only in New Orleans

Sooo...today....craziness...but I need to write about last night. And about my neighbor. Different neighbor. Not the Most Awesome Neighbors Ever, i.e., mentioned below. But the other neighbor. Who is awesome...in his own way. Stan. *sigh* Stan. I heart Stan. I really do. Despite our (relatively miniscule) ups and downs. Stan is the guy who, after finding out that my ex dumped me on my ass, STAT, showed up on my doorstep w/, I shit you not, chocolates in one hand and Valium in the other (unbeknownst (at the moment) to me) b/c, and I quote, "these will help you sleep." See, Stan has a crush on me, despite his knowledge of the fact that I don't play on his team. We once spent a long evening together discussing everything from God's (non)existence to the pandemic of violence in schools these days. That was the evening Stan found out. And he proceeded to give me one of those Catholic prayer cards. Of St. Jude. The patron saint of Lost Causes. I know. And I know this because I'm Catholic. Because once you're Catholic, you're Catholic, whether you like it or not. Stan, however, is a convert. But he's a good egg. He really is.

So that evening I accepted his prayer card, with some trepidation (there's no hope for me and I'm OK w/that) and the other evening I accepted his Valium and his chocolates, even though I (at the time) had no idea what the former was. But I did because I trust Stan and I know that he has my well-being at heart.

But so anyway...last night...last night Stan knocks at my door. It's 8 p.m. Not that that matters. Or, at least, normally it doesn't. I open my door and say, "Hi Stan." He says, "Um, I know this is a weird question but..." And I think, oh, here we go. "But you're the only person I can ask..." Oh, hail yeah, doubly here we go. Sweet! He says, "I know it's 8...but is it 8 a.m. or 8 p.m.???" I take this in. And I look at the sky. Sure 'nuff, it's overcast like nobody's business and it could really be either the sun's coming up or the sun's going down. And he says, "I drank a bottle of wine and I fell asleep. And I woke up and made a pot of coffee and then I went outside. And no one's leaving for work. And I got confused."

I say, "It's 8 p.m." And he looks relieved. And he says thanks. And he says, "I'm sorry, and I know that was a weird question but you're the only one I could ask. And I was so freaked out." It's OK Stan. I understand. And I say, "Actually, this is good b/c you've got, like, another 14 hours. It's like a little gift from God." And as he's walking down the steps of my porch he says, "I don't know what I'm gonna do with all that coffee."

Me either. But I do know this. I love this city.

the sun is shining, we just can't see it.

Sooo...today I went to my first New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival, aka., Jazzfest. It costs between $40 and $50 bucks a day, depending upon how lazy one is (advance v. @ the gate) and so I had some decisions to make. I went today as opposed to Friday and Saturday, Friday being the first official day, because today my all-time favorite living jazz performer was going to be there. I *can't even begin* to tell you how excited I was when I first found this out. I've tried to see her in NYC so many times it's disgusting. She was always in Paris. Always. No, I'm not kidding. I wish I were. I have somehow managed to catch Branford Marsalis at the Village Vanguard and lesser names at Small's, before it kept closing intermittently, but I could never catch a break, not even a little bit, w/Cassandra Wilson.
(Oh, and just a little real-time update...our boys are, at this very moment, up by 10 over the Mavs at the beginning of the 4th quarter in game 1. IN Dallas! And Dallas just committed a shot-clock violation. HAH!!)

But so anyway...I pack up for Jazzfest and I will just go ahead and remark upon how well-prepared I am. *strutting* Mostly because of this. I had a fold-up chair (thanks Kate!) and in a small bag I put my camera and some TP in separate Ziploc bags, a jacket in case it got cold, and some extra Ziplocs...for what?...just in case. Oh, and a towel. I brought a towel. Oh, and at the last minute I threw in my sunglasses. Yeah, right.

On S. Broad it went in a matter of seconds from not raining at all to a torrential downpour. Like car-flooding, people-start-pulling-over torrential downpour. And I will just point out, this *is* New Orleans so, um, the standards for those sorts of things are actually quite a bit higher here. Just sayin'. But I am unfazed. I happen to love the rain. So not only am I not-fazed I'm actually ecstatic. In fact, I can't think of anything at all I'd rather be doing than seeing Cassandra Wilson In-The-Rain. And I'll just go ahead and mention this now, b/c I didn't know until after I got home buuhhttt...we were under a flash flood watch. Well, ahem, that explains *a lot*.


