Last week Irvin Mayfield's Jazz Playhouse at the Royal Sonesta Hotel on Bourbon Street hosted a series of trumpet challenges to benefit local charities. The one to raise money for UNITY, the local umbrella organization for the homeless, was held on Wednesday evening. I promoted the event within the two congregations I serve, and Big Man and I made plans to attend, along with my sister L and her husband B.
We found free parking (with Big Man in the car, natch) only a few blocks away, though in the heat and humidity even just from Chartres to Bourbon seemed like a hike. We arrived in the lobby of the Sonesta at or near the time that had been advertised as when the doors would open, but of course everything was late. This is the kind of thing that used to drive Big Man absolutely nuts about New Orleans. (Once on his very first visit to the city, we waited more than an hour past the stated start time at Irma Thomas's old club in the pre-Katrina days. What really got to him was how nobody at the club seemed especially exercised about being so late.) My brother-in-law kept asking, 'Didn't they SAY they'd be open by now?" Well, yes, B, they did, but it doesn't mean anything.
About a half-hour past the "doors open" time, the doors did actually open. I asked the young man at the door about the seating policy, and he told me it was first-come, first-served for the available seating behind the reserved-only section in the very front that was for the folks who had paid $350 for the VIP tickets. I gave him my ticket and scooted past him to snag seats at the back corner banquette that faced the stage. The four of us ensconced ourselves there quite comfortably. As I've said before, I'm too old to stand the *the whole time* for a musical event.
We ordered drinks and B and L ordered from the surprisingly extensive and inexpensive (for the venue) menu (who knew?). L got the alligator sliders with thin onion rings and B got the bananas foster cheesecake. They shared these goodies with Big Man and I, and we all gave 'em a big thumbs-up.
Well, we're sitting there and sitting there and of course the show doesn't start at 8 pm. The place is really filling up, which is a good thing for UNITY, but it is tiresome waiting and not knowing when things will begin. (For those of you reading this, this is not meant to be representative of everything that goes on at Irvin Mayfield's Jazz Playhouse -- for all I know, they start strictly on time every single evening except for this one night. I don't really know, this was my first time there.)
Around 8:30 pm, Irvin and his band came out and they played a good set. If there were folks who thought it was simply going to be a trumpet battle, with Irvin and Kermit duking it out at the same time on the stage, then those folks were disappointed. Irvin and his combo did what seemed like a full set, with fast numbers and some ballads and some fine playing by Irvin, and also with Irvin doing some vocals. He seemed very relaxed and comfortable, which it seems he has gained over time, since there were certainly times in years past when he seemed technically great but very stiff and uncomfortable interacting with audiences.
Somewhere close to hour into Irvin's set, we saw from our vantage point near the door Kermit arriving, so obviously he hadn't been there earlier. Irvin called Troy Andrews, better known as Trombone Shorty, to the stage, and Shorty blew soulfully for a tune or two. Then Irvin came back on, and the set ended without Kermit taking the stage, and Irvin announcing there would be a break before Kermit came on. That just about did it for L and B, who are not late-night people, and who had thought they'd be seeing both trumpeters on-stage together from the git-go. (Plus, they said they would have enjoyed it more if Irvin had just blew and not sung. I enjoyed Irvin's vocals myself. Different strokes...) So they started calling for the check and asking me directions back to their car. (Geez, you go out the door of the Sonesta, turn left, take the first left, and go 2 blocks to Chartres and there you are. How hard is that?)
Big Man excused himself and came back a few minutes later from the Men's Room with a full report -- he had run into Kermit in there, and had asked him if he was still playing a Jupiter. (Jupiter was a company that used to make student horns almost exclusively, but had recently been manufacturing professional models. We had seen Kermit playing one in the recent past.) Kermit told Big Man someone had stolen his Jupiter, and that he had just gotten this new trumpet -- which he held out to Big Man to look at. To Big Man's utter amazement, it was a Harrelson trumpet. This is a super custom-made horn, with extra-heavy brackets and supposedly "ergonomic" finger rings. Damn things cost a veritable fortune, though not as much as a Monette (which custom brand both Irvin and Trombone Shorty usually play). Big Man said that Kermit was acting like he didn't know what he had, but who knows? Maybe he was just putting on a show for the trumpet groupie in the men's room. In any case, Kermit told Big Man he'd had it for all of like a half-hour, and had just had about 5 minutes worth of practice on it.
As a side light, just as a weird coincidence, Big Man ran into Tom Harrelson in the French Quarter during the Louis Armstrong Trumpet Fest, who told him he was delivering a trumpet to "some guy." Could it be??
