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Email From NOLA IIk
I'm not starting another day but I'm getting ready to. Last night the mosquitoes won, and today, this morning before dawn, they are flitting around with pride, and little medallions around their skinny necks, which say--I am a winner.
I can smell carbon monoxide coming in through my opens windows, as if their were a Mazda truck parked in my driveway, acting as generator. Carbon monoxide and deet aromas mingle to become the olfactory hallucination/realization that is me smelling me, unhappily.
I went to the corner of Canal and Rocheblave yesterday morning to get my newspaper, and the box was gone. I didn't cry, immediately. They got one at Canal and Broad though. There's plenty of time and reason to cry in the new New Orleans, you don't want to do it all in one sitting, especially first thing in the morning.
Streets lights shine on the parallel block of Tonti, from Canal to St. Louis. And the one block of Iberville, from Tonti to N. Rocheblave has a streetlight also. And the 300 block of N. Rocheblave has streetlights. I have seen three properties along a one mile stretch of Bienville, between N. Broad St. and the St. Louis Cemeteries (#2) with interior lights on at night.
It's five oh five now. I'm going to break curfew and go get a paper. I'll be back...
That was close, I was sure that cop was going to U-turn and shake me, like in Treme yesterday, but he didn't, and I just tip toed through the wide river of water gushing out of the barricaded Rite-Aid store and got my paper out of the box. Two different people over a twenty year span have reported to me that they had dreams of me back lit by post-apocalyptic scenery. If this isn't it, then it's a pretty good warmup. I met some wild dogs as I ambled down the middle of Iberville, between Broad and Dorgenois, but I know who they are so I just barked back at them and said they better get out of my way by the time I got to them. Scared 'em good, boy. They are waiting outside that house they used to live at, and that son-of-a-bitch never did keep them from roaming anyway. This morning they got Benji from Hell with them. Sometimes he's a free agent and other times he runs with them.
That was unrealistic of me, having, getting used to, and expecting what was essentially, my own private newspaper box at the corner a block and a half away.
The chauffeur still comes by occasionally with a styrofoam lunch from the Red Cross, as payment for using my bathroom and keeping his dog in the backyard while he works. But as more trucks show up on more different corners, the food is getting thinner in quality. Chauffeur, you need to get your ass back down to City Hall and bring back some of that good food they giving out over there, because this ain't no good, I said, looking at yesterday's processed chicken patty and bland, mushy, carrot medallions. This is New Orleans, even poor people eat better than this, yes they do. He just laughed. I'm dizzy with hunger half the time and drinking water like its something I imagine has calories. I am weaning myself from the convenience of the Red Cross though (saw and heard another of the mobile Red Cross trucks yesterday, hawking by bullhorn riverbound on Bienville., "come to the curb for hot food,") and even though I have had some political differences with Red Cross upper management over the years the rank and file are doing good work here, so thank you very much, and in fairness, some of your dinners have been very good.
I still get an occasional breakfast at the gay diner on Bourbon, because it is the closest authentic diner to my house (Robin's, 1.5 blocks away, flooded bad, and Betsy's, 2.5 blocks away, also flooded bad) but stretching the dollar more likely has me having peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and instant oatmeal for breakfast and then hitting an all-u-can-eat buffet on the Westbank for my one big meal a day, where for six bucks I can eat 12--15 slices of pizza or trip the lights fantastic at that Chinese buffet, for nine bucks, which includes a two dollar tip, unless I get that grumpy waiter (they bring your drink and take away your empty plates) and he only gets a buck. Yeah, and gas, and the one dollar toll for the bridge across the Mississippi. I am trying to mindset towards buying local, just never leaving New Orleans for shopping sprees in Metairie and her ugly twin sister, the Westbank, but I'm not there yet, nor is the city apparently very close to meeting me halfway with quality budget fare (something more than the Red Cross trucks, I mean).
Yesterday morning I ate at the diner on Bourbon and then strolled the streets of the mostly touristless French Quarter, nodding at passersby, and smirking lovingly at the staggering drunk party chicks pretending not to be drunk at 9a.m.
I sat on a Clarkson Bench between the locked up Jackson Square and the Presbytyre where a young goth dude engaged me in brief conversation before he was interrupted by this 12-year-old street kid who was pretending to be sixteen. I ignored the street kid until he couldn't stand it anymore and he said could he look up close at my little Ipod device (which I got to replace my Rio 5gb player that I dropped in a bucket of bleach water), because he'd never seen one. I said, sure, but I didn't take it off from around my neck. He wanted to hear something so I let him stick the ear buds up inside his ear canal and he then signaled me when he wanted me to forward to another song. The Nina Simone version of Strange Fruit scared him. He gave me back the ear buds and went to bum change from the grumpy.
