Dedicated readers,
Since I'm no longer flying solo, I'm writing on a different blog with my new copilot. Check out Mergers + Acquisitions to read the adventures of a young couple in New Orleans and in love. We're having twice the fun!
M and A
Friday, December 31, 2010
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Carl III
"As that saying goes, 'If you don't like the weather in southeast Louisiana, just wait a day or so because it will change,'" says Carl Arredondo. When I check the radar images for New Orleans and the surrounding areas, the serene face of this Chief Meteorologist assures me that, rain or shine, he will contrive beforehand which it will be. WWLTV has an interesting write-up about this man, which I recommend.
Some of you know that meteorology has always entirely escaped me, thus my hat is off to this master of the winds.
Some of you know that meteorology has always entirely escaped me, thus my hat is off to this master of the winds.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Soon, It's Personal
I'm worrying more than most about the tropical depression moving toward the Yucatan tonight. Hopefully it will get tired over land and only bring light, cooling showers to the Gulf of Mexico, instead of picking up speed, scattering the fleet, and driving twenty-foot waves of suffocating brown sludge over the fragile coast, spilling the Gulf's spill into towns and fields in Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, and Florida. That is a big enough worry, to be sure.
But it might all be done in my name. The National Hurricane Center, like an eager parent, has the name of the first hurricane of 2010 picked out and ready to go: Alex.
Maybe a more apt comparison would be to the first bullet in the gun. BP doesn't expect to stop making its mess before August, during which two full months of hurricane season (supposed to be a busy one this year) shall pass. There are hurricanes in the Gulf every year. The gun will fire. I just wish the first bullet wasn't signed by me.
That old trope, about a far-away butterfly beating its wings, comes to mind. The NHC has had its names lined up for years. And this tropical storm is not the product of one lost butterfly, but a pattern of weather that has been unbroken since shortly after the ice age. But this goddamn mess--when did the air first stir that brought us this disaster in April?
But it might all be done in my name. The National Hurricane Center, like an eager parent, has the name of the first hurricane of 2010 picked out and ready to go: Alex.
Maybe a more apt comparison would be to the first bullet in the gun. BP doesn't expect to stop making its mess before August, during which two full months of hurricane season (supposed to be a busy one this year) shall pass. There are hurricanes in the Gulf every year. The gun will fire. I just wish the first bullet wasn't signed by me.
That old trope, about a far-away butterfly beating its wings, comes to mind. The NHC has had its names lined up for years. And this tropical storm is not the product of one lost butterfly, but a pattern of weather that has been unbroken since shortly after the ice age. But this goddamn mess--when did the air first stir that brought us this disaster in April?
Friday, May 21, 2010
Maps of Disaster
See the blot grow in this Times-Picayune graphic.
See a live-updated map (created by Tulane students) of reports of oil sightings.
See a live-updated map (created by Tulane students) of reports of oil sightings.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
"This is nauseating."
I read the latest on where the oil is coming ashore, and scrolled through the comments made (primarily) by locals. Some simply vent their anger at BP, some suggest proper retribution for their mistakes, some complain about the wider problem of an "oil addiction," and some scorn hope out of hopelessness. The latter speak with cynicism, trying their best to make a joke of something of which they are terrified, but their best efforts cannot lighten the long shadow thrown by the news that only gets worse.
The estimate of the size of the spill increases, the solutions that are in place (like chemical dispersants) take harsh criticism, and all the while the oil continues to gush. One of the commenters corrected the name "spill"--"It's an unlimited oil volcano!"--to the approbation of his fellow commenters, but even that small victory of language cannot stop the disaster it so effectively describes.
Underwater, the oil was an unseen disaster. Some knew what it truly entailed--what trouble that ecosystem saw--but while the visible oil floated harmlessly on the surface, far out in the Gulf, the miles of booms and fleets of skimmers and great concrete contrivances seemed noble and maybe even hopeful. The enemy may have been burning the fields, but they had not yet breached the wall. Upon landfall, the tide of opinion has changed. The best efforts at containment now look futile, the fleets pitiful, the booms flimsy. The war seems lost.
The beginning of the Ode to Man, which starts at line 332 in Sophocles' Antigone, uses the word deinos to describe man, a word which spans two English meanings, both wonderful and terrible, best captured in the idea of "awe." (I have altered David Grene's translation, below, to make use of that instead of "wonder," as he renders it.)
"Many are those things which inspire awe,
none is more awful than man.
This it is that crosses the sea
with the south winds storming and the waves swelling
breaking around him in roaring surf.
He it is who wears away
the Earth, oldest of gods, immortal, unwearied,
as the plows wind across her from year to year
when he works her with the breed that comes from horses..."
The scariest thing about British Petroleum's oil disaster in the Gulf of Mexico is the way our own powers have turned on us. The finest technology history has ever seen allowed man in his greatest strength to tap the resources of the earth, not just below the soil of fertile fields, but thousands of feet below the sea, where his own meager body could never go alone. What beautiful might! But now, what we opened with our strength we cannot close again, what we created we cannot destroy.
It has been a full month since we lost control of the power we had formerly harnessed. But only when the oil washed ashore on the mainland, did the wonderful become terrible.
The estimate of the size of the spill increases, the solutions that are in place (like chemical dispersants) take harsh criticism, and all the while the oil continues to gush. One of the commenters corrected the name "spill"--"It's an unlimited oil volcano!"--to the approbation of his fellow commenters, but even that small victory of language cannot stop the disaster it so effectively describes.
Underwater, the oil was an unseen disaster. Some knew what it truly entailed--what trouble that ecosystem saw--but while the visible oil floated harmlessly on the surface, far out in the Gulf, the miles of booms and fleets of skimmers and great concrete contrivances seemed noble and maybe even hopeful. The enemy may have been burning the fields, but they had not yet breached the wall. Upon landfall, the tide of opinion has changed. The best efforts at containment now look futile, the fleets pitiful, the booms flimsy. The war seems lost.
The beginning of the Ode to Man, which starts at line 332 in Sophocles' Antigone, uses the word deinos to describe man, a word which spans two English meanings, both wonderful and terrible, best captured in the idea of "awe." (I have altered David Grene's translation, below, to make use of that instead of "wonder," as he renders it.)
"Many are those things which inspire awe,
none is more awful than man.
This it is that crosses the sea
with the south winds storming and the waves swelling
breaking around him in roaring surf.
He it is who wears away
the Earth, oldest of gods, immortal, unwearied,
as the plows wind across her from year to year
when he works her with the breed that comes from horses..."
