It is very hard to describe the feeling in the city after the Saints amazing-spectacular-historic win over the Vikings on Sunday. I was stuck out of town on personal business of an extremely sad nature, and yet I too was totally swept up in the moment. There I was, up in my hotel room in a distant state, screaming at the top of my lungs, pounding the furniture, and quite bawling into the phone to Big Man. I had been calling my sisters and him for every score and every turnover, but when the Big Moment happened, as Hartley's kick went through the goalposts, you simply could not call the 504 area code. A recording came on, saying, "All circuits are busy -- please try your call again later." Luckily, since Big Man and I are still using the New Jersey cell numbers, we were still able to reach each other.
Big Man stepped out on our porch and held his phone out into the air for me to hear the shouting and singing, the fireworks, the music. Later, he said he drove around the city with our dog Keely, just to experience the city-wide euphoria. I was sorry to have missed it, but was glad to have the first-hand reports.
On Monday, the T-P's NOLA.com website reported the fears of a family in New Orleans whose patriarch had always declared he didn't want to die until he saw a black man be president and the Saints go to the Superbowl. The family was now worried that their Paw-Paw had nothing to live for.
On my return to New Orleans, I was told by a friend that her son had left her house on Sunday before the game ended to drive across the river for some errand or appointment. (One wonders how important this engagement could have been to have pulled him from the TV set with the game still on!) He phoned the house from the Crescent City Connection, saying, "Traffic is at a standstill; I'm just sitting here." Turns out when the folks heard the end of the game broadcast, they just put their cars into "park" and jumped out onto the Bridge, hugging strangers, screaming, crying, laughing, dancing between the cars. I picture this in my imagination and I want to cry.
Houses and businesses all over the city are decorated in black and gold, with giant sparkly fleur de lis and home-made signs in support of "Our Saints." Sacred Heart School moved their Saints sign from the fence to the building proper: "We [Sacred Heart logo] Our Saints." Sportcasters and newscasters continue to refer to Our Saints, the definitive article apparently tossed aside for the duration. A house on Earhart is totally covered in Saints decorations, with a 6-foot fleur de lis on the roof (one pictures the homeowner carefully climbing up to install this emblem of his devotion.)
On Tuesday night, or rather, early Wednesday morning, Big Man was walking to his vehicle after playing his usual gig on Bourbon Street, and spotted 3 drunken young people (2 young men and a young woman), apparently from their looks, Arab-Americans, weaving down the street, their arms around each other's shoulders. They were grinning ear to ear, and every now and then as they stumbled around, they stopped, threw their heads back and hollered in unison, with thick accents, "Whoo dah? Whoo dah?" Who Dat Nation embraces all races, all classes, all ethnicities.
On Friday the wondrous Julie Posner did her usual Friday thing on WWOZ, and couldn't stop burbling excitedly about the Saints. "The Superbowl isn't even important -- this is a dream come true, just like this!"
The parade on Sunday afternoon to honor both the Saints and the late-great local sportcaster Buddy DiLiberto drew over 10,000 fans, with nearly all the men donning dresses for the occasion. (Buddy D once swore that if the Saints ever made it to the Superbowl, he would wear a dress down Poydras Avenue.) Seemed like ALL of the paraders and parade-goers ended up on Bourbon Street afterwards, forcing all of the music venues into repeated choruses of "The Saints" and the sacred "Who Dat?" chant all night long.
On a house near my church, the pink cement pigs in front, which are always trimmed or decorated according to the season, are now sporting pink glitter wings. On a similarly trimmed house in our neighborhood, the pigs wear Saints helmets, black satin capes, and bright shiny gold wings.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Monday, January 18, 2010
The Farthest We've Ever Been
Who Dat Nation continues to celebrate after the Saints' spectacular win over the much-touted Cardinals in the Dome on Saturday. Moving on to a championship play-off game has never happened in all of franchise history, so the fans and the players are totally psyched. (Although former Saints quarterback -- and famous crybaby -- Bobby Hebert pointed out before the game that current Saints players weren't even born or were mere infants back when the Saints were a reliably bad team, always, as one wag said, "Snatching defeat from the jaws of victory," so maybe they don't feel the press of past history the way the fans do.)
