O! for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention.
--William Shakespeare
King Henry V. Prologue.
I would especially like to recourt the Muse of poetry, who ran off with the mailman four years ago, and drops me only a scribbled postcard from time to time.
--John Updike
February 15, 2007
9:27PM
I stepped out of work briefly, around 9pm, to catch site of the Krewe de Muse parade.
The Krewe of Muse is the only all girl parade that travels at night. See more about it here:
http://www.kreweofmuses.org/
(note: these are last years floats)
Fun fact: In this part of Uptown all the streets are named after famous muses. As Krewe of Muse points out, this is a city that pronounces almost all of them incorrectly. For example, and something I find very ironic, the muse of eloquence and poetry, Calliope, is the name of a major street here that runs under the 90 connector & i10. They pronounce Calliope: Kal-ee-ope. Hm, eloquent.
Other muses now streets are Clio (pronounced Kly-oh), Erato, Euterpe, Melpomene (pronounced Melp-oh-mean), Polyhymnia, Terpischore, Thalia and Urania)
Our offices are about one block from St. Charles (on Prytania between Clio & Erato).
In that little corner of St. Charles next to Emeril’s Restaurant and across from the Popeyes (yes they’re on the same block) the crowds are fairly thin, so it’s easy to hop out of work and see a bit of the parades as they go by. If not, they are viewable from the POC’s office window. If there were a balcony there it would be prime real estate in a city that rents them out by the day during the Mardi Gras season.
That corner is not the best place for beads as most Krewe’s seem to save them, fearing they won’t have enough for the end, until they hit Lee Circle and then a bit later, Canal. Of course when they reach the end, usually on Canal or right off, they go nuts unloading everything that’s left. I need to see one parade down there before I leave.
Mardis Gras is not about amateur drunks and tourists, about Bourbon Street and under age boobies and gaudily decorated décolletage, made only more apparent b/c the ladies faces are masked. Its about political statements and community, about family and neighbors…or at least up until they body-check one another in a full out rugby tackle for some plastic baubles.
9:38pm
Back in the office. We still haven’t wrapped. I was warned that when in a controllable atmosphere, Fincher will shoot until everyone drops dead if he is allowed. Crew call was at 9:30am, so theoretically we should be wrapping shortly, actually around now, but the first shot after lunch wasn’t until 4:53pm, so in the sarcastic words of Tyler from editing, “Ah, have fun guys” Yes, that’s right, I see images of 2am and it ain’t pretty. Theo’s pizzas are probably being rushed to set by either Hiro or Derrick or Nathan as I write this, or whatever pizza joint is out there in Harahan as they’re at the NIMS center today. This might be a $200MM picture, but Fincher still shoots like he’s on a $6MM budget, most of the money is going on the screen, and its pizza as second meal.
10:14pm
Ah, we’re on the Abbey. Hallelujah. Yet, that doesn’t really mean much. He could be on that for the next two hours. I’ll get excited when I hear we’re on the Martini.
10:25pm
I find that any day that Brad is shooting is a much longer day. I’ve heard rumors of the arduous hours in make-up. Since he ages backwards, making him look 60 and 30 in the same day takes serious prosthetics and fabulous lighting, all of which takes a significant amount of time.
Back in the office, away from the energy of the parade, it’s a strange sensation to sit in dim light (the Christmas lights being our majority source; we now call them Mardis Gras lights) with only Justin, the hum of the heating vent (yes its actually 32 degrees outside) and this computer to keep me company. It’s quiet in here, except for the muted noise of revelers and brass, baton twirler’s chants and drum lines emanating through the blinds.
Peaceful and uplifting in a city of chaos and travesty; New Orleans, my consummate contradictory muse.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
February 13th 2007- Come High Water or Hell
2:30am my alarm is going off.
I don’t understand it, I set the damn thing for 8am. I double check the battery run contraption that I’ve had for ages, and yes, it says 8am. So what the heck?
It’s at this point that I hear what I must’ve subconsciously heard for the past half an hour, a loud thundering of rain, or what I would later find out is hail. It sounds almost comforting and starts to lull me back to sleep. The lightening is so white that it seems like a cavalcade of cars driving past my window, almost every second. I grab my flannel encased pillow and cuddle it, about to drift back into slumber when the explosions begin. Loud pops that crash through my head like a mallet. Has a transformer exploded? I peer through the blinds, rain is coming down hard enough that it’s blinding my view. I think things are strewn about, but I can’t quite tell.
The power goes out outside, quickly comes back on. I sigh, then hold my breath. Maybe what I feared the last time (when the power went off in my office) is what will happen; maybe it won’t stay on. As quickly as the thought flashed through my head the lights were out. And they were staying out. Silence, except for the rain. The booms have ceased.
I’m alone. Rob is in Massachusettes. I’m alone with the sound of the rain, and the sudden scratching and scampering within the walls. Damn rats.
I peer out my blinds and turn on my phone for light. I rush to find the one candle on the coffee table. I light it. Wait. Listen.
I’ll be honest. I’m scared. This is not the city I want to be in when a black-out happens.
I go back to the window. Peer out. Checking on my Foxy Jilopi.
A man approaches from the right side of the frame, seems to see the light in my apartment. Stops. I close the phone, hold my breath, let the blind gently slip shut. He seems to be trying to look into my window. Damn it, I forgot it was pulled up at the bottom, above the air conditioner. As he’s about to walk away, the candle flickers (stupid, I should’ve blown it out) and he pauses again. Perhaps he too is spooked, maybe by the light, because he then quickly heads out into the street. I hear another man join him. The lightening seems to be moving further away, behind us toward the i10, up toward Lake Pontchatrain. The light casting his shadow across the street, he disappears into the haze of the black and greys of the night which camouflage him. I can’t see him any longer, although I know he’s out there. He was standing still looking down the street, but now my eyes have blended him into the background, are playing tricks on me. Maybe he has moved on. I don’t know.
My phone rings, shattering the silence.
More voices. They join the man that was outside. Yes he’s still there. I see their heads turn toward the other window, which is open 4 inches. I drop the blinds, and answer the call. (As my friend Jason always quipped: “You could be getting mugged and would still answer your phone” I curse the fact that he’s right as I press the Send button)
The voice on the other end urgently says:
“Are you alright?!”
asks Brent Joseph, from editing.. It’s about 3:15am, I think, I don’t know. I haven’t looked at the clock in awhile.
I lie down in my bed. I think I hear a siren far away.
“Are you alright? Did the tornado hit you too? I figure you’re three blocks away, and…”
“What? Tornado?” I wasn’t expecting to hear that.
“I woke to my windows blowing out around me, glass everywhere. My car. My car has no windows.” He says in a rush.
I seem to make him repeat this. Much to his exasperation he does, a few times, with more detail each time.
‘As far as I know I’m just without power.” I finally mutter, meakly. I suddenly feel guilty.
“It’s like Katrina all over again here. If you want to see what it was like, just walk down Carollton Naomi. It looks just like Katrina again. I can’t believe this.” There’s a momentary pause and then quickly, “I’ve gotta go, I’ve gotta take care of stuff.”
And he hangs up abruptly. I look at the alarm clock that wanted me so desperately to wake up earlier, ringing before its time. It tells me it’s 4am.
Wow, time flies when the world is coming to an end. How was it 2:30am only minutes ago?
Tornado?
I lie back down, wonder what I’m going to do.
That’s it. I’m having a cigarette. This town is driving me nuts. I scramble around the apartment, finding one and venture to the door, and like in a scary movie, pause, my hand held out towards it. Do I dare?
The men that were outside have been gone for about 20 minutes, but what if they return? And just as I think that and peer out the adjoining window, he rounds the bend and walks down the alley by my door. He’s my neighbor. Definitely. I’m definitely staying inside.
I had a no smoking rule in the home that I enforced upon Rob and now me, I, I’m about to break it! But I’m crumbling and I don’t give a shit and I don’t dare go out. I take the cigarette and stand in the kitchen, inhaling and regretting simultaneously. The candle is apple cinnamon. It should be rotted refrigerator, from what I’ve heard. Post Katrina that was the eux de cologne of N’awlins.
Great, now the apartment smells like crap and I feel worse.
I hear a woman’s voice or two outside. I look out, again as before, again for the first reason: to check on Foxy. A large tree branch seems to be in front of him. A couple with a flashlight and what looks like a long-haired golden lab, can’t tell its still too dark, heave it out of the way and onto the other side of the sidewalk. In so doing, I see that it missed Foxy by about 3 inches to a foot.
That’s it I have to go out and get the flashlight. I wait until the voices dissipate. The only ones that remain, that I can tell, are on the balcony of the house to my right. I venture into the muggy air, drops still coming down but with infrequency, and venture to the car to retrieve the only thing I have of any use right now: My flashlight.
I get back inside. Who is out there that I’m not checking on? I don’t wish to relive my 9/11 mistakes where I neglect someone and find out the horror a fortnight later.
Brent called Tyler, said they had nothing but a little rain up in the Marigny and French Quarter and all my co-workers live in that direction or out of New Orleans proper, so they’re fine. Who’s here? Oh, good Christ.
I text Logan. I figure, just in case, if everything is fine I won’t disturb him. You can ignore a text.
R U Ok? Did Tornado hit U?
As soon as I’ve hit send it seems the phone rings.
“Hey, Naomi”
It’s Logan.
“Uh, yeeah, I have no house. The roof is gawn and all the windows are blown out. Woke to glass shattern and then the house started swayn back and forth”
His Baton Rouge accent somehow brings me comfort; I doubt I’m doing the same for him.
“Everyones alright tho’” he continues.
I sigh., relieved and also because, sadly, I have nothing to say and don’t know what else to do. A noise seems necessary, so a sigh instead. What do you say? “I’m sorry”? You can’t, it’s not your fault. Awkward silences.
“Rob’s not here, there’s plenty of room if you guys need someplace to crash” I venture.
“Thanks, but, naw its okay, my families on their way down from Baton Rouge, I have family in the area. I don’t know.” The silence again. I can’t find words.
He continues, ”Nothing really to do, you know, but stand here and wait for em” He pauses again, clearing his throat as if he’s at a loss of what to say also. His pause seeming to linger with the words not spoken: “I mean, she’s fine, what can I say to her?”
Then: “Naomi. It looks like Katrina. You’re welcome to come join us up here on St. Charles if you’re alone, witness the madness.”
The sirens come now. It’s 4:50am What took them so damn long? It’s been over and an hour and a half. It’s all I keep thinking. Why is everything in New Orleans inept?!
“Ah, thanks, but I think I’m going to sit tight for now. Call me if you need anything though, if there’s anything I can do.”
“Yeah, alright. Bye.” His voice, always a bit forlorn sounds even further away, and the far off sound is only highlighted by his southern gentleman’s twang. I feel I haven’t done enough, but I don’t know what to do.
I peer out the blinds, contemplating going to see if they’re truly ok. He did sound like he was in shock. Before I do though, I check the outside world again, peering through the blinds. As I do I see a tall black man, walking in jeans and a white t-shirt down the middle of Maple St., a woman’s white clutch purse in his hand. It looks like Night of The Living Dead outside, full of sporadic moments filled with aimless wanderers.
I think better of it.
There’s nothing I can do now, nothing, but sleep.
I lie down and wait to assess everything in the light of day.
It’s 6am when I think I finally start to doze off and disappear.
The phone rings at 7:30am, my mother asking if I’m alright, she just heard on NPR about a Tornado. I’m overtired and snap at her that yes, I’m fine, but I haven’t had much sleep and am “explitive” expected into the office come hell or high water. That phrase, that cliché, has never meant more to me than here and now.
Come hell or high water. Should be the other way around, at least here in New Orleans.
The daylight brings images of neighbors garbage cans and deck chairs at my window and blocking in my neighbors cars; trees downed, one on Rob’s Alpha Romeo behind The Uptown Cajun which luckily still stands, unlike the Starbucks hit beside it; neighbors and workers standing outside looking at the downed and entangled power-lines, the fire trucks and utility workers and the shattered windows and missing roof of my Laundromat three doors down; the new Mardis Gras parade on Maple has begun, but its in the form of the treo of National Guard vehicles and soldiers that slowly creep past the front of my house, blue lights flashing; the helicopters flying low overhead, first the Guard only 20 feet above the top of the roof and then Fox News and Channel 4 a bit more at a distance. Ray Nagin must be somewhere around. I sneer. This town needs a Guiliani and then a Bloomberg, or both. Simultaneously.
From one disaster city to the next, Naomi. You sure know how to pick ‘em. Who was that genius who came up with the blessing:
“May you live in uninteresting times.”
I don’t know, I haven’t experienced it yet, but Amen to that one (although what would one write about then?)
I get into my car and travel towards work, knowing I’ll pass Logans’ home, or what was. It’s a mess, but not as bad as I thought. The windows are all shattered, but some semblance of a roof still exists, at least on part of it, unlike his neighbor to the right where the whole front end seems to have caved. The neighboring house to the left, however, is perfectly fine and intact. Travel only a house further down St. Charles towards downtown, or Audubon Park and you’re in a land of purity and calm. You would never know a Tornado had ever been in the city. I saw Logan and his family outside and pulled over to give my condolences and reiterate my offer. We parted with us agreeing to see each other soon, hopefully for Mardis Gras this weekend, although his red beans & rice “pre-parade” party would no longer be.
I drove away, my mouth agape at the absurdity, watching the cars traveling in the opposite direction, going to from whence I came. Better them than me.
I wondered if they would have the opposite reaction. And would they or one of them at least, have the same realization I just had… but in reverse.