The scariest thing about British Petroleum's oil disaster in the Gulf of Mexico is the way our own powers have turned on us. The finest technology history has ever seen allowed man in his greatest strength to tap the resources of the earth, not just below the soil of fertile fields, but thousands of feet below the sea, where his own meager body could never go alone. What beautiful might! But now, what we opened with our strength we cannot close again, what we created we cannot destroy.
It has been a full month since we lost control of the power we had formerly harnessed. But only when the oil washed ashore on the mainland, did the wonderful become terrible.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Well,
It's here. And although it's been wreaking unseen havoc beneath the brown surface of the Gulf (which is an extension of that part of the world that can feel very distant to us land-dwellers), the story really gets depressing now. This is pretty much what that story will be until a miracle occurs:
"Everything that that blanket of oil is covering today will die," he said. "All of the bugs that the fish come in to eat, all of the critters in the marsh will die. And that marsh will die. There's no way to clean it up."
"Everything that that blanket of oil is covering today will die," he said. "All of the bugs that the fish come in to eat, all of the critters in the marsh will die. And that marsh will die. There's no way to clean it up."
Thursday, May 6, 2010
They're Lifting the Box Now
Thursday night: The AP has a man on board the ship carrying the "containment box" for the oil leak, who reports that, despite delays on Thursday night due to rising fumes in the hot, windless evening, the work of lowering it has gotten underway.
I spoke to my friendly fisherman landlord today about the "unprecedented mess," as he called it. He told me they shut down both sides of the river to fishing traffic today, to avoid contaminated catches, etc. Only a small percentage of the boats and crews that volunteered to help with the cleanup have been asked to help, he said, by BP or whoever is handling the situation (in name only, since no one is handling the situation), so I wonder what the banks of the gulf and delta thoroughfares look like today, lined with men helplessly searching the horizon for the creeping stain whose march they cannot stop.
Meanwhile, I'm sitting a few blocks north of the river in my stifling room, reading the latest news on the oil. It's like watching a bomb explode really, really slowly.
My landlord also said he declined to volunteer, partly because of what had been told him about the excess of volunteers, and partly because he heard that the particular crude filling the gulf can penetrate fiberglass, which forms the hull of his own vessel. It wouldn't cause it to sink, but it would leave a permanent red stain. I wonder, though, if the small craft helping to lay the booms in the path of the oily devil will wear red stains for years to come as marks of suffering and experience.
We talked more than just oil, though. He also mentioned that he has a daughter in Nashville, where she and everyone else is appalled at the lack of coverage, in favor of the Gulf Coast emergency and the Times Square bomber. If you haven't, read something about that other mess. Here's the saddest piece I've read about it.
I hope the box drops successfully. If it tears a bigger hole in the pipe, I'll be awfully sad.
I spoke to my friendly fisherman landlord today about the "unprecedented mess," as he called it. He told me they shut down both sides of the river to fishing traffic today, to avoid contaminated catches, etc. Only a small percentage of the boats and crews that volunteered to help with the cleanup have been asked to help, he said, by BP or whoever is handling the situation (in name only, since no one is handling the situation), so I wonder what the banks of the gulf and delta thoroughfares look like today, lined with men helplessly searching the horizon for the creeping stain whose march they cannot stop.
Meanwhile, I'm sitting a few blocks north of the river in my stifling room, reading the latest news on the oil. It's like watching a bomb explode really, really slowly.
My landlord also said he declined to volunteer, partly because of what had been told him about the excess of volunteers, and partly because he heard that the particular crude filling the gulf can penetrate fiberglass, which forms the hull of his own vessel. It wouldn't cause it to sink, but it would leave a permanent red stain. I wonder, though, if the small craft helping to lay the booms in the path of the oily devil will wear red stains for years to come as marks of suffering and experience.
We talked more than just oil, though. He also mentioned that he has a daughter in Nashville, where she and everyone else is appalled at the lack of coverage, in favor of the Gulf Coast emergency and the Times Square bomber. If you haven't, read something about that other mess. Here's the saddest piece I've read about it.
I hope the box drops successfully. If it tears a bigger hole in the pipe, I'll be awfully sad.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
A Goddamn Mess
I'm sure you've all been reading about the growing oil disaster in the Gulf that has Katrina survivors reading Job. For the simplest explanation I've seen of what happened, see Al-Jazeera's explanation.
But I just read a piece in the Times about it, and I'd like to add a little analysis that comes by way of my Skepticism class.
The article asks the question, overblown fears and blames aside, how bad is this, actually? "As one expert put it, this is the first inning of a nine-inning game." In short, I'm worried because the baseball season is 162 games long.
The article ends with this quote: "“The gulf is tremendously resilient,” said Dr. Dokken, the marine biologist. “But we’ve always got to ask ourselves how long can we keep heaping these insults on the gulf and having it bounce back. As a scientist, I have to say I just don’t know.”" I wish science and philosophy would take that kind of ignorance more seriously. Contemporary philosophers have worked hard to step around the so-called "skeptical problematic," which a lot of you would probably say is a fine thing today, especially when you read some of the wacky ways in which that problem has been re-presented in the literature. A la The Matrix, are we actually brains in vats, whose world is being generated by stimuli from a giant computer? I'm not kidding: the Brain-in-a-vat example of skepticism is so common that it has been abbreviated to BIV.
But the problem is really not as silly as that. It's modern form was renewed (from the ancient Pyrrhonians and others) by Rene Descartes, who wondered simply how he could tell, at any given moment, that he was not dreaming. The movie Waking Life has given us the answer, right? Try to work the lights in your dream, etc. That's not the worry. The worry is that this world that we come back to after we wake up from other, less sensible dreams every morning, could itself be a dream, which wouldn't be a problem except that causality would not be assured. But, in fact, this illustrates a nice point, which is that causality is in fact not assured. The last time you let go of an object with weight in midair, what happened? It fell to the floor, right? How do you know it will do that again next time? If there is a .001% chance that some other event (a bird snatches it, let's say) might radically interrupt your predicted outcome, was it a sure bet last time you guessed? That's an extreme example, and one might argue that a bird snatching up a falling object does not prove gravity wrong (which is fine, but it still doesn't hit the floor). There is another example I will borrow from the literature. You are at a party. Someone says, Do you know if Soandso is going to be at this party? You call Soandso to ask, and he says he's on his way out the door, and you have no reason to suspect he's drunk or lying or anything like that. You tell Someone, Yes, I know Soandso will be here. But then Soandso is struck with a meteorite on his way over, and never arrives. Did you have knowledge when you said you did? You were predicting the future, and though no one in the neighborhood had ever been struck by a meteorite before, and meteorite strikes the world over are very rare, nevertheless Soandso was struck by a meteorite when you said he wouldn't be. Certain philosophers want to certify your claim to knowledge, absolving you of responsibility for chance because the probability of the alternative outcome was so slim. Certain other philosophers are more stringent in their certifications for knowledge, but they are derided professionally because, it is said, their position ends in skepticism, from which no progress can be made.
