I like John Maginnis. He seems a sensible observer of Louisiana politics: smart, level-headed and, if not impartial, at least capable of seeing both sides of an issue. Here he explains, among other things, why Louisiana's nascent status as "Hollywood South" isn't the great economic boon it masquerades as:


Through its Movie Production Tax Credit Program, the state, in effect, covers 25 percent of a film company's in-state expenses and 35 percent of its in-state labor. This has brought producers flocking and has catapulted Louisiana to the third leading movie-making state, behind California and New York.

A state-commissioned economic study released last week counted $462 million in direct spending on movie production in 2007, including 3,000 direct jobs paying on average about $35,000 per year, a $105 million payroll.

On the other side of the ledger, the state paid out $115 million in tax credits to investors, who purchased them at a discount from the movie producers. Minus state taxes paid on film projects, the net cost to Louisiana was $101 million -- or about equal what those 3,000 direct jobs paid.
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It's a new, clean, glamorous industry, but not cheap. A bunch more economic development like it would break the state.


I know people who have gotten some of the jobs created, and if these jobs helped them for a little while, then I am happy that they were helped even if the state as whole wasn't. But I still want the movies out of my city, out of my state, and most especially out of my pocketbook.

It bothers me tremendously that young people these days don't seem to think Catcher in the Rye is a good novel. I could write a treatise about all the reasons it bothers me, but one of the main reasons is that I think Holden Caulfield was absolutely spot-on about how the movie industry is a sort of fecal King Midas, turning everything it touches to shit. However, my hatred is probably best summed up by Ray Bradbury's little-known short story "Sun and Shadow." The story's protagonist, Ricardo, is all het up about a fashion shoot in his small Mexican village, but the basic principles remain the same.

*Reprinted in Golden Apples of the Sun, a collection which is itself reprinted in its entirety, along with A Medicine for Melancholy, in the Bradbury omnibus Twice 22.

1. A dream a couple of months ago. He kept following me around going "Hi! HI! Hi!! HI!! Hi!!! HI!!!" in this booming voice, and would not leave me alone. It was scary.

2. Last week I was half-listening to news on the car radio. The announcer said " ... president ... " and some guy who didn't sound like a total asshole started talking. I thought, "That can't be the president; he doesn't sound like a total asshole ... OH!" I remain skeptical that the great colonialist power will ever help us third-world bottom feeders much, but that was kind of cool.

Something interesting I've been meaning to share ever since we returned from Grand Isle. One of our many pleasures down there is reading the weekly newspaper The Lafourche Gazette, which serves a multitude of little bayou towns: Mathews, Gheens, Lockport, Valentine, Larose, Cut Off (Bobby Hebert's hometown!), Galliano, Golden Meadow, Leeville, and Grand Isle. I always enjoy reading the local papers when I go somewhere else, but The Lafourche Gazette in particular is a window into a whole different world that isn't very far from ours geographically, but is lightyears away in other respects. An front-page story titled "Feds Get Earful from Hearts of Citizens," though -- a writeup of a public hearing on the environmental impact of deepwater oil leases -- shows that we do share many things with the bayou folks, even if they express them differently. The following isn't a quote from someone within the story; it is the reporter's own narrative:

People down here are tired of the feds taking and taking without fixing what is damaged in the taking. No one showed up [the hearing was attended by only about 20 citizens] because they don't think their comments will do any good. If we were a Third World country, however, the feds would be kissing our butts to get what we have.

Indeed. You won't find these sentiments couched so baldly in the Times-Picayune (except maybe in the context of an editorial), but we've all felt them. I applaud The Lafourche Gazette and reporter Alces P. Adams for putting it out there with no bullshit-flavored icing.

I roused myself from my continuing languor long enough to post some new eBay items. This week's batch is a Chapbook Extravaganza!!! (I think it is illegal to type "extravaganza!!!" without putting three exclamation points after it), and some fairly rare ones too: the long-out-of-print Pansu and R.I.P. (my "tribute" to William S. Burroughs), a copy of Used Stories, and an extremely rare hardcover first edition of The Seed of Lost Souls.

Chris and I were reading the paper and drinking coffee yesterday morning, our usual AM routine. I remembered how I had sat out on the back steps the previous day, watching the yard birds at the feeders and thinking how long it had been since I added a bird to my life list.

"Hey Chris," I said, "let's just go somewhere and get away from it all today."