If completely true, then Kermit's performance in the next few minutes was astounding. He blew that thing like he had had it for years, and put on a great show. The fact is, as any true New Orleans trumpet buff knows, in any trumpet contest between them, Irvin is going to be the better technical player, with triple-tonguing and trills and so on and so forth, and Kermit is going to be -- by far and away -- the better entertainer and crowd-pleaser. And so it was this evening. Kermit drew us like iron filings to a magnet, off our comfortable seats in the back, to come stand by the bar in the crowd and gawk at the stage. The man is a born entertainer. He just makes you happy, make you smile, makes you sing along -- which we all did, on the chorus of his famous Pops-tribute tune "The Viper."
Kermit called up a young woman singer from NOCCA (New Orleans Center for Creative Arts, a public school that one has to test to get into), who did a bang-up job on several standards. I wish I remembered her name, because I'm sure we'll all be hearing from her in the future. Judging from this girl and Sasha Masachowski, a recent grad, NOCCA does a helluva job on teaching jazz vocals.
Big Man and I stayed til about midnight, and Kermit was still going on, razzing Irvin occasionally where he was sitting stageside, but we still had not seen them both onstage at the same time. Dunno if they got to that later.
In terms of the contest, we give to Irvin on trumpet points, and to Kermit for giving us a good time. And we hope lots and lots of money was raised for UNITY.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Mayor Mitch on 60 Minutes
We New Orleanians have had a hard time over the past few years with television viewing. First it was all the Katrina news reports in 2005-6, then it was the Katrina follow-ups in 2006-7. Then there was Spike Lee's "When The Levees Broke" and its sequel, "God Willing and The Creek Don't Rise." Then there was the first season of HBO's locally-set "Tremé" series, which had us tearing up and crying almost every episode. (And you couldn't even leave town to get away from it -- in Wyoming, Big Man and I had to comfort a woman in an art gallery, sobbing over John Goodman's character's suicide).
Now, just when you thought it was safe to watch TV without tears, there's this emotional interview with New Orleans Mayor Mitch Landrieu on CBS's "60 Minutes." Mayor Mitch stoutly took up for us, his city, in the face of outside criticism, declared he couldn't do his job without the people of the city doing theirs, and was filmed doing a creditable secondline dance.
Near the end of the interview, the reporter commented, "It sounds like you almost feel, well, like romantic about New Orleans..." and Mitch interrupted him. "Of course I do," he said, "it IS romantic!" Try watching your mayor declare his unashamed romantic love for his (lost, wounded, recovering, beautiful, fascinating) city, and not tear up.
Here it is on the "60 Minutes" website:
http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-504803_162-20075126-10391709.html?tag=cbsnewsMainColumnArea.1
Now, just when you thought it was safe to watch TV without tears, there's this emotional interview with New Orleans Mayor Mitch Landrieu on CBS's "60 Minutes." Mayor Mitch stoutly took up for us, his city, in the face of outside criticism, declared he couldn't do his job without the people of the city doing theirs, and was filmed doing a creditable secondline dance.
Near the end of the interview, the reporter commented, "It sounds like you almost feel, well, like romantic about New Orleans..." and Mitch interrupted him. "Of course I do," he said, "it IS romantic!" Try watching your mayor declare his unashamed romantic love for his (lost, wounded, recovering, beautiful, fascinating) city, and not tear up.
Here it is on the "60 Minutes" website:
http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-504803_162-20075126-10391709.html?tag=cbsnewsMainColumnArea.1
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Braxton's Restaurant in Gretna
Wow! Big Man and I want to urge everyone to make an extra effort, cross the river to Franklin Street in Gretna, and eat at this fabulous Creole restaurant, Braxton's. Located at 636 Franklin, in this converted and expanded shotgun house that has been transformed into a spacious double dining room and large elegant bar.
On the outside, there is a large covered front and side porch with ceiling fans, which I'm sure will be more usable and more used when the weather breaks sometime in the fall. Inside, the dining rooms go off to the left as you enter, and have comfortable chairs, white tablecloths, and attractive African-American-themed poster art hung on the walls. In one corner, there's a small stage where we were told they had a DJ once a week (but Big Man has certainly played on stages smaller than that). The bar is large and L-shaped, with a nice seating area in one corner, more of the art (I spotted a Josephine Baker art poster hung near the entrance), and lots and lots of padded bar stools. Playing at a comfortable audio level was some classic R&B from the 1960's ("Precious Baby, You're Mine" played while we were there).