A final example. Someone determines that it will be profitable to drill for oil at the bottom of the sea, because even though there is a chance that the mile-long pipe carrying oil to the surface might rupture and failsafe mechanisms might not kick in, allowing oil to devastate both the undersea environment and the shoreline livelihoods of humans, there's really not much of a chance that that will happen. Then, lo and behold, it does happen. Was it knowledge that led to such risks, or just really good guessing?
Experts know until they don't.
Skepticism is a real problem, even to people who don't want to admit it into their philosophical systems.
Greek philosophy, by the way, had honest ways of going forward with inquiry without sidestepping skepticism. And the Greeks also had Poseidon to scare them away from such high-risk high-profits.
[I have separate arguments, if you're interested in really losing faith in fortune-tellers, that questions how good the guessing really is--maybe we're just guessing about how good is our guessing.]
But I just read a piece in the Times about it, and I'd like to add a little analysis that comes by way of my Skepticism class.
The article asks the question, overblown fears and blames aside, how bad is this, actually? "As one expert put it, this is the first inning of a nine-inning game." In short, I'm worried because the baseball season is 162 games long.
The article ends with this quote: "“The gulf is tremendously resilient,” said Dr. Dokken, the marine biologist. “But we’ve always got to ask ourselves how long can we keep heaping these insults on the gulf and having it bounce back. As a scientist, I have to say I just don’t know.”" I wish science and philosophy would take that kind of ignorance more seriously. Contemporary philosophers have worked hard to step around the so-called "skeptical problematic," which a lot of you would probably say is a fine thing today, especially when you read some of the wacky ways in which that problem has been re-presented in the literature. A la The Matrix, are we actually brains in vats, whose world is being generated by stimuli from a giant computer? I'm not kidding: the Brain-in-a-vat example of skepticism is so common that it has been abbreviated to BIV.
But the problem is really not as silly as that. It's modern form was renewed (from the ancient Pyrrhonians and others) by Rene Descartes, who wondered simply how he could tell, at any given moment, that he was not dreaming. The movie Waking Life has given us the answer, right? Try to work the lights in your dream, etc. That's not the worry. The worry is that this world that we come back to after we wake up from other, less sensible dreams every morning, could itself be a dream, which wouldn't be a problem except that causality would not be assured. But, in fact, this illustrates a nice point, which is that causality is in fact not assured. The last time you let go of an object with weight in midair, what happened? It fell to the floor, right? How do you know it will do that again next time? If there is a .001% chance that some other event (a bird snatches it, let's say) might radically interrupt your predicted outcome, was it a sure bet last time you guessed? That's an extreme example, and one might argue that a bird snatching up a falling object does not prove gravity wrong (which is fine, but it still doesn't hit the floor). There is another example I will borrow from the literature. You are at a party. Someone says, Do you know if Soandso is going to be at this party? You call Soandso to ask, and he says he's on his way out the door, and you have no reason to suspect he's drunk or lying or anything like that. You tell Someone, Yes, I know Soandso will be here. But then Soandso is struck with a meteorite on his way over, and never arrives. Did you have knowledge when you said you did? You were predicting the future, and though no one in the neighborhood had ever been struck by a meteorite before, and meteorite strikes the world over are very rare, nevertheless Soandso was struck by a meteorite when you said he wouldn't be. Certain philosophers want to certify your claim to knowledge, absolving you of responsibility for chance because the probability of the alternative outcome was so slim. Certain other philosophers are more stringent in their certifications for knowledge, but they are derided professionally because, it is said, their position ends in skepticism, from which no progress can be made.
A final example. Someone determines that it will be profitable to drill for oil at the bottom of the sea, because even though there is a chance that the mile-long pipe carrying oil to the surface might rupture and failsafe mechanisms might not kick in, allowing oil to devastate both the undersea environment and the shoreline livelihoods of humans, there's really not much of a chance that that will happen. Then, lo and behold, it does happen. Was it knowledge that led to such risks, or just really good guessing?
Experts know until they don't.
Skepticism is a real problem, even to people who don't want to admit it into their philosophical systems.
Greek philosophy, by the way, had honest ways of going forward with inquiry without sidestepping skepticism. And the Greeks also had Poseidon to scare them away from such high-risk high-profits.
[I have separate arguments, if you're interested in really losing faith in fortune-tellers, that questions how good the guessing really is--maybe we're just guessing about how good is our guessing.]
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Buck Moth and Paper Updates
My papers are coming along swimmingly, and I'm on track to be all done with my first year of grad school next Thursday.
Also, this article, dated April 19, predicts the onslaught of buck moth caterpillars will begin in three weeks--so, from today, less than two weeks.
Also, this article, dated April 19, predicts the onslaught of buck moth caterpillars will begin in three weeks--so, from today, less than two weeks.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
April Showers
It rained a whole lot yesterday, and Tulane's drainage system, if there is one, wasn't quite able to handle it. When I was preparing to move here, a friend at Tulane sent me a picture of a student walking in rain boots through eight inches of water, and I thought, "Surely, that is a highly irregular event." Nope. I just took my shoes off (and then slipped on my new flip-flops, which conveniently had arrived that very day!).
Enjoy these pictures I took, after I was already very wet. At least it was warm thunderstorm, but the downside was that, were I to take shelter in any building anywhere after already having been exposed to the rain, I would have caught a cold, because the super air conditioning has been switched on and all campus buildings are kept at a comfortable 60 degrees or so.
[As always, click for higher resolution.]
The road toward the dorms.
The Newcomb quad.
By the library.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
The Crescent Commute
I've noticed an interesting thing while biking to my night classes recently--the odd shape of this city is to my advantage on my commute. I ride west, into the sunset, toward campus, and when I set out down my block, the sun lies immediately before me. But after only three blocks, it has taken refuge behind the huge trees that line my route. After another few blocks, it is behind the houses to my left.
So I don't wear sunglasses. But I've been considering them for an entirely different reason: I keep getting bugs in my eye (always my left one). On the warm and still days, they just hang at eye-level, I guess.