He was very much in favor of this, and suggested Plaquemines Parish, the one area heavily damaged by Katrina that we'd not yet visited. We had a good lunch of fried seafood, white beans, and rice at Salvo's Seafood in ... well, I'm not really sure; somewhere not too far from Belle Chasse ... and were pretty sure we saw Alan Toussaint at the next table. We didn't bother him, of course, but he and his dining companion did wince when Chris said something about Jazz Fest being "fucked [by the weather] this year." Then we continued on down the road, heading toward Ground Zero at Buras, where there was not much to be seen. Oh, there are people living there, incredibly tough and resilient people in trailers and modular homes and even rebuilt houses, but almost everything that was there before August 29, 2005 is just gone. (There is also a very large American flag bearing the mysterious sign, "THIS FLAG DONATED BY BINGO PLAYERS.") Some of the little towns we remembered, like Happy Jack, seemed to be completely gone. We were happy to see that St. Patrick's Catholic Church in Port Sulphur and its lovely little cemetery appeared to have come through pretty well, though there were still a few mysterious cement grave liners near the back fence, held together with metal bands and identified only by spray-painted numbers.

We ended up in Venice, the southernmost (car-accessible) point in Louisiana, which used to be one of our favorite birding spots. Post-devastation, it still is. The marinas have been rebuilt, the marsh looks to be in good shape (though still full of debris, which must be dangerous for boaters), the vegetation has bounced back, and the birds were out in force. We saw a gorgeous scarlet and golden Summer Tanager (the lifer I'd been seeking), a Rose-Breasted Grosbeak, Indigo Buntings (so blue they hurt the eye when the sun catches them!), Painted Buntings, Marsh Wrens, Eastern Kingbirds, a family of Snipes, and my beloved waders (Great Egrets, Snowy Egrets, Tricolored Herons, Yellow-Crowned Night Herons, White Ibises, Indeterminate-Sized Yellowlegs) by the dozens. We also walked down an abandoned road where we saw two wondrous sights: first a big flock of Roseate Spoonbills flying overhead, then an even bigger flock of Magnificent Frigatebirds, as seen in my icon, drifting low enough to get a look at us (they always seem to do that -- they must be curious birds), then spiraling up and up into the sky until we couldn't see them anymore.

It was a much-needed day out of the 'hood, and more important, a day spent solely and entirely in each other's company. We got back late at night and I was so sore from the bumping of our little car along Plaquemines' not-so-great roads that I had to go directly to bed with my heat blanket, but it was worth all that and more.

Terrific. We have elected Greg Stillson governor. And if a Johnny Smith should happen to come along, Bobby-Greg Jindal-Stillson will become a martyr to racism because he's of Indian ancestry. Thanks, Louisiana. I guess I may as well start packing my bags for the "re-education" camp.

A couple of months ago my friend David told me the thought of politics -- a subject he knows and writes a great deal about -- had begun to make his stomach knot up. I knew just what he meant. Another friend texted me earlier this evening to offer me a cheap ticket to tomorrow's Saints game. I declined because (sciatically speaking) I don't think I could sit through even half a game without strong painkillers, and I don't have any right now. However, I'm nervous these days about attending sports events in general, because things have gotten to the point where I know there is no way I could stand up for the national anthem. I've never been all that crazy about doing it, but before, I'd stand just to be polite. I couldn't do that now. I am not an American, and I don't relish the idea of being in the midst of a bunch of people, probably good, honest, hard-working folks for the most part (every football nut wants to believe his fellow fans are good, honest, and hard-working), who are deluding themselves that they are still Americans. And I doubt anybody would do or say anything ugly to me, but as I've said before, I no longer enjoy making myself conspicuous, particularly at the sort of event where a big part of the fun is the unity you feel with the rest of the crowd.

My dear friend David -- you may know him as one of the two people to whom Drawing Blood is dedicated, co-author of "King of the Cats" and "The Curious Case of Miss Violet Stone," and/or the stealth author of the Plastic Jesus dustjacket copy -- has in recent years turned into T. Rex (the T is for Thesaurus), a firebrand of the political blogosphere. I don't follow that sphere very closely because both sides of it raise my blood pressure too much, but I gather that the blog he writes for, Fire Dog Lake, is a pretty big deal. Last night he made this wonderful post referencing my "13 Reasons We Are Still Not OK" list from yesterday, and in the comments section, he promised to record a song on YouTube (on top of all his other talents, he's an almost scarily gifted singer) if his readers would Paypal me $250 toward William's vet bills by today. Well, let's just say that if $250 equals one song, David is going to have to record three songs. He evidently has the kindest and most generous readers of any blog in the world (except, of course, for this one). These donations will help us more than I can say, and while I'll be sending the donors individual thank-you e-mails, I also want to thank them here and now. (I'm afraid I am not always the fastest thank-you note writer in the world -- I still owe some for my birthday presents, which is absolutely inexcusable.)