PHOTOS COURTESY OF BRENT JOSEPH OF AUSTIN, TX VIA NEW ORLEANS, LA
I don’t understand it, I set the damn thing for 8am. I double check the battery run contraption that I’ve had for ages, and yes, it says 8am. So what the heck?
It’s at this point that I hear what I must’ve subconsciously heard for the past half an hour, a loud thundering of rain, or what I would later find out is hail. It sounds almost comforting and starts to lull me back to sleep. The lightening is so white that it seems like a cavalcade of cars driving past my window, almost every second. I grab my flannel encased pillow and cuddle it, about to drift back into slumber when the explosions begin. Loud pops that crash through my head like a mallet. Has a transformer exploded? I peer through the blinds, rain is coming down hard enough that it’s blinding my view. I think things are strewn about, but I can’t quite tell.
The power goes out outside, quickly comes back on. I sigh, then hold my breath. Maybe what I feared the last time (when the power went off in my office) is what will happen; maybe it won’t stay on. As quickly as the thought flashed through my head the lights were out. And they were staying out. Silence, except for the rain. The booms have ceased.
I’m alone. Rob is in Massachusettes. I’m alone with the sound of the rain, and the sudden scratching and scampering within the walls. Damn rats.
I peer out my blinds and turn on my phone for light. I rush to find the one candle on the coffee table. I light it. Wait. Listen.
I’ll be honest. I’m scared. This is not the city I want to be in when a black-out happens.
I go back to the window. Peer out. Checking on my Foxy Jilopi.
A man approaches from the right side of the frame, seems to see the light in my apartment. Stops. I close the phone, hold my breath, let the blind gently slip shut. He seems to be trying to look into my window. Damn it, I forgot it was pulled up at the bottom, above the air conditioner. As he’s about to walk away, the candle flickers (stupid, I should’ve blown it out) and he pauses again. Perhaps he too is spooked, maybe by the light, because he then quickly heads out into the street. I hear another man join him. The lightening seems to be moving further away, behind us toward the i10, up toward Lake Pontchatrain. The light casting his shadow across the street, he disappears into the haze of the black and greys of the night which camouflage him. I can’t see him any longer, although I know he’s out there. He was standing still looking down the street, but now my eyes have blended him into the background, are playing tricks on me. Maybe he has moved on. I don’t know.
My phone rings, shattering the silence.
More voices. They join the man that was outside. Yes he’s still there. I see their heads turn toward the other window, which is open 4 inches. I drop the blinds, and answer the call. (As my friend Jason always quipped: “You could be getting mugged and would still answer your phone” I curse the fact that he’s right as I press the Send button)
The voice on the other end urgently says:
“Are you alright?!”
asks Brent Joseph, from editing.. It’s about 3:15am, I think, I don’t know. I haven’t looked at the clock in awhile.
I lie down in my bed. I think I hear a siren far away.
“Are you alright? Did the tornado hit you too? I figure you’re three blocks away, and…”
“What? Tornado?” I wasn’t expecting to hear that.
“I woke to my windows blowing out around me, glass everywhere. My car. My car has no windows.” He says in a rush.
I seem to make him repeat this. Much to his exasperation he does, a few times, with more detail each time.
‘As far as I know I’m just without power.” I finally mutter, meakly. I suddenly feel guilty.
“It’s like Katrina all over again here. If you want to see what it was like, just walk down Carollton Naomi. It looks just like Katrina again. I can’t believe this.” There’s a momentary pause and then quickly, “I’ve gotta go, I’ve gotta take care of stuff.”
And he hangs up abruptly. I look at the alarm clock that wanted me so desperately to wake up earlier, ringing before its time. It tells me it’s 4am.
Wow, time flies when the world is coming to an end. How was it 2:30am only minutes ago?
Tornado?
I lie back down, wonder what I’m going to do.
That’s it. I’m having a cigarette. This town is driving me nuts. I scramble around the apartment, finding one and venture to the door, and like in a scary movie, pause, my hand held out towards it. Do I dare?
The men that were outside have been gone for about 20 minutes, but what if they return? And just as I think that and peer out the adjoining window, he rounds the bend and walks down the alley by my door. He’s my neighbor. Definitely. I’m definitely staying inside.
I had a no smoking rule in the home that I enforced upon Rob and now me, I, I’m about to break it! But I’m crumbling and I don’t give a shit and I don’t dare go out. I take the cigarette and stand in the kitchen, inhaling and regretting simultaneously. The candle is apple cinnamon. It should be rotted refrigerator, from what I’ve heard. Post Katrina that was the eux de cologne of N’awlins.
Great, now the apartment smells like crap and I feel worse.
I hear a woman’s voice or two outside. I look out, again as before, again for the first reason: to check on Foxy. A large tree branch seems to be in front of him. A couple with a flashlight and what looks like a long-haired golden lab, can’t tell its still too dark, heave it out of the way and onto the other side of the sidewalk. In so doing, I see that it missed Foxy by about 3 inches to a foot.
That’s it I have to go out and get the flashlight. I wait until the voices dissipate. The only ones that remain, that I can tell, are on the balcony of the house to my right. I venture into the muggy air, drops still coming down but with infrequency, and venture to the car to retrieve the only thing I have of any use right now: My flashlight.
I get back inside. Who is out there that I’m not checking on? I don’t wish to relive my 9/11 mistakes where I neglect someone and find out the horror a fortnight later.
Brent called Tyler, said they had nothing but a little rain up in the Marigny and French Quarter and all my co-workers live in that direction or out of New Orleans proper, so they’re fine. Who’s here? Oh, good Christ.
I text Logan. I figure, just in case, if everything is fine I won’t disturb him. You can ignore a text.
R U Ok? Did Tornado hit U?
As soon as I’ve hit send it seems the phone rings.
“Hey, Naomi”
It’s Logan.
“Uh, yeeah, I have no house. The roof is gawn and all the windows are blown out. Woke to glass shattern and then the house started swayn back and forth”
His Baton Rouge accent somehow brings me comfort; I doubt I’m doing the same for him.
“Everyones alright tho’” he continues.
I sigh., relieved and also because, sadly, I have nothing to say and don’t know what else to do. A noise seems necessary, so a sigh instead. What do you say? “I’m sorry”? You can’t, it’s not your fault. Awkward silences.
“Rob’s not here, there’s plenty of room if you guys need someplace to crash” I venture.
“Thanks, but, naw its okay, my families on their way down from Baton Rouge, I have family in the area. I don’t know.” The silence again. I can’t find words.
He continues, ”Nothing really to do, you know, but stand here and wait for em” He pauses again, clearing his throat as if he’s at a loss of what to say also. His pause seeming to linger with the words not spoken: “I mean, she’s fine, what can I say to her?”
Then: “Naomi. It looks like Katrina. You’re welcome to come join us up here on St. Charles if you’re alone, witness the madness.”
The sirens come now. It’s 4:50am What took them so damn long? It’s been over and an hour and a half. It’s all I keep thinking. Why is everything in New Orleans inept?!
“Ah, thanks, but I think I’m going to sit tight for now. Call me if you need anything though, if there’s anything I can do.”
“Yeah, alright. Bye.” His voice, always a bit forlorn sounds even further away, and the far off sound is only highlighted by his southern gentleman’s twang. I feel I haven’t done enough, but I don’t know what to do.
I peer out the blinds, contemplating going to see if they’re truly ok. He did sound like he was in shock. Before I do though, I check the outside world again, peering through the blinds. As I do I see a tall black man, walking in jeans and a white t-shirt down the middle of Maple St., a woman’s white clutch purse in his hand. It looks like Night of The Living Dead outside, full of sporadic moments filled with aimless wanderers.
I think better of it.
There’s nothing I can do now, nothing, but sleep.
I lie down and wait to assess everything in the light of day.
It’s 6am when I think I finally start to doze off and disappear.
The phone rings at 7:30am, my mother asking if I’m alright, she just heard on NPR about a Tornado. I’m overtired and snap at her that yes, I’m fine, but I haven’t had much sleep and am “explitive” expected into the office come hell or high water. That phrase, that cliché, has never meant more to me than here and now.
Come hell or high water. Should be the other way around, at least here in New Orleans.
The daylight brings images of neighbors garbage cans and deck chairs at my window and blocking in my neighbors cars; trees downed, one on Rob’s Alpha Romeo behind The Uptown Cajun which luckily still stands, unlike the Starbucks hit beside it; neighbors and workers standing outside looking at the downed and entangled power-lines, the fire trucks and utility workers and the shattered windows and missing roof of my Laundromat three doors down; the new Mardis Gras parade on Maple has begun, but its in the form of the treo of National Guard vehicles and soldiers that slowly creep past the front of my house, blue lights flashing; the helicopters flying low overhead, first the Guard only 20 feet above the top of the roof and then Fox News and Channel 4 a bit more at a distance. Ray Nagin must be somewhere around. I sneer. This town needs a Guiliani and then a Bloomberg, or both. Simultaneously.
From one disaster city to the next, Naomi. You sure know how to pick ‘em. Who was that genius who came up with the blessing:
“May you live in uninteresting times.”
I don’t know, I haven’t experienced it yet, but Amen to that one (although what would one write about then?)
I get into my car and travel towards work, knowing I’ll pass Logans’ home, or what was. It’s a mess, but not as bad as I thought. The windows are all shattered, but some semblance of a roof still exists, at least on part of it, unlike his neighbor to the right where the whole front end seems to have caved. The neighboring house to the left, however, is perfectly fine and intact. Travel only a house further down St. Charles towards downtown, or Audubon Park and you’re in a land of purity and calm. You would never know a Tornado had ever been in the city. I saw Logan and his family outside and pulled over to give my condolences and reiterate my offer. We parted with us agreeing to see each other soon, hopefully for Mardis Gras this weekend, although his red beans & rice “pre-parade” party would no longer be.
I drove away, my mouth agape at the absurdity, watching the cars traveling in the opposite direction, going to from whence I came. Better them than me.
I wondered if they would have the opposite reaction. And would they or one of them at least, have the same realization I just had… but in reverse.
PHOTOS COURTESY OF BRENT JOSEPH OF AUSTIN, TX VIA NEW ORLEANS, LA
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
January 21st 2007 - Copboys & Injuns, Nola through Anu's Eyes
Friday night was a brutal late one at work and after wrapping up I think my head hit the pillow, hard, around 4am. The alarm went off a few hours later, giving me enough time to pick up one of my oldest friends from the airport at 9am.
Anu was coming to celebrate my 30th birthday that weekend as the big day was set to arrive mid-week, and although you can party mid-week, it doesn’t make for much fun the following morning at work.
I picked her up and drove her to the first place I needed to go to finish up some errands, and the historic landmark of one of Katrina’s biggest lootings…Walmart.
Walmart the monstrosity on Tchoupitoulas that relocated a low income neighborhood five blocks closer to St. Charles, with the promise to build them a town. As I understand it they just relocated them and it wasn’t until post-Katrina that with FEMA assistance, the new neighborhood was created on Annunciation. Annunciation, the same street that when I first stumbled upon it, I was so frightened because I was convinced I’d just driven onto the set of another film. The houses, all double and single shotguns, were so pristine that they didn’t seem to belong, but pristine in the same way MacMansions are to old colonials. The only thing that reminded me I was going through a ghetto were the people sitting on the front steps of these pristine new homes. I wonder what they’ll look like half a year from now. Regardless, Anu had the same deer in the headlights expression on her face when she walked into Walmart that I did the first time. The place is so huge that the information overload stupefies you.
“We don’t have anything this size in New York”
I smiled. I know, Anu, I’m from there remember?
After we got everything we needed I dropped her off at the hotel to freshen up while I ran some errands. I picked her up around 11am and we decided that we were too famished to do anything without eating first.
I knew that the best, although touristy, thing to do was to hit ACME on Iberville and Bourbon (across from the old and still closed Felix’s)
We waited in line for about 20 minutes before being seated. We knew what we wanted right away. Two beers, some étouffée for Anu to try, a dozen oysters and two pounds of boiled crawfish (not on the menu by the way)
The waitress was gone a long time before she returned, sans our drinks.
With an air very matter of fact she stared down at us and said:
“Our septic tank has backed up so we’re closing. Sorry about that, but we can’t serve any food until we have it cleaned up. Feel free to come back at 4:30, we’ll be open then.”
I looked behind her as one of the kitchen help dragged out a dirty bucket and mop.
Anu looked at him too, then looked at me and bust out in the hugest grin and then that great belly laugh of hers.
“I can’t believe that. Come back at 4:30? Are you kidding? You’ve got sewage in the kitchen, I’m not coming back at 4:30, she just said that so matter of factl. I can’t believe that, can you believe that?”
It was perfect actually. I couldn’t have come up with a better first introduction for Anu of this crazy town.
“Welcome to New Orleans” I said and we both had a good laugh as we skipped out of the restaurant.
We wondered around for awhile before deciding on Desire, or as Anu pronounced it, Des-ah-ray. I looked at her sideways when she said it and blinked twice:
“I can’t believe how quickly you’ve adapted to this town, Anu. You fit right in.” And told her of all the mispronounced streets and names that exist in New Orleans.
We walked in to be greeted by a dazed older waitress who seemed to stare past us, but eventually realized we were there and seated us by the door. I didn’t care as I just wanted to eat something. Unlike Acme which has a very touristy feel that makes in indistinguishable from your local TGIFridays, i.e. kitsch cluttered walls and gingham cloth covered tables, Desire gave you the feeling of stepping back in time. The floor seems to be the same one laid many years ago (although being in the movie business I know that doesn’t have to be the case) in small black and white tile. The lamps were made to look like old ironwork fans, the tables were marble topped and an ornate tin ceiling was surrounded by cabaret lights.