We had read about their special, the Stormy Monday Blues Buffet, in the Gambit. It was advertised at $7.95 -- so we figured, not much to lose if we weren't crazy about it. So we drove over. It's easy to find, and there is some off-street parking available outside, including a reserved handicapped space. An attractive hostess seated us, offered us a menu, and when we said we wanted the buffet, took our drink order. We were a late for the regular lunch hour, and so there were only a few other tables with people eating, folks both black and white.
Braxton's uses stylish rectangular white plates, generously sized for a buffet -- which is both a good and bad thing, since their food is delicious. This past Monday, there was red beans and rice with *lots* of meat (just the way Big Man likes 'em!), turnip greens cooked with little ham hocks and big chunks of sweet turnips, perfectly fried chicken, slow-roasted chicken falling off the bone in an incredible sauce made of lemon, garlic, herbs, and I think olive oil, sweet white cornbread, and home-made bread pudding. We tried everything except the bread pudding (we were *trying* to be good!), and everything was wonderful. Despite skipping dessert, we still ate too much, and we loved everything we ate.
Braxton's has only been open for about 2 years, and they seem to be trying to find that all-important steady regular customer base. They have Monday through Friday drink specials with free food, and a steak special on Thursdays (when they also have a DJ). They would also be great for private parties.
Big Man and I say: cross the Bridge, get over to Franklin Street, and eat yourself happy at Braxton's. You won't be sorry you did.
On the outside, there is a large covered front and side porch with ceiling fans, which I'm sure will be more usable and more used when the weather breaks sometime in the fall. Inside, the dining rooms go off to the left as you enter, and have comfortable chairs, white tablecloths, and attractive African-American-themed poster art hung on the walls. In one corner, there's a small stage where we were told they had a DJ once a week (but Big Man has certainly played on stages smaller than that). The bar is large and L-shaped, with a nice seating area in one corner, more of the art (I spotted a Josephine Baker art poster hung near the entrance), and lots and lots of padded bar stools. Playing at a comfortable audio level was some classic R&B from the 1960's ("Precious Baby, You're Mine" played while we were there).
We had read about their special, the Stormy Monday Blues Buffet, in the Gambit. It was advertised at $7.95 -- so we figured, not much to lose if we weren't crazy about it. So we drove over. It's easy to find, and there is some off-street parking available outside, including a reserved handicapped space. An attractive hostess seated us, offered us a menu, and when we said we wanted the buffet, took our drink order. We were a late for the regular lunch hour, and so there were only a few other tables with people eating, folks both black and white.
Braxton's uses stylish rectangular white plates, generously sized for a buffet -- which is both a good and bad thing, since their food is delicious. This past Monday, there was red beans and rice with *lots* of meat (just the way Big Man likes 'em!), turnip greens cooked with little ham hocks and big chunks of sweet turnips, perfectly fried chicken, slow-roasted chicken falling off the bone in an incredible sauce made of lemon, garlic, herbs, and I think olive oil, sweet white cornbread, and home-made bread pudding. We tried everything except the bread pudding (we were *trying* to be good!), and everything was wonderful. Despite skipping dessert, we still ate too much, and we loved everything we ate.
Braxton's has only been open for about 2 years, and they seem to be trying to find that all-important steady regular customer base. They have Monday through Friday drink specials with free food, and a steak special on Thursdays (when they also have a DJ). They would also be great for private parties.
Big Man and I say: cross the Bridge, get over to Franklin Street, and eat yourself happy at Braxton's. You won't be sorry you did.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Catfish Festival in Des Allemands
Big Man has been very busy this hot summer, piecing together different gigs in different places to make up for the regular nightclub gig he lost when the club closed this spring. But it also means that he has nights off that he otherwise might have had to work, and so we very happily made plans to attend the annual Catfish Festival in Des Allemands, about 35 miles from our house, in a small spit of land set among swamps and lakes and bayous that eventually make their way to the Gulf.
Des Allemands boldly bills itself as the Catfish Capital of the Universe, and they may well be. As the name suggests, the little Cajun village was first settled by German immigrants, who nestled themselves among the French Acadians/Cajuns already there. The area now has black and white French Cajuns and German Cajuns, and a goodly number of Vietnamese fisherfolk as well. They are mostly Catholic, with some Baptists and Evangelicals. In addition to the ubiquitous oil field jobs that it seems no Cajun community can escape, folks there make their living shrimping, crawfishing, hunting, and of course, catfishing.