But I'm told that those aren't even the most dangerous bugs. Soon, the stinging buck-moth caterpillars will emerge to fall on us from the trees and cover everything else with danger. Their sting is supposed to numb you and hurt you. I hope I continue to have only hearsay information about the physiology of their effects, but my commute takes me regularly through Audubon Park, where live-oaks abound, those trees being the reason that these caterpillars abound in New Orleans. (Say, maybe they're the ones who take down the Mardi Gras beads left hanging?)
Follow-up note: I've solved the problem of what season it is in New Orleans: It's paper-writing season. After that, I guess it will be summer. (Paper-writing season would feel less unnatural if it weren't 78 degrees and sunny every day.)
So I don't wear sunglasses. But I've been considering them for an entirely different reason: I keep getting bugs in my eye (always my left one). On the warm and still days, they just hang at eye-level, I guess.
But I'm told that those aren't even the most dangerous bugs. Soon, the stinging buck-moth caterpillars will emerge to fall on us from the trees and cover everything else with danger. Their sting is supposed to numb you and hurt you. I hope I continue to have only hearsay information about the physiology of their effects, but my commute takes me regularly through Audubon Park, where live-oaks abound, those trees being the reason that these caterpillars abound in New Orleans. (Say, maybe they're the ones who take down the Mardi Gras beads left hanging?)
Follow-up note: I've solved the problem of what season it is in New Orleans: It's paper-writing season. After that, I guess it will be summer. (Paper-writing season would feel less unnatural if it weren't 78 degrees and sunny every day.)
Treme
Just a quick note: For those of you with HBO, the pilot just aired of a new series about New Orleans after Katrina. I haven't seen it, since I don't have HBO, but the reviews are generally positive.
Here's the trailer (caution: language).
I might rent David Simon's other very famous series The Wire in lieu of watching Treme.
ps. In case you didn't know this, it is pronounced "Tremay."
Here's the trailer (caution: language).
I might rent David Simon's other very famous series The Wire in lieu of watching Treme.
ps. In case you didn't know this, it is pronounced "Tremay."
Friday, April 2, 2010
Spring, Fall, and Summer
I'm not sure what season it is in New Orleans.
All of the flowers bloomed while I was away on Spring Break--so did spring break while I was away?
The temperature, in any other place that I've lived, would suggest summer, since the sun at its peak carries us well into the 80s. But I know better than to call that NOLA's summer heat, which is twenty or thirty degrees above that in the hot shade of August.
Yet there are also many leaves on the ground. I haven't kept careful track of this, but there might always be leaves on the ground, as though the trees were indoor pets who always shed and renew their coats with no regard for the season. To get along in my own disorientation, I am doing my best to do the same.
[Click for higher resolution, esp. to see what I did with some MG beads.]
All of the flowers bloomed while I was away on Spring Break--so did spring break while I was away?
The temperature, in any other place that I've lived, would suggest summer, since the sun at its peak carries us well into the 80s. But I know better than to call that NOLA's summer heat, which is twenty or thirty degrees above that in the hot shade of August.
Yet there are also many leaves on the ground. I haven't kept careful track of this, but there might always be leaves on the ground, as though the trees were indoor pets who always shed and renew their coats with no regard for the season. To get along in my own disorientation, I am doing my best to do the same.
[Click for higher resolution, esp. to see what I did with some MG beads.]
Friday, March 5, 2010
More Mistick Krewe
A little more poking around found me this, which includes the exhibit I posted below. Also featured are original paintings for invitations and floats.
Comus Costumes, 1873
Here is a piece of Tulane's collection of Mardi Gras history: Sketches of costumes for the 1873 Mistick Krewe of Comus parade, that mocked in part Darwin's relatively recent theory and its "missing links." (For you costume-makers out there, maybe you'll get some ideas for future Halloweens.)
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Pictures! Mardi Gras!
Finally, my loyal readers, you get the chance to see Carnival in New Orleans from roughly where I was standing. If you need a primer on the general schedule for a parade, see the post below entitled Carnival Rolls On. I have just added several links throughout that post which will take you to pictures of the various things I describe.
A few words before I begin the slideshow. The parade season begins a mere trickle, but by Mardi Gras weekend, it has become a deluge. There are near-continuous parades from Wednesday through Tuesday, and the St. Charles streetcar ceases to run. Along the parade route, locals leave tents, chairs, ladders, tables, and grills set up on prime property. The ladders, few and far between at first, are a forest by Saturday. Trees along the routes catch their share of beads, and slowly accumulate a flamboyant, plastic imitation of Spanish moss, which can be quite beautiful. No work is done starting the Friday before Mardi Gras. People take to wearing their beads all day, even when not at a parade. Alcohol sales (I assume) spike 500%.
And the parades only get bigger. Saturday, Sunday, and Monday see the so-called Superkrewes, Endymion, Bacchus, and Orpheus. They have over thirty floats and over 1000 riders each. They are each preceded by a plethora of smaller (by a little) Krewes, each notable in its own right.
My girlfriend and I went to see Endymion on Canal Street Saturday night, and it was fairly unpleasant, probably because we hadn't been drinking. My guest was also shorter than many, which adds another unpleasant dimension to watching floats and getting beads. We left early. Sunday, we watched Bacchus on St. Charles, and that was infinitely more pleasant, because we had a front-row spot, in the few feet between the foremost line of ladders and the street. I took a few pictures here, but it was dark. Monday, we saw the arrival-by-steamboat of the King of the Krewe of Rex ("King of Mardi Gras"), which is a very formal event. Laura Bush arrived with him, though I don't know why, because she wasn't in costume. We skipped Orpheus.
Most of the pictures below are from Tuesday, literal Mardi Gras. The Krewe of Zulu rolls very early, followed/met by Rex. We caught up with most of Rex by walking down St. Charles, and most of the pictures below are of that parade. (After Rex, I decided that I strongly prefer the daytime parades, not just for the superior lighting, but for the character of the crowd.) I have never been in a place quite like New Orleans as it is on Fat Tuesday.
Commence slideshow! [Because of I don't know why, the pictures do not fully fit into the narrow column of the blog, so click on them to see their full width. They're better than they seem here.]
The Charles route before Bacchus and (note the toilet paper) after Tucks (a particularly irreverent Krewe).