I asked for crawfish and the the waitress looked at me a bit dumbfounded, and for a bit too long without saying anything. I took it upon myself to direct her and turned and looked at the table behind us at their heaping mounds of mudrakers.
“How much is that, that they have? Is that a pound?”
She stared at them and then walked over and stood over their table, continuing to stare. She didn’t say anything to them either. Anu looked at me and I at her, both a bit perplexed.
“What is she doing?” Anu asked. I had no idea.
The people at the table looked at her and she looked at them. There was a moment of discomfort before she finally told them she was assessing their plates. This went on for over 10 minutes before she walked away and grabbed the manager.
“Now what is she doing?” Anu queried, I still had no idea.
The manger walked over to us and asked what it was that we wanted. I told him.
“Crawfish”
“Oh! Okay, how much would you like?”
After going through the entire poundage discussion again, I finally said that Anu and I would split a serving (about 2lbs) We ordered a small cup of jambalaya for Anu, a bean and rice for myself, a dozen oysters and the shared crawfish. Of course, the waitress came back with two plates of crawfish, but at this point I didn’t care. I assured Anu that if she didn’t like them that I would most likely finish eating her share.
Regardless of the bazaar service, the food was okay, the crawfish sufficiently spicy and the Bloody Mary’s, thank goodness, likewise. Overall I recommend going even if it is a bit of a run-off tourist trap, it has personality and plenty of personalities.
300 Bourbon St
New Orleans, LA 70130
(504) 586-0300
After Desire we walked around a bit, landing at Café Du Monde on Jackson Square for beignets and Café Lattes (or hot chocolate for Anu) which poor Anu would obsess over until she was able to get them again before leaving. We then ventured back to Bourbon for drinks.
Loud music came bounding out of The Crocodile Opera House on the corner of Toulouse as a live band rocked for an audience of three. Since it was still early afternoon the creatures of the night, the revelers from the evening before probably hadn’t woken yet so the place was pretty empty. As we sat down and ordered a drink from the greasy haired, half naked and overly fleshy waitress, the band (complete with washboard percussionist) went into a cover of Willie Nelson’s “City of New Orleans”, and it was just about perfect. Anu giggled as the guitarist made eyes at me and we settled into our three for one drink special of Abita Amber.
After having our fill of flirtatious eyes and ear piercing country I escorted Anu up Bourbon to Lafitte’s Blacksmith Bar on the corner of St. Philips.
As far as bars go you can’t get much better than the atmosphere at Lafittes (minus the bartenders who seem a bit too commercial and out of place, as they look like they should be the waitstaff at Tequillaville) Bi-level by only three steps the bar, on the first level, and the seating area with its old warn wooden tables on the second revolves around an old fireplace in the center. Large windows you could walk through that go from floor to ceiling in a style common here let in the cool breeze of night airing out the sometime cigar smoke that wafts from around the piano player in back, lit only by candles atop the piano and the firefly glow of cigarette buttes held by tipsy women. It is a place where you almost would expect Michele Pfeiffer’s character in The Fabulous Baker Boys to be lounging on the piano singing a ballad while one of Captain Jack’s cohorts hit back a few shots of Jaeger with a chaser of rum. Either that or it should be in a back-alley somewhere in Tolouse Lutrec’s Montmarte of time long passed. Suffice it to say, Anu loved it. Read more about its history here:
http://www.atneworleans.com/body/blacksmith.htm
After we’d had our fill of Bloody Mary’s and Dirty Martini’s we ventured back to the Hotel Duprey so that Anu might freshen up before we had dinner at Jacques Imo’s. Granted the key didn’t work and poor Anu had to urinate so badly she finally used the public bathroom on the first floor, but overall we ended up not being that late heading out and got to dinner around 9pm.
On our way out we shared the elevator with a lady dressed like Scarlett O’Hara in a wedding gown, on her way to her future. Something old, something new (but old), it’s the mantra of this town.
At Jacques Imo’s we were informed that it would be about an hours wait. We settled into the small and crowded bar with some red wine to bide our time with good conversation and people watching.
Jacques Imo’s is on Oak Street, on the river side of Carrollton, and run by the chef and proprietor of the same name, Jacques “Jack” Leonardi.
He serves up a medley of Cajun and Creole fusion dishes, what he calls “Real Nawlins Food”, in a space about the size of a large living room which one must walk through the kitchen to reach. Local art covers the walls (the gallery from which it comes a hop skip and a jump across the street, Frenchy’s) which themselves are painted in warm earthy tones of orange and yellow and scenes of the Bayou. Outside the restaurant is probably the best and most unique “seat in the house”. A run-down, beat-up mini pick-up truck is stationed out front with two seats and a small table sometimes situated in the truck bed. Graffitied with acrylic polka dots and a long green gator the blue truck is emblazoned with the hand painted announcement of where you are, definitely not where you’re going as the truck doesn’t move. Lucky couples in the know can ask to be seated there in front of the restaurant to enjoy their meal.
I can’t even remember everything we ate. I know that we had the gator cheesecake
and I had the seafood bouillabaisse which I couldn’t come remotely close to finishing. Everything was rich and delectable and served with panache by a flamboyant waiter with a shaved head sans the the Fleur de Lis of hair that remained like a Big Easy brand at the back of his skull.
At the end of the meal, Anu the little minx, who had told them it was my birthday, had our tremendously energetic waiter come out singing and he was soon joined by the entire restaurant in a Nawlins version of Happy Birthday. Mortified at the public attention, and only a day before the big game vs. the Bears I deflected as soon as possible and started chanting “Who Dat” which soon overtook my birthday song as the waiter took the cue and ran with it at full chorus.
http://www.jacquesimoscafe.com/
Jacques-Imo's Café
8324 Oak Street
New Orleans, LA 70118
504-861-0886
(There’s a Jacques Imo’s in Grand Central station in NYC and eventhough I haven’t eaten there I don’t recommend it. And here’s why: You want the real thing, and you can only get that in Nawlins)
Before dinner Tyler “Durden” Nelson from editing invited us to join a bunch of fellow workers (Eddie Cox and Jon Manochia from G&E, Marc Hammer the POC and Lisa DiSanto the Art Dept.Coordinator) at Rock n’ Bowl for some bowling et al.
Rock n’ Bowl is lucky to be standing. During Katrina it was under 8 feet of water, but luckily it’s a multi-storied building and the main action is two flights of long stairs up, the first floor not used from what I can tell. Walking in to the dingy building you feel like you’re entering a scene from Footloose. People from all age groups and nationalities (predominantly White, Mexican and Black) were inside, cowboy hats and acid washed jeans mixed with elegant elders and babydoll frocked hipsters all of whom were stamped ORLEANS upon admission. Anu and I once again shared one of our incredulous looks.
By the time Jacques Imo’s loosened its Cajun grasp and we were on our way we had missed the bowling by a few strikes. So I introduced Anu around and Eddie grabbed us each a beer.
As we were talking a strange hush came across the crowd and then a surging and the levels once again rose as you heard “They’re here!” and “Ohmygod its them”
Camera phones and little digital cameras appeared out of every pocket as they began to photograph men covered in outfits of feathers and sequins of ornate design.
“The Mardi Gras Indians are here!!!” http://www.mardigrasneworleans.com/mardigrasindians/ or
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mardi_Gras_Indians
We followed the crowd to see what all the commotion was about. They began singing James Sugar Boy Crawford’s Jock O Mo (Iko Iko) and combining it with the lyrics “Happy Birthday Bo”
Anu was then determined and there was no stopping her. She grabbed a large black bodyguard that was with the band and told him that it was my birthday too and could they please get me up there to sing to me. The man asked me if it was indeed my birthday. In the back of my mind I was feeling guilty with the knowledge that it wasn’t for another four days, but I said “yes”. And up there I went.
I would later find out that I was boogeying with not just any Mardi Gras Indian tribe, but THE tribe, the Wild Magnolias with the famed Bo Dollis http://www.wildmagnolias.net/
Unfortunately, the pictures I have just has his gold shirted elbow exiting fame (Anu, do you have better ones from your digital camera?) But it was a once in a lifetime experience.
From there we agreed to head out and meet Brent Joseph at Mimi’s in the Marigny for some dancing. We got there around midnight or so and danced until wee into the morning hours, around 4am or later.
I was exhausted and as I got to my car to drive realized that I had been drinking for 8 hours shy of a day.
The cop sitting outside of Mimi’s enjoyed following us to our car and then sitting in his car behind us for over 20 minutes. Anu and I dawdled, chatting with people who walked by until he became bored and drove off. As I’ve said before, cops here don’t like catching the bad-guys, but they sure like catching revelers as they drive away from bars. Kind of like shooting fish in a barrel
Anu was coming to celebrate my 30th birthday that weekend as the big day was set to arrive mid-week, and although you can party mid-week, it doesn’t make for much fun the following morning at work.
I picked her up and drove her to the first place I needed to go to finish up some errands, and the historic landmark of one of Katrina’s biggest lootings…Walmart.
Walmart the monstrosity on Tchoupitoulas that relocated a low income neighborhood five blocks closer to St. Charles, with the promise to build them a town. As I understand it they just relocated them and it wasn’t until post-Katrina that with FEMA assistance, the new neighborhood was created on Annunciation. Annunciation, the same street that when I first stumbled upon it, I was so frightened because I was convinced I’d just driven onto the set of another film. The houses, all double and single shotguns, were so pristine that they didn’t seem to belong, but pristine in the same way MacMansions are to old colonials. The only thing that reminded me I was going through a ghetto were the people sitting on the front steps of these pristine new homes. I wonder what they’ll look like half a year from now. Regardless, Anu had the same deer in the headlights expression on her face when she walked into Walmart that I did the first time. The place is so huge that the information overload stupefies you.
“We don’t have anything this size in New York”
I smiled. I know, Anu, I’m from there remember?
After we got everything we needed I dropped her off at the hotel to freshen up while I ran some errands. I picked her up around 11am and we decided that we were too famished to do anything without eating first.
I knew that the best, although touristy, thing to do was to hit ACME on Iberville and Bourbon (across from the old and still closed Felix’s)
We waited in line for about 20 minutes before being seated. We knew what we wanted right away. Two beers, some étouffée for Anu to try, a dozen oysters and two pounds of boiled crawfish (not on the menu by the way)
The waitress was gone a long time before she returned, sans our drinks.
With an air very matter of fact she stared down at us and said:
“Our septic tank has backed up so we’re closing. Sorry about that, but we can’t serve any food until we have it cleaned up. Feel free to come back at 4:30, we’ll be open then.”
I looked behind her as one of the kitchen help dragged out a dirty bucket and mop.
Anu looked at him too, then looked at me and bust out in the hugest grin and then that great belly laugh of hers.
“I can’t believe that. Come back at 4:30? Are you kidding? You’ve got sewage in the kitchen, I’m not coming back at 4:30, she just said that so matter of factl. I can’t believe that, can you believe that?”
It was perfect actually. I couldn’t have come up with a better first introduction for Anu of this crazy town.
“Welcome to New Orleans” I said and we both had a good laugh as we skipped out of the restaurant.
We wondered around for awhile before deciding on Desire, or as Anu pronounced it, Des-ah-ray. I looked at her sideways when she said it and blinked twice:
“I can’t believe how quickly you’ve adapted to this town, Anu. You fit right in.” And told her of all the mispronounced streets and names that exist in New Orleans.
We walked in to be greeted by a dazed older waitress who seemed to stare past us, but eventually realized we were there and seated us by the door. I didn’t care as I just wanted to eat something. Unlike Acme which has a very touristy feel that makes in indistinguishable from your local TGIFridays, i.e. kitsch cluttered walls and gingham cloth covered tables, Desire gave you the feeling of stepping back in time. The floor seems to be the same one laid many years ago (although being in the movie business I know that doesn’t have to be the case) in small black and white tile. The lamps were made to look like old ironwork fans, the tables were marble topped and an ornate tin ceiling was surrounded by cabaret lights.
I asked for crawfish and the the waitress looked at me a bit dumbfounded, and for a bit too long without saying anything. I took it upon myself to direct her and turned and looked at the table behind us at their heaping mounds of mudrakers.
“How much is that, that they have? Is that a pound?”
She stared at them and then walked over and stood over their table, continuing to stare. She didn’t say anything to them either. Anu looked at me and I at her, both a bit perplexed.
“What is she doing?” Anu asked. I had no idea.
The people at the table looked at her and she looked at them. There was a moment of discomfort before she finally told them she was assessing their plates. This went on for over 10 minutes before she walked away and grabbed the manager.
“Now what is she doing?” Anu queried, I still had no idea.
The manger walked over to us and asked what it was that we wanted. I told him.
“Crawfish”
“Oh! Okay, how much would you like?”
After going through the entire poundage discussion again, I finally said that Anu and I would split a serving (about 2lbs) We ordered a small cup of jambalaya for Anu, a bean and rice for myself, a dozen oysters and the shared crawfish. Of course, the waitress came back with two plates of crawfish, but at this point I didn’t care. I assured Anu that if she didn’t like them that I would most likely finish eating her share.
Regardless of the bazaar service, the food was okay, the crawfish sufficiently spicy and the Bloody Mary’s, thank goodness, likewise. Overall I recommend going even if it is a bit of a run-off tourist trap, it has personality and plenty of personalities.