Every year, on the same weekend of July, on the extensive grounds of St. Gertrude the Great Catholic Church and elementary school, they throw the Catfish Festival. The fest has tons of food -- more ways to eat catfish than you might've thought (more on that later), hamburger and hot dogs for the unadventurous (though I have it on good authority that the homemade chili on the 'dogs was outasight), fried shrimp and softshell crab po boys, gumbo, and sauce piquante. There's also snow balls and funnel cakes and beer and soft drinks and frozen daiquiris. Off to the side, there are numerous crafts booths, including 2 in the name of small Cajun children who, sadly, have contracted some very rare, incurable, genetic diseases (all that intermarriage in small Cajun towns has led to a significant uptick in these kinds of illnesses and conditions that physicians almost never see), and one staffed by prisoners from the local St. Charles Parish prison, who learn leather-working as a craft while incarcerated. To the back of the grounds, near the railroad tracks (a train went by that night while we were there), giant carnival rides were set up.
Behind the school's frosty air-conditioned gym/cafeteria, a giant steel-framed, concrete floored pavilion has been set up, apparently for this and other festivals on the grounds. The pavilion is named in honor of a St. Gertrude priest, and, significantly, he had a Vietnamese surname. I liked the way the pavilion had been set up, with the floor painted to show clearly demarcated areas to put folding chairs, allowing for aisles, and leaving a giant dance floor in the center. There were enormous electric fans set up around the edges, facing the dance floor. Which was a good idea, because couples of all ages crowded in there, dancing up a storm. It's the kind of thing that makes me so happy to be a Louisianian -- all those people, old and young and middle-aged, black and white and Vietnamese, dancing together to the same music.
And the music was terrific! A guy we had never heard of before, Al "Lil Fats" Jackson, with a band of 3 saxes, bass, guitars, drummer, with him on keys, doing absolutely wonderful, swinging, versions of Fats Domino songs. Everyone was diggin' it like crazy. The band was really tight and they played like they had been playing this stuff like forever (even though they were all, of course, considerably younger than Fats himself). Al was quite the showman too, teasing the appreciative crowd several times by starting out, "I found my...." but then NOT going into "Blueberry Hill." By the time he deigned to do it, everyone was all hyped up and cheering. Big Man and I joined the dancers in the pavilion and a great moment. (Amazingly, the band played from the time we got there -- a little after 8 pm -- and was still playing with no break when we left, around 10 pm. When I mentioned this to Big Man, he burst out, "Are you kidding? South Louisiana is the No-Break Capital of the Universe!")
The three Catfish Queens were brought onstage to much applause and appreciation. There are three of them because there are three age divisions. They were all three sweet-faced, pretty girls, with towering rhinestone tiaras on their heads, but otherwise dressed in what was apparently the festival uniform of T-shirts, shorts, and flipflops. It made quite a contrast, I can tell you. Inside the gym/cafeteria, air-conditioned to a fare-thee-well, there were framed photos on all four walls of Catfish Queens going back to the early 1970s. They start off conventionally enough, with blondes in bouffant hairdos and standard Cajun surnames, but as the years and decades and eras go by, the pictures show girls with dark hair and swarthy skin, and even some Vietnamese girls. It was wonderful to see the Catfish Queens tradition evolve like that, like a sweet Cajun fairy tale.
So, back to the catfish. There was fried catfish filets served in platters, and on po boys. There was catfish, shrimp, and crawfish gumbo, which, while a little thin, sort of like a courtbouillion, was beautifully seasoned and totally chockfull of the aforementioned seafoods. There was a deep red sauce piquante, studded with big chunks of catfish, and with cute little cocktail onions in it instead of chopped onions; I wondered if the cook had run out of fresh onions and just found the jar of pickled cocktail onions in the fridge and decided on a whim to go in that direction, or if this was an intentional, stylistic choice. Either way, it was fantastic.
There was also something called Catfish Boullettes. Now anywhere else in America they might be called Catfish Fritters or, to be playful, maybe Catfish Balls; in New Orleans, they might be Catfish Beignets. But we're in Cajun Country, so they're Catfish Boullettes (little balls). Chopped up raw catfish is mixed in a thick seasoned batter with little snippets of green onion in it, and then mushed up by hand into balls that are roughly between a golf ball and a tennis ball, and then deep fried (of course). Oh my these were *wonderful*! We ate more of them than we should have, all the time speculating about making them at home and then serving them with home made tartar or remoulade sauce. (The festival was serving them with simple ketchup.)