I do feel the need to say that, unlike some of the commenters at Fire Dog Lake, I don't believe that the destruction of New Orleans was some kind of Republican conspiracy. The Bush administration did not build our levees. Jefferson and St. Bernard Parishes are far more conservative than New Orleans, and they suffered plenty -- St. Bernard worse than us, if anything. St. Tammany -- probably the most Republican parish in south Louisiana -- took a bad hit too, though their damage was due to the actual storm, not levee failure. Nor do I believe that the federal government took nearly a week to pull its thumb out of its ass and help New Orleans solely because the majority of our citizens were poor, black, and/or Democrat. (Conspiracists may take heart in the fact that Chris -- a flaming old liberal to the core -- totally disagrees with me on this.) There may have been an element of that, but while Massachusetts is practically the poster-child state for liberalism, I don't think the situation would have gone down the same way if a major disaster had hit Boston. Mostly, I think we were ignored because (A) we've long been seen as a third-world nation, not really a part of America; we've even brought some of that upon ourselves, proudly proclaiming that we were not part of America; and (B) the government was incompetent on every level, federal, state, and local. The people who helped us the most in the immediate wake of the storm were church groups. I'm no fan of fundies, but they were down here giving out food and medical care while the various government entities were still trying to find their own asses with two hands and a flashlight. The people who have helped us the most in the extended aftermath are individual citizens, both Americans and folks from other countries, who have come here to volunteer -- some with church or school groups, some with Habitat for Humanity, many on their own. It's obvious to south Louisiana that these people care more for us than any government ever will -- including ours.

Anyway, I didn't mean to rant so long, and I'm currently paying for some self-inflicted stupidity -- the nice dental technician told me not to drink through a straw for at least a week, but I just had to have a smoothie today, and I didn't want to eat it with a spoon because I was driving to the gym, and now my goddamn gum hurts like a motherfucker -- so I'm going to go take a couple of my Percocets and lie down with William, who still seems to be doing well. Again, Fire Dog Lake readers, thank you. I may not agree with all your ideology, but your hearts are solid gold.

No dreams. Good Ambien. Picture me patting a small white pill on its little head.

I'm up at this ungodly hour because Chris is doing some silly-ass cooking demo at the new Upper Ninth Ward Farmers' Market at the Holy Angels Convent, 3500 St. Claude Avenue, and I find that I can no longer sleep once he has gotten up. The farmers' market is a good cause and I'm sure his food will be lovely, but I selfishly call it silly-ass because it means we will have to rise at this hour on the first Saturday of each month for several months, and he will work a five-hour shift prepping the food and serving it at the market before going to work a busy Saturday dinner shift at the Delachaise. He'll have a few hours off in between, but I still think he's working too hard. In fact, that's a big part of the reason I'm so excited about the Chile Pepper gig: I think he's deliberately working harder than he would be if I were still bringing in money, and I hate that. (This market gig doesn't pay, but he says it will "raise his profile" and help him get other, paying gigs, which may or may not be true and/or desirable.) No grudge intended to anyone who gets to enjoy his food at the market, I'm sure (he thinks he's going to be feeding impoverished Lower Ninth Warders; I predict it'll be mostly artsy types who refer to their neighborhood as "the Bywater," but never mind; they've done the area a lot of good no matter what they insist on calling it). Still, I'd rather have him home.

For the past few days, every time I've seen pictures of the collapsed I-35 bridge in Minneapolis or read interviews with the narrowly-escaped or families of the presumably lost, the same ugly thoughts have popped into my head: I wonder if anyone will talk about how stupid they were to trust that their federally built bridge would not collapse. I wonder if anyone will question whether their major route over the Mississippi River should be rebuilt. And the answers are obvious: no, of course not, nor should anyone say these things. Yet we in New Orleans had just as much right to expect that our federally built structures would stand, and to demand that the government make things right for us given that their work turned out to be incompetent. The fact that no one would even consider asking such things about a major American city like Minneapolis just slams home our banana-republic status a little further. We aren't treated like part of the U.S.; we aren't important except when people want a place to party. And it makes us bitter, so that we think about such things when we should be sympathizing with people who are dying and grieving.

A few days ago, the Times-Picayune published an editorial column by Bob Thomas, director of Loyola University's Center for Environmental Communications. I can't find the link online, but here are some of the figures he cited:

- 30 percent of all oil and gas entering the U.S. passes through the Port of Fourchon, down near Grand Isle. The Louisiana oil and gas industry annually pays salaries of $2.7 billion to over 40,000 employees, half of whom are residents of other states. In 2005, we shipped $50 billion in oil, gas, and other petrochemical products.

- Louisiana's wetlands are the nurseries that provide 40 percent of the commercial fisheries in the continental U.S. We are the nation's largest producer of oysters and supply 50 percent of the shrimp. The total annual value is $2.85 billion, and fishermen provide 40,000 direct jobs.

- Sugar, rice, and other Louisiana coastal agriculture produce over $2 billion in economic value.

- Louisiana is home to the number-one port complex in the nation, hosting five of the fifteen largest individual ports in the nation. The ports' total annual economic impact is at least $30 billion, and they support more than 240,000 jobs.

Hard figures will never be my stock in trade, but I think the idiots who scoff at our "sentimentality" for wanting to preserve our unique culture, food, music, and tourism opportunities (as if these things aren't inherently worth saving) ought to take a look at the above statistics. If you drive or rely on public transport, heat your home, like seafood, wish to continue purchasing relatively inexpensive imported consumer goods, or simply don't want your taxes to support many thousands of new applicants for public assistance due to massive job loss, then you had better support the regrowth of coastal Louisiana.