Flambeaus traditionally lit the nighttime floats, but continue to march in groups of ten today before and behind the first ten or so floats of the big Krewes. The carriers have always been the homeless or otherwise economically depressed, and are "tipped" by the crowd as they pass. Coins are aimed at the metal backs of the flambeaus, and dollars are handed directly.
The classic Bacchagator float. The crowd aims to ring beads around the teeth. You will see several other floats that are strung with beads as well.
The "I Love Lucy" float in Bacchus. Note the crowd.
Mardi Gras day, during a lull in Rex (as we caught up with it).
The Rex theme was "Tales of Fire and Flame," and thus featured pyrological myths from around the world. Note the tree.
Riders on horseback threw doubloons.
The Sumerian god of fire.
I suppose they couldn't have the Christian Devil in the parade, but I don't think the Greek Hades had much to do with fire.
These are works of art.
The St. Charles family-friendly Mardi Gras. These children were filling their wagon with beads, a veritable treasure chest!
From a different vantage point, this time on Napoleon Avenue, before we caught up with the beginning of the parade.
The fiddler! I like this one.
My girlfriend. As you can see, we collected many beads on Tuesday alone, and got that sweet parasol.
Post-parade flora.
Most of what I accumulated.
Don't forget to check out the links I added to Carnival Rolls On!
A few words before I begin the slideshow. The parade season begins a mere trickle, but by Mardi Gras weekend, it has become a deluge. There are near-continuous parades from Wednesday through Tuesday, and the St. Charles streetcar ceases to run. Along the parade route, locals leave tents, chairs, ladders, tables, and grills set up on prime property. The ladders, few and far between at first, are a forest by Saturday. Trees along the routes catch their share of beads, and slowly accumulate a flamboyant, plastic imitation of Spanish moss, which can be quite beautiful. No work is done starting the Friday before Mardi Gras. People take to wearing their beads all day, even when not at a parade. Alcohol sales (I assume) spike 500%.
And the parades only get bigger. Saturday, Sunday, and Monday see the so-called Superkrewes, Endymion, Bacchus, and Orpheus. They have over thirty floats and over 1000 riders each. They are each preceded by a plethora of smaller (by a little) Krewes, each notable in its own right.
My girlfriend and I went to see Endymion on Canal Street Saturday night, and it was fairly unpleasant, probably because we hadn't been drinking. My guest was also shorter than many, which adds another unpleasant dimension to watching floats and getting beads. We left early. Sunday, we watched Bacchus on St. Charles, and that was infinitely more pleasant, because we had a front-row spot, in the few feet between the foremost line of ladders and the street. I took a few pictures here, but it was dark. Monday, we saw the arrival-by-steamboat of the King of the Krewe of Rex ("King of Mardi Gras"), which is a very formal event. Laura Bush arrived with him, though I don't know why, because she wasn't in costume. We skipped Orpheus.
Most of the pictures below are from Tuesday, literal Mardi Gras. The Krewe of Zulu rolls very early, followed/met by Rex. We caught up with most of Rex by walking down St. Charles, and most of the pictures below are of that parade. (After Rex, I decided that I strongly prefer the daytime parades, not just for the superior lighting, but for the character of the crowd.) I have never been in a place quite like New Orleans as it is on Fat Tuesday.
Commence slideshow! [Because of I don't know why, the pictures do not fully fit into the narrow column of the blog, so click on them to see their full width. They're better than they seem here.]
The Charles route before Bacchus and (note the toilet paper) after Tucks (a particularly irreverent Krewe).
Flambeaus traditionally lit the nighttime floats, but continue to march in groups of ten today before and behind the first ten or so floats of the big Krewes. The carriers have always been the homeless or otherwise economically depressed, and are "tipped" by the crowd as they pass. Coins are aimed at the metal backs of the flambeaus, and dollars are handed directly.
The classic Bacchagator float. The crowd aims to ring beads around the teeth. You will see several other floats that are strung with beads as well.
The "I Love Lucy" float in Bacchus. Note the crowd.
Mardi Gras day, during a lull in Rex (as we caught up with it).
The Rex theme was "Tales of Fire and Flame," and thus featured pyrological myths from around the world. Note the tree.
Riders on horseback threw doubloons.
The Sumerian god of fire.
I suppose they couldn't have the Christian Devil in the parade, but I don't think the Greek Hades had much to do with fire.
These are works of art.
The St. Charles family-friendly Mardi Gras. These children were filling their wagon with beads, a veritable treasure chest!
From a different vantage point, this time on Napoleon Avenue, before we caught up with the beginning of the parade.
The fiddler! I like this one.
My girlfriend. As you can see, we collected many beads on Tuesday alone, and got that sweet parasol.
Post-parade flora.
Most of what I accumulated.
Don't forget to check out the links I added to Carnival Rolls On!
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Ancient Greek FYI
The best translation of Who Dat? in Greek that I can come up with is τις ἐκεῖνος;.
"Reggie, Reggie, Reggie..."
The first of many pieces of media I have to share from the last several days:
Click here to watch a brief movie I took of Reggie Bush, #25, arriving on his float (courtesy of the Krewe of Caesar). He's wearing sunglasses but you can't tell because it's too dark. (In fact, he very much resembles Caesar.)
Click here to watch a brief movie I took of Reggie Bush, #25, arriving on his float (courtesy of the Krewe of Caesar). He's wearing sunglasses but you can't tell because it's too dark. (In fact, he very much resembles Caesar.)
Carnival Rolls On
I have some catching-up to do! First, then, I'll tell you about the parades I saw on Saturday.
It turns out that I'm exploring the events of the Carnival season accidentally in a scientific way. First I saw the Krewe of Pontchartrain, which follows the Uptown parade route down St. Charles Avenue. This route begins very close to my house, and I am able, by going only a few blocks towards the river [Note: That is approximately equivalent to South, though cardinal directions are useless in the Crescent City, so people say "riverside" or "lakeside," "uptown" or "downtown."] to see the floats as they are loaded with riders and "throws," i.e. beads and other trinkets, and to hear the bands as they warm up.
Many have told me that throughout Mardi Gras one can experience a clean, family-friendly Carnival if one stays uptown of the French Quarter. This was verified when I, to observe the parade, I walked several blocks downtown along St. Charles. This street is a wide boulevard with a "neutral ground" between the lanes, along which the streetcar runs. (I have been told never to call the neutral ground a "median" as it would be known everywhere else.) Well-kept grass grows here, and it is wide enough for grills, tents, chairs, and crowds, with room to spare. (The streetcar, of course, does not run during Uptown parades.) Families from the immediate neighborhoods flock to both sides of the downtown lane of traffic and make themselves comfortable however they can. One device worthy of note is one that I need to find out more about: It is a ladder with a box on top, designed to hold up small children for a perfect view of the parade. I can't tell if these are bought prefabricated or not. The ladders look like standard issue, but there is a uniformity to the boxes, which all have two built-in wheels, I assume for ease in rolling to and from the parade.