(And because Blogger can't seem to upload a photo in under an hour tonight, I'll just note that the Hornets WON!! 97-84 Sweet!!!)

But I am getting ahead of myself. The torrential downpour, surprisingly, actually made it harder to park. But after much looking I eventually found a space deep in the residential confines of my beloved Midcity (b/c that's where my ethnic fam settled and lives still. No worries, if I stay here someday I will live there.) But so I'm sitting there in my car, surveying things, making sure I have everything, stowing away keys in the Very Safe zipper pocket of my bag, when it occurs to me: Dude, you should *write down* where you've parked. Yes, I should. And normally where I write things is on my hand. But given the weather situation that's not really gonna serve the purpose. So I set aside a piece of paper, get out of the car (without, I'll just note, soon to be installed raingear) to hunt for probably non-existent street signs when, lo, who do I run into (almost literally) but The Shirtless Guy Who Can't Find His Car. He blurts, a little panicky, "I can't find my car!" I'm really sorry, man. And I am Proud.Of.Myself. Strangely, there are *two* street signs on that very corner. I get back in my car, well and evenly drenched, and write things down. And I put that piece of paper in a Ziploc bag, lemme tell you. Because I sure as shit don't wanna be That Guy.

I put my bag over my back, my chair over my bag, open my umbrella and I'm off. In ahbouutt 5 minutes I am soaked. S'aight, I am so happy to be going to Jazzfest (something I've dreamed of since I was wee) and to be seeing Cassandra Wilson (something I've dreamed of since the first time I listened to New Moon Daughter in its entirety...circa 1996) that I really just Do.Not.Care. Not even a little bit. I mean, can I just tell you, I am grinning *from ear-to-flipping-ear*. I can't stop. I am aware that I probably look a little touched, as they say in my homeland.

And I'm bopping along through Midcity and I see some people out on their porch. And we exchange glances and I keep going. But I was thinking, "I should get them to take a before-picture." So I go back. And I can tell they're like, um, why is that "special" person coming back? I hope it's not to talk to us... And also, I mean, people, it is *POURING*. And I walk up, having removed (hopefully) all remnants of grinning from face, and say, "Um, I know this is a silly request but would you mind taking my picture?" And I can tell then that they are a little frightened, that they're now thinking, 'Oh God!!, Now the special person wants us to take her picture!'


But they say yes and I'm explaining that it's my first Jazzfest and that I'm super-psyched, and that I live here, which is in large part why I'm now able even to go to Jazzfest, etc., etc., and they ask where I live and what I do. And I tell them. And then one of them says, "Thank you for moving here." And I'm floored. I mean, I am and I'm not. That sentiment has been expressed to me a couple of times since I've been here, but it's just been kind of implied. No one has ever said to me, Thank you for moving here. And I said, "Don't thank me. I *love* it here. There's nowhere else I'd rather be, actually." And I explained how after the storm I thought seriously about quitting my then-job and moving here and doing construction and just making the best of a bad situation. And then the guy who's taking my picture asks me what my last name is. 'That is an odd question,' I think. And I tell him my last name. And he looks confused. And I see he's looking at my shirt. And I get it, all the sudden. Because I'm wearing my "Italians Do It Better" shirt. (Because they do.) And I say, "Oh, but my real last name is Casalvieri. My dad only changed it because he was discriminated against as an Italian. He was the first-born son of Italian immigrants." At which point this guy says, "OH, well, Alright Then! And my name is [Italian last name 1] and this is [Italian last name 2] and [Italian last name 3] and (the woman who thanked me) [Italian last name 4]." And I should have known, given that I was in Midcity. And given how all of these people were both very good-looking and very friendly. And then he explained to me how most of the Italians in New Orleans are Sicilians b/c in the early 1900s there was a severe drought in Sicily and a lot of those immigrants came here (instead of staying in NYC) b/c here the climate is much more Mediterranean. I thought about pointing out that it might also be b/c here is not a place where one would ever be in danger of a severe drought. But I refrained.