More terrible dreams last night, these of a nature too personal to describe. I'm definitely taking Ambien tonight; a night or two of it usually seems to break the dream cycle. A reader e-mailed me re: the two-pussied girl, "[Dreams are] a reflection of our subconscious. What we think, or imagine, or would will into being - not objective reality. IMHO, it is both the hardest and (conversely) the easiest thing to confront the truth behind them." Too true, but I don't think I really want to know what that horrifying yet strangely attractive young lady reveals about me.

Good news, though: I have a magazine assignment! I'll be doing an article for Chile Pepper's Cajun/Creole issue on desserts and sweets that aren't very well-known outside of Louisiana, such as Cajun sweet-dough pies, gateau de sirop, Creole cream cheese, and such. The piece will run about 1200 words and must include three to five recipes. This is both heartening (because it's a well-paying gig and I've contributed virtually nothing to our household income in recent months*) and terrifying (because I've done almost no directed writing since last fall and am afraid I'll screw it up beyond repair or simply be unable to do it). There's still a professional writer somewhere in me, though, and I think that personage will come to the forefront and see that I do a competent job. Chris will be helping me with the recipes, but the research and writing will be all mine. What an odd feeling, to be so intimidated and excited over writing a thousand-and-change words. I still don't feel ready to tackle fiction and don't know if or when I will be, but it'll feel good to just be writing for a purpose, I think.

So I went out to Metairie looking for the latest issue of Chile Pepper. Couldn't find it at Barnes & Noble; had to grit my teeth and go to Holier Than Thou Foods for the first time in over a year (since they made the idiotic decision to stop dealing with purveyors who sell foie gras, basically forcing at least one company to either cease foie gras production altogether or go out of business). I looked neither left nor right, refused to be tempted by sights or smells, grudgingly paid my $5 for the magazine, and left. The trip worked out well, though, because today and tomorrow are state-sales-tax-free shopping days here in Louisiana, and I picked up an armload of books at Barnes & Noble for quite a bit less than I'd have paid otherwise: Fierce Food: The Intrepid Diner's Guide to the Unusual, Exotic, and Downright Bizarre by Christa Weil (this type of book is getting to be a dime a dozen, but I still find them entertaining); Another Day in the Frontal Lobe: A Brain Surgeon Exposes Life on the Inside by Katrina Firlik; See's Famous Old Time Candies: A Sweet Story by Margaret Moos Pick (a history of the superlative California candy purveyor); Louisiana's Italians, Food, Recipes, & Folkways by Nancy Tregre Wilson; three new (to me) paperbacks by my current darling of the noir/suspense thriller/police procedural, T. Jefferson Parker; and The Evolution of Cajun & Creole Cuisine by Chef John D. Folse. It and a book I already own, Stir the Pot: The History of Cajun Cuisine by Marcelle Bienvenu, Carl A. Brasseaux, and Ryan A. Brasseaux, will be important sources for my article, but I'll also need to do some leg/phonework, such as calling the Palace Cafe in Opelousas to talk about their pecan baklava that (in my opinion) represents the owners' mixed Greek and Louisiana heritage.

*Chris has never said and would never say a word about this, and there have certainly been times in our relationship when I carried him financially, but I find that I am just not comfortable with being supported. How stereotypically manly of me, I know.

I commemorated Independence Day by removing "United States" from the "Location" portion of my profile and substituting "Tanzania." Readers should understand that I've never actually been to Tanzania or anywhere in Africa. For me, it (especially in its previous incarnation, Tanganyika -- see the comments on John Kennedy Toole in my bio) symbolizes a location imagined by people in "real" places as a remote, benighted backwater, which seems more apt now than ever. Since August 29, 2005, it has also symbolized a certain state of mind, one I doubt I need to explain to readers of this journal. As it has become increasingly obvious over the past twenty-two months that south Louisiana is no longer considered part of the United States by its government* or many of its citizens**, I see no reason to celebrate this holiday, though I may deign to light off a few snakes if it ever stops raining.

These days, here's the first image that comes to my mind when I think of an American flag:


(Sept. 2, 2005: Milvertha Hendricks, 84, waits in the rain with other flood victims outside the Convention Center in New Orleans. AP photo.)

*References have actually been made to how we should "appreciate the generosity of the American taxpayers" by federal officials who (A) evidently have no idea how little of that money has actually reached us and (B) appear to have forgotten that we still are American taxpayers. As well, a Texas congressman recently questioned New Orleans mayor Ray Nagin's assertion that the failed levees were federally built; apparently the whole Army Corps of Engineers thing had escaped him and he thought they were just a few little piles of dirt we'd flung up ourselves.

**To those of you who do not feel this way -- which I hope includes most U.S. readers of this journal -- thank you so much for spreading the word that we are still here and insisting that we still matter. We appreciate it more than you know.