300 Bourbon St
New Orleans, LA 70130
(504) 586-0300
After Desire we walked around a bit, landing at Café Du Monde on Jackson Square for beignets and Café Lattes (or hot chocolate for Anu) which poor Anu would obsess over until she was able to get them again before leaving. We then ventured back to Bourbon for drinks.
Loud music came bounding out of The Crocodile Opera House on the corner of Toulouse as a live band rocked for an audience of three. Since it was still early afternoon the creatures of the night, the revelers from the evening before probably hadn’t woken yet so the place was pretty empty. As we sat down and ordered a drink from the greasy haired, half naked and overly fleshy waitress, the band (complete with washboard percussionist) went into a cover of Willie Nelson’s “City of New Orleans”, and it was just about perfect. Anu giggled as the guitarist made eyes at me and we settled into our three for one drink special of Abita Amber.
After having our fill of flirtatious eyes and ear piercing country I escorted Anu up Bourbon to Lafitte’s Blacksmith Bar on the corner of St. Philips.
As far as bars go you can’t get much better than the atmosphere at Lafittes (minus the bartenders who seem a bit too commercial and out of place, as they look like they should be the waitstaff at Tequillaville) Bi-level by only three steps the bar, on the first level, and the seating area with its old warn wooden tables on the second revolves around an old fireplace in the center. Large windows you could walk through that go from floor to ceiling in a style common here let in the cool breeze of night airing out the sometime cigar smoke that wafts from around the piano player in back, lit only by candles atop the piano and the firefly glow of cigarette buttes held by tipsy women. It is a place where you almost would expect Michele Pfeiffer’s character in The Fabulous Baker Boys to be lounging on the piano singing a ballad while one of Captain Jack’s cohorts hit back a few shots of Jaeger with a chaser of rum. Either that or it should be in a back-alley somewhere in Tolouse Lutrec’s Montmarte of time long passed. Suffice it to say, Anu loved it. Read more about its history here:
http://www.atneworleans.com/body/blacksmith.htm
After we’d had our fill of Bloody Mary’s and Dirty Martini’s we ventured back to the Hotel Duprey so that Anu might freshen up before we had dinner at Jacques Imo’s. Granted the key didn’t work and poor Anu had to urinate so badly she finally used the public bathroom on the first floor, but overall we ended up not being that late heading out and got to dinner around 9pm.
On our way out we shared the elevator with a lady dressed like Scarlett O’Hara in a wedding gown, on her way to her future. Something old, something new (but old), it’s the mantra of this town.
At Jacques Imo’s we were informed that it would be about an hours wait. We settled into the small and crowded bar with some red wine to bide our time with good conversation and people watching.
Jacques Imo’s is on Oak Street, on the river side of Carrollton, and run by the chef and proprietor of the same name, Jacques “Jack” Leonardi.
He serves up a medley of Cajun and Creole fusion dishes, what he calls “Real Nawlins Food”, in a space about the size of a large living room which one must walk through the kitchen to reach. Local art covers the walls (the gallery from which it comes a hop skip and a jump across the street, Frenchy’s) which themselves are painted in warm earthy tones of orange and yellow and scenes of the Bayou. Outside the restaurant is probably the best and most unique “seat in the house”. A run-down, beat-up mini pick-up truck is stationed out front with two seats and a small table sometimes situated in the truck bed. Graffitied with acrylic polka dots and a long green gator the blue truck is emblazoned with the hand painted announcement of where you are, definitely not where you’re going as the truck doesn’t move. Lucky couples in the know can ask to be seated there in front of the restaurant to enjoy their meal.
I can’t even remember everything we ate. I know that we had the gator cheesecake
and I had the seafood bouillabaisse which I couldn’t come remotely close to finishing. Everything was rich and delectable and served with panache by a flamboyant waiter with a shaved head sans the the Fleur de Lis of hair that remained like a Big Easy brand at the back of his skull.
At the end of the meal, Anu the little minx, who had told them it was my birthday, had our tremendously energetic waiter come out singing and he was soon joined by the entire restaurant in a Nawlins version of Happy Birthday. Mortified at the public attention, and only a day before the big game vs. the Bears I deflected as soon as possible and started chanting “Who Dat” which soon overtook my birthday song as the waiter took the cue and ran with it at full chorus.
http://www.jacquesimoscafe.com/
Jacques-Imo's Café
8324 Oak Street
New Orleans, LA 70118
504-861-0886
(There’s a Jacques Imo’s in Grand Central station in NYC and eventhough I haven’t eaten there I don’t recommend it. And here’s why: You want the real thing, and you can only get that in Nawlins)
Before dinner Tyler “Durden” Nelson from editing invited us to join a bunch of fellow workers (Eddie Cox and Jon Manochia from G&E, Marc Hammer the POC and Lisa DiSanto the Art Dept.Coordinator) at Rock n’ Bowl for some bowling et al.
Rock n’ Bowl is lucky to be standing. During Katrina it was under 8 feet of water, but luckily it’s a multi-storied building and the main action is two flights of long stairs up, the first floor not used from what I can tell. Walking in to the dingy building you feel like you’re entering a scene from Footloose. People from all age groups and nationalities (predominantly White, Mexican and Black) were inside, cowboy hats and acid washed jeans mixed with elegant elders and babydoll frocked hipsters all of whom were stamped ORLEANS upon admission. Anu and I once again shared one of our incredulous looks.
By the time Jacques Imo’s loosened its Cajun grasp and we were on our way we had missed the bowling by a few strikes. So I introduced Anu around and Eddie grabbed us each a beer.
As we were talking a strange hush came across the crowd and then a surging and the levels once again rose as you heard “They’re here!” and “Ohmygod its them”
Camera phones and little digital cameras appeared out of every pocket as they began to photograph men covered in outfits of feathers and sequins of ornate design.
“The Mardi Gras Indians are here!!!” http://www.mardigrasneworleans.com/mardigrasindians/ or
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mardi_Gras_Indians
We followed the crowd to see what all the commotion was about. They began singing James Sugar Boy Crawford’s Jock O Mo (Iko Iko) and combining it with the lyrics “Happy Birthday Bo”
Anu was then determined and there was no stopping her. She grabbed a large black bodyguard that was with the band and told him that it was my birthday too and could they please get me up there to sing to me. The man asked me if it was indeed my birthday. In the back of my mind I was feeling guilty with the knowledge that it wasn’t for another four days, but I said “yes”. And up there I went.
I would later find out that I was boogeying with not just any Mardi Gras Indian tribe, but THE tribe, the Wild Magnolias with the famed Bo Dollis http://www.wildmagnolias.net/
Unfortunately, the pictures I have just has his gold shirted elbow exiting fame (Anu, do you have better ones from your digital camera?) But it was a once in a lifetime experience.
From there we agreed to head out and meet Brent Joseph at Mimi’s in the Marigny for some dancing. We got there around midnight or so and danced until wee into the morning hours, around 4am or later.
I was exhausted and as I got to my car to drive realized that I had been drinking for 8 hours shy of a day.The cop sitting outside of Mimi’s enjoyed following us to our car and then sitting in his car behind us for over 20 minutes. Anu and I dawdled, chatting with people who walked by until he became bored and drove off. As I’ve said before, cops here don’t like catching the bad-guys, but they sure like catching revelers as they drive away from bars. Kind of like shooting fish in a barrel
Putting the Wine Back In Christ - New Orleans moment
New Orleans moment: Driving on one of my office runs I noticed the bumper of the SUV infront of me. It had two bumper stickers on it. On the Left one it said: “Have you spoken to the Lord lately?”
On the right sticker it said: “Nicks Bar. Slammin’ ‘em (picture of a can of beer) Down Good Since 1984”
That sums up what its like and who lives here– Alcoholics & Catholics, often they are one and the same.
On the right sticker it said: “Nicks Bar. Slammin’ ‘em (picture of a can of beer) Down Good Since 1984”
That sums up what its like and who lives here– Alcoholics & Catholics, often they are one and the same.
January 25th 2007 - The End of My 30th Year
January 25, 2007
I woke up Wednesday, January 24th to a grey and slightly blistering day, at least for New Orleans. Someone had chosen to bless me with a British fall day; and what better way to celebrate my 30th year than a reminder of Scotland? The rain hung in the air, deciding to fall at times in solid drops albeit infrequently, the sky ashen, the Fahrenheit around 40.
But even at 40 it was cold. It was the type of cold that creeps up and through your clothes; the spindly fingers of Old Man Winter were digging through the flesh and into my bones. Others complained, whereas I was enthralled, to put it bluntly I was like a pig in s#*&%. Perhaps not the most eloquent way to phrase it, but that seems to be the most apropos cliché. Ah, good British weather to celebrate the dirty thirty.
At the office UPS met me with a beautiful bouquet of red tulips from my friend Albert. That afternoon my boss, Scott, sent me on a run to the producer’s house (a gorgeous old mansion, actually owned by Nicholas Cage) from which I returned to two King Cakes, one with a three, the other with a zero candle, and the office singing me Happy Birthday.
That night the digital lab, or as I like to call them, the editing boys, Tyler and Brent took me to what must be the best southern-native-Nawlins food in all of this crazy town: Pampy’s.
Pampy’s is a place I can’t recommend enough. Lying on the fringe of one neighborhood that before Katrina, was an evenly integrated community of black and white working class families but is now three-fourths empty; and the other….gang land.
In the middle of these two ‘hoods it sits alone on a corner surrounded now by abandoned homes and barely lived in ones. This little joint on N. Broad Street, apparently owned by a black Mafioso type who is headed for the big house, and whose main chef perished in Katrina, is now managed by a lovely woman named Deinira “Dee” Angelain.
She serves up an atmosphere in which you feel comfortable, and the chef knows how to cook real down home Creole. It has the best fried chicken I’ve ever had in my life, garnished with a parsley and garlic compote. The gumbo, sad to say, does not hold a candle to The Uptown Cajun but is still hearty and good. Its wine selection is overly sweet to say the least, but cheap (the Menage et Trois isn’t that horrid), however the hospitality, atmosphere and traditional greats (potatoe salad, red beans and rice) are to die for and make up for anything the restaurant might lack.
The service was impeccable, although a bit amused by our little trio. By that I mean, there aren’t too many white people that enter Pampy’s and I think they treated us as a bit of a side-show attraction and an anomaly, going out of their way to be friendly and accommodating to the crazy white folk who chose to enter the establishment. When I ran back in, after leaving, to get their business card they told me, insisted actually, that if I really wanted to get the flavor of the place I had to come back Friday when they would be playing live music and “…having a true house party, where we go all wild” I assured them I would.
Like I said, I can’t recommend them highly enough. If you find yourself in New Orleans, get a car, hire United Cabs, get there anyway you can no matter how far out of the way (in Mid-City). It’s a place you have to try with people who you have to meet.
There are also amazing photos, large black and whites about 2’X3’ of Katrina a few days after the storm that should be seen (I’m sorry I didn’t get the photographers name), especially in the context of them having lost their star chef to the Bayou waters that flooded in when the Levies broke.
Pampy’s
2005 N. Broad Street
New Orleans, LA 70119
I woke up Wednesday, January 24th to a grey and slightly blistering day, at least for New Orleans. Someone had chosen to bless me with a British fall day; and what better way to celebrate my 30th year than a reminder of Scotland? The rain hung in the air, deciding to fall at times in solid drops albeit infrequently, the sky ashen, the Fahrenheit around 40.
But even at 40 it was cold. It was the type of cold that creeps up and through your clothes; the spindly fingers of Old Man Winter were digging through the flesh and into my bones. Others complained, whereas I was enthralled, to put it bluntly I was like a pig in s#*&%. Perhaps not the most eloquent way to phrase it, but that seems to be the most apropos cliché. Ah, good British weather to celebrate the dirty thirty.
At the office UPS met me with a beautiful bouquet of red tulips from my friend Albert. That afternoon my boss, Scott, sent me on a run to the producer’s house (a gorgeous old mansion, actually owned by Nicholas Cage) from which I returned to two King Cakes, one with a three, the other with a zero candle, and the office singing me Happy Birthday.
That night the digital lab, or as I like to call them, the editing boys, Tyler and Brent took me to what must be the best southern-native-Nawlins food in all of this crazy town: Pampy’s.
Pampy’s is a place I can’t recommend enough. Lying on the fringe of one neighborhood that before Katrina, was an evenly integrated community of black and white working class families but is now three-fourths empty; and the other….gang land.
In the middle of these two ‘hoods it sits alone on a corner surrounded now by abandoned homes and barely lived in ones. This little joint on N. Broad Street, apparently owned by a black Mafioso type who is headed for the big house, and whose main chef perished in Katrina, is now managed by a lovely woman named Deinira “Dee” Angelain.
She serves up an atmosphere in which you feel comfortable, and the chef knows how to cook real down home Creole. It has the best fried chicken I’ve ever had in my life, garnished with a parsley and garlic compote. The gumbo, sad to say, does not hold a candle to The Uptown Cajun but is still hearty and good. Its wine selection is overly sweet to say the least, but cheap (the Menage et Trois isn’t that horrid), however the hospitality, atmosphere and traditional greats (potatoe salad, red beans and rice) are to die for and make up for anything the restaurant might lack.
The service was impeccable, although a bit amused by our little trio. By that I mean, there aren’t too many white people that enter Pampy’s and I think they treated us as a bit of a side-show attraction and an anomaly, going out of their way to be friendly and accommodating to the crazy white folk who chose to enter the establishment. When I ran back in, after leaving, to get their business card they told me, insisted actually, that if I really wanted to get the flavor of the place I had to come back Friday when they would be playing live music and “…having a true house party, where we go all wild” I assured them I would.