We saw flyers at the festival for the Des Allemands Catfish Cookbook, which listed an intriguing dish called Catfish Cacciatore on the front. Believe me, if they had had that at the fest, wed've eaten it.
After about 2 hours, we were stuffed. However, we still had food tickets left over, so we scouted for a little while and gave our tickets to a young family with several children on our way out of the fest. It was a lovely if hot night, the people-watching was great fun, the music great and the food fantastic, but we'd had enough. If you haven't been or haven't been in a while, you should go.
Des Allemands boldly bills itself as the Catfish Capital of the Universe, and they may well be. As the name suggests, the little Cajun village was first settled by German immigrants, who nestled themselves among the French Acadians/Cajuns already there. The area now has black and white French Cajuns and German Cajuns, and a goodly number of Vietnamese fisherfolk as well. They are mostly Catholic, with some Baptists and Evangelicals. In addition to the ubiquitous oil field jobs that it seems no Cajun community can escape, folks there make their living shrimping, crawfishing, hunting, and of course, catfishing.
Every year, on the same weekend of July, on the extensive grounds of St. Gertrude the Great Catholic Church and elementary school, they throw the Catfish Festival. The fest has tons of food -- more ways to eat catfish than you might've thought (more on that later), hamburger and hot dogs for the unadventurous (though I have it on good authority that the homemade chili on the 'dogs was outasight), fried shrimp and softshell crab po boys, gumbo, and sauce piquante. There's also snow balls and funnel cakes and beer and soft drinks and frozen daiquiris. Off to the side, there are numerous crafts booths, including 2 in the name of small Cajun children who, sadly, have contracted some very rare, incurable, genetic diseases (all that intermarriage in small Cajun towns has led to a significant uptick in these kinds of illnesses and conditions that physicians almost never see), and one staffed by prisoners from the local St. Charles Parish prison, who learn leather-working as a craft while incarcerated. To the back of the grounds, near the railroad tracks (a train went by that night while we were there), giant carnival rides were set up.
Behind the school's frosty air-conditioned gym/cafeteria, a giant steel-framed, concrete floored pavilion has been set up, apparently for this and other festivals on the grounds. The pavilion is named in honor of a St. Gertrude priest, and, significantly, he had a Vietnamese surname. I liked the way the pavilion had been set up, with the floor painted to show clearly demarcated areas to put folding chairs, allowing for aisles, and leaving a giant dance floor in the center. There were enormous electric fans set up around the edges, facing the dance floor. Which was a good idea, because couples of all ages crowded in there, dancing up a storm. It's the kind of thing that makes me so happy to be a Louisianian -- all those people, old and young and middle-aged, black and white and Vietnamese, dancing together to the same music.
And the music was terrific! A guy we had never heard of before, Al "Lil Fats" Jackson, with a band of 3 saxes, bass, guitars, drummer, with him on keys, doing absolutely wonderful, swinging, versions of Fats Domino songs. Everyone was diggin' it like crazy. The band was really tight and they played like they had been playing this stuff like forever (even though they were all, of course, considerably younger than Fats himself). Al was quite the showman too, teasing the appreciative crowd several times by starting out, "I found my...." but then NOT going into "Blueberry Hill." By the time he deigned to do it, everyone was all hyped up and cheering. Big Man and I joined the dancers in the pavilion and a great moment. (Amazingly, the band played from the time we got there -- a little after 8 pm -- and was still playing with no break when we left, around 10 pm. When I mentioned this to Big Man, he burst out, "Are you kidding? South Louisiana is the No-Break Capital of the Universe!")
The three Catfish Queens were brought onstage to much applause and appreciation. There are three of them because there are three age divisions. They were all three sweet-faced, pretty girls, with towering rhinestone tiaras on their heads, but otherwise dressed in what was apparently the festival uniform of T-shirts, shorts, and flipflops. It made quite a contrast, I can tell you. Inside the gym/cafeteria, air-conditioned to a fare-thee-well, there were framed photos on all four walls of Catfish Queens going back to the early 1970s. They start off conventionally enough, with blondes in bouffant hairdos and standard Cajun surnames, but as the years and decades and eras go by, the pictures show girls with dark hair and swarthy skin, and even some Vietnamese girls. It was wonderful to see the Catfish Queens tradition evolve like that, like a sweet Cajun fairy tale.