I was so excited earlier about Chris' piece that I forgot to mention how pleased I am that Governor Kathleen "Mee-Maw" Blanco will not be seeking re-election. I voted for her over Bobby "Homos Don't Need Rights Cuz We All Got Rights Already" Jindal, but even at that time I was not at all sure she could handle the job, and her performance post-K has proved that she most certainly could not. One of the major criticisms in the immediate aftermath of the failure of the federal levees was that she appeared tranked up. I had some sympathy for her at the time, as I, too, was tranked up; however, I soon realized that I was not supposed to be running a state or coordinating a major crisis intervention. The absurd, heartbreaking failure of the Road Home(less) program* has been the final nail in Blanco's coffin.

However, I never dreamed she'd have the sense, unselfishness, or concern for her party and state to bow out of the upcoming race. Her absence will deal Jindal's candidacy a hopefully fatal blow and make it possible for a non-"religious" wingnut to get elected. I'd happily take former Senator John Breaux; he's kind of an asshole, but compared to Jindal he's JFK, and -- a factor too many Louisianians seem to ignore in political races, preferring to waste their votes on joke candidates like Rob Couhig or the statue of Ernie K-Doe -- he is electable.

*Largely unknown outside Louisiana, Road Home is a federally funded, Louisiana-administered program more or less spearheaded by Gov. Blanco, designed to help uninsured/underinsured/insurance-screwed Louisianians rebuild their homes or purchase new ones. The program has been interviewing property owners and inspecting properties for months. Several hundred thousand applications have been received; a few hundred awards have actually been granted. Last week it was revealed that the program had been handling the funds in direct violation of the rules HUD laid out many months ago, which will surely delay grants further.

We applied for Road Home, but were fortunate in that we didn't have to rely on it to get a new home. If we get a grant -- which I doubt -- I will treat it as a windfall and apply it directly to our mortgage. However, my former neighbor, Ms. Sue, had no insurance, no savings, and lives on her Social Security. Her house was as severely damaged as ours and she continues to live in a FEMA trailer in her backyard while trying to do what she can to fix the place up -- which, in the absence of Road Home money, isn't much beyond carrying out her ruined belongings and sweeping away the dried toxic muck. She had her Road Home interview in December and her inspection a couple of weeks later. The "inspector" didn't even turn off his van and, according to her, took less than five minutes to inspect the house. Since then, she has heard nothing and has been unable to reach a Road Home representative by phone.

I'm sure Times-Picayune columnist James Gill (whom I think is brilliant even on the rare occasions when I disagree with him) is taking a lot of abuse over this piece. Personally, I not only think Edwin Edwards should be released from prison; I think he should be re-elected governor. If we can't have the nice tasteful king Ignatius J. Reilly wanted, we could at least have a competent politician who would never stand for all this Road Home(less) bullshit. People love to talk about how Louisiana politicians like Edwards and Huey Long lined their own pockets, seldom mentioning that they also put money and resources in the pockets of Louisiana citizens. Please, give me a corrupt politician like Marc Morial or Edwin Edwards over an "honest" one like Ray Nagin or Kathleen Blanco any day.

Instead of Edwards for governor, I suspect and very much fear that we're going to get Bobby "I Hate Fags and I Have the Cold, Dead Eyes of a Corpse" Jindal.

My only real response to Harvard's perky plagiarist is to wonder what novel titles she rejected as too unwieldy. Always assuming, of course, that she did make up the title herself.

A measure to help revive Louisiana's long-struggling, now-crippled seafood industry has been rejected by the Senate as "pork." John McCain, whom I'd always considered a fairly sensible sort, laughed off the struggle of Louisiana fisherman by claiming that "Charlie the Tuna and the Chicken of the Sea mermaid are already doing a good job of promoting seafood." Back to the prison camp with you, Senator. Meanwhile, I find myself in the distinctly odd position of cheering on Trent Lott. This storm has certainly made strange bedfellows. Even Bush is a better friend to Louisiana right now than Congress is, though I expect he will screw us eventually.*

Apologies for the brief, link-heavy entries of late -- they are not my style, but I've had little time to spend online over the past few days. Here's a personal tidbit: For dinner last night I made rumbledythumps from a loose recipe given to me by Sue Gregory of Cassowary House. It's not a healthy recipe by any stretch of the imagination -- just when you think you've used too much butter and cheese, that's when you should add a little more -- but it is comforting and delicious.

SUE GREGORY'S RUMBLEDYTHUMPS

Peel 4 large potatoes and boil them in well-salted water. (I like to add whole cloves of garlic to the pot.) Mash roughly with a little butter.

Melt a whole stick of butter and brown two chopped onions in it. Just before the onions are brown enough, add half a head of shredded cabbage and cook until limp.

Combine all ingredients in a large casserole with two cups of shredded sharp Cheddar cheese. Top with a layer of thinly sliced raw potatoes (optional) and more cheese.

