The long post about this past weekend is dead. D-E-D, dead, gone, teats up. Damn you, Cox, I hope your passage through hell occurs at the same speed with which my email now downloads – slowly and painfully. Let’s test my short-term memory, shall we?
Dog poop. I should had had some idea of how my yesterday would go after loading the car with tools, supplies and the dolley, and detecting the smell of dog poop emanating from the front passenger-side floor. Thanks, Loki, for tracking canine feces (Westbank-ian in origin at that) into my car first and then onto your floors. Luckily for the gentleman, we celebrated the 40th anniversary of his birth the night before (the first bout of the Rollergirls season was a hoot – season tickets, here I come!), so all is forgiven. Nothing rolling down the windows, a can of Febreze and a trip to Uptown Carwash cannot solve.
Speaking of dookie, congratulations to Dambala for having his 2-month-old story on Greg Meffert’s stinky IT deal published on the front page of yesterday’s T-P. The city’s tech funding was picking guitar and filling fruit jar on the Silicon Bayou, among other nefarious things.
Since Katrina, I’ve seen and cleared out many flooded homes, but one that really depressed me was Morwen‘s. Was it the personal nature of the mission, imagining the antediluvian charm of this home or watching the mementos of two lives together so unceremoniously thrown out? Morwen was philosophical and summed it up in two words, “That’s life.” Having just wheeled out a pile of interesting yet mold-ravaged books and art, I was incensed for her, “It’s not life, Morwen. It’s criminal. Had the Corps done their job and built strong levees, your house would not be in this condition.” Ce n’est pas la vie. C’est levee.
How many such houses still stand? How many lives are so changed by this ghastly and ongoing experience? How long will this go on until we really rebuild? Life is in moving onwards and upwards one house at a time. It’s good for the soul. No group embodies this spirit better than the Arabi Wrecking Krewe, with their cheerful countenance, sense of humor, strength, inclusiveness and impressive music collection. Kudos to Ray for introducing us to this wonderful gang. Other things that made me happy were knowing all of the helpers – Morwen, Betts, Ray, Oyster, Schroeder, Karen, Dave and Cade – and using the items in my toolbox. Nothing gives me more pleasure than whipping out my igneous rock hammer to shatter big blocks of plaster and wood.
The flood was the best thing to happen to roaches, which are ubiquitous and happily reproducing in Soggyville. A burning question D and I have had was answered yesterday: Why are dead roaches found on their backs rather than their fronts? The answer: Like a turtle (or me carrying a >40-lb. backpack), a roach carries much of its exoskeleton on its dorsal side, i.e. its back. When aging or disoriented, the roach teeters, falls on its side and, in an attempt to right itself, flops over onto its back. The roach then grasps at air in search of anything to hang onto, which when it grabs, rights itself. All is then well in little roach world. If its legs find no purchase, however, the roach simply dies on its back. What a way to go. Yesterday, I observed a giant grandpa roach go through these motions successfully thanks to a nearby piece of cardboard, following which a giant piece of plaster fell from the ceiling right above the roach, flattening everything below. The roach died on its front. That’s life.
This reminds me of the Packers’ agonizing loss to the Saints at Lambeau last afternoon. Ashley et al., I stand so aghast that I’ve promised to wear a green-and-gold-decorated paper bag over my head to Fahy’s next Sunday. After the game, someone asked me why I’m still a Packers fan. That is a most stupid question, especially out of the mouth of a New Orleanian. Let me ask you why you still live in this city. It’s called loyalty. Just as we dedicate ourselves to New Orleans and its resurgence, I will cheer my team on until they come back – one first-round draft pick at a time.
On days like this, I summon the wisdom and courage of the late, great John “Bluto” Blutarsky: “Over? Did you say over? Nothing is over until we decide it is! Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor? Hell no!” Green and gold forever.