The true harbinger of the parade--as opposed to the many falsely-prophesying cop cars that clear the road for an hour prior--is a cable company cherry-picker with a long rod raised above it, probably the height of the tallest float, followed by other cherry-pickers, no doubt ready to quickly clear any low-lying branches that would interfere with the parade. (This is, I think, the most grooming that is legally allowed to be performed on the St. Charles live oaks.) Then comes the parade-proper: Bands, dance groups, motorcyclists, mounties, and the floats of the host Krewe, laden with masked and costumed riders throwing beads, etc, to the yelling crowd. Everyone not on a float is usually with a different organization (a school, dance club, or much smaller parading organization like the motorcyclists) that has joined forces with the host Krewe. Many of these, I believe, march in multiple parades. Bringing up the rear of the parade is a firetruck, which occasionally blares its horn as if to say, Go home! That parade took nearly an hour to pass.
Later that night, I went down to the French Quarter to see two more parades coming from the Uptown route. Of all the parades during Carnival, only Krewe du Vieux (see two posts below) is small enough to be actually allowed to march in the Quarter--all the others do a loop around Canal St., which is its southeastern border. Their floats are much too big to fit through the narrow, old streets of the Quarter.
Standing on Canal at night was a very different experience from on the grass of sunny St. Charles. There is more litter, more alcohol, less comfort generally, but no less cheer. It was on the cold side Saturday night, which made everyone a little miserable, but they no doubt compensated with more booze. The first parade, the Krewe of Sparta, took an hour and a half to get down, which I'm told is considered late, but not considered unusual. It was followed by the Krewe of Pygmalion after a half-hour interval. I will put up the few pictures I took, so that you can get a sense of the crowds and the floats, and I won't bother to describe them in detail. In brief, they are pulled by tractors, they carry two to twenty riders apiece, and they all throw beads. The royal floats only carry two riders, whichever member of royalty (King, Queen, Prince, Princess all separately) and someone to untangle and hand them beads. The royalty are lucky members of the Krewe who are chosen somehow (sometimes it's secret) as royalty that year, and play their lofty role at the Krewe-exclusive bal masque which usually follows the parade.
So far, I have collected almost twenty strands of beads, and have seen, since the beginning of the season, five parades (one on Sunday).
[Yes, later on I will write about the Super Bowl and the victory parade, which starts in four hours.]
It turns out that I'm exploring the events of the Carnival season accidentally in a scientific way. First I saw the Krewe of Pontchartrain, which follows the Uptown parade route down St. Charles Avenue. This route begins very close to my house, and I am able, by going only a few blocks towards the river [Note: That is approximately equivalent to South, though cardinal directions are useless in the Crescent City, so people say "riverside" or "lakeside," "uptown" or "downtown."] to see the floats as they are loaded with riders and "throws," i.e. beads and other trinkets, and to hear the bands as they warm up.
Many have told me that throughout Mardi Gras one can experience a clean, family-friendly Carnival if one stays uptown of the French Quarter. This was verified when I, to observe the parade, I walked several blocks downtown along St. Charles. This street is a wide boulevard with a "neutral ground" between the lanes, along which the streetcar runs. (I have been told never to call the neutral ground a "median" as it would be known everywhere else.) Well-kept grass grows here, and it is wide enough for grills, tents, chairs, and crowds, with room to spare. (The streetcar, of course, does not run during Uptown parades.) Families from the immediate neighborhoods flock to both sides of the downtown lane of traffic and make themselves comfortable however they can. One device worthy of note is one that I need to find out more about: It is a ladder with a box on top, designed to hold up small children for a perfect view of the parade. I can't tell if these are bought prefabricated or not. The ladders look like standard issue, but there is a uniformity to the boxes, which all have two built-in wheels, I assume for ease in rolling to and from the parade.
The true harbinger of the parade--as opposed to the many falsely-prophesying cop cars that clear the road for an hour prior--is a cable company cherry-picker with a long rod raised above it, probably the height of the tallest float, followed by other cherry-pickers, no doubt ready to quickly clear any low-lying branches that would interfere with the parade. (This is, I think, the most grooming that is legally allowed to be performed on the St. Charles live oaks.) Then comes the parade-proper: Bands, dance groups, motorcyclists, mounties, and the floats of the host Krewe, laden with masked and costumed riders throwing beads, etc, to the yelling crowd. Everyone not on a float is usually with a different organization (a school, dance club, or much smaller parading organization like the motorcyclists) that has joined forces with the host Krewe. Many of these, I believe, march in multiple parades. Bringing up the rear of the parade is a firetruck, which occasionally blares its horn as if to say, Go home! That parade took nearly an hour to pass.
Later that night, I went down to the French Quarter to see two more parades coming from the Uptown route. Of all the parades during Carnival, only Krewe du Vieux (see two posts below) is small enough to be actually allowed to march in the Quarter--all the others do a loop around Canal St., which is its southeastern border. Their floats are much too big to fit through the narrow, old streets of the Quarter.
Standing on Canal at night was a very different experience from on the grass of sunny St. Charles. There is more litter, more alcohol, less comfort generally, but no less cheer. It was on the cold side Saturday night, which made everyone a little miserable, but they no doubt compensated with more booze. The first parade, the Krewe of Sparta, took an hour and a half to get down, which I'm told is considered late, but not considered unusual. It was followed by the Krewe of Pygmalion after a half-hour interval. I will put up the few pictures I took, so that you can get a sense of the crowds and the floats, and I won't bother to describe them in detail. In brief, they are pulled by tractors, they carry two to twenty riders apiece, and they all throw beads. The royal floats only carry two riders, whichever member of royalty (King, Queen, Prince, Princess all separately) and someone to untangle and hand them beads. The royalty are lucky members of the Krewe who are chosen somehow (sometimes it's secret) as royalty that year, and play their lofty role at the Krewe-exclusive bal masque which usually follows the parade.
So far, I have collected almost twenty strands of beads, and have seen, since the beginning of the season, five parades (one on Sunday).
[Yes, later on I will write about the Super Bowl and the victory parade, which starts in four hours.]
