. Presbyterian Church, where the Uptown Interfaith group held its service, in which I participated), to the cultural/spiritual (several secondlines starting at levee breaks and proceeding through recovering or struggling-to-recover neighborhoods, and at least one voodoo ceremony), to the educational (lectures and programs at Tulane, Loyola, UNO, and Xavier on different aspects of What Happened), to the entertaining (countless concerts and musical events and of course the play in St. Bernard I already posted about), to the cinematic (Spike Lee's 2-part follow-up to When the Levees Broke, entitled God Willin' and the Creek Don't Rise; Harry Shearer's angry movie The Big Uneasy). News media outlets were everywhere, every network and organization you can think of and probably several small ones you wouldn't.
Nearly everyone who is anyone at all got interviewed. (Even *I* got interviewed! by a small public radio station owned by a university Up North.) Some people got interviewed too many times -- Ms. Leah Chase grumbled to me and a friend that she was "sick of bein' interviewed," and added, "Wish there was nothin' to interview me about."
While I did watch the Spike Lee documentaries (and as always, he gets some things right and some things wrong, but his heart is in the right place), and did watch some of NBC's Brian Williams' reports (god bless him for not giving up on us!) and the Frontline on the NOPD criminal misconduct, I mainly tried to avoid Katrina overload. Some pictures and films just bring it all back to me, and I don't want to end up paralyzed with grief and rage as I was 5 years ago. (At one point, Big Man actually thought he'd have to put me in a hospital!)
Yes, things are better -- not as many as you would think/expect/hope for the so-called "greatest country in the world" but still things are better and getting mo' better all the time. Just not as quickly as you'd want.
And some things, some people, some parts of the city, are gone forever, though we will remember them always.
Here's the Prayer of Remembrance I shared at the Interfaith Katrina Commemoration Service on Sunday night:
We ask for the presence of the Spirit of God
as we come together in a spirit of prayer and remembrance:
We remember our old sense of invulnerability,
how we used to think, “Hurricanes always turn away,” or
“Hurricanes always lose strength as they come onto land,”
and we wonder, will we ever feel so safe again?
Keep us safe, we pray, O God.
We remember family members, friends, acquaintances,
neighbors, members of our religious communities,
some of whom have died directly or indirectly from the Storm,
and others who have had to make the hard decision to live elsewhere.
We miss them, each and every one, each and every day;
in our lives, in everything we do, we keep them in our hearts.
Keep them within your care, we pray, O God.
We remember the simple yet important landmarks of our lives,
the fabric of neighborhoods, the homes, schools, businesses,
places of worship, restaurants, places intimate to us,
and those we only knew from driving by,
washed away or demolished, irrevocably lost to the Storm.
The lost city of our memories will remain with us;
we will forever be saying “where this and that used to be.”
Keep our city from losing dear and familiar landmarks,
we pray, O God.
When our hearts were broken and we were near despair
we remember what it took for us to come this far –
courage, hard work, humor, the celebrations of our culture and heritage,
the kindness of many many strangers,
and most of all, faith.
Help us keep the faith, O God, and remember us
as we remember and remember.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
The Somewhat True History of St. Bernard Parish
(Abridged): A Love Story
As part of the Katrina Anniversary commemorations, I went with my sister and her husband, another sister, and several friends, to go see the premiere of this play at the Nunez Auditorium in Chalmette. The play was written and directed by a Chalmette High School English teacher, and performed with love and good will by a troupe of local amateurs. There were two acts, each with about six scenes, depicting different highlights of the history of St, Bernard Parish.
The play was alternately funny, silly, moving, angry, sad, and informative. Lots of jokes about St. Bernard accents and "cultcha" -- things like "berled" shrimp and Rocky and Carlo's baked macaroni. A particularly good line was made about a combination Betsy-Katrina Hurricane cocktail: you drink it and then 40 years later it knocks you on your ass.
There were things in the play that were educational. I actually learned several things I never knew before about the parish where I lived from birth to 17. I had never known about the all-male Fiipino village in the swamps, where they dried shrimp by "dancing" on them in the sun. I don't think I ever knew that Arabi was once in Orleans Parish (and the line was moved to accommodate an abattoir!). And I had never heard tales of the German U-boats in the Gulf and up the river during World War II.
But the story that really got to me was about Fazendeville, a tiny, all-black community between the Mississippi River and St. Bernard Highway that was originally located on part of the area where the Battle of New Orleans was fought in 1814. (The entire battlefield area that is not currently under the river comprises the present National Park and National Cemetery, and at least three industrial areas.) Apparently, at the time of the battle, there was a small rice plantation owned by a free man of color named Jean Pierre Fazende (interestingly, I've since learned that "fazenda" means "plantation" in Brazil).
What follows was inspired by what I heard in the play, with additional details gleaned form the Internet.
After the Civil War, the Fazende heirs sold small parcels to freed slaves, and a lane was developed through the skinny slice of property from the highway to the river. An old mill run became a sort of stream or ditch where kids in the little community could wade and play and crawfish, and nearby there was a pecan grove where residents gathered pecans for pies and pralines. Over time, about 50 close-knit families lived there, and there was a Baptist church, a dance hall, and a small store.
As the time of the 150th anniversary of the Battle of New Orleans approached, in the early 1960s, a movement developed to beautify and expand the little National Park dedicated to the battle, and to unify the park with the National Cemetery that was on the other side of Fazendeville. Petitions were made to the federal government, and one of the last things President Kennedy ever did was sign the legislation authorizing the eminent domain seizure of the private property involved -- the entire community of Fazendeville. The land was completely cleared -- even the pecan trees had to go! -- and incorporated into the park.
While at the time, residential property in general in St. Bernard Parish was valued around $16,000, the black families of Fazendeville received only $6,000 -- which would not have allowed to buy anything similar to what they were losing. And of course, it goes without saying that taking away that property would completely dilute a black voting bloc in St. Bernard Parish. Many of the folks moved over to Orleans, to the Lower Ninth Ward, where they re-established their church, still calling it the Battle Ground Baptist Church (and which, sadly, was destroyed twice, once in Betsy and then again in Katrina). [Some pictures of the community and the lives lived there can be found at http://www.doyouknowwhatitmeans.org/fazendeville.html]
I was 10 years old when this all happened -- old enough to have visited the park as part of a school group to learn about the battle, but too young to have heard about the destruction of the Fazendeville community.
I am disturbed and unsettled by this story. I feel the families of Fazendeville, if their descendants could be found, are owed compensation from the federal government, as recompense for the unfair treatment they received. I feel the pressure of my white privilege that kept me from knowing this story, and from, in a sense, my benefiting from their terrible loss.
This needs more thought.
As part of the Katrina Anniversary commemorations, I went with my sister and her husband, another sister, and several friends, to go see the premiere of this play at the Nunez Auditorium in Chalmette. The play was written and directed by a Chalmette High School English teacher, and performed with love and good will by a troupe of local amateurs. There were two acts, each with about six scenes, depicting different highlights of the history of St, Bernard Parish.
The play was alternately funny, silly, moving, angry, sad, and informative. Lots of jokes about St. Bernard accents and "cultcha" -- things like "berled" shrimp and Rocky and Carlo's baked macaroni. A particularly good line was made about a combination Betsy-Katrina Hurricane cocktail: you drink it and then 40 years later it knocks you on your ass.
There were things in the play that were educational. I actually learned several things I never knew before about the parish where I lived from birth to 17. I had never known about the all-male Fiipino village in the swamps, where they dried shrimp by "dancing" on them in the sun. I don't think I ever knew that Arabi was once in Orleans Parish (and the line was moved to accommodate an abattoir!). And I had never heard tales of the German U-boats in the Gulf and up the river during World War II.
But the story that really got to me was about Fazendeville, a tiny, all-black community between the Mississippi River and St. Bernard Highway that was originally located on part of the area where the Battle of New Orleans was fought in 1814. (The entire battlefield area that is not currently under the river comprises the present National Park and National Cemetery, and at least three industrial areas.) Apparently, at the time of the battle, there was a small rice plantation owned by a free man of color named Jean Pierre Fazende (interestingly, I've since learned that "fazenda" means "plantation" in Brazil).
What follows was inspired by what I heard in the play, with additional details gleaned form the Internet.
After the Civil War, the Fazende heirs sold small parcels to freed slaves, and a lane was developed through the skinny slice of property from the highway to the river. An old mill run became a sort of stream or ditch where kids in the little community could wade and play and crawfish, and nearby there was a pecan grove where residents gathered pecans for pies and pralines. Over time, about 50 close-knit families lived there, and there was a Baptist church, a dance hall, and a small store.
As the time of the 150th anniversary of the Battle of New Orleans approached, in the early 1960s, a movement developed to beautify and expand the little National Park dedicated to the battle, and to unify the park with the National Cemetery that was on the other side of Fazendeville. Petitions were made to the federal government, and one of the last things President Kennedy ever did was sign the legislation authorizing the eminent domain seizure of the private property involved -- the entire community of Fazendeville. The land was completely cleared -- even the pecan trees had to go! -- and incorporated into the park.
While at the time, residential property in general in St. Bernard Parish was valued around $16,000, the black families of Fazendeville received only $6,000 -- which would not have allowed to buy anything similar to what they were losing. And of course, it goes without saying that taking away that property would completely dilute a black voting bloc in St. Bernard Parish. Many of the folks moved over to Orleans, to the Lower Ninth Ward, where they re-established their church, still calling it the Battle Ground Baptist Church (and which, sadly, was destroyed twice, once in Betsy and then again in Katrina). [Some pictures of the community and the lives lived there can be found at http://www.doyouknowwhatitmeans.org/fazendeville.html]
I was 10 years old when this all happened -- old enough to have visited the park as part of a school group to learn about the battle, but too young to have heard about the destruction of the Fazendeville community.
I am disturbed and unsettled by this story. I feel the families of Fazendeville, if their descendants could be found, are owed compensation from the federal government, as recompense for the unfair treatment they received. I feel the pressure of my white privilege that kept me from knowing this story, and from, in a sense, my benefiting from their terrible loss.
This needs more thought.
Only in New Orleans, Part Whatever
Walking in the rain today to go vote (earlier this morning, an Arab-American at a gas station Uptown told me it "always" rains on the Katrina weekend), I passed an open garage door on Euterpe Street and happened to glance inside. Stacked neatly against the wall inside the garage was a large double stack of sandbags.
I'm thinking that there aren't a lot of places where you'd see that -- or where else it might even be conceivable as a good idea.
I'm thinking that there aren't a lot of places where you'd see that -- or where else it might even be conceivable as a good idea.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Hiatus over (Finally!)
Dear Readers (whoever you are, wherever you are),
I am sorry to have been away for so long. Part of the reason is that Big Man and I were away for 2 long trips this summer (we put over 8,000 miles on our van!), and since this Blog is oriented to tales of life in New Orleans, reporting on our travels didn't seem appropriate. The other part of the reason is that once you get out of the habit of blogging, it's hard to get back into it. (Approach-avoidance, don't you know.) There always seems to be something more pressing to get to first. But with the Katrina Anniversary hard on my heels, I knew I had to get back, and so here I am.
