Mardi Gras 2007/New Orleans Update

Well, this Mardi Gras I decided to just spend at home vegging out in front of the tube. It was nice to have the day off, but it occurred to me that it's been a while since my last update on the state of the city....

The city is definately on the rebound. There are at least 4 fast food places on my daily commute, and last I checked all but one of the gas stations had re-opened. Plus that, the algiers KFC finally re-opened this week, just in time for Mardi Gras. Still, there are neighborhoods that show little sign of life, most notably the Lower 9th, New Orleans east, and the Lakefront. All of which were the ones worst devistated by the storm, so I guess it's not really surprising.

More people are moving back into their homes as damage is repaired, and bitching that they don't get to keep the butt-ugly FEMA trailers that people have come to think of as home. Many still haven't gotten the money from insurance companies or the road home program that they need to raise thier homes to the suggested levels. Crime is a little higher than you would expect, as I'm sure the media has probably informed everyone reading these words by now. Still, there is a feeling of optimism in the air here now that had been lacking... I've only heard one mention in the media that Hurricane season is only 3 months away, which surprises me when I think about how paniced people were last year this time.

So overall, things are getting back to normal in our little post-katrina world of new homes, jobs, and lives. I'm begining to think that should the apocolypse come tomorrow, next February there would still be revelers on Bourbon street, alive with the sprit of our city.

Gotta love this town.


Oh, and the best news of the week for many of my friends now living out of town.... Jeager's seafood and beer garden has officially opened at their new inland location on Clearview... anyone up for a "big A" platter?

Sailing on a sea of Black and Gold...

As you may have heard, Saturday afternoon Dave and I (lucky bastards that we are) got to go to the big game at the Superdome… the playoff game between the Saints and the Philidelphia Eagles.

Now, I normally don’t make too much of a fuss about it, but I’m a big NFL fan. (for my overseas readers, that’s the National Football League. And when I say Football, I sure as heck don’t mean soccer… I mean the game where we inflate a pig to throw at people and then bang into each other like drunken goats) I’m not one of those guys who plops himself in front of the TV every Sunday and watches every single game throughout the season… but late in the season, something inside me just gets all twitterpaited with the excitement of the upcoming playoffs and Super Bowl. Most of my life, I have been a NY Giants fan (go Big Blue Wrecking Crew!) but second to them in my heart for the past 10 years have been the New Orleans Saints. For most of my time living in this city, the Saints have been the quintessential loveable losers… The nice guys who try real hard, but always seem to blow it in the end like in an old Abbott and Costello movie. In short, they were the “Rob” of professional sports without the raw animal charisma. As the end of the season approached this year I was amazed that the Saints hadn’t blown it, and like everyone else in the greater New Orleans area I found myself yelling “Who Dat?” far more enthusiastically than I had in years past.

Problem was, the Giants were looking pretty good too. I actually surprised myself when I breathed a sigh of relief when the Giants were eliminated. I wouldn’t have to root against the Saints… who in addition to playing some superior football, were giving my Katrina-battered Neighbors something happy to talk about.

I say all this so it will come through just how excited I was when Dave offered me the ticket to Saturday’s game. I was beside myself… I did a little victory dance at my desk at work. I let loose a primeval ‘Yaulp’. I giggled uncontrollably like a schoolgirl for hours. I called everyone I knew that I thought would care. Most were happy for me. Others scared their child by yelling “You suck!” into the phone. Loudly. Dizzy’s mom still won’t speak to the “Damn Yankee what thinks he’s a Saints fan.”

I did not care. I was going to the game. “Who’s going to the game?” I would say to myself in the mirror, giving myself a ‘thumbs up’… “this guy!”

I had remembered the hoopla surrounding the Giants’ season (1990) when they went to the Super Bowl, and figured I was prepared for what awaited me when Dave and I arrived at the Dome. I was wrong. The cab let us out almost a half mile from the stadium, because that was where the tailgating began. As we walked closer, the crowds became thicker, a sea of black and gold jerseys upon which we were afloat. Even before the game, we received more than one high-five from faithful Saints fans that were simply delighted that the team had made it this far. We got there about an hour before the doors opened, and strolled through the crowd, people watching while various bands took the stage set up outside, adding to the party atmosphere. Wherever we stopped to rest or just take in the view, some stranger would start chatting with us about how great the Saints have been this season, and how they’ve been coming to games since the franchise started, and how this was their year. The crowd swayed to the loud jazz music coming from the band as they stated playing “I believe/Saints go all the way”, and the party was suddenly in full swing.