Bake at 325℉ for 30-40 minutes until browned. Check halfway through to make sure crust isn't burning; if it is, cover casserole with foil for the remainder of cooking time.

Rumbledythumps should be served with something fresh, green, and sharp (marinated asparagus; a vinaigrette salad) to cut the richness a little.


*This should not be interpreted as any sort of liking for Bush. However, being fucked by almost everybody for eight months has turned us into a state of opportunistic relativists. You might have kicked us in the ass yesterday, but if you give us a dollar today, you're better than the guy who never gave us a dollar.

We got to Big Branch far too late to see much in the way of bird life: some Carolina Chickadees, some Tufted Titmice, some Red-Winged Blackbirds, one Eastern Towhee. However, we enjoyed walking through the woods, our first post-K trek through Louisiana nature. We saw a beautiful three-foor Yellow-bellied Water Snake. We saw dozens of Barred Owl pellets, deer tracks, pig tracks, raccoon tracks,what we're pretty sure were bobcat tracks and scat. Ultimately, we passed from the piney woods near U.S. 190 into the riparian forest where giant oaks still grew. Many trees had been toppled or broken, but most of the oaks made it. We began to see buoys, bits of marine supplies, what looked like parts of boats and bridges. We began to smell Katrina, just whiffs of that mold-gray odor that pushes at the back of the throat, that odor none of us will ever forget. Then we came to the lake and the marshes surrounding it. I walked out into the marsh -- there was a solid, though spongy, pad of dead marsh grass that easily held my weight -- and began to find all manner of sad debris: toys, shoes, torn lifejackets, parts of people's furniture (including a beautifully carved top to a bureau, chifferobe, or other antique piece) that had been washed over from the homes destroyed in Slidell. I salvaged a little plastic box divided into 50 tiny compartments, probably originally designed to hold fishing lures, drill bits, or the like -- which I hope to turn into some sort of art. Perhaps a little scroll in each compartment with a quote about the storm. Something.

Altogether we must have walked five or six miles. Today I am nearly too sore to move, yet I've got some crazy idea about mopping the apartment.

Here's some boring copyright shit that may nevertheless interest you if you use Yahoo!, Flickr, or related/similar online services:

( Copyright runaround )

Fabulous. So you can't answer questions about the terms of service for one of your own sites. I think this is the worst example of passing-the-buck incompetence I've encountered in 15 years on the Internet. I've really enjoyed sharing my photos on Flickr, but until someone (obviously not the people who RUN THE FUCKING SITE) can adequately address this question for me, I don't think I'll be putting up any more, and I may have to consider taking down some of the ones already up there.

I had a wonderful time at a party last night and woke up this morning in a state of black despair. I don't want to go into another decline like my beginning-of-Lent one. I mustn't allow it to happen. I have been getting work done and enjoying it, not to mention that I have a May 1 deadline for this book that I'd like to at least make a solid attempt at meeting.

This morning I finished Paul Theroux's newish novel Blinding Light. It is one of the most hateful books I've ever read. I don't necessarily mean that as a criticism -- Theroux is often very funny when he's being hateful -- but I do tend to agree with the critics (the real ones; I've not read any of the Amazon "reviews" yet) that this is not one of his more successful novels. However, I tend to prefer the metanovels that are about him, or at least about a character named "Paul Theroux." I had to take a break from this one about halfway through and read On the Banks of the Bayou, a Little House book previously unknown to me, about Laura Ingalls Wilder's daughter Rose who -- what do you know? -- spent a year attending high school in Crowley, Louisiana, where she met Cajuns, black people, and other exotic types. Its innocence was a nice few hours of relief from Theroux's well-written bile.

[Addendum: Having finished Blinding Light and knowing their probable stupidity could no longer worm its way through my enjoyment of the novel, I went ahead and read some of the Amazon "reviews." Aside from its disregard for basic punctuation issues, I almost agreed with this one:

OK Paul, now you've written a dirty book. Please don't do it again. I slogged through it because even when you're bad, you're a good writer, and I've read just about everything you've published. But the weird premise, the unlikely plot, the baroque, excruciating sex scenes, the pretension of name dropping the rich and famous (and the pretension of not name dropping the most famous), the unlikeability of any of the characters--it was pretty awful. The endless scenes with Steadman rattling around in his drug-induced blind horniness got old real fast.

until I got to this part:

There was some good stuff, which others have talked about, so it wasn't a total waste. But at your age, writing so graphically about sex labels you as a dirty old man. You don't want to end up in that category, do you? You can do better than a Henry Miller ripoff.

Yes, by all means, let's declare everyone nonsexual beings once they reach the age of 55 or so. (Theroux is, I believe, 62.) Anyone who thinks about it, writes about it, or has it after that is a dirty old man or woman. Fucking pinhead.]

Things are looking up, way up. I don't know why dreams should matter so much -- I guess they are a type of therapy where you don't have to talk to (or pay) a doctor -- but the ones I had last night were vivid and deeply comforting.

