Delta Blues

You know, I wasn't going to produce a Hurricane Katrina blog. I've been bombarded with the news all week, and then other people are doing them already, and I'd just seem like a follower. And generally when I try to blog on profound subjects (the pledge of allegiance, politics, my own psyche) I tend to flounder and end up making not much sense.

But I just keep thinking.

I keep thinking about New Orleans. As I commented in Stennie's blog, I have an affinity for that city. I've been there three times, and there's just something about it I love. And I think that something is that New Orleans is basically whatever you want it to be. You want it to be a historic city? OK, it is. You want it to be a cultural city, full of art and music? OK, it is. You want it to be a drunken party brawl? OK, it is. Everyone's happy!

The first time I was in New Orleans I was 17. Imagine that. A naive 17-year old high schooler from B'field. I spent the first day or so walking around the French Quarter, arms dangling at my side, head tilted backwards with my jaw dropped. The second or so night we were there, my sister and I were walking around the Quarter soaking in the sights and sounds. And I was seeing things I'd never seen before. The naked woman that swings out the store front window. The strip club that proudly announces "Our Girls Are Boys!" The people trying to feed the mounted policemen's horses hot dogs and hurricanes.

And then we came upon a small club with a sign in their window. I read it. "Awww," I said, "Well, actually that's kind of nice. 'Wish The Woman Of Your Dreams.'"

My sister nudged my ribs. "You might want to take a second look at that." I did. It was actually "Wash The Woman Of Your Dreams." Oh, well.

The second time I was there was in the mid-90s, when some of us flew down to see the Hokies in the Sugar Bowl. (New Orleansites seem to love the Hokies and Hokie fans. Maybe because we're always so damn glad to be there.) We hopped off the plane, got to the hotel, checked in, and immediately headed to Brennan's for breakfast. Brennan's for breakfast is Heaven Divine, because they serve you enough drinks to get you sloshed for the day, and they also have dessert. A then 6-year old or so Taytie discovered the one place on earth he could have chocolate cake for breakfast. You talk about a happy boy.

(An aside, just in case it ever shows up in Daily Trivia: What replaces the celery stalk as the garnish in a Bloody Mary at Brennan's? A hot pickled green bean. Now, there. Your mind has just been enriched.)

That night we found a restaurant to die for, completely by chance, just walked by it, it looked interesting, and so we went in. Alex Patout's. The food was great, the people were great, and we were happy. We also discovered many local beers that night. Many, many local beers.

Later during that second trip we tried a really fancy schmancy restaurant on someone's recommendation. The wait was excruciating, and the experience less than stellar. The food was sub-par, and when someone at the table made the remark about the chef, "Well, he's no Alex Patout," my sister chimed out, just a little too loudly for the ambience, "Hell, he's not even Alex Trebek." I was infected with the hopeless giggles the entire rest of the night.

The last time I was in New Orleans was over Christmas. And to be perfectly honest, I was the reason we were there. Our family had decided to take our holidays on the road, just for a change, and we had three candidates: New Orleans, Las Vegas, or a cruise. The only one of those three I would agree to was New Orleans. Las Vegas would have required flying, and I've never ever had the urge to cruise.

It was a fun trip. Mr M came along for the ride, and we met a shrimp who was evidently the tallest one in his class. I discovered martinis at the Green Bar, and was discovered at the Green Bar, by my sister, while I was smoking a clove cigarette in public. It snowed and iced for the first time in 50-some-odd years, and the cable cars were down, the Christmas Jazz Parade was canceled, and many of the roads were closed. I didn't care; I thought it was cool.

I also, in honor of this fair city, am going to come clean with a confession of monumental proportions. Mr M and I were conspirators in a gigantic lie on that trip. After my sister and her husband told us we'd never get into Preservation Hall, and we didn't, we lied and told everyone else we did. And they still all believe it, and neither of us has ever said any different. And none of them read my blog, so I hope our secret is safe till the end of time.

And now New Orleans is a mess.

People are dead, people are displaced, and people are still on rooftops waiting to be rescued. To hear it told, it's mass chaos everywhere.

And you know what I keep thinking about? Heat. New Orleans is a hot city. It's hot and it's humid (my hair! my hair!). Sure, it snowed this Christmas, but I've been there in January in a t-shirt and still had to fan myself. In the summer, it's hot beyond belief. All these people, with the stagnant air hanging, wanting water. How miserable it must be.

I also keep thinking about random people. The guy who told my fortune in Jackson Square. The street person who gave Mr M and I Mardi Gras beads. The jazz musicians who played for us while we were waiting for that Christmas parade that never came. The guy who mixed my martinis at the Green Bar.

I saw something on television yesterday that made me cry. It was a scene of a woman, at the Convention Center, in a wheelchair. Beside her was a body, already covered by a tarp. She was slumped, shaking, and holding a paper with the name of her next of kin written on it.

That was at lunch. Later in the evening, I saw the same spot, the same covered body, and the same wheelchair. Only now, the woman in the wheelchair was covered by a tarp as well. She didn't make it; hell, for all we know, she may have died while they were standing there filming her. No, I doubt that happened; it would have been way too good a story not to show, on a continuous loop, a woman breathing her last.

I saw a family living in the top floor of their home, as yet unrescued. They said they had three people and three dogs. A few jugs of water and foodstuffs for a few days. And a half-bag of dog food left. And that's just one of many, many families. And animals.

So I took the lead of Stennie, Krizzer, and a lot of us others out there. I contributed. To the Red Cross and the Humane Society. Because really, it's all we can do at this point, right? Throw money into a pile, and hope it gets down there before a lot more lives are lost.

And I try not to be overwhelmed by it all. Those who've actually made it out, been taken to Houston, are getting help. Medical help, and they're getting food, water, hygiene products, and friendly faces. I just hope people keep making it out.

And I hope it doesn't get worse before it gets better. And that in time, New Orleans will be up and running again. Giving people good memories like mine to last a lifetime.

(Above, me in a much happier time and place.)

Betland's Olympic Update:
* I tried to leave George Bush out of this blog, because we all know how I hate him and I figured anything I said would be the same old prejudicial party line. But just so you know, I still hate him.