A few observations gleaned from our travels:
Everywhere we went this summer, west and east, during the 100 days of the BP oil spill, as soon as we said we were from New Orleans, people everywhere -- UU and non-UU, service personnel, hotel workers, guests at a B&B near Mount Rushmore, my sister's friends in Minneapolis -- they all acted like somebody had died, and we were the bereaved. "We're so sorry," they would say, sometimes laying a hand sympathetically on our arm or shoulder. Or they would ask us solicitously, "Are you folks OK?" We appreciated their concern, really we did, but it got old. I mean, if you're on vacation, you're trying to get away from everything that's worrying you or making you sad. And what were we supposed to say, "No, we're so NOT OK -- we're bloody sick and tired of being public victims, the nation's designated downtrodden."
And it was especially grating to have folks ask if we could smell the oil, for pete's sake, from our house or from our church or from the French Quarter. No, and we couldn't see it, either. Why do so many people around the country seem to think New Orleans is located right on the Gulf of Mexico? (Although, God forbid, if we keep on losing wetlands, we will eventually be on the damn coast1) I also hated the questions about whether I supported the deep-water drilling moratorium (I don't) and whether I am seeing any effects inside my congregation (I am, believe me, I am), and whether I would feel safe eating Louisiana seafood (geez, like I think either Louisiana or the Feds would allow us to sell our seafood if it wasn't safe -- what good would that do?). Let me just testify -- like almost every other non-allergic, non-vegetarian New Orleanian I know, I am eating Louisiana seafood literally like there was no tomorrow.
Another thing we noticed was how differently people from "away" (those not from New Orleans) think about food. Even relative foodies elsewhere don't think about food the way we do. Few people in other places think it's proper to discuss or reminisce about other meals while you are in the midst of a meal. Folks looked askance at us when we mentioned our ambition to eat as many cheap Maine lobsters as we could on one week's time (gee, not like we were trying to eat 'em all at one sitting!). Being particular about food was seen as strange or quaint, or maybe snobbish. Hot sauce was exotic. That we avoided chain restaurants and fast food while on the road was seen by many people as unnecessarily adding time and miles and expense to our trip (maybe so, but we sure ate better!). Our obsession with good food is one of those thing about New Orleans that I do already know, but these 2 trips really brought it to mind.
Anyway, it was good to get home, heat and humidity notwithstanding.
I am sorry to have been away for so long. Part of the reason is that Big Man and I were away for 2 long trips this summer (we put over 8,000 miles on our van!), and since this Blog is oriented to tales of life in New Orleans, reporting on our travels didn't seem appropriate. The other part of the reason is that once you get out of the habit of blogging, it's hard to get back into it. (Approach-avoidance, don't you know.) There always seems to be something more pressing to get to first. But with the Katrina Anniversary hard on my heels, I knew I had to get back, and so here I am.
A few observations gleaned from our travels:
Everywhere we went this summer, west and east, during the 100 days of the BP oil spill, as soon as we said we were from New Orleans, people everywhere -- UU and non-UU, service personnel, hotel workers, guests at a B&B near Mount Rushmore, my sister's friends in Minneapolis -- they all acted like somebody had died, and we were the bereaved. "We're so sorry," they would say, sometimes laying a hand sympathetically on our arm or shoulder. Or they would ask us solicitously, "Are you folks OK?" We appreciated their concern, really we did, but it got old. I mean, if you're on vacation, you're trying to get away from everything that's worrying you or making you sad. And what were we supposed to say, "No, we're so NOT OK -- we're bloody sick and tired of being public victims, the nation's designated downtrodden."
And it was especially grating to have folks ask if we could smell the oil, for pete's sake, from our house or from our church or from the French Quarter. No, and we couldn't see it, either. Why do so many people around the country seem to think New Orleans is located right on the Gulf of Mexico? (Although, God forbid, if we keep on losing wetlands, we will eventually be on the damn coast1) I also hated the questions about whether I supported the deep-water drilling moratorium (I don't) and whether I am seeing any effects inside my congregation (I am, believe me, I am), and whether I would feel safe eating Louisiana seafood (geez, like I think either Louisiana or the Feds would allow us to sell our seafood if it wasn't safe -- what good would that do?). Let me just testify -- like almost every other non-allergic, non-vegetarian New Orleanian I know, I am eating Louisiana seafood literally like there was no tomorrow.
Another thing we noticed was how differently people from "away" (those not from New Orleans) think about food. Even relative foodies elsewhere don't think about food the way we do. Few people in other places think it's proper to discuss or reminisce about other meals while you are in the midst of a meal. Folks looked askance at us when we mentioned our ambition to eat as many cheap Maine lobsters as we could on one week's time (gee, not like we were trying to eat 'em all at one sitting!). Being particular about food was seen as strange or quaint, or maybe snobbish. Hot sauce was exotic. That we avoided chain restaurants and fast food while on the road was seen by many people as unnecessarily adding time and miles and expense to our trip (maybe so, but we sure ate better!). Our obsession with good food is one of those thing about New Orleans that I do already know, but these 2 trips really brought it to mind.
Anyway, it was good to get home, heat and humidity notwithstanding.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Bless You, Boys -- Again
It's the off-week for the Saints summer training camp, and instead of the usual diversions coaches dream up to help the team cohere and stay together while not actually practicing (like team bowling, for example), Coach Peyton and team owners the Benson Family have come up with something quite different.
For the past few days, the Saints have gotten onto buses (one hopes air-conditioned!) and driven hours to the end of Plaquemines Parish and, the next day, down to Grand Isle, to meet with the folks most closely affected by the Gulf Oil Spill. They gather in a local community center with fishermen, oystermen, shrimpers, and oil workers and their families, and other folks like shop owners and catering workers and restaurant owners and their families, and listen to their stories. They shake hands with hundreds of people with work-hardened hands, get countless hugs from maw-maws, and ruffle the haircuts of hundreds of kids. It's like being politicians, only they're not running for anything.
And for good measure, they carry in the sacred Lombardi Trophy and everyone there gets a chance to touch it, to lay hands on it. (I picture Sean Peyton polishing the smudgy hand prints off the thing with a chamois on the bus on the way back home.) And everyone takes advantage of this, pressing forward with their hands out-stretched like supplicants to a shrine, like the Lombardi has a magic power to heal and restore.
All of this would have been enough and I would bless them for it and be grateful they're the kind of team they are, but they didn't stop there. The Saints are offering for raffle one of the "extra" Superbowl rings they will receive as 2009 Superbowl Champs (apparently, each winning team gets a few extra, to gift any way they want -- who knew??), with ALL proceeds going to Gulf Relief. The lucky fan who wins will get his or her ring at the season-opener game against Minnesota in September. The minimum order is 5 tickets for $10, but the more tickets you buy, the more they are discounted (like, 100 tickets are $75).
Of course, Big Man and I bought tickets right away, as did I'm sure, nearly every member of Who Dat Nation who could possibly squeeze together $10 or more. When I went online last night to check on it, I Googled "Saints Superbowl ring raffle" and discovered that there were close to 650,000 Google pages devoted to this topic. The Saints announced that they were hoping to raise $1 million from the raffle -- but I'll be sure surprised if they don't get more than that.
Once again, the Saints under Sean Peyton are showing that they are more than just a professional football team and that they "get it" about their role in the city's and area's recovery. All I can say is, Bless you, Boys, bless you.
For the past few days, the Saints have gotten onto buses (one hopes air-conditioned!) and driven hours to the end of Plaquemines Parish and, the next day, down to Grand Isle, to meet with the folks most closely affected by the Gulf Oil Spill. They gather in a local community center with fishermen, oystermen, shrimpers, and oil workers and their families, and other folks like shop owners and catering workers and restaurant owners and their families, and listen to their stories. They shake hands with hundreds of people with work-hardened hands, get countless hugs from maw-maws, and ruffle the haircuts of hundreds of kids. It's like being politicians, only they're not running for anything.
And for good measure, they carry in the sacred Lombardi Trophy and everyone there gets a chance to touch it, to lay hands on it. (I picture Sean Peyton polishing the smudgy hand prints off the thing with a chamois on the bus on the way back home.) And everyone takes advantage of this, pressing forward with their hands out-stretched like supplicants to a shrine, like the Lombardi has a magic power to heal and restore.
All of this would have been enough and I would bless them for it and be grateful they're the kind of team they are, but they didn't stop there. The Saints are offering for raffle one of the "extra" Superbowl rings they will receive as 2009 Superbowl Champs (apparently, each winning team gets a few extra, to gift any way they want -- who knew??), with ALL proceeds going to Gulf Relief. The lucky fan who wins will get his or her ring at the season-opener game against Minnesota in September. The minimum order is 5 tickets for $10, but the more tickets you buy, the more they are discounted (like, 100 tickets are $75).
Of course, Big Man and I bought tickets right away, as did I'm sure, nearly every member of Who Dat Nation who could possibly squeeze together $10 or more. When I went online last night to check on it, I Googled "Saints Superbowl ring raffle" and discovered that there were close to 650,000 Google pages devoted to this topic. The Saints announced that they were hoping to raise $1 million from the raffle -- but I'll be sure surprised if they don't get more than that.
Once again, the Saints under Sean Peyton are showing that they are more than just a professional football team and that they "get it" about their role in the city's and area's recovery. All I can say is, Bless you, Boys, bless you.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
The Kind of People We Are
Months and months ago, possibly even last year, someone came up with the great idea to hold the first-ever New Orleans Oyster Festival on the first weekend of June, this year June 5-6, next to the House of Blues on the edge of the French Quarter. Of course, back then, no one could have dreamed that we would be facing the loss of America's best oyster beds, which have been giving folks the best-tasting oysters in this country since like the 1870s.
Perhaps in some more logical or sensible place, the Oyster Festival would have been canceled. But not here. The show must go on, and if we are to lose our precious and delicious oysters, then at least we'll go out swinging, with a big bang of a celebration. So the festival went on as scheduled. That's the kind of people we are. Hit us with a hurricane and a federal levee failure, and we will still hold our Mardi Gras and the critics be damned. Pour poison into our Gulf and threaten our oysterbeds for the next generation, we will throw an Oyster Festival to end all oyster festivals. Depressed and low down as I have been over this thing, I knew we had to go.
The ways to cook and eat oysters were uncountable, but I will list a few of the highlights that appealed to Big Man and me: oyster and shrimp (also endangered by the spill) eggrolls, oysters en brochette, oyster and spinach salad, oyster and eggplant casserole, fried oyster po boys, raw oysters (of course!), chargrilled oysters, buffalo oysters with bleu cheese sauce, oyster dressing (just like yo' Mama used to make), oysters with pepper jelly sauce, oyster gumbo, oyster soup, oyster sauce over crawfish cakes -- you get the picture, I'm sure. And I have to give a shout-out to the incredible Red Velvet Torte for dessert -- a large square of red velvet cake completely dipped in hard dark chocolate and then topped with fresh whipped cream. OMG f'sure.
There was a contest for the fastest oyster shucker, and another contest for the person who could eat the most raw oysters in the shortest period of time. (I've been known to eat *quite a lot* of raw oysters at one, er, standing, but I would hate to shovel them down fast. I like to savor my oysters, and enjoy a little sauce with 'em. I believe the winner vacuumed up something like 8 dozen in 5 minutes or some other ridiculous figure. Better him than me.