Throughout the city in the days before the game, the sense of excitement and anticipation was nearly palpable. Sacred Heart, a costly Catholic private schools for girls on St. Charles Avenue, had apparently declared Friday Saints Day, and the schoolyard was filled at recess with little-bitty white girls in black and gold jerseys. (I assume the teachers were similarly attired.) Grocery shopping and gas getting on Saturday early afternoon was a madhouse scene, stores and gas stations being PACKED with all the folks who were going to desert the streets at exactly 3:30 pm. (The Times-Picayune reported that crime drops in New Orleans during Saints games, because even thugs and gang-bangers are plunked in front of their TV sets for the duration.) Nearly every person we saw was sporting Saints attire, as I was. (Big Man was saving his for the gig Saturday night; he said it felt weird NOT to be wearing something Saints, like he was naked in public or something.)
In the Dome on Saturday, it was like Mardi Gras came early. Judging from the TV coverage on several channels (stations that didn't have the right to broadcast the game aired everything that happened beforehand, outside the Dome), fans NOT wearing costumes were vastly outnumbered by those who did. There were nuns and clowns and skeletons and Vodou orishas. There were men with painted faces, painted bald (or shaved?) heads, and painted chests. There were wigs galore on both sexes, and there mustn't have been a feather boa left anywhere in the Quarter. Lots of home-made hats -- towering fleur de lis, top hats, dome hats, football hats. (I expect that folks seated behind the hat-wearers at some point must have politely requested the hat to be set aside.) Black and gold sequins sparkled in every camera shot, and there were tons of home-made signs. "No place like Dome." "This house believes." "Going to Miami." "Cardinal gumbo." And on and on.
That first touchdown by the Cards in the first damn play of the game was a stunner, and caused many hearts to flutter with something like doubt. But the way the Saints came roaring back and completely dominated the game, made Big Man say that maybe they LET the Cardinals have that first one in order to build up momentum. I dunno. But it was a wonderful game -- and the fans went wild. Many of us, even at home, were hoarse from screaming afterwards. In sports reports, the anchors and sportscasters were calling the team "Our Saints" over and over and never just "the Saints."
The TV stations interviewed as many members of the Who Dat Nation as they could grab. There was the requisite amounts of "Woo-hoo"ing and hollering, but some of the quotes were really, really poignant. One man choked up when he spoke of going to Saints games in Tulane stadium with his father, now deceased, and how much this win would've meant to his dad. One fan was asked what would happen if the Saints won the Superbowl and the answer brought tears to my eyes.
"If we win the Superbowl, the city will double in size!" "Why?' asked the reporter. "Because then everyone from New Orleans will come home."
If the Saints win the Superbowl, we will all come home. May it be so.
Throughout the city in the days before the game, the sense of excitement and anticipation was nearly palpable. Sacred Heart, a costly Catholic private schools for girls on St. Charles Avenue, had apparently declared Friday Saints Day, and the schoolyard was filled at recess with little-bitty white girls in black and gold jerseys. (I assume the teachers were similarly attired.) Grocery shopping and gas getting on Saturday early afternoon was a madhouse scene, stores and gas stations being PACKED with all the folks who were going to desert the streets at exactly 3:30 pm. (The Times-Picayune reported that crime drops in New Orleans during Saints games, because even thugs and gang-bangers are plunked in front of their TV sets for the duration.) Nearly every person we saw was sporting Saints attire, as I was. (Big Man was saving his for the gig Saturday night; he said it felt weird NOT to be wearing something Saints, like he was naked in public or something.)
In the Dome on Saturday, it was like Mardi Gras came early. Judging from the TV coverage on several channels (stations that didn't have the right to broadcast the game aired everything that happened beforehand, outside the Dome), fans NOT wearing costumes were vastly outnumbered by those who did. There were nuns and clowns and skeletons and Vodou orishas. There were men with painted faces, painted bald (or shaved?) heads, and painted chests. There were wigs galore on both sexes, and there mustn't have been a feather boa left anywhere in the Quarter. Lots of home-made hats -- towering fleur de lis, top hats, dome hats, football hats. (I expect that folks seated behind the hat-wearers at some point must have politely requested the hat to be set aside.) Black and gold sequins sparkled in every camera shot, and there were tons of home-made signs. "No place like Dome." "This house believes." "Going to Miami." "Cardinal gumbo." And on and on.
That first touchdown by the Cards in the first damn play of the game was a stunner, and caused many hearts to flutter with something like doubt. But the way the Saints came roaring back and completely dominated the game, made Big Man say that maybe they LET the Cardinals have that first one in order to build up momentum. I dunno. But it was a wonderful game -- and the fans went wild. Many of us, even at home, were hoarse from screaming afterwards. In sports reports, the anchors and sportscasters were calling the team "Our Saints" over and over and never just "the Saints."
