Tuesday, September 06, 2005
Comments on chaos
Let me be the last blogger to add my two cents to the New Orleans/Hurricane Katrina situation. I'll stay out of the politics, although Ian over at xtcian.com has some interesting thoughts that I think are on the money.
For me, the sadness is in the misery and destruction heaped upon some of the poorest people in the United States. I've seen the touristy/pretty side of New Orleans, and I've seen the gritty. On my first visit to New Orleans, in 1988 or 1989, I was attending an Associated College Press convention as part of The Daily Tar Heel contingent. One of my closest friends from high school, Rich George, was enrolled at Tulane, so I took a bus over to meet him. The bus was known as the "Frerette Jet" and went through some of the city's worst neighborhoods; you couldn't believe that the St. Charles Tavern on the streetcar line and these battered city blocks were in the same city.
I accompanied Rich to an anti-apartheid protest, and I ended up storming a Board of Trustees meeting with the crowd. "Take Tulane Green Out of South Africa!" we chanted...and soon thereafter, Tulane got with the divestiture movement.
Rich was my guide to New Orleans on several occasions, showing me the cool spots, the off-the-beaten-path watering holes like the Saturn Bar, exposing me to the Rebirth Brass Band and the New Orleans Blues Department. I checked out Mardi Gras one year, staying with Rich and his three apartment mates in a one-bedroom place with no shower (tub only!) and a persistent gas leak in the kitchen. We attended parades decked out in thrift store costumes, me wearing zip-up ankle-high black leather boots, ala Captain Kirk, that I borrowed from Rich's friend Bengt the glassblower. He introduced me to beignets at Cafe Du Monde at about 4 a.m., and I still go back there every time I'm in New Orleans (last October, at about 4 a.m., on my way back to my hotel to catch my flight home).
Thanks to Rich, I saw New Orleans as more than the French Quarter and Jackson Square -- I saw it as a college town, as an artists' town, as a musicians' town, as a place where a one-time lawyer wannabe could recreate himself as a zine publisher known as Science. Hey Science, where are you know? I never did thank you for that Zane Grey book "Taggart". No contact between us in almost 10 years.
Like most, anything I've done to contribute to the recovery is inadequate and small. My hat's off to the true heroes out there, quitting their jobs to volunteer for the Red Cross or organizing relief efforts. Except for Arabian horse administrators who don't know their FEMA from a horse's ass. (OK, just a bit of politics)
For me, the sadness is in the misery and destruction heaped upon some of the poorest people in the United States. I've seen the touristy/pretty side of New Orleans, and I've seen the gritty. On my first visit to New Orleans, in 1988 or 1989, I was attending an Associated College Press convention as part of The Daily Tar Heel contingent. One of my closest friends from high school, Rich George, was enrolled at Tulane, so I took a bus over to meet him. The bus was known as the "Frerette Jet" and went through some of the city's worst neighborhoods; you couldn't believe that the St. Charles Tavern on the streetcar line and these battered city blocks were in the same city.
I accompanied Rich to an anti-apartheid protest, and I ended up storming a Board of Trustees meeting with the crowd. "Take Tulane Green Out of South Africa!" we chanted...and soon thereafter, Tulane got with the divestiture movement.
Rich was my guide to New Orleans on several occasions, showing me the cool spots, the off-the-beaten-path watering holes like the Saturn Bar, exposing me to the Rebirth Brass Band and the New Orleans Blues Department. I checked out Mardi Gras one year, staying with Rich and his three apartment mates in a one-bedroom place with no shower (tub only!) and a persistent gas leak in the kitchen. We attended parades decked out in thrift store costumes, me wearing zip-up ankle-high black leather boots, ala Captain Kirk, that I borrowed from Rich's friend Bengt the glassblower. He introduced me to beignets at Cafe Du Monde at about 4 a.m., and I still go back there every time I'm in New Orleans (last October, at about 4 a.m., on my way back to my hotel to catch my flight home).
Thanks to Rich, I saw New Orleans as more than the French Quarter and Jackson Square -- I saw it as a college town, as an artists' town, as a musicians' town, as a place where a one-time lawyer wannabe could recreate himself as a zine publisher known as Science. Hey Science, where are you know? I never did thank you for that Zane Grey book "Taggart". No contact between us in almost 10 years.
Like most, anything I've done to contribute to the recovery is inadequate and small. My hat's off to the true heroes out there, quitting their jobs to volunteer for the Red Cross or organizing relief efforts. Except for Arabian horse administrators who don't know their FEMA from a horse's ass. (OK, just a bit of politics)
// posted by Bill @ 9:25 PM 