So, back to the catfish. There was fried catfish filets served in platters, and on po boys. There was catfish, shrimp, and crawfish gumbo, which, while a little thin, sort of like a courtbouillion, was beautifully seasoned and totally chockfull of the aforementioned seafoods. There was a deep red sauce piquante, studded with big chunks of catfish, and with cute little cocktail onions in it instead of chopped onions; I wondered if the cook had run out of fresh onions and just found the jar of pickled cocktail onions in the fridge and decided on a whim to go in that direction, or if this was an intentional, stylistic choice. Either way, it was fantastic.
There was also something called Catfish Boullettes. Now anywhere else in America they might be called Catfish Fritters or, to be playful, maybe Catfish Balls; in New Orleans, they might be Catfish Beignets. But we're in Cajun Country, so they're Catfish Boullettes (little balls). Chopped up raw catfish is mixed in a thick seasoned batter with little snippets of green onion in it, and then mushed up by hand into balls that are roughly between a golf ball and a tennis ball, and then deep fried (of course). Oh my these were *wonderful*! We ate more of them than we should have, all the time speculating about making them at home and then serving them with home made tartar or remoulade sauce. (The festival was serving them with simple ketchup.)
We saw flyers at the festival for the Des Allemands Catfish Cookbook, which listed an intriguing dish called Catfish Cacciatore on the front. Believe me, if they had had that at the fest, wed've eaten it.
After about 2 hours, we were stuffed. However, we still had food tickets left over, so we scouted for a little while and gave our tickets to a young family with several children on our way out of the fest. It was a lovely if hot night, the people-watching was great fun, the music great and the food fantastic, but we'd had enough. If you haven't been or haven't been in a while, you should go.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Rebuilding My Church
People ask me all the time about my church's recovery from Katrina, and it's a hard question to answer succinctly. Our denomination went in a different direction from most, and made the decision early on after the Storm to divide the funds and give away 2/3 of what was donated by generous members of my faith tradition to local community groups, especially those led by people of color. The remaining 1/3, which amounted to a little over $1 million, was dedicated to ALL the churches of our denomination that were damaged, as well as to the Baton Rouge congregation that was coordinating the first volunteer efforts.
The upshot of that decision was that our churches of Greater New Orleans were left largely unrecovered. My church building alone sustained over $1 million worth of damage, so you can imagine that our share of a divided fund did not go far. We have been careful stewards, and diligent in our creative efforts to get things done at the lowest possible cost, but the thing is, here it is, nearing the 6th anniversary of Katrina, and we still are operating on a Temporary Certificate of Occupancy, with large areas of the building with scarred concrete floors, unfinished walls and ceilings, a limping elderly HVAC system, a leaky roof, no working church kitchen, broken and dangerous entryway, and not a handicapped accessible restroom in the place. As if all that were not enough and more than enough, in addition to Storm damage, we're under new building codes that were enacted by the state legislature after the Storm.
For those of you who like details, here's the list I'm bringing to our denominational meeting next week to seek more help from my co-religionists:
Note that the above figures DO NOT include finishing of walls and ceilings and installing new floors -- we'll continue along as we have been, doing that kind of work with volunteers, our own and those wonderful folks coming from out of town. We'll also have to figure out how to afford some kind of post-construction elevator system, so that our second floor is accessible. The list above just gets us a Permanent Certificate of Occupancy, and allows us to open the longed-for Community Kitchen, getting us on the way to wholeness and resuming our full-time urban, "food ministry."
If any of you reading this have funds of any amount to donate, or if you'd like to have the new Fire Pump named after you, be sure to contact me. The church would be exceedingly grateful, and so would I.
The upshot of that decision was that our churches of Greater New Orleans were left largely unrecovered. My church building alone sustained over $1 million worth of damage, so you can imagine that our share of a divided fund did not go far. We have been careful stewards, and diligent in our creative efforts to get things done at the lowest possible cost, but the thing is, here it is, nearing the 6th anniversary of Katrina, and we still are operating on a Temporary Certificate of Occupancy, with large areas of the building with scarred concrete floors, unfinished walls and ceilings, a limping elderly HVAC system, a leaky roof, no working church kitchen, broken and dangerous entryway, and not a handicapped accessible restroom in the place. As if all that were not enough and more than enough, in addition to Storm damage, we're under new building codes that were enacted by the state legislature after the Storm.