There were bands playing, of course -- what's a New Orleans festival of anything without music?? And the heat was mitigated by drizzles and gentle rains, hardly needing an umbrella to fend off, but really making it pleasant on that blacktop. (The festival ground was a parking lot so it could have been brutal.)
There was an Oyster Heritage Tent set up, where local craftsmen were making lovely artistic oyster knives, in case you shuck at home, and showed beautiful variations of ceramic oyster plates. Save the Gulf had a display, as did several other organizations, and there was a scroll to sign and send greetings to Louisiana's oystermen and their families. P & J, in business since 1875, had a display as well. Big Man and I signed the scroll ("We love y'all and would do anything we can to help.")
There were also posters of the event (what's a New Orleans festival without an artist-designed limited edition poster?), which had a large fleur de lis (of course) fashioned out of raw oysters (naturally) labeled hopefully as The First Annual New Orleans Oyster Festival. May that be so, may that truly be so!
Perhaps in some more logical or sensible place, the Oyster Festival would have been canceled. But not here. The show must go on, and if we are to lose our precious and delicious oysters, then at least we'll go out swinging, with a big bang of a celebration. So the festival went on as scheduled. That's the kind of people we are. Hit us with a hurricane and a federal levee failure, and we will still hold our Mardi Gras and the critics be damned. Pour poison into our Gulf and threaten our oysterbeds for the next generation, we will throw an Oyster Festival to end all oyster festivals. Depressed and low down as I have been over this thing, I knew we had to go.
The ways to cook and eat oysters were uncountable, but I will list a few of the highlights that appealed to Big Man and me: oyster and shrimp (also endangered by the spill) eggrolls, oysters en brochette, oyster and spinach salad, oyster and eggplant casserole, fried oyster po boys, raw oysters (of course!), chargrilled oysters, buffalo oysters with bleu cheese sauce, oyster dressing (just like yo' Mama used to make), oysters with pepper jelly sauce, oyster gumbo, oyster soup, oyster sauce over crawfish cakes -- you get the picture, I'm sure. And I have to give a shout-out to the incredible Red Velvet Torte for dessert -- a large square of red velvet cake completely dipped in hard dark chocolate and then topped with fresh whipped cream. OMG f'sure.
There was a contest for the fastest oyster shucker, and another contest for the person who could eat the most raw oysters in the shortest period of time. (I've been known to eat *quite a lot* of raw oysters at one, er, standing, but I would hate to shovel them down fast. I like to savor my oysters, and enjoy a little sauce with 'em. I believe the winner vacuumed up something like 8 dozen in 5 minutes or some other ridiculous figure. Better him than me.
There were bands playing, of course -- what's a New Orleans festival of anything without music?? And the heat was mitigated by drizzles and gentle rains, hardly needing an umbrella to fend off, but really making it pleasant on that blacktop. (The festival ground was a parking lot so it could have been brutal.)
There was an Oyster Heritage Tent set up, where local craftsmen were making lovely artistic oyster knives, in case you shuck at home, and showed beautiful variations of ceramic oyster plates. Save the Gulf had a display, as did several other organizations, and there was a scroll to sign and send greetings to Louisiana's oystermen and their families. P & J, in business since 1875, had a display as well. Big Man and I signed the scroll ("We love y'all and would do anything we can to help.")
There were also posters of the event (what's a New Orleans festival without an artist-designed limited edition poster?), which had a large fleur de lis (of course) fashioned out of raw oysters (naturally) labeled hopefully as The First Annual New Orleans Oyster Festival. May that be so, may that truly be so!
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Memorial Day on Grand Isle
To regular readers of this blog, wherever you are --
I apologize for not posting lately. I have felt overwhelmed by all the emotions associated with the oil spill, and how many times can you write that you are sad, mad, scared, and helpless? And I have thought that posting about anything fun, like concerts or festivals, would seem like I was trivializing -- or, worse, forgetting about it. Believe me, whatever we are doing, however much fun we are having, the oil spill is never far from our thoughts and pervades our sleep.
But what can you do? After you get your hair salon and pet place to donate their cuttings to Matter of Trust, after you call/write your elected officials, there's really very little you can do. You can volunteer to help with clean up, but if you're not trained in animal/wild life rescue, they politely tell you you're not needed. And if you just want to do unskilled tar ball pick up or other such grunt work, you have to be very careful that you're not stealing what would have been paid day-labor for all the folks thrown out of work by the spill. So what's left?
Well, protest, for one thing. The first public Oil Spill Protest (the first of likely many to come, unless some unforeseen success takes place) was held in the pouring rain on Sunday, May 30, at 1 pm. (At least it wasn't hot.) There were lots and lots of signs, not all of them obscene (but some sure were!), with various ways of parsing the BP acronym (like "Bad People" and "Big Polluters" and even "Bitch Please!").
There were also lots of speakers, representatives of local organizations like Levees.org and Save the Wetlands and many others, and professors at Tulane and UNO and LSU, and leaders of the shrimpers and oystermen organizations -- when these latter speakers said their piece and mourned what was being lost, and how unlikely it was now that they'd be able to pass along their way of life to their children and grandchildren, they cried and so did much of the crowd. Even Dr. John, who's been a member of the Voices of the Wetlands group, spoke, in his inimitable style, angry, as he said, "That the criminals have been put in chawge of the crime scene!" He decried the blowout preventer (which term he couldn't recall and he said in frustration "that damn thing that shoulda stopped it but didn't "woik"), and demanded to know why there hadn't been a back-up plan.
It being New Orleans, the protest had a small pick-up brass band that punctuated what speakers said, played between speakers, and blatted out raspberries whenever BP's name was mentioned.
After all that, there didn't seem to be much else to do, but Big Man and I decided to spend Memorial Day driving to Grand Isle, where we could see first-hand what was happening, and where we could spend a few bucks eating lunch.
We felt so bad for them -- Memorial Day Weekend was supposed to be the big Grand Isle Speckled Trout Rodeo, and now no one was allowed to fish for speck off the island. Most people who had bought tickets in advance did not ask for a refund, and since the band had already been booked and paid, the party, such as it was, went on Saturday night.
The drive took us 2 1/2 hours, through Cajun Country that Big Man had never seen before and where I had not been in many years. Everywhere was evidence of the spill's widening ripples of influence -- boats docked that should have been out in the Gulf; protest signs in yards ("Mr. Obama, where are you?" said one); signs advertising "Disaster Work Catering Services" (at least somebody will be making money); closed roadside seafood markets, their signs listing everything they would have been carrying draped with sheets or tablecloths to cover them.
One unhapppy marshland resident went even further, and posed a mannequin dressed in a hazmat suit holding an oil-smeared plastic fish in an outstretched hand near the side of historic Louisiana Highway 1. Next to the adult mannequin was a small child mannequin in a small matching hazmat outfit, cupping its head in its two hands, as if sobbing. The figures had a big sign, "God Help Us." It was heart breaking.
There were media truck aplenty parked at the Grand Isle Marina, just as you cross over the bridge to the island, and we saw a lot of Army and Coast Guard vehicles as well. As we watched, two schoolbusses pulled up into the public beach area parking lot and unloaded scores of workers dressed in Tyvek suits. As we crossed over the dune to view the beach, we saw that a giant fat orange double-boom lay the length of the beach, and was backed-up by a small sand berm on the seaward side. (The bay side of the island is protected by booms marked "US Navy" floating in the water a few yards offshore.) Supervised by Coast Guard personnel, day laborers were scooping up tar balls on the beach and stuffing them into plastic sacks, and we could see workers on the Grand Isle Gulf beach as far as we could see in either direction.
We drove to one recommended Grand Isle restaurant, but it was closed -- although I had phoned there on Friday and been told it would be open. We ended up eating at the Starfish Restaurant, on the main road, and we asked to be served on the outside picnic table. There we enjoyed seafood gumbo, mini crabcakes, and platters of fried shrimp and oysters with onion rings (me) and a seafood platter with shrimp, oysters, catfish, and stuff crab with French fries (Big Man). (If you are gonna help an area by eating in one of their restaurants, then don't go there on a diet, for pete's sake, eat hearty!) The food was very good, and the servers thanked us for coming.
As we sat under the overhang and enjoyed both the food and the Gulf breeze, we watched as an enormous number of waste disposal trucks and military vehicles went by on the main road. Some young men in Army uniforms drove up in a military-camo jeep, and we were able to thank them in general for their service and in particular for being on Grand Isle right now helping with the spill.
Despite the pounding heat (it had rained earlier but the sun came out with a vengeance afterwards), we spent some time on the Grand Isle beach and we noted that the sand, while not sparkling white as in Alabama and Florida, was perfectly clean, and the beach was wide and empty. (The beach is closed to swimming -- obviously -- but the beach is OPEN for sun bathing and picnicking and whatever.) And there was no smell whatsoever of tar or gas or petroleum. None.
Driving off the island to go home, we noticed dozens and dozens of "for rent" signs on the raised beach cottages. I'm sure you could get quite a bargain renting a room or a cabin or a house for some time this summer on Grand Isle, and you would be doing the people of that beleagured island a big favor.
I apologize for not posting lately. I have felt overwhelmed by all the emotions associated with the oil spill, and how many times can you write that you are sad, mad, scared, and helpless? And I have thought that posting about anything fun, like concerts or festivals, would seem like I was trivializing -- or, worse, forgetting about it. Believe me, whatever we are doing, however much fun we are having, the oil spill is never far from our thoughts and pervades our sleep.
But what can you do? After you get your hair salon and pet place to donate their cuttings to Matter of Trust, after you call/write your elected officials, there's really very little you can do. You can volunteer to help with clean up, but if you're not trained in animal/wild life rescue, they politely tell you you're not needed. And if you just want to do unskilled tar ball pick up or other such grunt work, you have to be very careful that you're not stealing what would have been paid day-labor for all the folks thrown out of work by the spill. So what's left?
Well, protest, for one thing. The first public Oil Spill Protest (the first of likely many to come, unless some unforeseen success takes place) was held in the pouring rain on Sunday, May 30, at 1 pm. (At least it wasn't hot.) There were lots and lots of signs, not all of them obscene (but some sure were!), with various ways of parsing the BP acronym (like "Bad People" and "Big Polluters" and even "Bitch Please!").
There were also lots of speakers, representatives of local organizations like Levees.org and Save the Wetlands and many others, and professors at Tulane and UNO and LSU, and leaders of the shrimpers and oystermen organizations -- when these latter speakers said their piece and mourned what was being lost, and how unlikely it was now that they'd be able to pass along their way of life to their children and grandchildren, they cried and so did much of the crowd. Even Dr. John, who's been a member of the Voices of the Wetlands group, spoke, in his inimitable style, angry, as he said, "That the criminals have been put in chawge of the crime scene!" He decried the blowout preventer (which term he couldn't recall and he said in frustration "that damn thing that shoulda stopped it but didn't "woik"), and demanded to know why there hadn't been a back-up plan.