And the next thing I know this quasi-elderly man [Italian last name 3] is asking me if I'm hungry. Yes, as a matter of fact I am. I have not yet eaten today. And he proceeds to tell me exactly The Best Place To Eat At Jazzfest. And lord almighty was he right. Because of course I didn't not follow his advice. Of course I didn't. He tells me not only where to go and precisely how to get there, he tells me what to order. So, eventually, later than I wanted but you've seen a bit of what I'm up against already,



I get myself to the Prejean's booth and I order, per his instructions, the andouille gumbo and the stuffed mushrooms. Holy Shit!! That was G-O-D, Good, lemme tell you. And I'm *totally* going back when I go next weekend.

So we do everything but hug, kiss, and exchange digits and I leave. And by this time it's just a steady even downpour. And by the time I get to the gates it's almost a drizzle. I get in the Fairgrounds and am a little taken aback. You see, the track and its lower environs are now a nice, egg-shaped river. Hmm. Interesting. Oh well. At least there's that nice orange bridge to help us all out...


And I shit you not, I'm not making this up, b/c why would I, really?, as I'm coming in I hear Irma Thomas singing "It's Raining."


As can be seen, she's on the main stage. And she's singing it's raining. And people are *Get-Ting Down*, lemme tell you. I mean, it's funny. It really is just funny.


I worm my way closer and stop. And ascertain. And take it all in. So this is Jazzfest. This is what compares to all those long-imagined images and ideas in my head. Hmm.


It's fucking wet is what it is. This was *not* part of those pictures.

But no one really cares. Seriously. No one *really cares.* I noticed it happening on my way in, actually. That thing. That New Orleans thing. That just freaking taking it in stride. Like no people or place I've ever seen. I mean, *clearly*. These are some people who know How To Take Some Shit In Stride, know whut I'm sayin'?

But what happened then...and what happened with increasing frequency throughout the day...was that everyone was smiling at everyone else. I can't tell you the number of times my flip-flops would be sucking me securely to some random patch of ground--flip-flops+mud=STUCK--and I'd look up and somebody'd be grinning at me and I'd just grin back. And I watched the exact same thing happen to a hundred other people. Or those times when I was thigh-deep in water and the person coming towards me was just grinning their face off, as was I. And don't even get me started on the surprisingly large, heretofore unknown, number of ways One Living Person Can Accidentally Splash Mud On Another Living Person. Seriously, don't get me started. I managed somehow to get mud in *my beer*. It was chest-high. Always. I don't even know how that happened. Dirt still tastes like it did in elementary school, just in case you were wondering.

But back to Irma and It's Raining...the guy who happened to be in front of me after I stopped worming was really enjoying himself. He was dancing and singing and drinking and smoking and chatting with some people around him, but not in an annoying-STFU kind of way. So I arrive and I see him size me up. I'm dancing upon arrival. I am. And before too long he says, "You know, the sun is coming out." And he points up. And I look up and I can see, like, an ever-so-slightly less purple patch of sky. And I look back at him and say, "Maybe." As in, anything's logically possible, man, it's not a round square, sure. But then, veehhrrry gradually, that patch of sky sort of starts to lighten. And grow. And this guy? This guy puts his sunglasses on. And he makes A Big Production of it. There wasn't a person in the 20-foot radius who wasn't aware that this guy was Putting His Sunglasses ON. Seriously. It was ridiculous. And soon he's yelling, "The sun is coming out!! The sun is coming out!!" And people are laughing but it *is* getting lighter. And right then Irma's at the midpoint of her set and she's already been thanking people for coming, it means so much that you're here, it means so much to this city, please come back again, etc., etc. And at a different point she was saying how much she appreciated how goddamn soaked we all were and how we were here anyway. And how that's why she keeps doing this, despite her being "elderly," because she appreciates how much people appreciate her. But at this particular break, right here

she all the sudden says, "I think the sun might be coming out." And this guy??...goes ballistic. I mean, he is jumping up and freaking down. And then, and then, Irma says, "Actually, right now, and all day, the sun *is* shining, we just can't see it."

And I'm *still* thinking about that one. And I think prolly I will be for a while.

kids-n-violence vs. demands of consistency

Actually, now that I think about it, that first part should be the name of an indie-emo band, doncha think?