For those of you who like details, here's the list I'm bringing to our denominational meeting next week to seek more help from my co-religionists:
Replace/upgrade HVAC system ruined by flood $12,600.00
Fire Alarm for new Community Kitchen 4,000.00
Iron work for new Community Kitchen 3,200.00
Plumbing replace/upgrade 20,000.00
Kitchen vent for new Community Kitchen 7,000.00
Fire Sprinkler System Pump Room (new requirement) 19,000.00
Installation of Fire Pump (new requirement) 48,500.00
Arch Finishes for Fire Exits (new requirement) 35,000.00
Fire Alarm for Building (other than kitchen – new requirement)) 19,000.00
Fire Doors (new requirement) 1,500.00
Fire Damper (new requirement) 3,000.00
Repair of Entranceway Damaged by Flood Waters 6,200.00
Repair of Leak & Plaster Work at Stained Glass Window 2,800.00
FUUNO SUB-TOTAL: $181,800.00
MINUS AMOUNT ON HAND IN FUUNO’s BUILDING FUND: -77,000.00
AMOUNT TO BE RAISED: $104,800.00
Note that the above figures DO NOT include finishing of walls and ceilings and installing new floors -- we'll continue along as we have been, doing that kind of work with volunteers, our own and those wonderful folks coming from out of town. We'll also have to figure out how to afford some kind of post-construction elevator system, so that our second floor is accessible. The list above just gets us a Permanent Certificate of Occupancy, and allows us to open the longed-for Community Kitchen, getting us on the way to wholeness and resuming our full-time urban, "food ministry."
If any of you reading this have funds of any amount to donate, or if you'd like to have the new Fire Pump named after you, be sure to contact me. The church would be exceedingly grateful, and so would I.
Deacon John's 70th Birthday @ Rock'n'Bowl
Here's the thing: If Deac is 70, that means that all of us who danced to Deacon John and the Ivories at our high school proms and sock hops are pretty much old too. What's up with that? Why don't we feel old?
I am writing this on Saturday night, June 11 from Rock'n'Bowl. The place is packed. The Fortier High School graduating class of 1956 (!!) is here, and most of 'em are out on the floor, smoothly dancing. There's a good many of my nostalgic aging Baby Boomer generation here too, singing along with the familiar lyrics.
But if it were only us "old folks" here, it wouldn't be near as crowded. The adult children of the Baby Boomers are also here, some of them bowling but still rockin' out to Deac's patented jump blues. (In case I forget to mention it, Big Man is playing 2nd trumpet in Deac's amazing big 16-piece band. He's loving it.)
Deac sounds terrific, his voice only a little rougher than the old days. The crowd is eating it up, and in some ways the familiar R&B beat and horn lines bring it all back. You can tell some of the old couples are dreamily reliving some good old times as they sway and dance.
Since Rock'n'Bowl is an actual working bowling alley, and serves food beside, unlike a normal nightclub, there's no minimum age. And so on top of -- or underneath -- the 3 generations mentioned above, the place is also full of kids, including Deac's grandchildren/grand-nieces, whatever). But some young parents have actually, god love them, rolled in a couple of strollers (starting 'em young!).
In true Louisiana fashion, people keep gesturing Deac to the edge of the stage so they can pin dollar bills on him for his birthday. (Next to me, a woman nearly panicked, saying plaintively, "I didn't bring a PIN!" so I handed her a safety pin. I'm always prepared, you never know when you're gonna need one.) From where I sit, looks like he's up to about $50 now, and the first set hasn't ended. He and his brother Charlie (it's his birthday week too) should really rake it in tonight.
Black, white, old, young, grands and kids, Uptown and Downtown (and Chalmette and Metry), sharp dressers and slobs, we're all here at Rock'n'Bowl havin' a wonderful time. Only in New Orleans.
Happy Birthday, Deacon John, and many many more!!
I am writing this on Saturday night, June 11 from Rock'n'Bowl. The place is packed. The Fortier High School graduating class of 1956 (!!) is here, and most of 'em are out on the floor, smoothly dancing. There's a good many of my nostalgic aging Baby Boomer generation here too, singing along with the familiar lyrics.
But if it were only us "old folks" here, it wouldn't be near as crowded. The adult children of the Baby Boomers are also here, some of them bowling but still rockin' out to Deac's patented jump blues. (In case I forget to mention it, Big Man is playing 2nd trumpet in Deac's amazing big 16-piece band. He's loving it.)
Deac sounds terrific, his voice only a little rougher than the old days. The crowd is eating it up, and in some ways the familiar R&B beat and horn lines bring it all back. You can tell some of the old couples are dreamily reliving some good old times as they sway and dance.
Since Rock'n'Bowl is an actual working bowling alley, and serves food beside, unlike a normal nightclub, there's no minimum age. And so on top of -- or underneath -- the 3 generations mentioned above, the place is also full of kids, including Deac's grandchildren/grand-nieces, whatever). But some young parents have actually, god love them, rolled in a couple of strollers (starting 'em young!).
