I made the mistake recently of telling my mom that, despite the fact that early voting is available in Louisiana, I really wanted to vote on November 4th. Perhaps I am being a little silly, but I know I am not alone in the ranks of people who are freak-out excited to cast their vote for Obama. I’ve been looking forward to it for what, like, four years? (Seriously. That convention speech.) And I like a little pomp with my circumstance, so I want it all to go down on election day. Then I want to glue myself to the TV all night with A and a couple of friends (but seriously, only ones who are as excited as we are) and cry my eyes out when the routing I’ve been predicting for MONTHS actually takes place.

But my dad is convinced that my vote is at risk. He wondered, first, if I had voted in New Orleans before. I have lived here for five years, and have voted several times.  (Not that it’s done me much good, Mayor Nagin.) And then he pointed out that I live in a different precinct now, which is true, and I haven’t actually voted at my new polling place yet. And he went on that my neighborhood could easily be a target for some of the voter-supression tactics we’ve been hearing about.

Relationships with parents are funny, because if he were talking about this outside of the context of telling me what to do, I would be in wholehearted agreement. No part of me doubts that these things happen — indeed it is a very real, and very scary problem that has been going ever since the government first started pretending to let black people vote. And I think we’re right to be especially worried about it this year. But because his advice is totally unsolicited, I am all, please shut up, you cranky old man. 

True?  Yes. Stupid? Even more so. But there you have it.

Posted by jackson on 23 Oct 2008
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In general, I am not a fan of attacking Sarah Palin for the little stuff. Nailing her for the preacher who visited her church and mentioned witches seems weak to me, when we have so much else to work with that is of real substance. Let’s talk about the Bush Doctrine. Let’s talk about the complexities of the economy. Let’s talk about vicitims of rape and incest. Let’s talk about Afganistan. But first! We MUST talk about the flute.

This is not a reason she can’t be our vice-president. But it is definitely a reason we can point and laugh.

Posted by jackson on 01 Oct 2008
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Posted by jackson on 11 Sep 2008
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Bongo Java is the coffee shop where A and I basically lived during our time in Nashville after Katrina. Sitting here today, it is a painfully familiar spot.

All A and I can talk about this week is how to be better evacuators. Because this time around has been, I’m going to go ahead and say it, was totally fucking miserable. There are several layers to why this has been true.

1. Automotive ridiculousness. Look, cars are fickle things. But, especially when they have over 200,000 miles on them. We spent the week leading up to the evacuation in various states of distress over this, especially since our “nice” car (read: AC) had a battery/alternator problem suddenly cropping up. And the thing is? We’re not stupid. We’ve been worrying about this eventuality all summer. We’ve been arguing over Hondas and Scions for months. In the end, we basically just decided to close our eyes and cross and fingers that please, please, pretty please, we could make it through one more hurricane season on the junkers.

This didn’t turn out so well for us. We decided to try to beat the odds by evacuating in both cars, which meant we braved the drive solo. I spent all 12 hours on the edge of total panic. It was a large and unwieldy kind of panic, but, in short, I was scared of having another seizure. Every time we stopped, I’d realize that my hands were shaking and my knees were noodles. It was dark and rainy and ridiculously long, so it was no picnic for A, either — or anyone who shared the road with us, I’m sure. Topping all of this off a constant, and quite legitimate (we did spring a major coolant leak on day 2, but A caught it in time and was able to make the repair, because he’s a hero), fear of one of the cars breaking down was too much.

2. Animals. The biggest problem with animals is that not everyone likes them. We have decided it would be much easier to evacuate with a baby, because everyone wants to see your baby, while nobody wants to see your stinky cats and dogs. My dad is allergic to dander, and my brother and his family are allergic to barking, so we’ve spent the last few days drifting from pet-friendly hotels to neighbors houses to, finally, now that it is neither Sunday nor Labor Day, to the kennel. In the process, we have spent roughly nine million dollars.

3. Evacuating just plain old sucks balls. Even though sometimes I think the world would be a easy place for us if we just had a brand new car, this is not actually true. We accept that this is part of the New Orleans package, inasmuch as we don’t think anyone needs to feel particularly sorry for us. (I feel PLENTY sorry for myself.) Our list of ways to make things better has some great ideas that will definitely help, but also, it is just a pain in the ass period. You make the best of it that you can, and then you take a deep breath and power through the rest.

And, now. Here’s a pic of the welcome wagon our niece laid out for us, which made both of us cry. The moment I saw this was the first (and only, so far) moment that I felt what all New Orleanians are hoping to feel these days: relieved.

Posted by jackson on 02 Sep 2008
Filed Under: Movies, Politics, Zuma, uncategorized | 1 Comment »

1. Karl Rove is a dick: Part 37

2. Lolis Eric Elie read my mind this morning. A and I had some fairly thorough plans to make hurricane plans.

3. Thanks to Obama for making me feel better last night, for a while.

4. These are the names of the GOP’s potential veep’s children: Track, Bristol, Willow, Piper and Trig.

5. Love to New Orleans, hold tight.

Posted by jackson on 29 Aug 2008
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I am not the hurricane worry-wart in the family. That is A’s job, and he’s quite good at it. This is what marriage is all about — dividing the work load and hoping it doesn’t fall too rigidly along gender lines. I do the laundry; he does the yardwork. He cooks the daily meals; I eat them. He worries about hurricanes; I provide the Obamian voice of hope. It is a system. We live a reasonably happy existance following it.