Like I said, I can’t recommend them highly enough. If you find yourself in New Orleans, get a car, hire United Cabs, get there anyway you can no matter how far out of the way (in Mid-City). It’s a place you have to try with people who you have to meet.
There are also amazing photos, large black and whites about 2’X3’ of Katrina a few days after the storm that should be seen (I’m sorry I didn’t get the photographers name), especially in the context of them having lost their star chef to the Bayou waters that flooded in when the Levies broke.
Pampy’s
2005 N. Broad Street
New Orleans, LA 70119
January 18th, 2007 -Update: Death in the Garden
UPDATE
Gunshots in the Garden on Friday, January 12th
As I wrote in a previous journal entry, there were gunshots heard not far from set the other day. Well today, January 18th, Marco, the head of Security apologized for not giving me more attention on Friday when the gunshots went off.
I had turned to him, as I saw him run out of the Nolan house, and said, “Were those what I think they are?” He had said, “Yes sweetheart they are” and promptly gone about organizing the “troops”.
Brad Pitt had turned to Marco after the first shot and told him to “get your men and your guns”, giving him the permission, so to speak, to leave his side.
“I wasn’t ignoring you, I hope you know that” Marco said “you know, when you asked me if those were gunshots”
Of course I knew, I assured him. I realized there were more important things going on at that moment. Hello, people were being shot at.
“Well, so you know, I had someone follow you to your car to make sure you were safe.”
In a small way that scared me more than anything, as I hadn’t noticed any 6’4” man following me (yes, all the security are very large and intimidating men)
“Now listen”, Marco continued, “anytime you feel unsure, you just tell one of my boys that you need escorting and they will escort you wherever you need to go. These guys, they see a young girl walking alone, and you know…I just want you to be safe.”
It turns out that this is the fifth incident since we’ve been at the location on Third Street between Coliseum and Prytania (about a four week time period).
The heart of the Garden District; The famed and touted, an area rated one of the most beautiful places to live in America, was under attack and had been for years.
That same night I went to the Maple Leaf bar and met a filmmaker, Dana, who had lived here back in the 80s and early 90s. He informed me that back then, Calhoun, Laurel and the other streets a few blocks closer to Tchoupitoulas, were very dangerous ghettos. They apparently are still poor, even though some have had face lifts, and although crack isn’t as prevalent, gang activity continues, especially now that NOLA feels a bit like the wild west with no real sheriff in town.
The night that I heard the gunshots, Marco informed me, a group was shot at and one guy was hit or killed, not sure which, around Camp Street. The two survivors, avenging the killing of a brother, went after the shooter. They shot at some guy on Laurel and Third (one and a half blocks from where I’d been standing) – the one shot I heard, apparently hit its mark, as it was followed by seven more, all very clean (i.e. Calm and controlled), as if they were being unloaded “just to make sure”. Saddest part is, according to the story Marco obtained, they shot the wrong guy.
While I walked to my car, these guys must have driven away and around and back to near Camp street – Prytania and Coliseum being the two streets between Laurel and Camp - probably making it there by the time I entered my car and pulled away from set.
Shortly thereafter the victim’s friends found them and shot at them. It’s a vicious cycle.
I finally saw Brad Pitt today. He walked by me while I chatted to someone in the AD department. He looked a little worried, but it could just be the special effects make-up which was caked on. Or the gunshots from teh other day. Or more likely the paparazzi. He’s much thinner and shorter in person than on film.
Paparazzi is apparently getting violent, according to Marco, frighteningly so, especially in their attempt to get to Cate Blanchette. Enough that they’ve had to give her more bodyguards. He wouldn’t go into what exactly they were doing, but he insinuated that they were making threats, their behaviour endagering the children of our stars. What he did reveal was that they have bought off several of the neighbors who have given them permission to use their balconies, etc. to set up their cameras and snap pictures of Brad and Cate while they shoot scenes at the Nolan house.
Beau had a brilliant idea.
"Why don't we find out who their children and families are, where they're at, photograph them, and then send them the pictures in the mail, and see how they like it."
It's an idea, something for a rainy day when we're bored.
Gunshots in the Garden on Friday, January 12th
As I wrote in a previous journal entry, there were gunshots heard not far from set the other day. Well today, January 18th, Marco, the head of Security apologized for not giving me more attention on Friday when the gunshots went off.
I had turned to him, as I saw him run out of the Nolan house, and said, “Were those what I think they are?” He had said, “Yes sweetheart they are” and promptly gone about organizing the “troops”.
Brad Pitt had turned to Marco after the first shot and told him to “get your men and your guns”, giving him the permission, so to speak, to leave his side.
“I wasn’t ignoring you, I hope you know that” Marco said “you know, when you asked me if those were gunshots”
Of course I knew, I assured him. I realized there were more important things going on at that moment. Hello, people were being shot at.
“Well, so you know, I had someone follow you to your car to make sure you were safe.”
In a small way that scared me more than anything, as I hadn’t noticed any 6’4” man following me (yes, all the security are very large and intimidating men)
“Now listen”, Marco continued, “anytime you feel unsure, you just tell one of my boys that you need escorting and they will escort you wherever you need to go. These guys, they see a young girl walking alone, and you know…I just want you to be safe.”
It turns out that this is the fifth incident since we’ve been at the location on Third Street between Coliseum and Prytania (about a four week time period).
The heart of the Garden District; The famed and touted, an area rated one of the most beautiful places to live in America, was under attack and had been for years.
That same night I went to the Maple Leaf bar and met a filmmaker, Dana, who had lived here back in the 80s and early 90s. He informed me that back then, Calhoun, Laurel and the other streets a few blocks closer to Tchoupitoulas, were very dangerous ghettos. They apparently are still poor, even though some have had face lifts, and although crack isn’t as prevalent, gang activity continues, especially now that NOLA feels a bit like the wild west with no real sheriff in town.
The night that I heard the gunshots, Marco informed me, a group was shot at and one guy was hit or killed, not sure which, around Camp Street. The two survivors, avenging the killing of a brother, went after the shooter. They shot at some guy on Laurel and Third (one and a half blocks from where I’d been standing) – the one shot I heard, apparently hit its mark, as it was followed by seven more, all very clean (i.e. Calm and controlled), as if they were being unloaded “just to make sure”. Saddest part is, according to the story Marco obtained, they shot the wrong guy.
While I walked to my car, these guys must have driven away and around and back to near Camp street – Prytania and Coliseum being the two streets between Laurel and Camp - probably making it there by the time I entered my car and pulled away from set.
Shortly thereafter the victim’s friends found them and shot at them. It’s a vicious cycle.
I finally saw Brad Pitt today. He walked by me while I chatted to someone in the AD department. He looked a little worried, but it could just be the special effects make-up which was caked on. Or the gunshots from teh other day. Or more likely the paparazzi. He’s much thinner and shorter in person than on film.
Paparazzi is apparently getting violent, according to Marco, frighteningly so, especially in their attempt to get to Cate Blanchette. Enough that they’ve had to give her more bodyguards. He wouldn’t go into what exactly they were doing, but he insinuated that they were making threats, their behaviour endagering the children of our stars. What he did reveal was that they have bought off several of the neighbors who have given them permission to use their balconies, etc. to set up their cameras and snap pictures of Brad and Cate while they shoot scenes at the Nolan house.
Beau had a brilliant idea.
"Why don't we find out who their children and families are, where they're at, photograph them, and then send them the pictures in the mail, and see how they like it."
It's an idea, something for a rainy day when we're bored.
January 16th & 19th: The Return of King Cake - the Soloman of the South - and the Subsequent "baby" Wars
Written Tuesday, January 16th & Friday, January 19th
2007
The Return of King Cake - the Soloman of the South -
and the Subsequent “baby” Wars
Since “Twelfth Night”, a terrible tradition has
pervaded the office, one that is bound to make us all
ripe for stuffing and roasting, complete with a big
cherry red apple in our mouths. That’s right, the
return of the King…King Cake that is.
Named for the three kings who took twelve days and
nights to find the baby Jesus, the confectionary makes
its debut on January 6th (The Epiphany, or “Twelfth
Night”, an evening of old Southern balls and revelry)
and is served in our office every Friday in a
gluttonous and jubilant celebration until Fat Tuesday
(February 20th this year).
King Cake is something akin to bread, but with a
consistency more along the lines of a Cinnamon roll
from Dunkin Donuts. It’s usually covered with icing
often in the colors of Mardi Gras (Green, Purple and
Gold), but sometimes white, in which case it is
adorned with sprinkles of the same above said colors.
We’ve had several (I think five was the last count),
one had pecans (or pralines as they’re known down
here) crushed inside with a cinnamon/raisin flavored
syrup; one was more doughy with cinnamon flavoring,
and today’s - which was one of the best – had a
cinnamon essence with a slightly undercooked bread
dough flavor.
The best King Cake, per my co-worker, Production
Secretary Justin Groetsch (pronounced Grutch),
apparently no longer exists. It was made by the
McKenzies, who owned a shop by the same name. They
actually closed shortly before Katrina, having gone
out of business a little too soon. The next best one
comes from Randazzo, although I’d have to argue that
The Laurel Street Bakery, which we had today, would
give them a run for their money.
Now the most bazaar part is what lies secretly stashed
within the cake. To my amusement on the outside of
one box of cake (I believe bought at Walmart), and I
kid you not, it read:
“WARNING – Non-edible baby inside cake”
Yes, compared to the edible kind.
Now I know our crew just got back from the Caribbean,
but please, they stopped eating other humans there
long ago.
So yes, within the King Cake lies a small plastic baby
and whoever gets the slice with the Christ child has
to buy the next one. Suffice it to say, no one in the
office has yet come forward (the cheapskates in
Accounting most likely). However, between the Embassy
Suites, Enterprise and other adoring vendors who keep
supplying us with King Cake after King Cake, we will
all be sufficiently plump by Mardis Gras.
You can read more on the tradition here:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/King_Cake
Thursday, January 18, 2007
The Death of Oyster Girl
Felix’s in the French Quarter, the location of my
first taste of that succulent, briny aphrodisiac, my
beloved oyster, has yet to open its doors again since
Katrina.
I don’t know who I have to supplicate to in order to
get the doors to swing wide again, but whoever it is,
I’ll do it.
Across from the famed ACME bar (which overflowed with
tourists who'd read about it in some cheesy travel mag
and were afraid to try anything different) it was
always on the emptier side, its business probably
offset by the other Felix’s around New Orleans and
Metairie.
And this is my only comfort, the knowledge that there
exists others. There’s one on Prytania near Robert
street (where the famed, and I think Zagat overrated,
crêperie, La Crêpe Nanou lives) a few doors down from
the Creole Creamery, one that I hope to visit soon.
I can already tell from the exterior that it doesn’t
have the same atmosphere as the one on Iberville near
Bourbon had (it looks clean and respectable) with its
minimal chatter, the all too familiar blare of a jazz
saxaphone, Shucker banter and the dingy light I’d
imagine one might have found in the Oyster basements
of ol’ New York, circa 1820; the smoke highlighting
the small amount of sunlight filtered through the old
stained glass... but it’s probably worth trying none
the less.
Either way, you can’t beat a town that gives you a
plate of oysters, a dozen, for the low, low price of
$8-12! I will be sure to wash it down with a Toasted
Amber (Abita, the local souther beer, run through
coffee beans) and breath in a New Orleans night.
Maybe even hear more of the secadas. But that would
just be Lagniappe*.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
*For those interested in what that means, basically "a
bonus", but Mark Twain described it best in: Life on
the Mississippi (1883), calling it "a word worth
travelling to New Orleans to get":
We picked up one excellent word — a word worth
travelling to New Orleans to get; a nice limber,
expressive, handy word — "lagniappe." They pronounce
it lanny-yap.
It is Spanish — so they said. We discovered it at the
head of a column of odds and ends in the Picayune, the
first day; heard twenty people use it the second;
inquired what it meant the third; adopted it and got
facility in swinging it the fourth. It has a
restricted meaning, but I think the people spread it
out a little when they choose. It is the equivalent of
the thirteenth roll in a "baker's dozen." It is
something thrown in, gratis, for good measure. The
custom originated in the Spanish quarter of the city.
When a child or a servant buys something in a shop —
or even the mayor or the governor, for aught I know —
he finishes the operation by saying — "Give me
something for lagniappe."
The shopman always responds; gives the child a bit of
licorice-root, gives the servant a cheap cigar or a
spool of thread, gives the governor — I don't know
what he gives the governor; support, likely.
When you are invited to drink, and this does occur now
and then in New Orleans — and you say, "What, again? —
no, I've had enough;" the other party says, "But just
this one time more — this is for lagniappe." When the
beau perceives that he is stacking his compliments a
trifle too high, and sees by the young lady's
countenance that the edifice would have been better
with the top compliment left off, he puts his "I beg
pardon — no harm intended," into the briefer form of
"Oh, that's for lagniappe."
2007
The Return of King Cake - the Soloman of the South -
and the Subsequent “baby” Wars
Since “Twelfth Night”, a terrible tradition has
pervaded the office, one that is bound to make us all
ripe for stuffing and roasting, complete with a big
cherry red apple in our mouths. That’s right, the
return of the King…King Cake that is.
Named for the three kings who took twelve days and
nights to find the baby Jesus, the confectionary makes
its debut on January 6th (The Epiphany, or “Twelfth
Night”, an evening of old Southern balls and revelry)
and is served in our office every Friday in a
gluttonous and jubilant celebration until Fat Tuesday
(February 20th this year).