It being New Orleans, the protest had a small pick-up brass band that punctuated what speakers said, played between speakers, and blatted out raspberries whenever BP's name was mentioned.
After all that, there didn't seem to be much else to do, but Big Man and I decided to spend Memorial Day driving to Grand Isle, where we could see first-hand what was happening, and where we could spend a few bucks eating lunch.
We felt so bad for them -- Memorial Day Weekend was supposed to be the big Grand Isle Speckled Trout Rodeo, and now no one was allowed to fish for speck off the island. Most people who had bought tickets in advance did not ask for a refund, and since the band had already been booked and paid, the party, such as it was, went on Saturday night.
The drive took us 2 1/2 hours, through Cajun Country that Big Man had never seen before and where I had not been in many years. Everywhere was evidence of the spill's widening ripples of influence -- boats docked that should have been out in the Gulf; protest signs in yards ("Mr. Obama, where are you?" said one); signs advertising "Disaster Work Catering Services" (at least somebody will be making money); closed roadside seafood markets, their signs listing everything they would have been carrying draped with sheets or tablecloths to cover them.
One unhapppy marshland resident went even further, and posed a mannequin dressed in a hazmat suit holding an oil-smeared plastic fish in an outstretched hand near the side of historic Louisiana Highway 1. Next to the adult mannequin was a small child mannequin in a small matching hazmat outfit, cupping its head in its two hands, as if sobbing. The figures had a big sign, "God Help Us." It was heart breaking.
There were media truck aplenty parked at the Grand Isle Marina, just as you cross over the bridge to the island, and we saw a lot of Army and Coast Guard vehicles as well. As we watched, two schoolbusses pulled up into the public beach area parking lot and unloaded scores of workers dressed in Tyvek suits. As we crossed over the dune to view the beach, we saw that a giant fat orange double-boom lay the length of the beach, and was backed-up by a small sand berm on the seaward side. (The bay side of the island is protected by booms marked "US Navy" floating in the water a few yards offshore.) Supervised by Coast Guard personnel, day laborers were scooping up tar balls on the beach and stuffing them into plastic sacks, and we could see workers on the Grand Isle Gulf beach as far as we could see in either direction.
We drove to one recommended Grand Isle restaurant, but it was closed -- although I had phoned there on Friday and been told it would be open. We ended up eating at the Starfish Restaurant, on the main road, and we asked to be served on the outside picnic table. There we enjoyed seafood gumbo, mini crabcakes, and platters of fried shrimp and oysters with onion rings (me) and a seafood platter with shrimp, oysters, catfish, and stuff crab with French fries (Big Man). (If you are gonna help an area by eating in one of their restaurants, then don't go there on a diet, for pete's sake, eat hearty!) The food was very good, and the servers thanked us for coming.
As we sat under the overhang and enjoyed both the food and the Gulf breeze, we watched as an enormous number of waste disposal trucks and military vehicles went by on the main road. Some young men in Army uniforms drove up in a military-camo jeep, and we were able to thank them in general for their service and in particular for being on Grand Isle right now helping with the spill.
Despite the pounding heat (it had rained earlier but the sun came out with a vengeance afterwards), we spent some time on the Grand Isle beach and we noted that the sand, while not sparkling white as in Alabama and Florida, was perfectly clean, and the beach was wide and empty. (The beach is closed to swimming -- obviously -- but the beach is OPEN for sun bathing and picnicking and whatever.) And there was no smell whatsoever of tar or gas or petroleum. None.
Driving off the island to go home, we noticed dozens and dozens of "for rent" signs on the raised beach cottages. I'm sure you could get quite a bargain renting a room or a cabin or a house for some time this summer on Grand Isle, and you would be doing the people of that beleagured island a big favor.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Coping with the Oil Spill -- A Rant
I had a dream the other night in which my late colleague and best friend, SM, who died in January, appeared. She was angrily directing volunteer efforts for the Gulf oil spill from her sick bed, talking on the phone, sending angry emails. In my dream, she and I cried about it together. I woke up feeling sad and tired.
I find myself overwhelmed with competing emotions about the horrific disaster at the Deepwater Horizon rig in the Gulf of Mexico. I get enraged and scream at the radio and the TV when I hear reports of the testimony of officials from BP (which rented the rig that exploded), Halliburton (which did the work of cementing the rig -- or maybe I should say *didn't* do the work of cementing the rig), Cameron (the company that made the blowout preventer device for the rig that clearly didn't work), and Transocean (the company that owned the rig and employed the workers on it, who blew off basic procedures, thus either causing the blow-out or at least facilitating it). The four companies are all finger-pointing at each other, and, from what was said at the Congressional hearing, there was no governmental oversight at all -- just so-called "self-regulation." Self-regulation?? As far as I can see, self-regulation = NO regulation. My least-favorite quote was from the BP exec who said (of a giant, multi-million dollar containment device that turned out to be totally useless), "I won't say it failed, but it didn't work." Say what?? I am really working hard on the spiritual discipline of not hating them.
I am selfishly depressed at the thought of no more Louisiana seafood (or outrageously expensive seafood due to scarcity), and at the idea that I won't be able to just blithely get away any time I want to relax at a nearby pristine beach. I grieve over all the wildlife affected, even if the ones that are not edible. (My heart just about broke when I saw the aerial shot in the Times-Picayune of a shark appearing to bravely confront the huge oil slick all by himself -- it reminded me of the lone man bravely facing down the tank in Tiannenmen Square. See the photo at http://photos.nola.com/tpphotos/2010/05/oil_spill_gulf_of_mexico_2010_28.html.
The thought of the thick black goo on the edges of our fragile, disappearing marshland and coastal areas -- like we needed another insult to the Louisiana coast line! -- just sickens me. (To look at updated NASA satellite photos -- if you can bear it -- go to http://www.nasa.gov/topics/earth/features/oilspill/index.html.)
I worry about all the many, many people whose livelihoods and ways of life will be negatively impacted. Our friend the happy Shrimp Man on Claiborne Avenue is just one example of a whole class of people who have shrimped the Gulf waters for generations. Shrimpers, fisher folks, oyster folk, the restaurants all along South Louisiana who depend on that fresh catch, the oyster bars, the mom-and-pop po boy sandwich places, the little and big beach resort areas from Texas to Florida that are bracing for impact and facing cancellations of bookings, the private middle-class owners of non-luxurious beach houses that are paid for only through vacation rentals, the people whose businesses supply the boats that usually ply the Gulf waters -- the list of those affected goes on and on. All these people, all these families. Multi-generational ways of life threatened. It is too horrible to contemplate and yet we must think about it.
I'm mad at the federal government which is clearly complicit over several administrations -- and this new one gets no pass from us in Louisiana -- which is currently only offering *loans* to people whose small businesses are already marginal, and which are already carrying new loans post-Katrina. Loans? Is that the best we can do for all these folks??
I'm feeling betrayed by the markets and stores and restaurants in other states who are putting up signs bragging that they don't carry Louisiana seafood. Thanks so much for your support. I guess y'all thought we would purposely send out *bad* seafood for y'all to eat?? I'm still eating Louisiana crabmeat and shrimp, and if you care about us and our people, you'll eat it too.
I must admit I also feel implicated, guilty, responsible. Yes, I still drive my car, and sometimes, for convenience sake or just in order to save a few extra minutes, I confess I drive when I could have/should have walked. And believe me, I use air conditioning in my house, my car, and at the church, and I'm dependent on it. (It's only May, and it's already 90 degrees in New Orleans, for Pete's sake! I have trouble figuring out how people ever lived here without air conditioning.) Maybe I ought to be, but I am not yet prepared to call for an end to all offshore drilling.
But if we gonna do it, it ought to be safe. I can demand -- and all of you, wherever you live can demand -- that such drilling be done with adequate safeguards, with redundant safety procedures, with scrupulous inspections overseen by the federal government. We can demand that the state and federal governments require and strictly enforce such safeguards, processes, procedures, and redundancies. We can demand that this be declared a national disaster emergency, and allow the people most affected to get grants, not more loans, in order to get them through economically. We can support them through our consumer spending as well as our donations. We can call our hair salons, barbers and pet grooming places to keep collecting hair and fur clippings for the oil-soaking booms that are still needed. (These can be labeled and packaged and sent to Matter of Trust; see their website at http://www.matteroftrust.org/.)
And we can express our emotions -- our anger, depression, grief, exhaustion, worry, sense of complicity, and feelings of helplessness -- in our religious community, in our worship, in our small groups. We can help each other. There are no easy answers to this, and we must help comfort and support one another as we find our way through it.
I find myself overwhelmed with competing emotions about the horrific disaster at the Deepwater Horizon rig in the Gulf of Mexico. I get enraged and scream at the radio and the TV when I hear reports of the testimony of officials from BP (which rented the rig that exploded), Halliburton (which did the work of cementing the rig -- or maybe I should say *didn't* do the work of cementing the rig), Cameron (the company that made the blowout preventer device for the rig that clearly didn't work), and Transocean (the company that owned the rig and employed the workers on it, who blew off basic procedures, thus either causing the blow-out or at least facilitating it). The four companies are all finger-pointing at each other, and, from what was said at the Congressional hearing, there was no governmental oversight at all -- just so-called "self-regulation." Self-regulation?? As far as I can see, self-regulation = NO regulation. My least-favorite quote was from the BP exec who said (of a giant, multi-million dollar containment device that turned out to be totally useless), "I won't say it failed, but it didn't work." Say what?? I am really working hard on the spiritual discipline of not hating them.
I am selfishly depressed at the thought of no more Louisiana seafood (or outrageously expensive seafood due to scarcity), and at the idea that I won't be able to just blithely get away any time I want to relax at a nearby pristine beach. I grieve over all the wildlife affected, even if the ones that are not edible. (My heart just about broke when I saw the aerial shot in the Times-Picayune of a shark appearing to bravely confront the huge oil slick all by himself -- it reminded me of the lone man bravely facing down the tank in Tiannenmen Square. See the photo at http://photos.nola.com/tpphotos/2010/05/oil_spill_gulf_of_mexico_2010_28.html.
The thought of the thick black goo on the edges of our fragile, disappearing marshland and coastal areas -- like we needed another insult to the Louisiana coast line! -- just sickens me. (To look at updated NASA satellite photos -- if you can bear it -- go to http://www.nasa.gov/topics/earth/features/oilspill/index.html.)
I worry about all the many, many people whose livelihoods and ways of life will be negatively impacted. Our friend the happy Shrimp Man on Claiborne Avenue is just one example of a whole class of people who have shrimped the Gulf waters for generations. Shrimpers, fisher folks, oyster folk, the restaurants all along South Louisiana who depend on that fresh catch, the oyster bars, the mom-and-pop po boy sandwich places, the little and big beach resort areas from Texas to Florida that are bracing for impact and facing cancellations of bookings, the private middle-class owners of non-luxurious beach houses that are paid for only through vacation rentals, the people whose businesses supply the boats that usually ply the Gulf waters -- the list of those affected goes on and on. All these people, all these families. Multi-generational ways of life threatened. It is too horrible to contemplate and yet we must think about it.