The TV stations interviewed as many members of the Who Dat Nation as they could grab. There was the requisite amounts of "Woo-hoo"ing and hollering, but some of the quotes were really, really poignant. One man choked up when he spoke of going to Saints games in Tulane stadium with his father, now deceased, and how much this win would've meant to his dad. One fan was asked what would happen if the Saints won the Superbowl and the answer brought tears to my eyes.
"If we win the Superbowl, the city will double in size!" "Why?' asked the reporter. "Because then everyone from New Orleans will come home."
If the Saints win the Superbowl, we will all come home. May it be so.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
The Cold
On my gosh but it's been cold. Temperatures have been as low as 28 degrees, with wind chill factors bringing it to the teens. Can't put Keely our dog in the yard for more than 5 minutes at a time, and she really makes short shrift of walks in Annunciation Park. No matter how many layers you have on, some part of our body is not covered up enough, and breathing is actually painful. Puddles end up shattered, with shards of ice sticking up like broken glass. Many people have had their water pipes freeze, and some burst. Almost everyone else is letting their taps drip, so there's almost no water pressure. The homeless are at risk, as are poor folks who try to use unsafe space heaters or even their stoves for warmth.
At our house, the central heat is working well, however, since the vents are up in the ceiling, the second floor stays cozy even with the heat OFF, while the first floor is probably comfortable if you could get yourself up into the 12th and 13th feet of the room. In other words, the thermostat can say 68-70 degrees, but down where you are, on the floor or the couch, it's A LOT colder than that. (Even though my siblings laughed when I got the Snuggie in the family Christmas gift exchange, I was darn glad to have it. But I need to find a way to fasten it at the back of my neck -- I don't like the draft.)
On Friday, I attended a party at a parishioner's house and the cold was brutal, just walking to and from the car. To my utter surprise, when I was leaving, I discovered a young black man sitting on the porch next door, practicing scales on his trombone! (Maybe his mama or someone forbade him blowing it in the house, I don't know.) I couldn't believe this young man was putting his lips and tongue in that cold metal mouthpiece in that awful freezing cold! What dedication! I hope he didn't hurt himself or anything.
Thank god it finally warmed up this week!
At our house, the central heat is working well, however, since the vents are up in the ceiling, the second floor stays cozy even with the heat OFF, while the first floor is probably comfortable if you could get yourself up into the 12th and 13th feet of the room. In other words, the thermostat can say 68-70 degrees, but down where you are, on the floor or the couch, it's A LOT colder than that. (Even though my siblings laughed when I got the Snuggie in the family Christmas gift exchange, I was darn glad to have it. But I need to find a way to fasten it at the back of my neck -- I don't like the draft.)
On Friday, I attended a party at a parishioner's house and the cold was brutal, just walking to and from the car. To my utter surprise, when I was leaving, I discovered a young black man sitting on the porch next door, practicing scales on his trombone! (Maybe his mama or someone forbade him blowing it in the house, I don't know.) I couldn't believe this young man was putting his lips and tongue in that cold metal mouthpiece in that awful freezing cold! What dedication! I hope he didn't hurt himself or anything.
Thank god it finally warmed up this week!
Phunny Phorty Phellows Returns to St. Charles!
I'm late reporting on the annual ride of the first-to-roll Carnival krewe, the Phunny Phorty Phellows, which by tradition is held on the night of Epiphany, January 6th, also known around here as the first day of the Carnival season. (I'm late because Big Man took the laptop with him to New Jersey, and I'm used to posting these from home using the laptop. Not a good excuse, I know.)
The PPP are a revival of an older organization from the late 19th century that went defunct at some point and were reborn in the early 1980s. Their deal is pretty simple. A group of costumed revelers meet at the streetcar barn, drink and eat kingcake. Whoever gets the baby is the "Boss" of the evening, their name for their "king." Then, along with their trusty brass band -- it's been the Storyville Stompers for some years now -- they all pile into a decorated streetcar and ride the streetcar line, throwing beads and stuff to whoever's on the street. Afterwards, the group repairs to their "bal masque" for some hard partying. (This year's ball was to be held at the new Rock'n'Bowl with Benny Grunch and the Bunch for your listening and dancing -- and laughing -- pleasure.)
Last year, in a driving rain, the PPP had their gathering in the Canal Street barn, since the St. Charles streetcar was not yet back post-Katrina. (You can read all about it in my post from back then.) But this year, they were back where they belong, in the Willow Street streetcar barn, across from the Carrollton Station bar (which, as you might expect, does a brisk business).