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
The Cameras of Others
I didn't bring my camera to the Krewe du Vieux parade last Saturday, but I dug up this Times-Picayune slideshow. It's just like my camera was there!
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Krewe du Vieux
Cowering over the heater in my room on this cold New Orleans night, I will recount the events of yesterday's colder counterpart, when I shivered with other hardy souls to see the floats of Krewe du Vieux roll, the first parade of Mardi Gras. Before I begin, I'd like to address the few of you who scoff at a Southern winter. It's true, in Chicago, I would have treated the arrival of a nearly forty-degree day at the end of January as a sure sign of spring and a reason not to wear my hat. But from the wrong side of zero degrees, any double-digit temperature looks alluring. Let me remind you, though, that it was seventy-five and sunny a week ago, and I was sweaty by the time I had biked to school. When the air started to threaten another freeze, the antics of the weather simply seemed cruel, and forty degrees was unbearable.
Bundled up, I took the bus to the French Quarter to meet a friend and find a good perspective along the parade route. We met at the famous Cafe du Monde for beignets first, and then passed thick crowds in the heart of the Quarter, headed for a more intermittently populated stretch of Royal St.
Krewe du Vieux is one of the smallest parades of the season, and probably the most rag-tag. As I have been told by several sources, the parades just get bigger. (The season actually begins with some kind of colorfully trimmed streetcar, laden with a small krewe of harbingers--I never saw this.) This krewe is composed of twenty or so subkrewes, so the parade took the form of twenty or so floats, each followed by its creators and a second-line band. The subkrewes were rather spaced out along the route. This parade is acknowledged as the raunchiest as well, both the most brazen in its satire and boldest in its imagery. The theme of Krewe du Vieux was "Fired Up!" so each subkrewe incorporated fire into its float.
I don't remember them all clearly, and some of them were subtle in their meaning or perhaps meaningless. (Oh, and of course I forgot my camera.) There were several aimed at outgoing mayor Ray Nagin, several uplifting the Saints and putting down their defeated playoff opponents and their upcoming Super Bowl challengers, the Indy Colts. The remainder were sexual in theme, not without intermixed politics or sports also. Most were horse- or mule-drawn. (That's a big difference from the later parades, which floats I'm told are far, far too large to be pulled by even a team of horses.)
The subkrewe members, dressed in costumes matching their float's theme, danced and tripped down Royal St. behind their creations, throwing and handing out trinkets. Some had stickers bearing the Krewe or subkrewe name, or various provocative items appropriate for their float. All had beads, of course, and plastic Krewe cups (a very common item for all Krewes), and doubloons, or wooden circles, the size of a large coin, bearing the Krewe du Vieux logo and the year and theme. on the reverse. The metal versions of these are highly prized among Mardi Gras goers. I came away with two wooden doubloons, one string of beads, a small, unmarked (what I take to be) doubloon in a paper envelope bearing the name "krewe of bananas," a ribbon of three condoms, and a matchbook and cigarette papers both from the "krewe of T.O.K.I.N.," which I believe is an empty acronym, alluding of course to drugs. I assume, though perhaps wrongly, that with the bigger parades come more dignified "throws." I have read that some of the krewe-labeled items are, like the doubloons, very highly prized and limited in quantity, for instance the painted coconuts distributed by the Krewe of Zulu (though I also hear there is a new law against those being thrown from the floats).
The bands following these were sometimes rag-tag in uniform, but never in rhythm, and I wish they would have marched more slowly for my prolonged enjoyment. If you click on the link in my last post, you might get a taste of the music down here. It's HOT.
Once the parade ended (Note: Krewe du Vieux was followed by a new krewe this year, Krewedillusion, but I couldn't have told you where one stopped and the other started.), we walked around the Quarter a bit and I watched as the energy of the parade-watchers was diverted into the streets and into the bars. Most everyone was by now wearing beads.
My first taste of Mardi Gras was really something. The bigger parades start next weekend, and coincide with the Super Bowl. I can't imagine that combination being a dud. Then Thursday of the following week, Mardi Gras proper begins and lasts until the day itself. Thank goodness school takes a holiday on the day before and the day of Fat Tuesday. I'll be exhausted!
Bundled up, I took the bus to the French Quarter to meet a friend and find a good perspective along the parade route. We met at the famous Cafe du Monde for beignets first, and then passed thick crowds in the heart of the Quarter, headed for a more intermittently populated stretch of Royal St.
Krewe du Vieux is one of the smallest parades of the season, and probably the most rag-tag. As I have been told by several sources, the parades just get bigger. (The season actually begins with some kind of colorfully trimmed streetcar, laden with a small krewe of harbingers--I never saw this.) This krewe is composed of twenty or so subkrewes, so the parade took the form of twenty or so floats, each followed by its creators and a second-line band. The subkrewes were rather spaced out along the route. This parade is acknowledged as the raunchiest as well, both the most brazen in its satire and boldest in its imagery. The theme of Krewe du Vieux was "Fired Up!" so each subkrewe incorporated fire into its float.
I don't remember them all clearly, and some of them were subtle in their meaning or perhaps meaningless. (Oh, and of course I forgot my camera.) There were several aimed at outgoing mayor Ray Nagin, several uplifting the Saints and putting down their defeated playoff opponents and their upcoming Super Bowl challengers, the Indy Colts. The remainder were sexual in theme, not without intermixed politics or sports also. Most were horse- or mule-drawn. (That's a big difference from the later parades, which floats I'm told are far, far too large to be pulled by even a team of horses.)
The subkrewe members, dressed in costumes matching their float's theme, danced and tripped down Royal St. behind their creations, throwing and handing out trinkets. Some had stickers bearing the Krewe or subkrewe name, or various provocative items appropriate for their float. All had beads, of course, and plastic Krewe cups (a very common item for all Krewes), and doubloons, or wooden circles, the size of a large coin, bearing the Krewe du Vieux logo and the year and theme. on the reverse. The metal versions of these are highly prized among Mardi Gras goers. I came away with two wooden doubloons, one string of beads, a small, unmarked (what I take to be) doubloon in a paper envelope bearing the name "krewe of bananas," a ribbon of three condoms, and a matchbook and cigarette papers both from the "krewe of T.O.K.I.N.," which I believe is an empty acronym, alluding of course to drugs. I assume, though perhaps wrongly, that with the bigger parades come more dignified "throws." I have read that some of the krewe-labeled items are, like the doubloons, very highly prized and limited in quantity, for instance the painted coconuts distributed by the Krewe of Zulu (though I also hear there is a new law against those being thrown from the floats).