The sun is up full, but its still very early. I had my peanut butter sandwich and coffee, and out the window I can see the light is different and the cold front is on its way and I'm pretty much ready to be a little cold instead of this very muggy mid November weather we've been having here.
Oh, look, today's paper says I can now stay in my 70119 home, what? Oh, only parts of the 70119?
What-EVVer.
Superior officers appear to be genuinely chagrined that some National Guardsmen got busted looting liquor from a rich person's home in the East, on Monday. And some people cried at the mayor's town meeting yesterday. Don't feel bad. Loss of control is the only control we got.
I always knew that if the Guard and/or an increased police force were to ever invade New Orleans, to rid it of its unimaginably violent crime, and I often wanted them to, that I would necessarily be a minor victim of that invasion.
I went and visited Claude Treme's grave at St. Louis #2 yesterday, which is a thing you couldn't really do when the Iberville projects were occupied, because what's the point of seeing a bunch of historic dead people in tombs that no fucking nobody is taking care of (no diss to the groundskeepers, who are keeping it free of trash) only to be scoped by someone from the upper apartments of the Iberville, scoping you as victim, wait boy, wait right there and Ima come and fuck you up; I could never really see the point. But I was there yesterday and then I went to the nearby Treme neighborhood and walked around a bit, but boy, this ain't Pre-K, and you can't just stroll through neighborhoods, sightseeing. Of course, most of the neighborhoods I've reported from over the years, you couldn't or shouldn't have ever done it, then, or now. Especially if they are deemed as important neighborhoods and you are not known, and everybody, everybody, is concerned about looting. So I'm just walking back to my truck and a cruiser stops angled in the street, pointing itself right at me, walking the curb. The angle implies urgency. I'm already bored by implied urgency. But I'm a good little citizen, what can I do for you officer? He wants to know who I am and, by tone, what the fucking hell am I doing here? Really, literally, I was just walking, not staring, not gawking, but I was circuiting the neighborhood somewhat, so somebody probably called the cops. There is a noticeable distrust of outsiders here so I told him who I was and where I lived. You could tell for a second he thought I was making up my address, but in the interest of moving things along, I asked him if he would mind if I showed him my ID. Seemed like a good idea to him. Then I got to become James, which is fine by me except that it reminds me of doctor's offices and, well, being hassled by cops. I even had the name of a neighborhood activist to drop and the cop Q&A'd me a little bit but I just said, hey, I don't know her that well, I just met her. I don't chat with anybody, about anybody else (unless they buying me a beer, and frankly you better just throw in an oyster po-boy). The cop seemed both amused and impressed that the activist had spread glitter all over her front porch, to discourage the crack afficianados, who were not impressed with her nascent ownership of the property.
Is that right? You spread glitter on your porch? Is that what he said? Because I can see that I guess, like, it sticks to them, identifies them?
Anyway, the activist's house got blown completely down by the wind of Katrina. So I was looking at it, and the neighborhood, and then walking back to my truck.
Why'd you park over there?
Because the street was blocked.
He nodded. I was giving him all the right answers. He was trying to be a little more friendly now. Had to run my license though, which is cool with me, business is business. I'll say it again, I like cops, when they are doing their jobs, even if I am a minor victim of that work ethic. Conversationally now, just between pals, he asked me did I have anything attached to me? I just will not unnecessarily lie to cops. I said, I'm really not sure, you better check it out. That could be construed as smart alecky but I think he could tell that although I was a little put out by this, that I was really trying to be a good sport, and he was trying, too. You know, it takes a while to run a person, NCIC? The cop driving never even got out or looked up at me. Just doing his job. Chilling, I hope, until the true very bad motherfuckers start moving back, and open up new markets. I'm standing on the sidewalk trying to make as much eye-contact with as many passing motorists as I can--hi, nice to meet you, finally. After about five minutes, cop says, James? Your social? I gave it to him. Shortly, he got out of the passenger seat and extended to me my Louisiana license, and said, Thank you. I said, thank you, right back at him, and you can call me a sycophantic, suck-up, bitch ass punk for saying that to a cop, but no, I am not really, I was just being sincere. What I left unsaid was--"for not searching me, copper."