It was really, really COLD on January 6th -- in fact, we were in the middle of this hard-core winter freeze that had gripped the whole country. New Orleans was actually below freezing for several days in a row, which, as you might imagine, we're not equipped for. The good folks of the Phunny Phorty Phellows were game, however, and most had on layers *under* their costumes, so as not to spoil the effect. (A few had had to put coats on on top of their costumes, which marred the look.) A much bigger crowd than last year's was there to see them off, including goth young people, families with young children, older folks, and much media. Despite the cold, everyone was in a terrific mood. There was much kissing and wishing of "Happy Carnival" and even "Happy Mardi Gras" (I know, I know, too early, but the distinction seems to be getting lost).
Many in the crowd, like my sister and brother-in-law and I, had fortified themselves with adult beverages from Carrollton Station before braving the cold. Folks huddled in clumps for warmth, and to gossip. The mayor was there to see the PPP off and to officially proclaim the beginning of Carnival. (Gee, we've never needed his say-so before and where was he last year?) Most folks politely declined, in the spirit of Carnival, to boo him, but a few people could not resist.
The proclamation done, and with the band's fanfare, the PPP folks filed onto their streetcar -- there was a proctor at the door to make sure everyone had a costume on -- packed themselves in tight, and, with the cheers and waves of the crowd, they were off. It was reported later that St. Charles Avenue was lined with a bigger-than-normal crowd of well-wishers and parade-goers, a good sign for the parades to come. I managed to score a necklace of giant beads in the traditional purple, green and gold, so I was happy.
Later, at a nearby BBQ restaurant on Oak (Squeal -- we recommend it), the Mayor and his bodyguard came in to pick up their take-out dinners. He was surrounded by people who wanted to shake his hand or take his picture with their cellphones. I felt the Mayor was lucky that Big Man was out of town, or he might've ended up with a piece of Big Man's mind.
Despite the weather, a good start to Carnival 2010.
The PPP are a revival of an older organization from the late 19th century that went defunct at some point and were reborn in the early 1980s. Their deal is pretty simple. A group of costumed revelers meet at the streetcar barn, drink and eat kingcake. Whoever gets the baby is the "Boss" of the evening, their name for their "king." Then, along with their trusty brass band -- it's been the Storyville Stompers for some years now -- they all pile into a decorated streetcar and ride the streetcar line, throwing beads and stuff to whoever's on the street. Afterwards, the group repairs to their "bal masque" for some hard partying. (This year's ball was to be held at the new Rock'n'Bowl with Benny Grunch and the Bunch for your listening and dancing -- and laughing -- pleasure.)
Last year, in a driving rain, the PPP had their gathering in the Canal Street barn, since the St. Charles streetcar was not yet back post-Katrina. (You can read all about it in my post from back then.) But this year, they were back where they belong, in the Willow Street streetcar barn, across from the Carrollton Station bar (which, as you might expect, does a brisk business).
It was really, really COLD on January 6th -- in fact, we were in the middle of this hard-core winter freeze that had gripped the whole country. New Orleans was actually below freezing for several days in a row, which, as you might imagine, we're not equipped for. The good folks of the Phunny Phorty Phellows were game, however, and most had on layers *under* their costumes, so as not to spoil the effect. (A few had had to put coats on on top of their costumes, which marred the look.) A much bigger crowd than last year's was there to see them off, including goth young people, families with young children, older folks, and much media. Despite the cold, everyone was in a terrific mood. There was much kissing and wishing of "Happy Carnival" and even "Happy Mardi Gras" (I know, I know, too early, but the distinction seems to be getting lost).
Many in the crowd, like my sister and brother-in-law and I, had fortified themselves with adult beverages from Carrollton Station before braving the cold. Folks huddled in clumps for warmth, and to gossip. The mayor was there to see the PPP off and to officially proclaim the beginning of Carnival. (Gee, we've never needed his say-so before and where was he last year?) Most folks politely declined, in the spirit of Carnival, to boo him, but a few people could not resist.
The proclamation done, and with the band's fanfare, the PPP folks filed onto their streetcar -- there was a proctor at the door to make sure everyone had a costume on -- packed themselves in tight, and, with the cheers and waves of the crowd, they were off. It was reported later that St. Charles Avenue was lined with a bigger-than-normal crowd of well-wishers and parade-goers, a good sign for the parades to come. I managed to score a necklace of giant beads in the traditional purple, green and gold, so I was happy.
Later, at a nearby BBQ restaurant on Oak (Squeal -- we recommend it), the Mayor and his bodyguard came in to pick up their take-out dinners. He was surrounded by people who wanted to shake his hand or take his picture with their cellphones. I felt the Mayor was lucky that Big Man was out of town, or he might've ended up with a piece of Big Man's mind.
Despite the weather, a good start to Carnival 2010.
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