King Cake is something akin to bread, but with a
consistency more along the lines of a Cinnamon roll
from Dunkin Donuts. It’s usually covered with icing
often in the colors of Mardi Gras (Green, Purple and
Gold), but sometimes white, in which case it is
adorned with sprinkles of the same above said colors.
We’ve had several (I think five was the last count),
one had pecans (or pralines as they’re known down
here) crushed inside with a cinnamon/raisin flavored
syrup; one was more doughy with cinnamon flavoring,
and today’s - which was one of the best – had a
cinnamon essence with a slightly undercooked bread
dough flavor.
The best King Cake, per my co-worker, Production
Secretary Justin Groetsch (pronounced Grutch),
apparently no longer exists. It was made by the
McKenzies, who owned a shop by the same name. They
actually closed shortly before Katrina, having gone
out of business a little too soon. The next best one
comes from Randazzo, although I’d have to argue that
The Laurel Street Bakery, which we had today, would
give them a run for their money.
Now the most bazaar part is what lies secretly stashed
within the cake. To my amusement on the outside of
one box of cake (I believe bought at Walmart), and I
kid you not, it read:
“WARNING – Non-edible baby inside cake”
Yes, compared to the edible kind.
Now I know our crew just got back from the Caribbean,
but please, they stopped eating other humans there
long ago.
So yes, within the King Cake lies a small plastic baby
and whoever gets the slice with the Christ child has
to buy the next one. Suffice it to say, no one in the
office has yet come forward (the cheapskates in
Accounting most likely). However, between the Embassy
Suites, Enterprise and other adoring vendors who keep
supplying us with King Cake after King Cake, we will
all be sufficiently plump by Mardis Gras.
You can read more on the tradition here:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/King_Cake
Thursday, January 18, 2007
The Death of Oyster Girl
Felix’s in the French Quarter, the location of my
first taste of that succulent, briny aphrodisiac, my
beloved oyster, has yet to open its doors again since
Katrina.
I don’t know who I have to supplicate to in order to
get the doors to swing wide again, but whoever it is,
I’ll do it.
Across from the famed ACME bar (which overflowed with
tourists who'd read about it in some cheesy travel mag
and were afraid to try anything different) it was
always on the emptier side, its business probably
offset by the other Felix’s around New Orleans and
Metairie.
And this is my only comfort, the knowledge that there
exists others. There’s one on Prytania near Robert
street (where the famed, and I think Zagat overrated,
crêperie, La Crêpe Nanou lives) a few doors down from
the Creole Creamery, one that I hope to visit soon.
I can already tell from the exterior that it doesn’t
have the same atmosphere as the one on Iberville near
Bourbon had (it looks clean and respectable) with its
minimal chatter, the all too familiar blare of a jazz
saxaphone, Shucker banter and the dingy light I’d
imagine one might have found in the Oyster basements
of ol’ New York, circa 1820; the smoke highlighting
the small amount of sunlight filtered through the old
stained glass... but it’s probably worth trying none
the less.
Either way, you can’t beat a town that gives you a
plate of oysters, a dozen, for the low, low price of
$8-12! I will be sure to wash it down with a Toasted
Amber (Abita, the local souther beer, run through
coffee beans) and breath in a New Orleans night.
Maybe even hear more of the secadas. But that would
just be Lagniappe*.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
*For those interested in what that means, basically "a
bonus", but Mark Twain described it best in: Life on
the Mississippi (1883), calling it "a word worth
travelling to New Orleans to get":
We picked up one excellent word — a word worth
travelling to New Orleans to get; a nice limber,
expressive, handy word — "lagniappe." They pronounce
it lanny-yap.
It is Spanish — so they said. We discovered it at the
head of a column of odds and ends in the Picayune, the
first day; heard twenty people use it the second;
inquired what it meant the third; adopted it and got
facility in swinging it the fourth. It has a
restricted meaning, but I think the people spread it
out a little when they choose. It is the equivalent of
the thirteenth roll in a "baker's dozen." It is
something thrown in, gratis, for good measure. The
custom originated in the Spanish quarter of the city.
When a child or a servant buys something in a shop —
or even the mayor or the governor, for aught I know —
he finishes the operation by saying — "Give me
something for lagniappe."
The shopman always responds; gives the child a bit of
licorice-root, gives the servant a cheap cigar or a
spool of thread, gives the governor — I don't know
what he gives the governor; support, likely.
When you are invited to drink, and this does occur now
and then in New Orleans — and you say, "What, again? —
no, I've had enough;" the other party says, "But just
this one time more — this is for lagniappe." When the
beau perceives that he is stacking his compliments a
trifle too high, and sees by the young lady's
countenance that the edifice would have been better
with the top compliment left off, he puts his "I beg
pardon — no harm intended," into the briefer form of
"Oh, that's for lagniappe."
January 14th 2007 - In The Garden of Good & Evil
January 14th
I’ve always been conscientious of the water I use: how long I’m in the shower, turning it off when I’m brushing my teeth, etc. However, I’ve never been so aware of it as I am here, now, in New Orleans. When it runs out of the bathroom sink, and my hands take it, cupped safely in my palm, up to my face, I actually wonder where it’s coming from. Where was that water before it reached my face? What has it seen? Where has it been? What was its life before it touched my face? Now instead of me wondering how much I’m consuming, I wonder how much it consumed before me. Who am I washing my face with? Whose grandparent, beloved, pet, belongings is in the water I consume? What else would make you think this, what other event in history would make you second guess your water in the same manor? Perhaps war or famine. I can’t think of anything else right now.
If you couldn’t tell, I had a terrible week.
Not because of anything of note, well not until the end; Just because. Sometime you have those. A week where it seems everyone and everything, the odds, the forces are against you. The office politics, the boys club. Impenetrable. Where everything and everyone is swimming in the opposite direction, going downstream, you up. Etcetera, etcetera, the clichés continue. Whatever, it was horrific that way, and there was nothing I could do or say or think of to resolve it. Made me wonder if I wanted to continue with these Hollywood types.
Not that big of a deal in the grand scheme of things, especially after what had happened on set, but some things I wasn’t used to. So when Friday came, I was overjoyed that the official work week was over; although it did not show on my face.
I realized how disposable I was, how useless and replaceable. Yet, the events of that Friday day also reminded me that we, here in New Orleans, are in a bit of a war zone. And regardless of how horrible some petty thing at the office makes us feel, nothing is as bad as this.
Our set location is in the Garden District, a place called The Nolan House. The district is an upscale neighborhood bordered on both sides by roads that were once terrible places…and apparently sometimes still are.
Friday night, on set returning some DMAGs to the camera department I heard a pop. A sound initially (if you don’t know any better) that sounds like a firework going off, something that reminisces joy and good times. It was perhaps 200 feet from me, maybe one small New York City block. After the initial pop, a pause, followed by seven more cracks that were very distinct, methodical and loud. Even I knew, now, what they were. I was certain. Someone was unloading a clip. I can’t believe I turned as calmly as I did, and as I walked away from the camera truck, toward the street where my car was parked, the chorus of “Whoah’s” that resounded from the security department only confirmed my fear, especially when they all reached for their belt buckles. Where there were no guns. They’d all been locked up at base camp. A set rule. No weapons allowed.
Besides the security guards chorus, it was eerily silent. Everyone had stopped what they were doing. All bodies, the few there were as most were inside, turning as if in slow motion, all with the same expression of shock, confusion, and questioning curiosity.
I walked past the guard securing the farthest corner of the street and our set. He and I were the ones closest to the gunshots. He stood lone, the gas lights from the neighboring house slightly flickering, jumping on his dark skin making it possible for me to see him as he blended into the night. He was shaking his head, slowly, back and forth as he looked in the direction of the noise. “Damn” he whispered quietly. “Damn”
I decided it was best to head back to the office. Since the news coverage of the recent deaths in the Fabourg Marginy, the sounds of sirens have increased ten fold. I feel I hear them every night. And I had no desire to be the reason for them.
As I walked the dark street outside the Nolan House and headed for my car, the security guards started running and mobilizing. The head of security was exiting the garden entrance to the house:
“Marco?”
A bit distracted, he responded
“Yes sweetheart?”
“Is that what I think that was?”
“Yes”
That night I went home with the overwhelming urge to hermit myself in the ghetto apartment I call my temporary “home” (my use of that word as loose as a Basin street whore), where my bed is officially where the kitchen nook aught to be. But I looked in the mirror and came to the conclusion that to make my world sane I ought to venture out into the mad universe of New Orleans and at least hang with the locals on Maple Street; the Tulane and Loyola students. If nothing else, talk to others who had nothing to do with Brad Pitt or Cate Blanchette, or gunshots; who had no other concerns besides completing their finals and getting laid on a Friday night. I made up my face and headed out to the old standard, the Uptown Cajun.
And I’m glad I did.
As I sat at the bar, the place crowded and packed with familiar and friendly faces – Patrick, Alex, Chris, Logan, Shane, Margaret….I hear Rob yell out:
“Hey! Did you see what I got for you?”
“No, what?” I yelled back over the roar of the bar.
“Look down, its on the bar”
Ah! Everything was right with the world. Gunshots be damned.
There, before me, a large red steaming heap of those cockroaches of the bayou.
I thought, “At last, at last, finally, you’ve come and I’ve been waiting for you, my little sweets” and like the Walrus and the Carpenter with their oysters, I was ready to devour every last one.
Finally. It was crawfish season.
I’ve always been conscientious of the water I use: how long I’m in the shower, turning it off when I’m brushing my teeth, etc. However, I’ve never been so aware of it as I am here, now, in New Orleans. When it runs out of the bathroom sink, and my hands take it, cupped safely in my palm, up to my face, I actually wonder where it’s coming from. Where was that water before it reached my face? What has it seen? Where has it been? What was its life before it touched my face? Now instead of me wondering how much I’m consuming, I wonder how much it consumed before me. Who am I washing my face with? Whose grandparent, beloved, pet, belongings is in the water I consume? What else would make you think this, what other event in history would make you second guess your water in the same manor? Perhaps war or famine. I can’t think of anything else right now.
If you couldn’t tell, I had a terrible week.
Not because of anything of note, well not until the end; Just because. Sometime you have those. A week where it seems everyone and everything, the odds, the forces are against you. The office politics, the boys club. Impenetrable. Where everything and everyone is swimming in the opposite direction, going downstream, you up. Etcetera, etcetera, the clichés continue. Whatever, it was horrific that way, and there was nothing I could do or say or think of to resolve it. Made me wonder if I wanted to continue with these Hollywood types.
Not that big of a deal in the grand scheme of things, especially after what had happened on set, but some things I wasn’t used to. So when Friday came, I was overjoyed that the official work week was over; although it did not show on my face.
I realized how disposable I was, how useless and replaceable. Yet, the events of that Friday day also reminded me that we, here in New Orleans, are in a bit of a war zone. And regardless of how horrible some petty thing at the office makes us feel, nothing is as bad as this.
Our set location is in the Garden District, a place called The Nolan House. The district is an upscale neighborhood bordered on both sides by roads that were once terrible places…and apparently sometimes still are.
Friday night, on set returning some DMAGs to the camera department I heard a pop. A sound initially (if you don’t know any better) that sounds like a firework going off, something that reminisces joy and good times. It was perhaps 200 feet from me, maybe one small New York City block. After the initial pop, a pause, followed by seven more cracks that were very distinct, methodical and loud. Even I knew, now, what they were. I was certain. Someone was unloading a clip. I can’t believe I turned as calmly as I did, and as I walked away from the camera truck, toward the street where my car was parked, the chorus of “Whoah’s” that resounded from the security department only confirmed my fear, especially when they all reached for their belt buckles. Where there were no guns. They’d all been locked up at base camp. A set rule. No weapons allowed.
Besides the security guards chorus, it was eerily silent. Everyone had stopped what they were doing. All bodies, the few there were as most were inside, turning as if in slow motion, all with the same expression of shock, confusion, and questioning curiosity.
I walked past the guard securing the farthest corner of the street and our set. He and I were the ones closest to the gunshots. He stood lone, the gas lights from the neighboring house slightly flickering, jumping on his dark skin making it possible for me to see him as he blended into the night. He was shaking his head, slowly, back and forth as he looked in the direction of the noise. “Damn” he whispered quietly. “Damn”
I decided it was best to head back to the office. Since the news coverage of the recent deaths in the Fabourg Marginy, the sounds of sirens have increased ten fold. I feel I hear them every night. And I had no desire to be the reason for them.
As I walked the dark street outside the Nolan House and headed for my car, the security guards started running and mobilizing. The head of security was exiting the garden entrance to the house:
“Marco?”
A bit distracted, he responded
“Yes sweetheart?”
“Is that what I think that was?”
“Yes”
That night I went home with the overwhelming urge to hermit myself in the ghetto apartment I call my temporary “home” (my use of that word as loose as a Basin street whore), where my bed is officially where the kitchen nook aught to be. But I looked in the mirror and came to the conclusion that to make my world sane I ought to venture out into the mad universe of New Orleans and at least hang with the locals on Maple Street; the Tulane and Loyola students. If nothing else, talk to others who had nothing to do with Brad Pitt or Cate Blanchette, or gunshots; who had no other concerns besides completing their finals and getting laid on a Friday night. I made up my face and headed out to the old standard, the Uptown Cajun.
And I’m glad I did.
As I sat at the bar, the place crowded and packed with familiar and friendly faces – Patrick, Alex, Chris, Logan, Shane, Margaret….I hear Rob yell out:
“Hey! Did you see what I got for you?”