The bands following these were sometimes rag-tag in uniform, but never in rhythm, and I wish they would have marched more slowly for my prolonged enjoyment. If you click on the link in my last post, you might get a taste of the music down here. It's HOT.
Once the parade ended (Note: Krewe du Vieux was followed by a new krewe this year, Krewedillusion, but I couldn't have told you where one stopped and the other started.), we walked around the Quarter a bit and I watched as the energy of the parade-watchers was diverted into the streets and into the bars. Most everyone was by now wearing beads.
My first taste of Mardi Gras was really something. The bigger parades start next weekend, and coincide with the Super Bowl. I can't imagine that combination being a dud. Then Thursday of the following week, Mardi Gras proper begins and lasts until the day itself. Thank goodness school takes a holiday on the day before and the day of Fat Tuesday. I'll be exhausted!
Saturday, January 30, 2010
First Parade
Tonight Krewe du Vieux rolls through the Marigny and the French Quarter, and I'm on my way to see it. Dr. John's leading it. "All Fired Up" is the theme. Several people say this is the best parade of the season.
Get in the mood: This isn't the parade I'll go to, but it's indicative of what New Orleaneans do in the streets here.
Get in the mood: This isn't the parade I'll go to, but it's indicative of what New Orleaneans do in the streets here.
Game Night
The night of the Saints' NFC championship victory was my first glimpse of this city really going nuts. I hope to get another glimpse in eight days, when they're in the Super Bowl. But the game was very, very close, for those of you who didn't catch it, and the tension that had been building for several hours released into a frenzy of excitement. I watched the game in my house, and as soon as it ended I enjoyed the distant noises of celebration as they floated on the night air. Any attempts to dial out on a cell phone, of which I made several, were met with a busy signal--after trying several different numbers, I discovered that it was my end that was busy. Taking that as a sign that I ought to get out of the house and see things for myself, I walked to the closest bar, which was packed full of Saints jerseys, and joined in several rounds of "Who dat? Who dat? Who dat say they gonna beat them Saints?" followed by "The Saints Go Marching In." After giving out several bearhugs to happy fans (sorry, Chicago habit--Saintshugs), I walked back to my apartment, whooping at the cars that went by honking. I tried calling out again, and still there was no possibility of that.
So I took more drastic action. I decided to get on my bike and at least ride by several other bars, to observe the festivities--but first I had to find Saints colors to wear. I don't own a jersey, but I own a shirt that is roughly Saints-gold, so I threw that on and headed out. I wound up riding all the way to the French Quarter. It was of course very busy there, and Bourbon Street was crowded with black and gold. Traffic was backed up all around the Quarter, but a skinny guy on a bike might have easily maneuvered through it.
It does not quite suffice to say, "Everyone was drinking in celebration," but it's pretty close. The cry of "Who dat?!" was the common salute, followed perhaps by "Super Bowl!" and other affirmations.
After seeing my fill, I rode home again, cutting off the congestion by taking several streets which were under construction. The phone lines were finally freed, although honking and yelling continued for most of the next two hours on St. Charles.
If they win the Big Game on the 7th, I don't know what will happen here. But I'll tell you all about it. after I recover!
So I took more drastic action. I decided to get on my bike and at least ride by several other bars, to observe the festivities--but first I had to find Saints colors to wear. I don't own a jersey, but I own a shirt that is roughly Saints-gold, so I threw that on and headed out. I wound up riding all the way to the French Quarter. It was of course very busy there, and Bourbon Street was crowded with black and gold. Traffic was backed up all around the Quarter, but a skinny guy on a bike might have easily maneuvered through it.
It does not quite suffice to say, "Everyone was drinking in celebration," but it's pretty close. The cry of "Who dat?!" was the common salute, followed perhaps by "Super Bowl!" and other affirmations.
After seeing my fill, I rode home again, cutting off the congestion by taking several streets which were under construction. The phone lines were finally freed, although honking and yelling continued for most of the next two hours on St. Charles.
If they win the Big Game on the 7th, I don't know what will happen here. But I'll tell you all about it. after I recover!
Sunday, January 24, 2010
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Here I was, ready to complain about Reggie's fumble, and what! Favre fumbles, gives it back! I just wish the Saints were on the other side of the field.
Game Day
I said I would blog about the general air of the city on the day of the NFC Championship, but I didn't get back to my house until a little before the game, and then I made a sandwich, so I have to write now while the game is on. I don't like these defensive flags. We let them have what will soon be a touchdown.
But about the town: Everyone had a jersey on today except me. Everyone who was outside was grilling. Everyone who was in the Quarter was drinking. I tried to get my Saints ice cream from the local shop, but it---DAMNIT, touchdown---had just closed for the game. I didn't try to go anywhere else, but I assume that any building without a television was closed, locked, and empty.
I happened to drive through the Lower Ninth Ward today, on maybe the happiest day that area has seen in awhile. Just like the Who Dats farther up river, those in the Ninth had grills out, jerseys on. It felt like the country, but for the eerie empty lots and lonely concrete stairways climbing to nothing.
TOUCHDOWN SAINTS. I always run to my window to hear the distant cheers and hoots on big plays, and I heard some just now from the west. In the Ninth they're cheering over the tall grass. Game tied.
Gotta go!
But about the town: Everyone had a jersey on today except me. Everyone who was outside was grilling. Everyone who was in the Quarter was drinking. I tried to get my Saints ice cream from the local shop, but it---DAMNIT, touchdown---had just closed for the game. I didn't try to go anywhere else, but I assume that any building without a television was closed, locked, and empty.
I happened to drive through the Lower Ninth Ward today, on maybe the happiest day that area has seen in awhile. Just like the Who Dats farther up river, those in the Ninth had grills out, jerseys on. It felt like the country, but for the eerie empty lots and lonely concrete stairways climbing to nothing.
TOUCHDOWN SAINTS. I always run to my window to hear the distant cheers and hoots on big plays, and I heard some just now from the west. In the Ninth they're cheering over the tall grass. Game tied.
Gotta go!
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Cold Snapping
The reports are true, folks--the South is freezing over. I came back into town on the tail end of this incredible cold snap, but we had another freeze last night, and I'm going out to check the damage today. I've seen some pictures of frozen fountains in the parks. After my surveyance during conveyance today (via streetcar, if it's still running [oh, just heard one go by]), I'll know more about the public sentiment and just how far into the city's penetralia the cold has crept.
I'd like to thank Emily Bronte for that word.
I'd like to thank Emily Bronte for that word.
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