Let me tell ya… no one knows how to party like New Orleans. There were folks in costume everywhere… from old standbys like “Holy Moses” and “the Whistle Monster” to a septuplet of Elvi (or is it Elvises?) all decked out in matching black and gold jumpsuits. There was one group carrying around a bald eagle in a noose, at least one witch doctor I saw, and a guy dressed as an incongruant bottle of Duff beer.

Dave would later insist throughout the game that the Duff guy needed to get up and dance or something.

There were also a few Eagles fans circulating in the crowd, followed incessantly by a chorus of “boos” and “hisses”, as well as some more colorful terms I won’t go into here. We were following one such fan around, laughing at the comments of our fellow Saints fans, when the doors next to us suddenly opened, and in we went. Our seats were in a suite (skybox), a new experience for both me and Dave. It was catered complete with food, beer and drinks, so we grabbed a brew and watched the Saints warm up as the Superdome slowly filled. A roving photographer took our picture, ans suddenly I felt like one of the 'beautiful people'. (A fact I would later scream loudly after I got more beer in me) The music was being piped in from the stage outside, and the Steve Miller band took the stage while Dave started pointing out which player was which. I am ashamed to admit that without their uniforms on, I didn’t have a clue.

Predictably, the Superdome filled. The music started. The national anthem played. The game was on. We soon found out that our suite was right next to Deuce McAllister’s family suite, and so we got to hear his family yell at the coach every time they took him out of the game. The game itself has been recounted by better sources than I, so I’ll just skip to the after game fun…

We followed the river of black and gold (a tributary of the sea, apparently) as it made its way down Poydras street (effectively closing the street to traffic) to the French Quarter to celebrate. Dave and I found ourselves suddenly among 10,000 of our closest friends, most of whom were drunk. Everyone that stopped to chat/hug/high-five/scream ‘who dat’ with us, I would say “So, you’re coming with us to Miami, right?” while Dave started going on about renting an RV for everyone and bringing only a Hawaiian shirt, a swimsuit, and a Gumbo pot. After the twentieth time this scene played out, Dave grinned at me and said, “You know, I think we’re gonna need a bigger RV.”

Indeed.

From the Dogs Of Atlantis Management: Rob has a picture of him and Dave (taken by the roving photographer in the skybox) with Reggie Bush in the background warming up on the field below, but the scanner at DOA headquarters has been on the fritz. We will see to it that it gets posted as soon as we can.

Progress? you call that Progress?

Yesterday I realized that I've had my Buick for a little over a year, and thus far 'Maybelyne' hasn't let me down when its counted. Unfortunately, all my giddy little bits of sentimentality were blasted out of the water by the fact that it also means it was time for me to take the old girl for her yearly brake tag inspection.

I called work to say I would be late, and figured the whole process wouldn't take very long... After all, "hit your turn signals and honk the horn" is the automotive equivalent to "open wide and say ahhhh". So I pulled into the station like I normally would, waited paitently for the four cars ahead of me to get their inspection stickers, and greeted the attendant with a smile. She asked no questions, had me honk the horn once and presented me and Maybelyne with a pretty piece of paper that said "REJECTED" on it in large, friendly, red letters.

"Say what?" I asked calmly.

"I'm sorry sir, but all of your turn signal bulbs are not lensed." the Inspection lady said.

I felt May's engine huccup in dissatisfaction. The front turn signals haven't had lenses since I bought the car... I just taped them over and moved on with my life without incident.

"I know that. They have tape over them."

"Sorry, sir. No cars can be passed without lensed lights."

"It's never been a problem before, Darlin. You sure this isn't some plot just to get me to come back so you can spend more time with me?" I batted my eyelashes at her in a hopeless attempt to flirt my way out of this.

Nothing is less impressive apparently, than a large italian man calling you 'darlin' while batting his eyelashes at you.

"No, sir. New rules passed by the parish. All lights to be lensed, no cracks of any kind in windshields, and all windshield wipers must be functional. That's progress for you."

"But you didn't ask me to do the wipers."

"Saw the lens first, so I saw no need. I can give you a temporary tag till you get them fixed though. That'll be 20 dollars"

"Twenty bucks for just the temp one?"

"That's right. Make sure that you keep the temp tag somewhere hidden, though... these things are a very high theft item since the new rules."

No Kidding. I wonder why. I thought, scowling slightly."Not in the windshield? but what if I get pulled over?"

"Just show the cops the temporary one and they'll let you go."

Yeah. Right. I took the tag and drove off in search of turn signals, after calling in to my boss first to say I was going to be even later.

"Your car was rejected?" He asked.

"That's right."

"Well, how does your Buick feel about that?"

"She's a little upset about it. I'll be there as soon as I can."

"I've been to that inspection station before... the lines get pretty long after the morning hours."