“No, what?” I yelled back over the roar of the bar.
“Look down, its on the bar”
Ah! Everything was right with the world. Gunshots be damned.
There, before me, a large red steaming heap of those cockroaches of the bayou.
I thought, “At last, at last, finally, you’ve come and I’ve been waiting for you, my little sweets” and like the Walrus and the Carpenter with their oysters, I was ready to devour every last one.
Finally. It was crawfish season.
January 10th - Nola Favela
My post-Christmas/New Years holiday flight landed in
the middle of the swamp. Safe and sound.
As I exited the airport, I walked into the same
temperature as Connecticut, about mid 60s, only this
felt more like a sauna: wet. A bathtub.
Regardless, it felt good to be back, even if I was
over dressed and sweating in the sweltering mugginess.
I hailed my favorite cab company, United Cab, and as I
settled in for the long fifteen minute ride to my
house asked the cabbie what I thought would be a
simple question, one with the typical humdrum polite
response of "nothing much":
“So, anything interesting happen in New Orleans the
past two weeks?”
He kind of made a bazaar nasal noise, a combination of
a snicker and a flabbergasted sigh.
“Well, the usual. 12th night was Saturday, so the
carnival season has kicked off and, well, I heard
that, well…”
He kind of awkwardly paused and then continued,
“There’s talk of Marshall law being installed and a
curfew of 2am because of all the crime that occurred
last week”
I felt like someone had punched me in the gut.
Really? That bad, that much worse than New Orleans
usually is?
“Well, its New Orleans. We’ve always had crime, and I
guess it was a lot in a short period, but I don’t
understand what all the big fuss is about,” he said
I found out what the big fuss was about when I greeted
our editing assistant the next morning at work.
“Hey Charlie Brown, how was your holiday?”
“Christmas was fine, but last week was rough”
I figured he meant because of New Years and hangovers,
too much inhaled, ingested and imbibed.
“You party too hard?”
“No. There were 14 murders here last week alone and
two of them were friends of mine”
(Here’s an article from the Times Picayune. The woman
who was killed, the filmmaker, was Charlie Browns
friend, her husband is still in the hospital:
http://www.nola.com/news/t-p/frontpage/index.ssf?/base/news-19/116823919315260.xml&coll=1)
This is not what I’m used to hearing.
I don’t live in a Favela somewhere in Brazil; I’m not
in Darfur fearful of the janjaweed; I’m not even in
the best slum in Baghdad. I’m in America damn it (and
not even in the South Bronx! Or Compton!) this is not
supposed to be what I hear first thing on a Monday
morning; this is not supposed to be my friends’
experiences. I guess I’m wrong and I do live in
America. This is America. Is this America?
I’m used to Connecticut’s suburbs and New York City,
neither, of which are America.
Although, I’m guessing the feeling that pervades every
pothole in NOLA is that of NYC in the late 70s and
early 80s, (or heck even the 1830s, although I’m
thinking that areas of New Orleans would make 5 Points
look like a paradise playground for dandies), one of
tired fear and despair, defeat and weary. But I’m in
the film business, I could be over dramatizing, at
least I hoped I was.
I decided to do a little research and see.
There has been an average of one murder per day in New
Orleans post-Katrina. For a town that has lost 2/3 of
its citizens, giving us a population a little under
200,000 that average is staggering. Mayor Nagin has
now officially come out (there was a report today,
Jan. 10th on CNN) and said he would put more police on
the street.
New Orleans already has the most concentrated amount
of police (not just NOPD, but National Guard, etc.)
per person of any city in the United States, post
Katrina.
Where are they? Everywhere.
But they’re busting college students as they walk out
of bars after being in them for only five minutes and
beating (8 or so cops I believe) human rights
advocates who they mistake for a pickpocket (not even
a mugger!)
The need for more police is not the issue. Where the
police are and what they do is.
My first or second week here (will have to check back
into my diary, before Thanksgiving) I watched a man
from my boss’ office window beat a woman (his
girlfriend/wife/lover I don’t know) while a toddler
watched.
He was in his FEMA trailer, but it was a warm day and
he left the door open so we could see what he was
doing. No one wanted to do anything. The locals told
me that the cops wouldn’t respond. I couldn’t believe
it, so I called the police.
Firstly, the dispatcher was an idiot and couldn’t get
the address I was giving her correct, it took me four
to five explanations, or variations of saying the same
thing before she understood. She then hung up on me.
NYC cops keep you on the phone until they have
dispatched an officer, in case they have more
questions.
Second, in their defense the cops showed up within 2
minutes, but they almost went the wrong way (after I
gave them specific cross streets, latitudinal
directions and description of inside of trailer as
well as the man doing the beating)
They then almost approached the wrong guy (saying you
see a black man wearing long white t-shirt and baggy
light jeans in NOLA is like saying you see a tall
blond man in black when in Finland). After chatting
with the suspect a little while, they walked away,
talked to the first guy they almost approached (by
accident) briefly.
They then went back to the suspects trailer, did some
sort of handshake/handslap with him, laughed, and
left. Apparently they knew him. The locals in the
office suspect he’s either a cop himself or an
informant. The cops that approached the trailer were
too lackadaisical and too familiar with him. They
didn’t even attempt to peer around him into the open
trailer door that the suspect half blocked with his
body.
A week before Xmas break we heard him beating her
again.
No one called the police this time.
This is the only city I’ve ever been to where I am NOT
happy to see the police when they roll down my street.
I don’t trust any of them.
Fixing the corruption of the cops that exist, before
putting more of them out there, might be a better plan
for stopping crime in New Orleans. They need to fire
all of them and start over. But that’s just my
opinion.
“Welcome back, Naomi”, New Orleans shouted, “here’s
hoping you make it to your 30th birthday. A fortnight
and counting.”
I hope you all had a wonderful holiday and Joyful New
Year.
To happier diary entries to come.
Much love,
Naomi
the middle of the swamp. Safe and sound.
As I exited the airport, I walked into the same
temperature as Connecticut, about mid 60s, only this
felt more like a sauna: wet. A bathtub.
Regardless, it felt good to be back, even if I was
over dressed and sweating in the sweltering mugginess.
I hailed my favorite cab company, United Cab, and as I
settled in for the long fifteen minute ride to my
house asked the cabbie what I thought would be a
simple question, one with the typical humdrum polite
response of "nothing much":
“So, anything interesting happen in New Orleans the
past two weeks?”
He kind of made a bazaar nasal noise, a combination of
a snicker and a flabbergasted sigh.
“Well, the usual. 12th night was Saturday, so the
carnival season has kicked off and, well, I heard
that, well…”
He kind of awkwardly paused and then continued,
“There’s talk of Marshall law being installed and a
curfew of 2am because of all the crime that occurred
last week”
I felt like someone had punched me in the gut.
Really? That bad, that much worse than New Orleans
usually is?
“Well, its New Orleans. We’ve always had crime, and I
guess it was a lot in a short period, but I don’t
understand what all the big fuss is about,” he said
I found out what the big fuss was about when I greeted
our editing assistant the next morning at work.
“Hey Charlie Brown, how was your holiday?”
“Christmas was fine, but last week was rough”
I figured he meant because of New Years and hangovers,
too much inhaled, ingested and imbibed.
“You party too hard?”
“No. There were 14 murders here last week alone and
two of them were friends of mine”
(Here’s an article from the Times Picayune. The woman
who was killed, the filmmaker, was Charlie Browns
friend, her husband is still in the hospital:
http://www.nola.com/news/t-p/frontpage/index.ssf?/base/news-19/116823919315260.xml&coll=1)
This is not what I’m used to hearing.
I don’t live in a Favela somewhere in Brazil; I’m not
in Darfur fearful of the janjaweed; I’m not even in
the best slum in Baghdad. I’m in America damn it (and
not even in the South Bronx! Or Compton!) this is not
supposed to be what I hear first thing on a Monday
morning; this is not supposed to be my friends’
experiences. I guess I’m wrong and I do live in
America. This is America. Is this America?
I’m used to Connecticut’s suburbs and New York City,
neither, of which are America.
Although, I’m guessing the feeling that pervades every
pothole in NOLA is that of NYC in the late 70s and
early 80s, (or heck even the 1830s, although I’m
thinking that areas of New Orleans would make 5 Points
look like a paradise playground for dandies), one of
tired fear and despair, defeat and weary. But I’m in
the film business, I could be over dramatizing, at
least I hoped I was.
I decided to do a little research and see.
There has been an average of one murder per day in New
Orleans post-Katrina. For a town that has lost 2/3 of
its citizens, giving us a population a little under
200,000 that average is staggering. Mayor Nagin has
now officially come out (there was a report today,
Jan. 10th on CNN) and said he would put more police on
the street.
New Orleans already has the most concentrated amount
of police (not just NOPD, but National Guard, etc.)
per person of any city in the United States, post
Katrina.
Where are they? Everywhere.
But they’re busting college students as they walk out
of bars after being in them for only five minutes and
beating (8 or so cops I believe) human rights
advocates who they mistake for a pickpocket (not even
a mugger!)
The need for more police is not the issue. Where the
police are and what they do is.
My first or second week here (will have to check back
into my diary, before Thanksgiving) I watched a man
from my boss’ office window beat a woman (his
girlfriend/wife/lover I don’t know) while a toddler
watched.
He was in his FEMA trailer, but it was a warm day and
he left the door open so we could see what he was
doing. No one wanted to do anything. The locals told
me that the cops wouldn’t respond. I couldn’t believe
it, so I called the police.
Firstly, the dispatcher was an idiot and couldn’t get
the address I was giving her correct, it took me four
to five explanations, or variations of saying the same
thing before she understood. She then hung up on me.
NYC cops keep you on the phone until they have
dispatched an officer, in case they have more
questions.
Second, in their defense the cops showed up within 2
minutes, but they almost went the wrong way (after I
gave them specific cross streets, latitudinal
directions and description of inside of trailer as
well as the man doing the beating)
They then almost approached the wrong guy (saying you
see a black man wearing long white t-shirt and baggy
light jeans in NOLA is like saying you see a tall
blond man in black when in Finland). After chatting
with the suspect a little while, they walked away,
talked to the first guy they almost approached (by
accident) briefly.
They then went back to the suspects trailer, did some
sort of handshake/handslap with him, laughed, and
left. Apparently they knew him. The locals in the
office suspect he’s either a cop himself or an
informant. The cops that approached the trailer were
too lackadaisical and too familiar with him. They
didn’t even attempt to peer around him into the open
trailer door that the suspect half blocked with his
body.
A week before Xmas break we heard him beating her
again.
No one called the police this time.
This is the only city I’ve ever been to where I am NOT
happy to see the police when they roll down my street.
I don’t trust any of them.
Fixing the corruption of the cops that exist, before
putting more of them out there, might be a better plan
for stopping crime in New Orleans. They need to fire
all of them and start over. But that’s just my
opinion.
“Welcome back, Naomi”, New Orleans shouted, “here’s
hoping you make it to your 30th birthday. A fortnight
and counting.”
I hope you all had a wonderful holiday and Joyful New
Year.
To happier diary entries to come.
Much love,
Naomi
December 21, 2006 - NOLA, Proud To Swim Home
I woke up this morning to watch a rat swim across my
street.
The car-parked-in-the-road’s tires seem to be almost
missing. From my perspective it’s as if NOLA’s
underwater.
It’s been raining for about 24 hours now. I now can
imagine how horrible it was during the hurricane and
I’m worried about the Foxy driving to work, and what
the roads are like in other places. It seems the side
streets are also this terrible, at least from what I
can see from my door, automobiles creating tides as
they roll down the street.
Can’t say the city is boring. It always keeps you on
your toes. Last night the power went out all across
the city for about 30 seconds. And as I looked out the
office window before it came back on, I remember
thinking: Oh. No. This is not the city to be stuck in
a blackout. Images of looting and chaos ran through my
mind. If this town did what it did with 20 feet of
water surrounding the merchandise, imagine what it
would do without. But the power came back on. It’s
not on in Jefferson Parrish right now; our set
construction is sort of at a standstill.
On a brighter note I had an eventful week. I finally
got a chance to introduce myself to the director,
David Fincher when I had an errand to run to Set where
I found him in his “office”, a railroad room on the 3
½ floor (yes, that’s ½, it’s the rooms located midway
between the official third floor and the fourth, not
counting the attic) of the 4 story “Nola House” which
has been our set this week.
“By the way, my name’s Naomi” I said.
He gripped my hand in both of his, squeezed them and
said in a voice with a pitch a tad higher than I
imagined, but buttery soft, “It’s a pleasure, thank
you for working on the movie. My name is David”
“Nice to meet you David” and then I watched as he
ripped open a package addressed to someone else in the
hopes that it was a present for him, with a wink and a
nod.
Day before yesterday I also met one of the “smaller”
actors, a sweet old lady playing, what else “Old
Woman” that has a few lines to the young Benjamin
Button. I brought her her script pages as she lives in
New Orleans.
Thinking that would be easier than FedEx I jumped into
the Foxy Jalopy and headed out to Poland Street. No
one told me that the journey to Poland Street would be
like going through a Favela. I thought at first I was
headed in the wrong direction as I went over a bridge
that seemed to take me momentarily out of New Orleans,
or what resembled New Orleans proper to me. The
houses became more and more dilapidated, boarded up,
run-down. More people were wandering the street,
aimlessly with carts and other paraphernalia. The
actress had told me that they had been lucky during
Katrina, some minor damage but no flooding in the area
she called the Bywater. Good Christ! So this place had
looked like this before. I have since found out, the
neighborhood has another name, the Upper Ninth Ward,
and if you make a right on Charters from Poland and
travel a few blocks, before you hit Esplanade you will
run across NOCCA, New Orleans Center for the Creative
Arts, a funky wrought iron building next to the tracks
and right before the road merges into N. Peters.