I'm mad at the federal government which is clearly complicit over several administrations -- and this new one gets no pass from us in Louisiana -- which is currently only offering *loans* to people whose small businesses are already marginal, and which are already carrying new loans post-Katrina. Loans? Is that the best we can do for all these folks??
I'm feeling betrayed by the markets and stores and restaurants in other states who are putting up signs bragging that they don't carry Louisiana seafood. Thanks so much for your support. I guess y'all thought we would purposely send out *bad* seafood for y'all to eat?? I'm still eating Louisiana crabmeat and shrimp, and if you care about us and our people, you'll eat it too.
I must admit I also feel implicated, guilty, responsible. Yes, I still drive my car, and sometimes, for convenience sake or just in order to save a few extra minutes, I confess I drive when I could have/should have walked. And believe me, I use air conditioning in my house, my car, and at the church, and I'm dependent on it. (It's only May, and it's already 90 degrees in New Orleans, for Pete's sake! I have trouble figuring out how people ever lived here without air conditioning.) Maybe I ought to be, but I am not yet prepared to call for an end to all offshore drilling.
But if we gonna do it, it ought to be safe. I can demand -- and all of you, wherever you live can demand -- that such drilling be done with adequate safeguards, with redundant safety procedures, with scrupulous inspections overseen by the federal government. We can demand that the state and federal governments require and strictly enforce such safeguards, processes, procedures, and redundancies. We can demand that this be declared a national disaster emergency, and allow the people most affected to get grants, not more loans, in order to get them through economically. We can support them through our consumer spending as well as our donations. We can call our hair salons, barbers and pet grooming places to keep collecting hair and fur clippings for the oil-soaking booms that are still needed. (These can be labeled and packaged and sent to Matter of Trust; see their website at http://www.matteroftrust.org/.)
And we can express our emotions -- our anger, depression, grief, exhaustion, worry, sense of complicity, and feelings of helplessness -- in our religious community, in our worship, in our small groups. We can help each other. There are no easy answers to this, and we must help comfort and support one another as we find our way through it.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
The Oil Spill
The explosion on the high-tech oil rig leased by BP nearly 50 miles out in the Gulf of Mexico happened April 20th. Immediate word was that there had been casualties, but some workers had been able to evacuate in time and were saved. Local news showed footage of the fire in the Gulf, and anxious relatives being ferried to a hotel near the airport to await their loved ones -- or word that their beloveds were among the lost. More reports later focused on the funerals of the men (they were all men -- for whatever reason, oil rigs are not known to be havens of gender-inclusivity).
Announcements were made on April 21st or 22nd (hard to remember now) that the oil well was being capped as it blew, so (the announcement, presumably from BP, said) there would be minimal leakage of oil into the waters of the Gulf. As I packed for my New York trip on April 23rd, the news seemed to be changing. There WAS a spill, but it wasn't too bad. When I arrived in New York on the night of April 24th, the media was in full retreat from earlier stories. There WAS a spill, and it WAS bad, it was very bad indeed. It might even be the worst ever.
Storms in the Gulf not only dropped rain on Jazz Fest revelers, it sent the oil slick moving rapidly toward the ravaged Louisiana coast. By the second Jazz Fest weekend, April 29-May 2, some folks in Irish Bayou and even Slidell, claimed they could smell it on the wind. (It may or may not have been the reason that the Queen of Soul Aretha Franklin gave to Jazz Fest officials about canceling her set, even though her tour bus was already in New Orleans, and nobody was claiming to be able to smell it from there.)
Folks at Jazz Fest lined up in record numbers to get raw oysters, joking sardonically that it could our last raw oysters for 5-10 years. (If the seedbeds of Louisiana oysters are disturbed, new seed oysters will have to be obtained after the beds are cleaned and then carefully nurtured. it would take between 5 and 10 years to be able to harvest from such new beds.) While they made remarks steeped in disaster-humor, their eyes were alternately angry and sad. Hearing that Halliburton contractors had been involved on the rig, one man said, "Let Cheney pay for the clean-up." The lead singer for Pearl Jam, on stage at the Fest, suggested that the children of BP executives spend their summer breaks working on the clean-up. He was wildly cheered.
Whether you live here in poor belle NOLA or anywhere else around the country, I know that all of us have been deeply affected emotionally and spiritually from this disaster, and the slow pace and inadequate scope of clean up. I know that all of us, young and old, well-off and struggling, want to do something, but we don't know what. We know something of what this disaster means in terms of our lives and livelihoods and delicious food and our beautiful marshlands and fragile coastal areas, and the strange and wonderful wild things that live in those places, but there is still a mystery in terms of what happens next, what might happen next.
Here are some concrete ideas for things that can be done, right now, right away, to have a positive effect on the spill clean-up. And if there are those of you who read this who know of other things we can do, please do let me know so I can help spread the word.
#1 It is well-known that the containment booms for oil spills are filled with waste materials like hair, fur, and old nylons. (Check-out the YouTube video clip entitled "Hair Soaks Up Oil Spills".) Collections of hair clippings from barbers and salons and fur clippings from pet groomers would be of tremendous assistance. A local hotel is working with a local environmental organization, Matter of Trust, to coordinate donations of old hosiery, pantyhose, stockings, clipped hair, and fur from pet groomers; that is the Ritz Carlton Hotel, 921 Canal St., NOLA 70130, 504-670-2817. Packages must be clearly labeled, such as "PANTYHOSE" or "HAIR CLIPPINGS". If you live in New Orleans, you can drop off labeled packages of your old stockings right at the valet entrance of the hotel. You can also call your hair salon and dog groomer and request that they save all hair and fur for this important cause.
#2 If you are financially able, you can contribute to help the people who are hurt most. A fund has been set up by the Greater New Orleans Foundation, the Gulf Coast Oil Spill Fund, to collect money to benefit local communities (in Plaquemines, St. Bernard, and lower Jefferson parishes) most adversely affected by the disaster, who are mostly poor/economically marginal, Islenos, Vietnamese, or African American). Donations can be made online, and more information gathered, at www.gnof.org.
#3 If you are able and willing to, you can volunteer to help. In-person volunteers can register with the Coalition to Restore Coastal Louisiana at www.crcl.org, or through the Sierra Club at action.sierraclub.org/Oil_Spill_CleanUp. Recovery from this, as from Katrina, will be a marathon, not a sprint. We will need a lot of help for quite some time to come.
#4 If you live or visit near the Louisiana-Mississippi coast, and need to report damaged wild life or shoreline, these are the numbers to call: for oiled wildlife 866-557-1401; for damaged coastal areas 800-440-0858.
#5 Write and call your elected officials at the federal level. Demand clear procedures for emergencies in the Gulf. Demand accountability for when inevitable accidents happen. Demand immediate federal aid for the coast line, the wild life, and the human communities affected by such disasters.
Finally, we can all pray/meditate/send good thoughts when gathered in our faith communities. We can support and comfort each other in our rage and grief over this new disaster. We can use the work of our hands and the power of our minds to make this better and prevent its recurrence.
To all of you out there standing in solidarity with us in South Louisiana and the Gulf Coast, we thank you from the bottom of our hearts.
Announcements were made on April 21st or 22nd (hard to remember now) that the oil well was being capped as it blew, so (the announcement, presumably from BP, said) there would be minimal leakage of oil into the waters of the Gulf. As I packed for my New York trip on April 23rd, the news seemed to be changing. There WAS a spill, but it wasn't too bad. When I arrived in New York on the night of April 24th, the media was in full retreat from earlier stories. There WAS a spill, and it WAS bad, it was very bad indeed. It might even be the worst ever.
Storms in the Gulf not only dropped rain on Jazz Fest revelers, it sent the oil slick moving rapidly toward the ravaged Louisiana coast. By the second Jazz Fest weekend, April 29-May 2, some folks in Irish Bayou and even Slidell, claimed they could smell it on the wind. (It may or may not have been the reason that the Queen of Soul Aretha Franklin gave to Jazz Fest officials about canceling her set, even though her tour bus was already in New Orleans, and nobody was claiming to be able to smell it from there.)
Folks at Jazz Fest lined up in record numbers to get raw oysters, joking sardonically that it could our last raw oysters for 5-10 years. (If the seedbeds of Louisiana oysters are disturbed, new seed oysters will have to be obtained after the beds are cleaned and then carefully nurtured. it would take between 5 and 10 years to be able to harvest from such new beds.) While they made remarks steeped in disaster-humor, their eyes were alternately angry and sad. Hearing that Halliburton contractors had been involved on the rig, one man said, "Let Cheney pay for the clean-up." The lead singer for Pearl Jam, on stage at the Fest, suggested that the children of BP executives spend their summer breaks working on the clean-up. He was wildly cheered.
Whether you live here in poor belle NOLA or anywhere else around the country, I know that all of us have been deeply affected emotionally and spiritually from this disaster, and the slow pace and inadequate scope of clean up. I know that all of us, young and old, well-off and struggling, want to do something, but we don't know what. We know something of what this disaster means in terms of our lives and livelihoods and delicious food and our beautiful marshlands and fragile coastal areas, and the strange and wonderful wild things that live in those places, but there is still a mystery in terms of what happens next, what might happen next.
Here are some concrete ideas for things that can be done, right now, right away, to have a positive effect on the spill clean-up. And if there are those of you who read this who know of other things we can do, please do let me know so I can help spread the word.
#1 It is well-known that the containment booms for oil spills are filled with waste materials like hair, fur, and old nylons. (Check-out the YouTube video clip entitled "Hair Soaks Up Oil Spills".) Collections of hair clippings from barbers and salons and fur clippings from pet groomers would be of tremendous assistance. A local hotel is working with a local environmental organization, Matter of Trust, to coordinate donations of old hosiery, pantyhose, stockings, clipped hair, and fur from pet groomers; that is the Ritz Carlton Hotel, 921 Canal St., NOLA 70130, 504-670-2817. Packages must be clearly labeled, such as "PANTYHOSE" or "HAIR CLIPPINGS". If you live in New Orleans, you can drop off labeled packages of your old stockings right at the valet entrance of the hotel. You can also call your hair salon and dog groomer and request that they save all hair and fur for this important cause.
#2 If you are financially able, you can contribute to help the people who are hurt most. A fund has been set up by the Greater New Orleans Foundation, the Gulf Coast Oil Spill Fund, to collect money to benefit local communities (in Plaquemines, St. Bernard, and lower Jefferson parishes) most adversely affected by the disaster, who are mostly poor/economically marginal, Islenos, Vietnamese, or African American). Donations can be made online, and more information gathered, at www.gnof.org.
#3 If you are able and willing to, you can volunteer to help. In-person volunteers can register with the Coalition to Restore Coastal Louisiana at www.crcl.org, or through the Sierra Club at action.sierraclub.org/Oil_Spill_CleanUp. Recovery from this, as from Katrina, will be a marathon, not a sprint. We will need a lot of help for quite some time to come.
#4 If you live or visit near the Louisiana-Mississippi coast, and need to report damaged wild life or shoreline, these are the numbers to call: for oiled wildlife 866-557-1401; for damaged coastal areas 800-440-0858.
#5 Write and call your elected officials at the federal level. Demand clear procedures for emergencies in the Gulf. Demand accountability for when inevitable accidents happen. Demand immediate federal aid for the coast line, the wild life, and the human communities affected by such disasters.
