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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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 »
It was about four and a half years ago that A and I first hatched the plan to move to New Orleans. He emailed me one day at work with the idea. I responded with an enthusiasm that surprised us both, coming home that evening with countless internet print-outs detailing neighborhoods, rental prices and local arts organizations. It is entirely possible that we moved to New Orleans because I was bored that day at work.
During this entire decision-making process, we referred to our destination — in both our conversations and our hearts — exclusively as New Orleans It wasn’t until we were on the drive down (a preposterous road trip, for which we had skipped a Uhaul and instead purchased a 1982 Ford Econoline van) that it occurred to us that we, in point of fact, were moving to Louisiana. Which was an entirely different prospect. Louisiana? A holy shit kind of feeling lingered in the van for hours.
Of course, at that point, we’d gone too far, and so we forged on.
Four years later, the strange swamps and marshes of Louisiana’s landscape have come to look like home to me. But, we haven’t actually ventured outside of New Orleans too terribly much. We always mean to. There are about 8 million festivals a year in this state — plenty of good reasons to travel about — but we’ve remained more or less tied to the city.
This weekend we finally found our way to the Ponchatoula Strawberry Festival. Ponchatoula is about an hour outside of New Orleans. Like a Deep South Stars Hollow, it is quirky and precious and completely united in its small town pride. This festival is something to behold. First of all, there are strawberry’s everywhere — strawberry daiquiris, deep-fried strawberries, strawberry shortcake, strawberry ice cream, strawberry hats and t-shirts and beer koozies, gigantic strawberry kiddy-rides. The festival is not contained on
The mister and I wandered for hours and managed to achieve nearly all the great carnival clichés: he won me a Care Bear shooting plastic cups with a BB gun; we ate cotton candy; we staged a PG make out session on the Ferris wheel… All of that plus some homemade meat pies and boudin pretty much sealed the deal: Louisiana rocks. And Louisiana is home.
Posted by jackson on 16 Apr 2007
Filed Under: New Orleans | 3 Comments »
In a speech this week to the National Newspaper Association (a consortium of newspapers that target black readers), Nagin seems to have alluded to a “conspiracy” to make New Orleans a white city. And once again, people are totally freaking out.
The quote that’s getting floated around is this one:
Ladies and gentlemen, what happened in New Orleans could happen anywhere…They are studying this model of natural disasters, dispersing the community and changing the electoral process in that community.
No one denies that the hardest hit communities from the storm were, and remain to this day, largely African-American. The storm, and the sad shrinking of our city that followed, has changed New Orleans in countless ways, including in no small part a significant shift in the electoral base. It doesn’t require a huge leap to see that this has paved the way for increased wealthy, white leadership in elected offices.
Many of the responses I’ve seen to Nagin’s latest comments wonder jokingly about a mysterious room full of old white men stroking their beards, trying to figure out how to get rid black leadership in New Orleans. People are asking, “Who is this ‘they’ Nagin is referring to?” — as if, if only Nagin could point to one specific guy, we’d take him more seriously. The Times Pic is asking its readers, “Is there a plot to keep African-Americans out of New Orleans?” Staff writer Jarvis DeBarry wonders if this isn’t just a smokescreen to “divert attention from [his] own weakness.”
But with all these questions, why is no one trying to parse out what Nagin was really getting at?
Why not take a long, hard look at what people really mean when they talk about the “opportunities” Katrina created in New Orleans? Why not look at plans to demolish local housing projects without plans to develop truly affordable housing? Why not look at Pres Kabacoff’s various interviews about “mixed income” neighborhoods?
It seems like Nagin can’t help himself, especially when he’s talking to largely black audiences. Like the elephant in the living room, there sits the fact that New Orleans is becoming a city that cannot welcome the citizens who own our history. Unfortunately, he can’t speak intelligently enough about it to move people to ask, how is racism tainting the rebuilding efforts in New Orleans?
It’s too bad, because that’s exactly what we need to do if all this work is going to take us somewhere new, somewhere better, somewhere we can all call home.
Posted by jackson on 20 Mar 2007
Filed Under: New Orleans | 1 Comment »
New Orleans’ NPR station only plays classical music during the day, but thanks to the good ole internets, I just caught Bush’s interview on NPR. His response to why he didn’t mention New Orleans in his latest State of the Union? “I gave the speech I thought I needed to give.” And then, to rip off Jon Stewart, he essentially says, “The buck stops, um…well… over there.”
Insisting that his government’s response to Katrina has been “robust”, he tells Juan Williams that he has given billions to local programs.