First, I was standing on the Crescent City Connection, the bridge that spans the Mississippi River from New Orleans to Algiers. I looked down and saw blue whales swimming slowly down the river toward the Gulf of Mexico. I had never thought whales would be particularly beautiful -- in those "whale-watching" photographs and videos you see, it's always just a vague barnacled hump or a fluke obscured by spray -- but, twisting with the current, these were breathtakingly beautiful.

Then I saw New Orleans artist George Dureau picking up Hurricane Katrina, just scooping it up between his palms. In his hands it became a beautiful, sparkling thing full of light that reflected a multicolored glow onto his face. He set it gently in a box and closed the lid, and I knew it wouldn't be able to hurt anybody ever again.

Last, I dreamed of Nate, my favorite character from Six Feet Under. As an angel, ghost, or whatever, he was distressed that some people die stupid and meaningless deaths; he was convinced that everyone's last hours should have meaning. I woke up crying, saying, "Nate, you can't fix it, you can't fix it. Nobody can fix it." And, having told him this and dreamed these other dreams, I somehow felt better.

Then, this morning, I awoke to the news that Our Lady of Good Counsel will not be closing on March 15 after all. It will remain in operation as before, with Father Pat as pastor, and will be reevaluated by the archdiocese in eighteen months. This is a huge load off my heart.

Apropos of a comment on prime_liquor earlier today in particular, and a great many political attitudes in general, I'm getting really sick of having Louisiana's corrupt politicians used as an excuse for holding up the money. It's our money. The government owes it to us. To use a not-very-good analogy, if you find out that your doctor is raping his teenage daughter, you still owe him the money for your gallbladder surgery; you don't get to withhold it because you found out he's a criminal asshole.

As well, I don't think Mayor Nagin and Gov. Blanco are corrupt. I think we might be doing better right now if they were, and I am no fan of theirs, but "corrupt" is one of the few unflattering adjectives I don't find applicable to them. Besides, the sleaziest, most corrupt politician ever to exist in Louisiana is a small-time piker compared to Bush and his posse.

Still in the midst of moving, and the process of transporting 20 cats in a small Korean car hasn't even begun yet. Anyone who expects me to answer e-mail during this time, or who posts to communities I usually read and then posts wounded little replies because I haven't answered, shall be severely flogged. Or shan't, whichever they like least.

Rexy and Miss Sue's cat, Holly, have returned to us thanks to the kind efforts of the Humane Society of Kent County, a group of people who appear to be working literally tirelessly for the good of displaced Louisiana animals. One of them told me she'd been told she shouldn't leave the New Orleans airport because she hadn't had her shots. For the record: NEW ORLEANS IS NO MORE OF A FILTHY CESSPOOL THAN EVER. THERE IS NO TOXIC GUMBO. YOU DO NOT NEED SHOTS TO COME HERE. It is, in fact, far less dangerous than it used to be simply due to the mass exodus of people, a few of whom did, in fact, want to hurt you. Most of them aren't back yet, and all of the people who are here will be very very glad to see you.

In related news, I'm not the world's biggest Tom Fitzmorris fan, but I have to admit he's providing a useful source of local restaurant information, including what restaurants have reopened.

We slept in the old house on our first night, which was creepy: it's definitely haunted, not by ghosts but by our old lives that will never exist again. I've been comforting myself by reading Hearts in Atlantis for the zillionth time. I suppose a certain kind of person will think I'm an idiot when I say I think it's one of the most important novels of the nineties and probably the single most important, or at least the truest, novel written about the sixties, and that's certainly far too ass-kissy to have said to Mr. King when I wrote to thank him for the inscribed copy of Misery, but nevertheless, I do think it. Yes, "Low Men in Yellow Coats" has its Dark Tower tie-in, but I've always thought that was the least important part of the story; the most important part is the stuff about the end of childhood and the fear that your parents might not really love you, or at least night not love you enough, and the knowledge that even if they do, that's not always going to help. "Hearts in Atlantis" ... "well, jeez, it's just about a damn card game,"people whine, but to me it's the most convincing thing, possibly the only convincing thing I've ever read about addiction, about that sense of realizing you're fucking up and deciding to do it anyway, or, worse, deciding not to decide, that long, way-too-easy slide. And then it slips into the guilt-residue of the sixties and the rampant, gross consumerism of the eighties, hell, falling out of the damn sky, and really it's all about Vietnam, and it could have been a hell of an important book, but is Stephen King even allowed to write an important book anymore? I remember exactly what Entertainment Weekly said about Hearts in Atlantis: they sneered that it was his "oh-look-I'm-not-just-a-horror-guy-I-can-do-sensitive-childhood-reminisces-too" book. That's almost a direct quote, because I was so struck by the deliberate obtuseness, the wilfull ignorance of the fact that for years now he'd been doing all sorts of things besides horror: no, this was an actual serious book that meant something, and I believe that if Joe Schmoe from Kokomo had written it, they'd have been coming in their pants over the thing.