Finally, we can all pray/meditate/send good thoughts when gathered in our faith communities. We can support and comfort each other in our rage and grief over this new disaster. We can use the work of our hands and the power of our minds to make this better and prevent its recurrence.
To all of you out there standing in solidarity with us in South Louisiana and the Gulf Coast, we thank you from the bottom of our hearts.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Amanda Shaw at Wednesday at the Square
Another gorgeous day at Lafayette Square, with blue skies, bright sunshine, the petunias nodding their pretty heads, the crowd -- not as big as it'll be next week for Marcia Ball! -- looking happy and attractive. Some folks were already sporting the Jazz Fest shirts, camisoles, skirts, and T-shirts. I imagine they'll have laundry to do before the fest starts on Friday -- or maybe these are lucky die-hard people with *so many* Jazz Fest-themed items of clothing that that is not an issue.
It was a family night for us at the Square. Our sister H, from Minnesota, was in town for a wedding and joined us straight from the airport. Sister D was there, just off work at a local white-shoe law firm, and I had ridden with our sister L and her husband, along with our nephew B, who is temporarily staying with them Uptown while he searches for a NOLA apartment. Big reunion with lots of hugging and kissing and exclamations of compliments ("You look fabulous!" "No, you do!") by the Henry Clay statue.
Side question: Why is there no statue of the Marquis de Lafayette in Lafayette Square?? The central statue is of Henry Clay, and the statue in the front, across from Gallier Hall, is of schoolchildren paying tribute to John McDonough. But where oh where is Lafayette? Isn't that strange?
OK, back to the concert. Or rather, back to the food. I discovered that the Rib Room at the Royal Orleans Hotel now has a booth selling their unbelievably delicious shaved prime rib with gravy on a pistolet topped with horseradish cream sauce. OMG -- devoted readers of this blog might recall that Big Man and I thought that was the absolute best thing at the French Quarter Festival 2 years ago. Of course I told them that as I purchased my pistolet (7 $1 tickets), and they apologized to me for not being at this year's festival. (I was actually relieved, because I had thought they were there, and I just couldn't locate them.) So I'm walking around holding a cup of wine and this fabulous behemoth of a sandwich, and people keep stopping me to ask where I got it. I sent so many people over there that my nephew said I should go and ask for a referral fee or discount on my next one.
Amanda Shaw and the Cute Guys is a great band and they come out like gangbusters, revving the crowd up right from the start. It is such a treat to see Amanda, who the whole city has watched grow up from a cute-as-a-button child prodigy to this amazingly attractive, mature, stage-wise performer. Highlights of the show were: "It's All Right," "Hot Tamale Baby" and a smokin' version of "Devil Went Down to Georgia."
There was so much good feeling when it was all over that it took a long time for the crowd to disperse. Wait til next week, when it'll be about TWICE as many people!
It was a family night for us at the Square. Our sister H, from Minnesota, was in town for a wedding and joined us straight from the airport. Sister D was there, just off work at a local white-shoe law firm, and I had ridden with our sister L and her husband, along with our nephew B, who is temporarily staying with them Uptown while he searches for a NOLA apartment. Big reunion with lots of hugging and kissing and exclamations of compliments ("You look fabulous!" "No, you do!") by the Henry Clay statue.
Side question: Why is there no statue of the Marquis de Lafayette in Lafayette Square?? The central statue is of Henry Clay, and the statue in the front, across from Gallier Hall, is of schoolchildren paying tribute to John McDonough. But where oh where is Lafayette? Isn't that strange?
OK, back to the concert. Or rather, back to the food. I discovered that the Rib Room at the Royal Orleans Hotel now has a booth selling their unbelievably delicious shaved prime rib with gravy on a pistolet topped with horseradish cream sauce. OMG -- devoted readers of this blog might recall that Big Man and I thought that was the absolute best thing at the French Quarter Festival 2 years ago. Of course I told them that as I purchased my pistolet (7 $1 tickets), and they apologized to me for not being at this year's festival. (I was actually relieved, because I had thought they were there, and I just couldn't locate them.) So I'm walking around holding a cup of wine and this fabulous behemoth of a sandwich, and people keep stopping me to ask where I got it. I sent so many people over there that my nephew said I should go and ask for a referral fee or discount on my next one.
Amanda Shaw and the Cute Guys is a great band and they come out like gangbusters, revving the crowd up right from the start. It is such a treat to see Amanda, who the whole city has watched grow up from a cute-as-a-button child prodigy to this amazingly attractive, mature, stage-wise performer. Highlights of the show were: "It's All Right," "Hot Tamale Baby" and a smokin' version of "Devil Went Down to Georgia."
There was so much good feeling when it was all over that it took a long time for the crowd to disperse. Wait til next week, when it'll be about TWICE as many people!
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Tremé, Episode 2 (Spoiler Alert!)
We had another crowd over for the second installment of HBO's "Tremé" on Sunday. A freak rain storm had blew up, and everyone arriving was wet. One guest had to bring his dog, too scared by all the flashing lightening to leave at his house or in the car. (Riley and Keely had a petty good time together, but they got a little riled up, no pun intended.) Sunday's crowd included my sister L and her husband, who have satellite but no HBO.
To help set the scene, we played our DVR copy of HBO's "Beyond Bourbon Street" (Big Man growls, "I'd like to get beyond Bourbon Street!"), which is sort of the Da Vinci Code or Rosetta Stone for the Tremé series, explaining all about our New Orleans music, food, culture, and traditions.
My sister demanded we turn out all the lights and so the 8 of us sat in the dark as the episode began -- with the crazy-wonderful Coco Robichaux supposedly in the WWOZ studios, being interviewed by the Steve Zahn character, who trashed the redone French Market as "soulless" which got a laugh in my living room. (That character -- and his real-life counterpart -- are taking a lot of hits from viewers both inside and outside the Crescent City, but I say, how can you totally dislike someone played by Steve Zahn? Even when he's a pain in the ass, he's still somehow cute.) Although all of us in New Orleans are sick and tired of out-of-towners acting like voodoo is everywhere here, the fact is, everyone knows that Coco really IS into it, and so that first scene played well, if a bit over the top.
The scene where the chef-based-on-Susan-Spicer broke down and cried hit us all in the heart. The living room went dead quiet. We all remembered what that was like -- when you couldn't stop crying, or you thought you had stopped and something small and trivial happened, like burning an omelet, and then you would just break down again. And we respected that the incident was not referred to again -- they didn't try to explain it or have her talk about it to anyone. That's not real. Props for getting that right.
The street musician giving "volun-tourists" hell for being so caring about the Lower Ninth Ward post-Katrina (but never having a passing thought about poor folks in New Orleans before) was both realistic and unrealistic. Realistic because a lot of us felt/still feel that way, and unrealistic because a busker dependent on tips would have to be crazy to bite the hand that feeds him. The young volunteers did have the perfect scrubbed-face, wide-open look of so many of the (sweet, well-intentioned) Midwesterners who have come down since the Storm. (And really, God bless them.)
The Mardi Gras Indian practice scene was just right, and satisfied even those of us who, while moved last week when the Big Chief came down the street in his suit, did not feel that either his moves or his chants were authentic.
We were all disgusted by the contractor who ripped off Gigi's Bar, and we all knew stories, first-hand, second-hand, third-hand, of people that had happened/is still happening to. And we were saddened and angered about the Big Chief's tools being stolen from the house he hired to redo. And while we were feeling the anger, still, we were shocked into silence when the Chief found the thief ("copper miner") in the act in an empty house and beat him up badly. We fear the Chief may have killed the guy, and since we all like and respect the Chief character, this has us worried.
Music throughout the episode was perfect. (The Boswell Sisters in John Goodman's scene was an especially nice touch.)
The best tribute I can tell you as to exactly how we felt about this episode is that, when it was over, and we were all talking about it, somebody said, "Why don't we watch it again?" and that's just what we did.
To help set the scene, we played our DVR copy of HBO's "Beyond Bourbon Street" (Big Man growls, "I'd like to get beyond Bourbon Street!"), which is sort of the Da Vinci Code or Rosetta Stone for the Tremé series, explaining all about our New Orleans music, food, culture, and traditions.
My sister demanded we turn out all the lights and so the 8 of us sat in the dark as the episode began -- with the crazy-wonderful Coco Robichaux supposedly in the WWOZ studios, being interviewed by the Steve Zahn character, who trashed the redone French Market as "soulless" which got a laugh in my living room. (That character -- and his real-life counterpart -- are taking a lot of hits from viewers both inside and outside the Crescent City, but I say, how can you totally dislike someone played by Steve Zahn? Even when he's a pain in the ass, he's still somehow cute.) Although all of us in New Orleans are sick and tired of out-of-towners acting like voodoo is everywhere here, the fact is, everyone knows that Coco really IS into it, and so that first scene played well, if a bit over the top.
The scene where the chef-based-on-Susan-Spicer broke down and cried hit us all in the heart. The living room went dead quiet. We all remembered what that was like -- when you couldn't stop crying, or you thought you had stopped and something small and trivial happened, like burning an omelet, and then you would just break down again. And we respected that the incident was not referred to again -- they didn't try to explain it or have her talk about it to anyone. That's not real. Props for getting that right.
The street musician giving "volun-tourists" hell for being so caring about the Lower Ninth Ward post-Katrina (but never having a passing thought about poor folks in New Orleans before) was both realistic and unrealistic. Realistic because a lot of us felt/still feel that way, and unrealistic because a busker dependent on tips would have to be crazy to bite the hand that feeds him. The young volunteers did have the perfect scrubbed-face, wide-open look of so many of the (sweet, well-intentioned) Midwesterners who have come down since the Storm. (And really, God bless them.)
The Mardi Gras Indian practice scene was just right, and satisfied even those of us who, while moved last week when the Big Chief came down the street in his suit, did not feel that either his moves or his chants were authentic.
We were all disgusted by the contractor who ripped off Gigi's Bar, and we all knew stories, first-hand, second-hand, third-hand, of people that had happened/is still happening to. And we were saddened and angered about the Big Chief's tools being stolen from the house he hired to redo. And while we were feeling the anger, still, we were shocked into silence when the Chief found the thief ("copper miner") in the act in an empty house and beat him up badly. We fear the Chief may have killed the guy, and since we all like and respect the Chief character, this has us worried.
Music throughout the episode was perfect. (The Boswell Sisters in John Goodman's scene was an especially nice touch.)
The best tribute I can tell you as to exactly how we felt about this episode is that, when it was over, and we were all talking about it, somebody said, "Why don't we watch it again?" and that's just what we did.
Annunciation Park Fence Gets Hit Again!
Big Man and I live in what we jokingly call the "Lower-Lower Garden District" -- so close to the Warehouse District and the CBD that it hardly seems like Uptown at all. The house we found to live in nearly 3 years ago is very close to (in fact, in sight of) Annunciation Park, with its graceful iron fenced gateways on each end of the park. We love this neighborhood and we like the convenience of the park.