But back to the subject at hand...earlier this evening I went outside to check the rain situation vis a vis running. Not for the "normal" reasons...I, unlike most people, *prefer* to run in the rain, hence I'm constantly on the look-out for it. Alas, it had stopped. But my neighbors--who happen to be--By Far--THE MOST Awesome Neighbors In The World--were outside. All of them. The whole familial unit. Zach, Zoe, and Angelina. Ordered by entrance into this world. Angelina is four. And Zach and Zoe are responsible for that, biologically and every other way. Lest you think my love for them all is merely hyperbolic or at best biased, witness the following:

I'm checking the rain, Zach is like 'hey birthday girl!" and Angelina is in purple heels. I remark on said heels, "They are *SO* pretty!" I say. "They are heels," she says. And we both remark on how they are purple with a flower on top.

Her mom and I begin a conversation regarding her former employer's being "disapproving" of her reluctance to "sell stuff". She's a masseuse at a high-end salon. She's like, "Um, I'm not here to *Sell Stuff*." But then I point out, "Well, you can't really be *here* and be reluctant to Sell Stuff, Zoe." That's just not a real possibility. At which point, Angelina interjects: "I've figured out how to get rid of Cameron." Yes, dear reader, you heard right, this all-of-only-a-week-ago four-year-old girl (she's got the Aries curse *sigh*) states that she has in fact determined the best way to "get rid of" this Cameron fellow. Naturally I ask...."Who's Cameron?" And she says, "Cameron is a boy at pre-school who is always talking about guns. And about violence. And about violent guns. *sigh*" Yes, she really did sigh.

Good God Almighty!!! Not only is this fellow-four-year-old talking about guns *and* violence but also Violent Guns!!! Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!!

Angelina, apparently, is so vexed by this that she has concocted, all on her own, a plan for "getting rid of" Cameron. Yes, those *are* her exact words: "getting rid of." She breaks it down for me. First, she will cover him in stinging caterpillars. (Thank God those native New Orleanian beasts can finally be put to some good use!) This will, in turn, make his pee smell bad. Then he will be put in the oven and we will eat him. And then we will have apple Jello for dessert.

I look at Zach and Zoe. It's clear that this is not their first exposure to The Plan to Get Rid Of Cameron. I say, "Well that's a great plan! Gimme some." And she does. And I look at Zach and Zoe again and point to my head, "She's got it going on," I say. "I mean, that is a D-E-A-T-H (so she can't understand me) by natural causes. No trace. No evidence." Zach nods approvingly.

Zoe, never one slow on the uptake, not even a little bit, then asks this creature...her offspring..."Um, Angelina...you know...don't you think that *covering Cameron in caterpillars* (oh dear reader, the alliteration...so right...and so completely organic) is in itself a little violent?" At which point I remark that I wasn't gonna bring that up myself but I'm glad someone else did. And lest we forget the oven...I mean, remember, all that's in question at this point is being covered in stinging caterpillars...

And Angelina's reply? "Well, that's different." And you know, it kinda is.

expressions of anger or lack thereof....actually, mostly the lack thereof

I've been meaning to write this since Friday a.m. but haven't. And not, really, for any good reason(s). So our topic today, kids....'anger'...is a close, personal friend of mine....and, strangely, it came up, in one of my many recent forays into Bizarro World; namely, in my meeting with The Associate Dean. Turns out she's interested in it as a research topic. Of sorts. Because aren't all research topics topics of sorts...

Her own perspective was pseudo-outside-American(a) because she's in the French department, prior to her "promotion" to Associate Dean...consequently her observation(s) were that not only is anger an emotion to be shunned, downplayed, pushed down and away, abhorred, a sign of some sort of mental insubordination, but also that *that* it was thought of as such was a peculiarly *American* way of thinking. Interesting. I see it. Absolutely.

But then I might be biased, given our special relationship. Initially, I did not divulge my clandestine dealings w/anger. I've learned it's best usually to not, especially w/those who have dominion over my continued employment. But by the end of our two hour breakfast I had cracked a bit, not that it takes too much for me to crack, because it doesn't and I'm OK with that, but, in my defense, I did feel peculiarly at ease with the A.D., in part b/c of our shared view on the wrongness of Most People's views on anger.