In true Louisiana fashion, people keep gesturing Deac to the edge of the stage so they can pin dollar bills on him for his birthday. (Next to me, a woman nearly panicked, saying plaintively, "I didn't bring a PIN!" so I handed her a safety pin. I'm always prepared, you never know when you're gonna need one.) From where I sit, looks like he's up to about $50 now, and the first set hasn't ended. He and his brother Charlie (it's his birthday week too) should really rake it in tonight.
Black, white, old, young, grands and kids, Uptown and Downtown (and Chalmette and Metry), sharp dressers and slobs, we're all here at Rock'n'Bowl havin' a wonderful time. Only in New Orleans.
Happy Birthday, Deacon John, and many many more!!
Sunday, June 12, 2011
The Heat (redux)
This post is not for tourist or Chamber of Commerce consumption, but it is the truth.
It is hot as hell here, in fact I'm pretty sure hell is cooler, or at least less humid. Termites are swarming, and the other half of the double that Big Man and I live in is infested, requiring TONS of noisy reconstruction, carpenters banging and sawing away starting very early in the morning. Despite the weirdness of it, on our side there's only nasty bothersome flying/swarming termites this and no apparent -- or according to the pest control guy who has a vested interest in finding *something* -- no un-apparent active termites or damage either. How strange and lucky for us. But all the construction work on the other half of the house has our cat Smokey and dog Keely all in a dither.
It's so hot out that really, I can't breathe and I can't think. You sweat just getting your paper or the mail. Walking the dog? Fuggedaboutit -- we wait til after dark. I literally -- I'm not kidding -- sit in the living room with a bag of ice to supplement the air conditioning, because who can afford to lower the thermostat to where you'd really be comfortable? (Big Man and I visited the lovely Latter Library the other day to pile up summer reading, and we were both thrilled at the level of air conditioning there. it reminded me of my childhood summers, when my mother would throw me out of the house, and I would escape to the St. Bernard Parish Library, which was also heavily -- and heavenly! -- air conditioned.)
Both our cars have lost air conditioning (wouldn't you know it?), and the van -- which we hate with a passion -- is too expensive to fix, and while the Mazda *might* be fixable, we're too scared right now to check, since we don't presently have the funds that our wonderful and honest but cash-or-check only mechanic would require to fix. So I rented a car for us to drive to our denominational General Assembly next week. Believe you me, it has air conditioning.
Other than all this complainin', things are fine. No tropical storms in the Gulf, the River level is going down, they're closing the spillways, and we've just celebrated the triple festival of Creole tomatoes, seafood, and Cajun/zydeco music in the French Market, and so life is good (if hot).
It is hot as hell here, in fact I'm pretty sure hell is cooler, or at least less humid. Termites are swarming, and the other half of the double that Big Man and I live in is infested, requiring TONS of noisy reconstruction, carpenters banging and sawing away starting very early in the morning. Despite the weirdness of it, on our side there's only nasty bothersome flying/swarming termites this and no apparent -- or according to the pest control guy who has a vested interest in finding *something* -- no un-apparent active termites or damage either. How strange and lucky for us. But all the construction work on the other half of the house has our cat Smokey and dog Keely all in a dither.
It's so hot out that really, I can't breathe and I can't think. You sweat just getting your paper or the mail. Walking the dog? Fuggedaboutit -- we wait til after dark. I literally -- I'm not kidding -- sit in the living room with a bag of ice to supplement the air conditioning, because who can afford to lower the thermostat to where you'd really be comfortable? (Big Man and I visited the lovely Latter Library the other day to pile up summer reading, and we were both thrilled at the level of air conditioning there. it reminded me of my childhood summers, when my mother would throw me out of the house, and I would escape to the St. Bernard Parish Library, which was also heavily -- and heavenly! -- air conditioned.)
Both our cars have lost air conditioning (wouldn't you know it?), and the van -- which we hate with a passion -- is too expensive to fix, and while the Mazda *might* be fixable, we're too scared right now to check, since we don't presently have the funds that our wonderful and honest but cash-or-check only mechanic would require to fix. So I rented a car for us to drive to our denominational General Assembly next week. Believe you me, it has air conditioning.
Other than all this complainin', things are fine. No tropical storms in the Gulf, the River level is going down, they're closing the spillways, and we've just celebrated the triple festival of Creole tomatoes, seafood, and Cajun/zydeco music in the French Market, and so life is good (if hot).
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