For whatever reason, the city has never installed a big yellow sign with a black arrow pointing both ways at the curb of the park where Annunciation Street comes to an "end" at the park's gates. (It's not really an end, of course, because if you go around Race Street, there's one block of Annunciation all by itself on the other side of the park.) In the daytime, even the worst drivers can see that they're at a dead end and have to turn to the right or left to continue on their way.
But at night, in the dark, unfamiliar drivers, drivers who are impaired in some way, and drivers who are speeding for whatever reason often miss what's going on. In less than 3 years, Big Man and I and our neighbors have witnessed at least 4 major accidents (one included at least one fatality). In one instance, a drunk driver just plowed through the stop sign at Annunciation and Race and hit an SUV parked on the street in front of the entrance way to the park. (The driver tried to run away but was "captured" by some neighbors and held til the police arrived. Big Man hollered after him, "Dude, don't make it any worse!")
Another time, a driver (drunk? stoned?) sped so fast down Annunciation, that he missed the stop sign and literally FLEW into the park, knocking down a portion of the iron fence, which thus flipped the car upside down. It landed wheels up and then slid across the park almost to the other side. Obviously, that was the accident where someone got killed. A third accident also hit the park fence, but not going as fast, so the offending car was left hanging off the raised granite curb of the park, the poor fence on the ground again. (I wonder how much it costs the city to keep on fixing that fence -- seems to me that not all these drivers could have had insurance.)
Last Friday night, round about midnight, as I watched TV in the living room with our dog Keely, we heard a car motor gunned all the way and a rapidly approaching siren. Then blue lights flashed in the window, two cars whooshed by, and then there was a dull BOOM! All of us in the neighborhood on both sides of the street poured out onto our porches and balconies to see the Annunciation Park fence down again, and a police car, lights flashing, parked perpendicular to the park. Deep inside the park, we could hear angry police officers hollering, "Get out of the car NOW!!" Later, from the police officer stationed there to guard the car until hapless owner could come and get his stuff out, we found out it was a guy in a stolen car, who, on hitting the granite and fence, jammed the front wheels of the car almost to the back. He was lucky he wasn't badly hurt. The car was, of course, totaled.
I guess we ought to petition the Streets Department about getting one of those yellow signs with the black arrows for that spot facing Annunciation. We don't want to keep losing that fence.
For whatever reason, the city has never installed a big yellow sign with a black arrow pointing both ways at the curb of the park where Annunciation Street comes to an "end" at the park's gates. (It's not really an end, of course, because if you go around Race Street, there's one block of Annunciation all by itself on the other side of the park.) In the daytime, even the worst drivers can see that they're at a dead end and have to turn to the right or left to continue on their way.
But at night, in the dark, unfamiliar drivers, drivers who are impaired in some way, and drivers who are speeding for whatever reason often miss what's going on. In less than 3 years, Big Man and I and our neighbors have witnessed at least 4 major accidents (one included at least one fatality). In one instance, a drunk driver just plowed through the stop sign at Annunciation and Race and hit an SUV parked on the street in front of the entrance way to the park. (The driver tried to run away but was "captured" by some neighbors and held til the police arrived. Big Man hollered after him, "Dude, don't make it any worse!")
Another time, a driver (drunk? stoned?) sped so fast down Annunciation, that he missed the stop sign and literally FLEW into the park, knocking down a portion of the iron fence, which thus flipped the car upside down. It landed wheels up and then slid across the park almost to the other side. Obviously, that was the accident where someone got killed. A third accident also hit the park fence, but not going as fast, so the offending car was left hanging off the raised granite curb of the park, the poor fence on the ground again. (I wonder how much it costs the city to keep on fixing that fence -- seems to me that not all these drivers could have had insurance.)
Last Friday night, round about midnight, as I watched TV in the living room with our dog Keely, we heard a car motor gunned all the way and a rapidly approaching siren. Then blue lights flashed in the window, two cars whooshed by, and then there was a dull BOOM! All of us in the neighborhood on both sides of the street poured out onto our porches and balconies to see the Annunciation Park fence down again, and a police car, lights flashing, parked perpendicular to the park. Deep inside the park, we could hear angry police officers hollering, "Get out of the car NOW!!" Later, from the police officer stationed there to guard the car until hapless owner could come and get his stuff out, we found out it was a guy in a stolen car, who, on hitting the granite and fence, jammed the front wheels of the car almost to the back. He was lucky he wasn't badly hurt. The car was, of course, totaled.
I guess we ought to petition the Streets Department about getting one of those yellow signs with the black arrows for that spot facing Annunciation. We don't want to keep losing that fence.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Day Off at the Lake
Monday is the only day of the week that Big Man and I have off together, and we try to savor it when we can -- although it must be said that many weeks, Monday simply becomes the day for housecleaning, laundry, and grocery shopping. (Well, at least we're together while we're doing all that!)
But Monday came up even prettier than the weekend had been -- and the French Quarter Festival weekend had been absolutely primo. Monday was sunny, with temperatures slightly cooler, a light breeze, and gorgeous blue skies. So perhaps it was not so strange that as we sat on the couch to talk about what we should do with the day that we both said at the same moment, "Let's go to the Lake!"
We changed into Lake-going clothes, including sunhats, packed a bag with sunblock, a large tablecloth, a towel in case we needed it, and a few sections of the New York Times for relaxing reading. We also got Keely Smith the dog, since a romp at the Lake on a beautiful day is perfect for good doggies.
Even the drive was lovely, the city so sparkly and full of flowers. We drove along Lakeshore Drive, picking the best spot, and found a place between two fishermen, with lots of clover. I spread out the yellow tablecloth, and we placed shoes and sunblock bottles on the corners to hold them down in the stiff Lake breeze. Wave spray washed over us lightly and the sun poured down. Big Man took Keely for a long walk along the seawall, as I carefully applied sunblock before laying out with the Book Review. More semi-salty spray hit my bare legs and I grew sleepy with the sun and the wind and the soft grass beneath me. I think I had a short relaxing nap.
Big Man and Keely got back, and one of them was wet. No, not my dog but my husband -- he couldn't resist taking a few steps down toward the waves and got good and splashed. Keely's too smart for that and managed to avoid getting really wet. The three of us got cozy on the spread, and I snapped a few pictures with my iPhone. We talked, and sort of slept, and stroked the dog. We watched the groups of fisherfolk, whole families pulling redfish and mullet off their lines and into their ice chests. Everything was lovely.
Eventually we got too hungry to stay, and packed up our stuff, took the dog on one last walk on the seawall, and got back in the car. We drove to the Lakeview Robért's and bought a mess of their sushi and ate it on the cast iron table and chairs outside under the overhang. Keely sat with us, hoping for a handout which she did not get. (All we need to do is train that dog to expect us to give her table scraps!)
When we got home, it was too late to go to Elmwood Fitness Center and Big Man had to squeeze in some trumpet practice time, and the kitchen still needed cleaning and the laundry wasn't done -- and we agreed it was of our best days off ever.
But Monday came up even prettier than the weekend had been -- and the French Quarter Festival weekend had been absolutely primo. Monday was sunny, with temperatures slightly cooler, a light breeze, and gorgeous blue skies. So perhaps it was not so strange that as we sat on the couch to talk about what we should do with the day that we both said at the same moment, "Let's go to the Lake!"
We changed into Lake-going clothes, including sunhats, packed a bag with sunblock, a large tablecloth, a towel in case we needed it, and a few sections of the New York Times for relaxing reading. We also got Keely Smith the dog, since a romp at the Lake on a beautiful day is perfect for good doggies.
Even the drive was lovely, the city so sparkly and full of flowers. We drove along Lakeshore Drive, picking the best spot, and found a place between two fishermen, with lots of clover. I spread out the yellow tablecloth, and we placed shoes and sunblock bottles on the corners to hold them down in the stiff Lake breeze. Wave spray washed over us lightly and the sun poured down. Big Man took Keely for a long walk along the seawall, as I carefully applied sunblock before laying out with the Book Review. More semi-salty spray hit my bare legs and I grew sleepy with the sun and the wind and the soft grass beneath me. I think I had a short relaxing nap.
Big Man and Keely got back, and one of them was wet. No, not my dog but my husband -- he couldn't resist taking a few steps down toward the waves and got good and splashed. Keely's too smart for that and managed to avoid getting really wet. The three of us got cozy on the spread, and I snapped a few pictures with my iPhone. We talked, and sort of slept, and stroked the dog. We watched the groups of fisherfolk, whole families pulling redfish and mullet off their lines and into their ice chests. Everything was lovely.
Eventually we got too hungry to stay, and packed up our stuff, took the dog on one last walk on the seawall, and got back in the car. We drove to the Lakeview Robért's and bought a mess of their sushi and ate it on the cast iron table and chairs outside under the overhang. Keely sat with us, hoping for a handout which she did not get. (All we need to do is train that dog to expect us to give her table scraps!)
When we got home, it was too late to go to Elmwood Fitness Center and Big Man had to squeeze in some trumpet practice time, and the kitchen still needed cleaning and the laundry wasn't done -- and we agreed it was of our best days off ever.
Premiere of HBO's "Tremé"
We invited a few friends who are without HBO over for Sunday evening's premiere of HBO's new series set in New Orleans post-Katrina, the long-awaited "Tremé." Scenes and episodes have been shot all over town, including our own neighborhood, and most New Orleanians are only a degree or two (or less) separated from locals who've been given parts of varying sizes in the series. Excitement ran really, really high -- "Tremé" was pretty much all anyone could talk about round town last week, and the local TV channels and radio talk shows, from NPR to 'OZ to Rush Radio was all over it. The Sunday Times-Picayune had a grand total of *6* different articles, stories, reviews, and blurbs about it.
There were 6 of us squeezed around our TV at 9 pm on Sunday, and we were all antsy with anticipation. At various points in the first episode, we sang along, "I feel like funkin' it up, feel like funkin' it up," we laughed (mostly at Steve Zahn's character), we argued ("Is that a real Indian chant?" "Was that Central City or Seventh Ward?"), we shouted "Hey!" (when the on-screen band played the familiar bars of "Secondline"), we equivocated ("Maybe that was the world's oldest and stalest Hubig pie"), cheered and yelled "AMEN!" (when John Goodman's character threw the microphone into the Industrial Canal after an interviewer as good as said New Orleans should not be rebuilt), and we collectively caught our breaths and tried not to cry (when the Indian chief put on his suit and cried out, "Won't bow -- don't know how!").
Afterwards, probably like all the other New Orleans viewers, we traded our own Katrina stories. I'm pretty sure that those scenes in "Tremé" brought those memories back to everyone watching from New Orleans. One of our guests, a nurse at Charity Hospital during the Storm, recalled how the sound of helicopters was pervasive in the city immediately after Katrina, how the sound invaded her dreams and that even today she couldn't stand to hear it. We recounted how much water we had had, and how horrible our first glimpses of the city were. All over the city, and in those places of the diaspora, these conversations were repeated over and over. We talked and talked (I thought folks would never leave) until we were talked out.
We give the show a big thumbs up. It gets us right, and gives us our props. We can't wait for episode 2 -- same time, same group, potluck this time.
Heard today (Tuesday) that HBO has already ordered another season. Good on 'em.