"So, I promise I'll be in by 4:00. Bye." (we get off work at 4:30)

I went to several junkyards, none of which seemed to have any wrecked Buicks. I was ready to give up when someone told me to try one last one, an auto salvage place near the Huey P Long bridge. the man behind the counter had a thick cajun accent, but obviously knew his stuff.

"Nah. We got no buicks ov da riht year here. But we do have udders dat'l work."

"wait... you mean you have the lenses?"

"Uhns dat'l work, yah. Diffent year, riht part. Dat'll be 50 bucks."

"I only have 42 dollars on me, but I can.."

"Hokay... 42 bucks den."

I love this town sometimes. I thanked the man and ran out to the car before he changed his mind and had me wrestle an alligator out of a wrecked school bus to make up the extra eight bucks. I slapped the parts on the car, waited in line at the station for another couple of hours, but got to work by noon.

Maybelyne, with her new turn signals, has never looked better.

The 40,000th post on a blog today titled “a year later”…

As many of you are well aware, today is the anniversary of Hurricane Katrina’s landfall. What pisses me off is that all day… Katrina has been all up in my grill. I woke up, the first thing on the clock radio is the DJ saying what he was doing a year ago. I turn on the TV and instead of the morning traffic report, I find the local station is doing a SIXTEEN HOUR Katrina retrospective, pre-empting all their programming for the day. I get into my car, and every DJ on every station was yammering on about hurricanes. I popped in my Green Day CD for the morning commute instead. (something I NEVER DO!) I go to check my e-mail, and Hotmail has all these disturbing Katrina pictures. At work, the company plans to throw a “lunch picnic” of sorts to commemorate the occasion. My boss is downloading pictures of the devastation to decorate as we speak. I log onto bloglines to see what up in the world, and Everyone whose blog I subscribe to (with the exception of Drew, who never updates his blog anymore) has written about Katrina.

Sheesh. Now I have too. I feel like such a lemming.

The crime of it all is that I woke up in a good mood today. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, my next road trip is a scant 48 hours away, my weekend was spent creatively, and all in all I felt good. This is impossible to maintain when surrounded by people saying things like “we must never forget” or “yeah, the water was up to my waist before I could react” or the ever popular “the government did nothing!”. It’s bad enough that whenever I have met someone new for the past year, the initial conversation is ALWAYS about flooding, hurricanes, evacuation spots, FEMA’s ineptitude, evacuation plans, or how many relatives are currently crammed under your roof. And psychologists around the country are wondering why so many of us here in “the Big Hard” (not Easy anymore… trust me on this) are ready to snap?

I admit… this has not been an easy year. My bills are still behind, I changed jobs about as often as people are supposed change the oil in their car, many of my friends moved away from me (either physically or emotionally), and either the floors in my house have gotten weaker, or I’ve put on some weight.

Now is the Indian summer of my discontent. I need to get some sand under my feet this weekend, and some sun on my tummy. If anyone says the word “hurricane” to me on the road trip, I swear I will end them.

Of course, according to the weather channel, Tropical storm Ernesto will be following the path I was going to take… (Sigh).

Focus on the beach, Rob. Focus on the beach.

New Orleans update.... Hurricane plans and lack thereof.

Well, here we are looking at month twelve removed from hurricane Katrina. Here in the big easy, the news is getting better… traffic signals are functioning, businesses thought shuttered forever are opening their doors, people are moving into their homes after months in the FEMA trailers… but the good news keeps being punctuated by the horrid, like the fact that they’re still finding bodies in New Orleans East almost a year later. The mood is weird, but each day you realize that despite setbacks of stupidity and greed, New Orleanians are a robust bunch. This city will endure.

Unless of course… the city gets wiped from the face of the earth with the arrival of the next hurricane. Speaking of which, hurricane Chris churns somewhere east of the Caribbean, the first storm of the season with the potential to break into the Gulf of Mexico and wreak all sorts of havoc. Even though it’s barely a Cat 1 at this point, everyone here has an eye on it. Half the guys at the factory brought in weather band radios to keep updated, and it’s still at least a week out.

The good news is my cupboard is full of canned soup and veggies. The bad news is that I think I’m still too close to that cold I had to be welcome at my “evacuation point” at Casa Spiehler. The fact that Ace is coming home is still wonderful news, but Mama Stacey is gonna insist I wear a space suit until three at least doctors certify me germ-free.

It may be easier to just drive to New York should the hurricane head my way. If it wasn’t for the gas prices, I probably would make that my plan. Damn hurricanes. Damn Gas prices. Damn instinct for self-preservation. Shoulda moved to outer Mongolia when I had the chance.

Further updates as events warrant.