…the money is there and the money is available…
Which is to say, I wrote the check, but the idiots down south can’t cash it! It’s a spin that’s working pretty well, playing on the notion that southerners (and in particular, Louisianians) are, as a people, crooked and slow and just plain bad at their jobs.
Oh, and we drink.
Bush’s people have been hard at work blaming local government for the destruction of New Orleans from the get-go. And to be sure, we do have our own work cut out for us. But what he’s really conveying in the end, is that we just plain are not his problem. He washes his hands of us. Which is callous and sad and completely unsurprising.
Helping us to remember our souls this lovely Monday afternoon is a very smart article in the New York Times, and an even better audio slide show. This critique of plans to demolish New Orleans’ housing projects is primarily an indictment of HUD, a cabinet department of the federal government. Yes, Mr. Bush. That’s you.
Posted by jackson on 29 Jan 2007
Filed Under: New Orleans | No Comments »
My old pal Carn told me I should be writing more about New Orleans. It’s been a while, so I’ve got a few things on my mind.
1. The Saints. The last time I cared about football game, it was 1986. I was in the fourth grade, and the Bears were playing the Patriots in the Super Bowl. You know, the year the Bears crossed over into Casey Kasem’s world with Super Bowl Shuffle. (Oh, you know, and also won the big game.)
Funny how that 1986 game was all anyone could talk about this past Sunday, as the Bears tried to play some kind of weak underdog card for their NFC Championship win. We got it. 1986 was a long, long time ago, and its cool to be back on top. But for reals? You played the Saints, a team that has never, ever, in all of its existance won any kind of NFL championship, a team that hails from, lets face it, a seriously sad-sack city, and YOU are the underdogs? Let’s give us all a break, kay?
I’m bitter. I’ll recognize it. Maybe the whiny proclamations I hear from people at work all the time (”The Saints are the ONLY thing New Orleans has going for itself! That’s it! Everything else is crap!”) have finally rubbed off on me. I felt we were entitled a win, which is obviously not how these things work.
2. Crime. We’ve got a bit of a problem. Maybe you’ve heard about? It’s not that I’m hopeless, but I’m not sure what to say…I’m way way too busy obsessing about item #3…
3. Brad and Angelina, of course! I realized yesterday that their new abode is right on my way home from work. Um, ok. Pretty much on the way. You know, an extra tour around a couple of blocks. With the slow drive by, it adds mere minutes to my afternoon commute….What? You think that’s stalkerish? Remember this: I live in New Orleans, bitches. All I had was a FOOTBALL TEAM! Do you know how sad that is for a girl like me?
Posted by jackson on 25 Jan 2007
Filed Under: New Orleans | No Comments »
…then according to Alan Richman at GQ it’s New Orleans cuisine.
OK. See, here’s the thing. There’s been a lot to see, read and hear about New Orleans in the last year. Have you noticed? I imagine that some of you are a little sick of us by now. But trust me, no one is more sick of us than us.
It turns out that when you live in a city in flux, people talk about it. A lot. How many times does Katrina come up in a day? There’s no time to count, because I am too busy talking about it. And what is the spirit of New Orleans? A year ago, I was ready to pen a book on the subject. Now I see how the vultures have circled, picked away, and come up with nothing. Because it’s spirit, stupid, and you can’t grab on it. The end. Now please, let’s talk about something else.
Except, then somebody writes something so egregiously offensive that even the yankees at Gawker can’t stand idly by. Aw, GQ. Why would we ever think you’d come up with anything different? (As the Onion AV Club christens you, GQ: For Pricks, by Pricks.)
Clearly this article has not gone unnoticed. But I’m too rankled not to throw my hat in the ring. When the contention that there’s no real difference between a roux and corn starch is the least offensive thing a writer’s got to say about my city and its cultural offerings, I’m going to post it to my blog. When the most offensive thing is that the Creole people don’t exist (are “faerie folk, like leprechauns”) well, lets just say fisticuffs are in the offering.
Posted by jackson on 14 Nov 2006
Filed Under: New Orleans | No Comments »
My primary, completely unrelated to the Big Bad Thing, complaint about New Orleans has always been the fact that we don’t have Fall. The leaves don’t change color; they just disappear sometime around January. The other other places I’ve lived, Nashville and Minneapolis, have great autumns. Tennessee’s is the best, because the oranges and reds are not harbingers of doom: endless Winter.
One thing we do have in New Orleans, however, is parties, and one of the best is Halloween. (After Mardi Gras and St. Patick’s Day that is) Anyway, I promised photographic evidence, so here it is.
Adam in gauchos and tatoo sleeves, a capoeira instructor.
Erica and Jennifer, the deviled egg.
This one of John and Michelle cracks me up.
Mummy kicks it old school.
Brian is dangerous, y’all.
The end.