There were 6 of us squeezed around our TV at 9 pm on Sunday, and we were all antsy with anticipation. At various points in the first episode, we sang along, "I feel like funkin' it up, feel like funkin' it up," we laughed (mostly at Steve Zahn's character), we argued ("Is that a real Indian chant?" "Was that Central City or Seventh Ward?"), we shouted "Hey!" (when the on-screen band played the familiar bars of "Secondline"), we equivocated ("Maybe that was the world's oldest and stalest Hubig pie"), cheered and yelled "AMEN!" (when John Goodman's character threw the microphone into the Industrial Canal after an interviewer as good as said New Orleans should not be rebuilt), and we collectively caught our breaths and tried not to cry (when the Indian chief put on his suit and cried out, "Won't bow -- don't know how!").
Afterwards, probably like all the other New Orleans viewers, we traded our own Katrina stories. I'm pretty sure that those scenes in "Tremé" brought those memories back to everyone watching from New Orleans. One of our guests, a nurse at Charity Hospital during the Storm, recalled how the sound of helicopters was pervasive in the city immediately after Katrina, how the sound invaded her dreams and that even today she couldn't stand to hear it. We recounted how much water we had had, and how horrible our first glimpses of the city were. All over the city, and in those places of the diaspora, these conversations were repeated over and over. We talked and talked (I thought folks would never leave) until we were talked out.
We give the show a big thumbs up. It gets us right, and gives us our props. We can't wait for episode 2 -- same time, same group, potluck this time.
Heard today (Tuesday) that HBO has already ordered another season. Good on 'em.
French Quarter Festival
What a gorgeous French Quarter Festival we just had! Perfect weather, happy crowds of lively people, terrific music, and delicious food -- what more could you want?
Several things were noticeable about the Festival crowds this year. For one thing, there seems to have developed some kind of fashion among the young women for strange headgear. We observed "hats" of day-glo colors, draped with contrasting feather boas, or covered in wild artificial flowers in hues not found in nature, or tiny little head decorations that could not have blocked any sun and really couldn't be called "hats." Of course there were LOTS of Saints Superbowl Champs ball caps and also many different kinds of traditional straw hats in various styles. There appeared to be more tattooed young people this year -- or maybe I just noticed it more. (An old-fashioned part of me wonders if any of these folks will rue their skin decorations as they vie for more staid careers than they might now have.) Tons and tons of children -- in strollers, in baby packs, on parents' shoulders, grasping a hand of a grown-up, toddling on their own, doing their little dances in front of stages. Many people were already red and rosy with sunburn, perhaps not thinking that it could happen this early in the season.
The breeze off the River was pretty stiff, and kept things cooled down even with the bright sunshine. And once it got to sunset, it was actually a little chilly. I was glad both nights to have brought a shawl for my shoulders.
I remember when Big Man and I first moved home and went to our first French Quarter Festival together. We said tings to each other like, "Some day, maybe you'll be playing here." And now here it is, less than 4 years that we've been living here, and Big Man had not one but TWO French Quarter Festival gigs!
Friday evening Big Man played with a band that was billed as "Russell Batiste and Friends." Some friends! At one point, I counted 16 people on stage, not even counting the little Batiste kids who were banging percussion instruments. (There were *4* horns -- 2 saxes and 2 trumpets -- they were so squished together they could hardly move.) After several instrumentals featuring of course the wondrous trumpet of my beloved -- including a wild take on the theme from the Charlie Brown musical! -- Jason Neville came out and sang his butt off. He was even better on stage than he had been at his CD release party a few weeks ago at The Precinct in my neighborhood. The time his version of the Beatles' "Blackbird" was both passionate and poignant. He also sang "The Way You Look Tonight" and made it his own, and there were hoppin' takes on traditional Indian chants and "Pocky Way." Women of about my age sitting near me in front of the stage were remarking on how much Jason resembles his dad Aaron at that age. It IS a wonder, almost scary. The crowd was quite appreciative when the set was over, and Big Man was exhausted both from playing and from trying to figure out which song was next, as Russell is quite averse to the discipline of set lists. (At one point, Jason began to sing a tune, and Russell called out from the drum set, "Naw, naw, we're not doin' that!")
Afterwards, I walked with Big Man to the Blues Club for his regular gig, and then carried his trombone to where we had parked the car to lock it safely in the trunk. I thought to catch a bus or streetcar to get home after that, but I missed the streetcar and then discovered, via iPhone (I LOVE my iPhone!!), that the next Magazine bus was an hour away. I started walking home along Tchoupitoulas, thinking if a bus came by, I'd hop it. At Lucy's Bar, I saw the Fujita family was having a farewell party there. (Good bye and good luck to sweet Scott Fujita, who helped us get to the Superbowl, but whom the Saints management did not want to pay more. On his way out, as it were, he donated a chunk of his Superbowl winnings to the Save Our Coast Foundation. What a guy!) Turned out no bus ever came, so I ended up walking home the entire way -- not *that* bad, really, close to 3 miles, all told. But it was a lovely night and there were lots of people out and about by all the restaurants I passed in front of, so it was no biggie.
The next day, Saturday, Big Man again had the closing gig at the Festival's Harrah's "Louis-Louis" Stage (in honor of both Louis Armstrong and Louis Prima -- Prima's getting a lot of play right now due to this being his 100th birthday year). This time, Big Man was playing with Rénard Poché and his band, a much smaller ensemble than Russell's behemoth of the night before. But still, with all the instruments that Rénard plays, plus his band members, they filled the stage. There were two female keyboardists, Keiko Kamako (who played the night before with Russell as well) and Leslie Smith (daughter of the late music photog Michael Smith). Highlights of the set for me were the Sly Stone medley (VERY cool and really riled up the crowd!) and the almost-too-strange arrangement of "Eleanor Rigby." Along the way, Rénard played drums, guitar, flute, trombone, percussion, Native American flutes -- two at once!, and possibly something else, I lost track. The youngish crowd *really* seemed to love his (somewhat preachy) rap songs and folks were so stirred, that at the end they had to play an encore. (Unfortunately, Big Man had a private gig to get to at the Intercontinental Hotel that was supposed to start at 9 pm.)
When we finally left and fetched the car, with me driving to drop Big Man off, we got caught in a line of traffic being directed off Canal Street by the NOPD. Only later at home did I find out it was due to a stupid shooting of rival young men at the corner of Canal and Royal. Apparently seven people were hit, none fatally. And so it goes in the Crescent City, the good, the badm the sublime and the ridiculous altogether and all at once.
Several things were noticeable about the Festival crowds this year. For one thing, there seems to have developed some kind of fashion among the young women for strange headgear. We observed "hats" of day-glo colors, draped with contrasting feather boas, or covered in wild artificial flowers in hues not found in nature, or tiny little head decorations that could not have blocked any sun and really couldn't be called "hats." Of course there were LOTS of Saints Superbowl Champs ball caps and also many different kinds of traditional straw hats in various styles. There appeared to be more tattooed young people this year -- or maybe I just noticed it more. (An old-fashioned part of me wonders if any of these folks will rue their skin decorations as they vie for more staid careers than they might now have.) Tons and tons of children -- in strollers, in baby packs, on parents' shoulders, grasping a hand of a grown-up, toddling on their own, doing their little dances in front of stages. Many people were already red and rosy with sunburn, perhaps not thinking that it could happen this early in the season.
The breeze off the River was pretty stiff, and kept things cooled down even with the bright sunshine. And once it got to sunset, it was actually a little chilly. I was glad both nights to have brought a shawl for my shoulders.
I remember when Big Man and I first moved home and went to our first French Quarter Festival together. We said tings to each other like, "Some day, maybe you'll be playing here." And now here it is, less than 4 years that we've been living here, and Big Man had not one but TWO French Quarter Festival gigs!
Friday evening Big Man played with a band that was billed as "Russell Batiste and Friends." Some friends! At one point, I counted 16 people on stage, not even counting the little Batiste kids who were banging percussion instruments. (There were *4* horns -- 2 saxes and 2 trumpets -- they were so squished together they could hardly move.) After several instrumentals featuring of course the wondrous trumpet of my beloved -- including a wild take on the theme from the Charlie Brown musical! -- Jason Neville came out and sang his butt off. He was even better on stage than he had been at his CD release party a few weeks ago at The Precinct in my neighborhood. The time his version of the Beatles' "Blackbird" was both passionate and poignant. He also sang "The Way You Look Tonight" and made it his own, and there were hoppin' takes on traditional Indian chants and "Pocky Way." Women of about my age sitting near me in front of the stage were remarking on how much Jason resembles his dad Aaron at that age. It IS a wonder, almost scary. The crowd was quite appreciative when the set was over, and Big Man was exhausted both from playing and from trying to figure out which song was next, as Russell is quite averse to the discipline of set lists. (At one point, Jason began to sing a tune, and Russell called out from the drum set, "Naw, naw, we're not doin' that!")
Afterwards, I walked with Big Man to the Blues Club for his regular gig, and then carried his trombone to where we had parked the car to lock it safely in the trunk. I thought to catch a bus or streetcar to get home after that, but I missed the streetcar and then discovered, via iPhone (I LOVE my iPhone!!), that the next Magazine bus was an hour away. I started walking home along Tchoupitoulas, thinking if a bus came by, I'd hop it. At Lucy's Bar, I saw the Fujita family was having a farewell party there. (Good bye and good luck to sweet Scott Fujita, who helped us get to the Superbowl, but whom the Saints management did not want to pay more. On his way out, as it were, he donated a chunk of his Superbowl winnings to the Save Our Coast Foundation. What a guy!) Turned out no bus ever came, so I ended up walking home the entire way -- not *that* bad, really, close to 3 miles, all told. But it was a lovely night and there were lots of people out and about by all the restaurants I passed in front of, so it was no biggie.
The next day, Saturday, Big Man again had the closing gig at the Festival's Harrah's "Louis-Louis" Stage (in honor of both Louis Armstrong and Louis Prima -- Prima's getting a lot of play right now due to this being his 100th birthday year). This time, Big Man was playing with Rénard Poché and his band, a much smaller ensemble than Russell's behemoth of the night before. But still, with all the instruments that Rénard plays, plus his band members, they filled the stage. There were two female keyboardists, Keiko Kamako (who played the night before with Russell as well) and Leslie Smith (daughter of the late music photog Michael Smith). Highlights of the set for me were the Sly Stone medley (VERY cool and really riled up the crowd!) and the almost-too-strange arrangement of "Eleanor Rigby." Along the way, Rénard played drums, guitar, flute, trombone, percussion, Native American flutes -- two at once!, and possibly something else, I lost track. The youngish crowd *really* seemed to love his (somewhat preachy) rap songs and folks were so stirred, that at the end they had to play an encore. (Unfortunately, Big Man had a private gig to get to at the Intercontinental Hotel that was supposed to start at 9 pm.)
When we finally left and fetched the car, with me driving to drop Big Man off, we got caught in a line of traffic being directed off Canal Street by the NOPD. Only later at home did I find out it was due to a stupid shooting of rival young men at the corner of Canal and Royal. Apparently seven people were hit, none fatally. And so it goes in the Crescent City, the good, the badm the sublime and the ridiculous altogether and all at once.
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