I have both a long-lived, questionably genetic relationship with anger, but also a lot of close, first-person experience with it, so I feel particularly well-placed to appreciate what the A.D. next put down. As we were walking back to campus, she told me of a mutual colleague who had a chapter of a book on a fairly unique subculture in China. First, they were, for all social intents and purposes, genderless. Hmm. That's definitely a feat to pull off. But that's not what's interesting about them. What's interesting about them is their espousal--no, their complete and unusually healthy treatment--of individual anger. Given the particular culture, the family unit is paramount. Therefore, if a spouse/parent dies "young," their death is especially grievous. Because not only are they *dead* themselves, but they presumably leave children and spouses parentless and partnerless. And in a society/culture in which The Family is the Most Basic Cultural Unit, up and dying is a particularly heinous offense.

As a result, if a spouse or parent commits said offense, it is thereby not only permissible but completely *underfuckingstandable* that their living breathing partner and/or offspring *throw rocks at their grave.* Yes, you heard me right, throw rocks at their grave. Because you know what? Yeah, it wasn't your *fault* that you left....but nonetheless, It Sucks to Be Me After You Did. And that is why It Is More Than OK to throw rocks at your grave.

reifying the presumption of heterosexuality

So...this past Monday I attended this. And it was outstanding. Really, truly outstanding. However, content re. foreign policy, attempts at eradicating genocide, and Barackarama aside, I found myself unable to refrain from commenting about something far less contentful--less obvious--but nonetheless important, imo. Or at least, for me, really galling.

But in order for what I'm irritated by to make sense there are some things you have to know first. Here's the thing about watching Samantha Power speak. She's dynamic. She's passionate. She's wicked smart. She's off-the-charts engaging. She's ridiculously articulate and ridiculously precise. I could go on.... In short, she's got that thing, *that thing*. That certain je ne sais quoi.

And, and, *and*...she seems like a nice person. Like a good egg. Moreover, she's not just fighting The Good Fight, she's fighting The Big-Picture All-Over-the-World Good Fight, for chrissake. Plus, and this is my personal favorite, she said, "George Bush had a boy crush on Sergio Vieira de Mello." Yes, she actually said that. I mean, really folks, who says such things? That won me over totally, and my intellectual crush was already well on its way to fruition.

And lest you think I'm biased, quotes from the following:

"[S]he commands a presence all her own."

"Somehow, through her broad smile and her simmering energy, this protest doesn't come off as a whine, but maybe even something that adds to her valor, as evidenced by the swarm around her afterward. Students are swept up in the romance of her, the responsibility she personifies."

"Richard Holbrooke says of Power. "I can name you only a handful of journalists with that commitment: Newsday's Roy Gutman, who won the Pulitzer. He was the guy who really uncovered the genocide in Bosnia. Christiane Amanpour, when she was in the Balkans for CNN. David Halberstam in Vietnam. There are very few voices like that."

High praise indeed. On a more personal note, not only did this woman strike me as all of the above but she also seemed truly sincere. Utterly genuine. And also very much like the kind of person I'd like to have a beer with.

Finally, George Clooney, no slouch at roundball, has called her the best he's ever played with. Oh, wait, *female*. The best female with whom he's ever played. That's important. An important qualification. To wit,

"And she's tough in the paint. (She once aspired to be a sports announcer.) Her pal George Clooney shot around with her with such vigor that his dormant ER skills had to come into play: "It was me trying to take advantage of her inside game by breaking her finger," he jokes in an e-mail, confirming that when it comes to female hoops opponents, "she's the best I've played against."

But back to the gall. Back to what's been bugging me for going on two days now. All of the above is in the service of contextualizing the real irritation that provoked this post. You see, "apparently" in virtue of what's been said about her, written about her, and her personal mannerisms and communicative style, there might be "some confusion," shall we say, as to whose team she's on.

And, again, just from my first-person perspective I have to say that I'dve been surprised if she batted *solely* for the home team. Home and away seemed entirely possible, if not more likely. Just sayin'.

So here we go...in the article referenced above (appearing in Mens's Vogue,) there is also the following sentence:

"Though she's formidable in conflict, Rohde stresses that she's also a fun confidante, phoning in after highs and lows in her relationships with men, and ever-eager to talk Bosox box scores."