But right now? I’m dropping the ball, and totally freaking out. I do not like staring down the barrel of a cone of uncertainty one bit. I do not like getting emails from my boss telling me to prepare my office by the end of the week. I do not like that the governor is already making statements about a potential Lousiana landfall. And I really, really don’t like everyone running in to tell me their evacuation plans — that this time, they’re packing sweaters.

Also. The check battery light came on in my car today. Three years ago TO THE DAY I was dropping my transmission-sick Honda at the shop — where it would spend its final days. If I believed in signs — which I totally do not — this car trouble to hurricane relationship would be all I’d need to spend the next five days in a state of total panic.

Instead, I’m going to unclench my jaw, consider a glass of wine, and make sure I get all my work done this week. That way, I am guaranteed to not spend the next 5 months feeling bad that I didn’t finish typing up the board minutes. Because that really sucked last time.

Posted by jackson on 26 Aug 2008
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Me: I hate that I can’t take songs OFF of my iPod.

Brother: How do you have music on your iPod that you don’t have on your computer?…Oh right, your computer was stolen.

Me: Yep.

Brother: And then a year later your car got stolen with all of your CD’s in it?

Me: Uh huh.

Brother: So. How’s living in New Orleans going for you?

Posted by jackson on 13 Aug 2008
Filed Under: New Orleans | 1 Comment »

Right about now, lapsed Gulf-Coast bloggers everywhere are finally getting around to posting.

It’s the 28th of August, of course, the day before what we’ve come to call “The Anniversary”.

Last year at this time, I was recounting my evacuation story on this very blog. Two years ago at this time, I was stuck in a seriously gnarly traffic jam. And today, I’m sitting at my desk reading about innovative architectural plans for the city, wondering what I’ll feel like doing tomorrow.

And I was thinking it might be good to go ahead and admit that I don’t stay in New Orleans just because I love it here, even though I do. I stay in New Orleans in part because I don’t think I could live with myself if I left.

It is a fairly silly feeling, but I can’t imagine I’m alone with it. Chris Rose first said it back in the Fall of ‘05, and repeated it on NPR yesterday morning: “The only thing worse than being in New Orleans…is not being in New Orleans.”

My Mr. and spent the first year and a half after the storm pretending to wring our hands over the New Orleans question. What we were really doing was waiting for someone to tell us we weren’t crazy to live here.

Part of that is because we can hardly believe we’re grown ups, and we are always waiting for people to tell us what to do. And part of it had to do with guilt over all the help we got from family and friends in 2005, and sort of a fool-me-twice-shame-on-me attitude about what we’d do if another storm came.

Eventually we realized we had to set all that aside, and make a call one way or another. And in the face of overwhelming evidence pointing in the opposite direction — bright, flashing arrows crying “GO THE OTHER WAY!” — it was completely obvious what we were going to do.

Posted by jackson on 28 Aug 2007
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It is official.

That man is the devil.

Posted by jackson on 22 Jun 2007
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I’ve been having this pathetic fantasy for years now: I, for whatever totally unlikely reason, am given the opportunity to meet the president in an intimate setting. Something for work or whatever. Bush approaches me with a smile, working over in his mind what my nickname might be (Jackie? Knowleserstons?), and extends his hand for a shake. And I — wait for it! — refuse. No thanks, Mr. Bad Guy, I say. I don’t shake hands with, with, you know, guys like you.

Only in my mind it is super bad ass.

I was just sitting here in my office thinking about this glorious day that will never come after reading in Wonkette about the Mardi Gras themed picnic at the White House today. Paul Prudhomme (who, by the way I saw the other day — dude has had gastric bypass surgery and lost about 489 pounds) catered the event and Kermit Ruffins provided the entertainment.

It makes me want to gag to see our local heroes playing huggy bear with this administration. I can kind of see why it would be a hard gig to turn down, but sheesh. I don’t know how you could sit by Bush all noshing on gumbo and acting all pleased with himself while our city remains about one shot of tequila out of the shitcan. So, as if all of that wasn’t bad enough, here’s the exchange between Bush and Ruffins:

THE PRESIDENT: Kermit Ruffins and the Barbeque Swingers, right out of New Orleans, Louisiana. (Applause.)MR. RUFFINS: Thank you. Thanks for having us. We’re glad to be here.

THE PRESIDENT: Proud you’re here. Thanks for coming. You all enjoy yourself. Make sure you pick up all the trash after it’s over.

The only reason my fantasy isn’t me kneeing the guy in the groin is because I’m a wimp and the Secret Service scares me.

Posted by jackson on 20 Jun 2007
Filed Under: New Orleans, Politics | 1 Comment »