Well, I'm tired and I don't know what I'm going on about. Who cares what the damn critics think of Stephen King? 200 million people read him, and at least some of them must have gotten more out of Hearts in Atlantis than a spooky story and a card game, and fuck it, I'm going to bed now.

Next few days will be consumed with moving stuff. Thank Gawd we're going home, but lordy do I hate moving. If you've sent me an e-mail, interview questions, etc., it'll probably be a few days before I get to it, and it may get lost in the crush entirely -- no idea what Internet access will be like in N.O., though I know they have some.

A horible thought has just occurred to me, brought on by a post on neworleans in which some babe couldn't get white chocolate bread pudding, the chef came out and yelled at her, and she is now TRASHING THE RESTAURANT'S ENTIRE REPUTATION ON TEH INTARNETS FOREVERMORE: in the future, Louisianians will probably use the degree of their loss as a yardstick of entitlement ... "Well, I lost my HOUSE!" "Well, I lost my house and my DOG!!!" "Well, I lost my house, my dog, and my GRANDMA!!!" This post is not intended as an indictment of anyone who did in fact lose his house, dog, and/or grandma.

It's getting harder and harder to wake up in the mornings. There's no difference to our days, no possibility, no interest except whatever I'm reading. And the mail. The mail helps a lot. Yesterday brought another box of cards and letters from greygirlbeast's readers, including a wonderful picture of a cassowary, and a copy of The Martian Chronicles from Cait herself. Today Chris's family sent late birthday presents. I tried not to suffer too much at the sight of the sushi-patterned Band-Aids, though sushi is one of the unattainable things I've been particularly craving. Today, though, for some reason, I'm dying for a piece of Manchego. I bet there isn't a piece of Manchego within a hundred miles of here.

It wasn't so bad immediately after the storm, when we could fancy ourselves survivalists, commandos venturing forth into a Mad Max world to find things: gas, ice, pet supplies, illicit Internet connections. Well, it was awful, actually, but it was also sort of interesting. Now I'm mired in boredom, not the good peaceful sort I need to work, but the uncomfortable sort where I feel like a bug in amber.

I find myself harshly judging the former New Orleanians who say they won't return to New Orleans. I know it isn't my place to do so, particularly if they have lost everything they owned -- or, worse, lost loved ones -- but I can't seem to help it. If they loved the city, how can they turn their backs on it now, when it needs them most? And if they didn't love it, what were they doing there in the first place? It was never a particularly easy or pleasant place to be if you didn't love it unreservedly. A friend who, like us, intends to return as soon as possible points out that when New Orleans is repopulated, the population will be made up of people who are absolutely committed to the city and its culture, and I suppose that's true.

Yesterday was a Very Good Day. Today, for no particular reason, is not so good. When I started crying over my laundry, I knew it was time to take a pill. Now I have achieved a sort of shaky equilibrium and am back at the Conoco powering up again.

I hate to keep asking for things, but this isn't for us; it's for our New Orleans neighbor, sixty-something Miss Sue, who used to take care of our animals when we traveled. She's staying with her sister-in-law in Alabama and has her two dogs with her, but is not allowed to bring her cats. They're at the shelter in Gonzalez and we are willing to pick them up, but can't see adding several strange cats to our already overloaded (18 cats and a dog) single room. Would anyone in Louisiana, south/central Mississippi, or Alabama be willing to foster between 3 and 9 cats (I'm not sure how many of hers are there) for a period of several weeks or possibly even months? If so, e-mail me at funkyegret (at) yahoo (dot) com with the subject line SUE'S CATS. We will pick up the cats and bring them to you. I know this is a long shot, but believe me, you will get stars in your crown.

Here's an example of the compassion we're receiving from our own politicians. Please, God, let this be apocryphal:

We finally cleaned up public housing in New Orleans. We couldn't do it, but God did. – Rep. Richard Baker (R-LA) to lobbyists, as quoted in the Wall Street Journal

One small, difficult thing is the music that keeps running through our heads. Who ever thought Professor Longhair's "Go to the Mardi Gras" could become a dirge? Or Louis Armstrong's "Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans," or "Carnival Time" or "Iko Iko" or even "Christmas in Chalmette" by Benny Grunch & the Bunch? For the first week and a half I was so consumed with worry for the animals that I scarcely thought of our house or the city. Now it's all coming home to roost. Whatever happens, New Orleans will never be the same city it was before this storm. I have no desire to write about it. Just as September 11 never happened in the world of Liquor (mainly because it would have put them out of business just as they were opening), I want to go on writing about the New Orleans I knew before, one where the roof never peeled off the Superdome and corpses never floated through the streets of the Ninth Ward. Yet I say I want to write as honestly as possible about my city. Is it irresponsible to ignore such a huge, shaping force in its history? I don't know yet.