Posted by jackson on 05 Nov 2006
Filed Under: New Orleans | No Comments »
As a New Orleanian who was able to evacuate, August 28th was, in many ways, the eventful day. It included some action on our part. Everything that followed followed while I sat in front of my computer in my parent’s dining room, refreshing nola.com over and over again. But on the Sunday, August 28th, we were on the move.
Up until that morning, we had planned to stay in town. We had booked a hotel room downtown, where we’d heard power was likely to stay on. There were two major contributing factors to this decision. First, real New Orleanians don’t leave. Everyone wonders why so many insisted on staying, but staying has long been a sign of strength. And of the seemingly endless rights of passage it takes to become a local, this was one we hadn’t gotten to yet. Second, our car was in the shop, so there didn’t seem to be a way to leave, anyway.
But Sunday morning, we woke up with the sun, and the storm was a Category Five. We knew we had to go. Outside, our neighbors, who never, ever leave, were panicking their way between house and car, piling sleeping bags and photo albums in the trunk of their Civic. It wasn’t a good sign.
By then, I had figured out that my friend Jennifer was out of town that weekend, and had left her car behind. Her friend had keys to her house. If I could find him, I could get in, where she was almost positive there was an extra key swimming around in her junk drawer. I called the friend. He was home so I jumped on my bike to meet him. Adam stayed back to work on the yard. We had roughly 30 potted plants hanging around, all of which would become property-destroying missles in 70 mph winds.
My bike ride was furious, pedaling past house after house with boarded up windows. There was no one left, it seemed. People had spray painted messages to the storm on the plywood that protected their homes: Fuck you Katrina! being the most popular refrane. I didn’t let myself think too long about what we’d do if I couldn’t find Jennifer’s car key.
I met the friend, got the house key. But when I got to Jennifer’s house, I couldn’t make the key work. I called her on my phone. What’s wrong? The key won’t work. The key. The key won’t work. Fuck Fuck. Do you mind if I break a window? And of course, through talking to her I calmed down, the key turned and within moments I had located the keys to the Camry.
No car has ever felt so wonderful.
We were calmer, then. I left my bike in her house, drove to the gas station, which seemed to be the last populated part of town and waited an hour for gas. In the past, I’d evacuated to Nashville to be with family, but I thought this time we should go to Houston, because it sounded like fun and because Adam still needed a suit for our upcoming wedding and the shopping there is fabulous. I called him to share this brilliant idea and he said calmly, “Except we don’t know how long we’ll be away.”
I think what he really meant was, it could be a week.
With our car all packed, we had our last two experiences in the old New Orleans. One of our neighbors, a wine distributor, gave us a bottle of champage and wished us luck. Then another neighor, across the street poked his head over the fence. I’d never talked to him much before. Our front door was opposite is back yard, which was protected by 8 foot privacy fence. He was old, and he peeked over his fence (he must have been standing on a chair) and said, “Y’all leaving too?” I told him we’d held out, but yes, we were leaving too.
“Damn,” he said, “Seems like everyone’s leaving for this one. But my wife won’t let me go. I’m thinking I’ll break in over there to get us to high ground,” he said, motioning to the elementary school across the way. I told him I supported that idea. I wished him the best of luck. But I didn’t offer him a ride. And I knew a little bit even then that I would regret it.
Then we hit the road. We listened to local radio for the first hour or so, as Nagin and Jefferson Parish President Aaron Broussard admonished people to leave. Time was running out. While we were crossing Lake Pontchartrain, they started telling people to make sure they had hatchets, or axes. They would be good for breaking through to the roof of a flooded house. It was a more innocent time, and I’d never heard of anything so horrible.
Then we just drove. We drove for hours. We made quiet friendships with the cars we rode beside. For a while, we were behind a pickup truck with about 9 kids packed into the bed. It was already raining and at the time, I thought they had it pretty bad.
After 10 hours, we had made it to Birmingham, normally a four or five hour drive. We were exhausted. My mom worked a miracle and found us a hotel room. We snuck the cats into our room and slept because there was nothing else we could do, but we didn’t get much rest. I set the alarm for 6AM, because I wanted to be awake when the storm hit home.
The territory of anniversaries, if you’re lucky, is the return of a sense memory. I don’t want to feel this way forever, but I need to feel this way sometimes.
The City of New Orleans, along with the Republican Party, wants the send out the message that we’re “open for business”. They want the world to believe we’re thriving. But even I — someone who lost nothing other than a broken car, someone who had a place to go to, someone whose whole life was not wrapped up in this city — even I am no where near over this hurt.
Posted by jackson on 29 Aug 2006
Filed Under: New Orleans | 1 Comment »