Now, just to provide some context, Rohde is a a journalist who was captured in Bosnia and whose release Power lobbied for, as a mere first-year law student at Harvard, and now they're BFF.

But the issue in the sentence....WTF?!?

What the sentence strikes me as actually *meaning* is the following: "Listen up everybody, this woman might very well appear or *does* appear, for all intents and purposes, to be a lesbian/queer, but she's NOT, she's really freaking *NOT*, OK?"

And this overt pronouncement of her sexual preference for men strikes me as extra-crispy glaring given the presumption of heterosexuality. I mean, if Power is really heterosexual then why say anything *at all*? I mean, not saying anything at all is what everyone always does. All the time.

Just to bring the point home...no one (outside of the non-heterosexual community(ies), of course) ever, never ever, says, "My friend who's a doctor keeps having to end all his relations with WOMEN because they can't seem to get over the fact that they both absolutely have to sleep on the right side of the bed," or "My friend Madison, in all of her relationships with MEN, really gets the short end of the stick. And none of us can figure out why."

Can someone please clarify what's going on here? Or explain. Something. I mean, really. I just *do not* understand.

The relationship between street names and their cities.

This morning I was driving through Gentilly, which I've driven through like maybe 5 times total since I've lived here, and I was noticing the street names of some of the cross streets. Avoiding dishwasher-sized potholes (thanks Chris Rose!) slows one down enough to Notice Things. And my second thought, after noting that there were in fact street signs, was their names. Humanity. Benefit. Two streets that run *parallel* to one another. No, I'm not making this up. You really *can't* make this stuff up. Here? Really? In this city? Now? And...of course...before. Because the names don't change, no matter what.

And I thought, well, the Humanity one I can see. Because I can. Yes, this...*this*...this is some Humanity here, folks, let me tell you. It's *all* Humanity *all* the time...now, especially.

But Benefit? I don't know. I don't really see that so much. But then, again, they *are* running parallel...

For example, not five minutes before I had been standing in line at the Chevron at the corner of South Claiborne and Elysian Fields and like 7 people were in line to pay for whatever and the guy holding us all up? Well, he needed 5's and 1's. I mean, he *really* needed him some 5's and 1's, you know what I'm sayin'? And the attendant, enclosed in his glass case, "protected," was explaining that it was a Sunday, i.e., low on small bills, my brother, and hey, I've got a business to run, and hey, you see those people piling up in line behind you? Back and forth and back and forth. 5's and 1's and 5's and 1's. And finally the attendant relents and suddenly 3 people in front of me are gone. And by the time I'm forking over my money some 60+ year-old black woman in a seriously glittery pink top is trying to cut in two different lines at once saying, "I've got some place to *BE*!" And everyone that's been quietly stewing ignores her, waiting for their turn to Get The Hell Out of The Chevron At The Corner of South Claiborne and Elysian Fields. And finally I bounce out, so much later now, definitely I've missed getting in on the morning's first b-ball game.

And as I'm trotting to my car, a woman to the left of the door asks me for 2 quarters. Now, normally I would politely decline such requests and be on my way. Especially if I'm late to be somewhere. But something about the precision of the request...2 quarters...exactly 2 quarters. But it wasn't even that, really. Really what it was--what got me...what made me think twice--was that I had just paid for my gasoline with all of the change that my car contained, because I don't get paid until tomorrow and I was dangerously close to E and Gentilly is not a neighborhood in which I want to run out of gas, even on a bright, sunny, God-given Sunday morning. And I empty my pockets, literally, and say, "I *just* used all my change for gas." And she looks at me and I look at her. And I say, "Lemme look in my car, I bet I have two quarters somewhere." And I go to my car and even though I thought I'd gotten all possible change earlier, I find two quarters. And I come back and give them to her. And she says, "Thanks, baby." And I say, "No problem." And as I'm starting my car I actually think, bad as it sounds, "I wonder if those are going to the 5's and 1's guy." And as I round the backside of the Chevron, I see her on the pay phone. And I feel good. Really good.

I don't know, maybe Humanity and Benefit do run parallel. I mean, sometimes. Even here.