I eventually turned onto Poland Street. Her little
house was situated directly across from the Army’s
naval base in New Orleans, a dreary and horribly grey
front step. The house sitting on the corner seemed
out of place with the slabs of grey mortar and metal,
the railroad along the water and behind the levee
across the street. Walking to the backyard where her
door was wide open, though, I saw orange and lemon
trees, roses and honey-suckle; A little oasis even
with the rap music booming heavily from the neighbors
over the short fence, disturbing the tableau. A
lovely older woman sat inside talking on the phone,
when she saw me she screeched in glee, telling her
friend on the phone “Can you believe it, a real movie
person is bringing ME my script! Do you want to talk
to a real movie person?” And she shoved the phone into
my hand. I spoke to the woman on the other line
briefly and when I was off the lady gave me a lemon
and a navel orange that she had picked when she missed
my call earlier. She then noticed my amber ring and
told me about her daughter who had just died this past
June from Ovarian cancer. “The Katrina brought it on,
I know it did, or at least made it come faster” She
looked like she was welling up and then quickly
jumped-to, running to her jewelry box to show me all
the amber her daughter had bought for her while in
Hungary and other places in Europe shortly before she
died. “I knew I was destined to do this, to meet you”
she said, having not taken out the amber since her
daughter died, “the world is funny that way, sometimes
it just sends you people you know you’re meant to
meet.”
That’s New Orleans.
Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays all, talk to you in
the New Year if I don't see you before.
Much love,
Naomi
December 17th
My day started as it normally would when hung over,
late.
We had our Xmas/Production party at King Bolden's on
N.Rampart last night. A strange part of town
bordering between a horrid ghetto and the French
Quarter; on one side Louis Armstrong Park and tall
skinny black hookers and on the other the rich at play
in slummy bars. Odd, yet Sunday seemed more so.
And it got increasingly odd, something that I've grown
accustomed to viewing as normal, as this is New
Orleans where no day being normal is "normal"
My father had an old friend that he'd recommended
might be able to assist me in my concerns over the
Foxy's recent behavior, that of squeaking
unquestionably when driving in a low gear (not the
breaks, but something else I have attributed to the
horrid state of NOLA streets, pot-hole central. They
make Redhook streets look like finely paved roadway)
He arrived late, after getting lost in a town he'd
lived in for over 20 years. This is the nature of New
Orleans. He was a tall and attractive Dutch man,
perhaps a few years younger than my father and perhaps
not, perhaps the years had just been more kind, as
he'd just gotten back from his 2nd home in Panama.
At first, I didn't know if I should trust a man who
arrived in a squeaking SUV with a slightly under
inflated front right tire to look at my car and tell
me what was wrong with it. My fears were confirmed
after he looked under Foxy's hood and told me that his
expertise was more in diesel engines than gasoline run
ones. But we decided to take it for a spin
nonetheless and see what might cause the squeak.
Of course Foxy refused to squeak and we drove around
Uptown this way and that, getting caught in dead-ends
near Audubon Park, and bumpy Calhoun street,
discoursing on his life and experiences. I learned
about his recently divorced daughter and the turmoil
she was going through with an over-protective and
insecure older man as her soon-to-be ex-husband (if
all went right and he didn't inflict physical
violence!) and about the Dutchman’s connection to
Bush, the CIA and his non-bulletproof "bullet-proof"
vehicle that he had made for Noriega to assist the US
government in ridding themselves of a nuisance, a plan
later aborted.
After listening to the engine, he informed me that,
like me, the engine looked and sounded good. Later,
while we walked to lunch he asked me if I worked out
as I obviously kept myself in shape and then during
lunch informed me that I had beautiful eyes. It was at
this point I thought it might be prudent to
reintroduce my father into the discourse.
"Thank you" I said, "It's funny, my brother, Tristan,
and I are both a perfect amalgam of our parents. I
have my fathers eye color and hair and my brother has
my mother's." Hint, hint, it's my fathers eyes into
which you lust kind sir.
He apparently has known my father since I was,
perhaps, 3 years old or so, when my father worked for
a company called M.A.N.
Regardless, we had a lovely lunch, interesting
conversation in which I brought up my boyfriend on
numerous occasions, at Mona's Cafe on Carrollton.
Mona's Cafe, is a Middle-Eastern chain that has other
locations in the Garden District (on Magazine) and
Mid-City and Downtown.
After driving him back to my place to retrieve his
car, he offered to grease my oil points (the cars that
is) anytime, including after 9:30pm when I got off
work, if I was willing to travel to Belle Chase, or
the Westbank of NOLA as its called.
I said I would be up for that as it was another place
in which I had not been and was always willing to
explore. He kissed me on the cheek and said how
lovely it was to meet me and before he actually left
did so again.
I had wanted to try the restaurant across the street,
Jamila's Cafe, with him but they had not been open and
promised myself I would venture there for dinner, as
it was long overdue.
A few nights ago I had arrived home from work at the
usual late hour, around 9:45 or 10PM to see a white
wolf-like dog wandering the street near my house.
Since I had heard that post-Katrina a lot of pets had
been misplaced and were going without homes, I thought
at first that this was one of them. I got out of my
car and heard a man yelling at the dog. Initially I
thought it was his.
"No, no, this is not my dog, but lady, don't be
afraid. He belongs to a neighbor of ours down the
street. I am just watching him, where he goes and what
he does. Do not be afraid, he will not bite you."
"I'm not afraid", I said, "I thought he might be
homeless"
"No, no, he has a home, but his owner just lets him
out like this. Do not worry; I am watching him for
you. You live across the street no? I have seen you
on a few occasions and see how late you get home. You
must be studying very hard."
I was a little taken aback by this.
"No, no studying. I'm working here in New Orleans for
a short time"
He ventured a little bit closer, crossing midway
across the street.
"Really, what do you do?"
And I told him what I was in town for.
"That is wonderful. You must come across the street
and have dinner. I am the owner of Jamila's Cafe. I
will take care of you"
I thanked him and said I had always planned on it.
He fully crossed the street now and held out his hand.
In a wonderful accent I couldn't place, something
almost French, but tinged with Indian and Catalan, he
said " I am Moncef, I am the owner, I will take care
of you good neighbor, please come by some night and we
will feed you"
I shook his hand in the typically cold and guarded way
of any New Yorker, across my body and far away from
true contact, and said that I would.
Well, kind reader, tonight I did, and what a joy it
was.
Although the escargot were a little too garlicky and
salted, the Tagine of Lamb was a delight, served with
basmati saffron rice, instead of the couscous I am
used to, in its original crockery pot, it was a
perfectly seasoned, tender and a delight.
When Mosef finally arrived, the service became
impeccable, the waitress before him less than a joy.
He asked me where I was from, where I originally grew
up and in which town. I gave him the basic rundown
finishing with the fact that I was now here until
March and in Prague, if I was lucky, from April
through July or August.
"Wonderful! Another world traveler! It is good to jump
around, no? If you are ever in Prague, you must call
me and if you want to get away for a weekend, you come
stay in my house in Tunisia, I insist, I will give you
my card."
And after the brochures of Tunisia and the history of
the small African country, that is exactly what he
did.
"Us continent hoppers must stick together,” he said
with a laugh and a wave of his hand before running off
to fetch me another glass of the Italian Chianti. He
came back with it and his card and imploring once
again how I must stay at his place in Tunisia, how I
would love the people and the land.
"Thank you Naomi for coming finally to eat with us,
thank you kind neighbor, and please come back again.
If you are too lazy to cook one night, do not worry,
just holler across the street, kind neighbor, and we
will make something for you and bring it over."
This city is like no other. The trencherman
sophistication of New York with the temperament of
Southern charm and hospitality. Open, yet always
closed on Sundays, except at Jamila's Café.
Jamila's Cafe
7808 Maple Street
New Orleans, LA 70116
T: 504-866-4366
late.
We had our Xmas/Production party at King Bolden's on
N.Rampart last night. A strange part of town
bordering between a horrid ghetto and the French
Quarter; on one side Louis Armstrong Park and tall
skinny black hookers and on the other the rich at play
in slummy bars. Odd, yet Sunday seemed more so.
And it got increasingly odd, something that I've grown
accustomed to viewing as normal, as this is New
Orleans where no day being normal is "normal"
My father had an old friend that he'd recommended
might be able to assist me in my concerns over the
Foxy's recent behavior, that of squeaking
unquestionably when driving in a low gear (not the
breaks, but something else I have attributed to the
horrid state of NOLA streets, pot-hole central. They
make Redhook streets look like finely paved roadway)
He arrived late, after getting lost in a town he'd
lived in for over 20 years. This is the nature of New
Orleans. He was a tall and attractive Dutch man,
perhaps a few years younger than my father and perhaps
not, perhaps the years had just been more kind, as
he'd just gotten back from his 2nd home in Panama.
At first, I didn't know if I should trust a man who
arrived in a squeaking SUV with a slightly under
inflated front right tire to look at my car and tell
me what was wrong with it. My fears were confirmed
after he looked under Foxy's hood and told me that his
expertise was more in diesel engines than gasoline run
ones. But we decided to take it for a spin
nonetheless and see what might cause the squeak.
Of course Foxy refused to squeak and we drove around
Uptown this way and that, getting caught in dead-ends
near Audubon Park, and bumpy Calhoun street,
discoursing on his life and experiences. I learned
about his recently divorced daughter and the turmoil
she was going through with an over-protective and
insecure older man as her soon-to-be ex-husband (if
all went right and he didn't inflict physical
violence!) and about the Dutchman’s connection to
Bush, the CIA and his non-bulletproof "bullet-proof"
vehicle that he had made for Noriega to assist the US
government in ridding themselves of a nuisance, a plan
later aborted.
After listening to the engine, he informed me that,
like me, the engine looked and sounded good. Later,
while we walked to lunch he asked me if I worked out
as I obviously kept myself in shape and then during
lunch informed me that I had beautiful eyes. It was at
this point I thought it might be prudent to
reintroduce my father into the discourse.
"Thank you" I said, "It's funny, my brother, Tristan,
and I are both a perfect amalgam of our parents. I
have my fathers eye color and hair and my brother has
my mother's." Hint, hint, it's my fathers eyes into
which you lust kind sir.
He apparently has known my father since I was,
perhaps, 3 years old or so, when my father worked for
a company called M.A.N.
Regardless, we had a lovely lunch, interesting
conversation in which I brought up my boyfriend on
numerous occasions, at Mona's Cafe on Carrollton.
Mona's Cafe, is a Middle-Eastern chain that has other
locations in the Garden District (on Magazine) and
Mid-City and Downtown.
After driving him back to my place to retrieve his
car, he offered to grease my oil points (the cars that
is) anytime, including after 9:30pm when I got off
work, if I was willing to travel to Belle Chase, or
the Westbank of NOLA as its called.
I said I would be up for that as it was another place
in which I had not been and was always willing to
explore. He kissed me on the cheek and said how
lovely it was to meet me and before he actually left
did so again.
I had wanted to try the restaurant across the street,
Jamila's Cafe, with him but they had not been open and
promised myself I would venture there for dinner, as
it was long overdue.
A few nights ago I had arrived home from work at the
usual late hour, around 9:45 or 10PM to see a white
wolf-like dog wandering the street near my house.
Since I had heard that post-Katrina a lot of pets had
been misplaced and were going without homes, I thought
at first that this was one of them. I got out of my
car and heard a man yelling at the dog. Initially I
thought it was his.
"No, no, this is not my dog, but lady, don't be
afraid. He belongs to a neighbor of ours down the
street. I am just watching him, where he goes and what
he does. Do not be afraid, he will not bite you."
"I'm not afraid", I said, "I thought he might be
homeless"
"No, no, he has a home, but his owner just lets him
out like this. Do not worry; I am watching him for
you. You live across the street no? I have seen you
on a few occasions and see how late you get home. You
must be studying very hard."
I was a little taken aback by this.
"No, no studying. I'm working here in New Orleans for
a short time"
He ventured a little bit closer, crossing midway
across the street.
"Really, what do you do?"
And I told him what I was in town for.
"That is wonderful. You must come across the street
and have dinner. I am the owner of Jamila's Cafe. I
will take care of you"
I thanked him and said I had always planned on it.
He fully crossed the street now and held out his hand.
In a wonderful accent I couldn't place, something
almost French, but tinged with Indian and Catalan, he
said " I am Moncef, I am the owner, I will take care
of you good neighbor, please come by some night and we
will feed you"
I shook his hand in the typically cold and guarded way
of any New Yorker, across my body and far away from
true contact, and said that I would.
Well, kind reader, tonight I did, and what a joy it
was.
Although the escargot were a little too garlicky and
salted, the Tagine of Lamb was a delight, served with
basmati saffron rice, instead of the couscous I am
used to, in its original crockery pot, it was a
perfectly seasoned, tender and a delight.
When Mosef finally arrived, the service became
impeccable, the waitress before him less than a joy.
He asked me where I was from, where I originally grew
up and in which town. I gave him the basic rundown
finishing with the fact that I was now here until
March and in Prague, if I was lucky, from April
through July or August.
"Wonderful! Another world traveler! It is good to jump
around, no? If you are ever in Prague, you must call
me and if you want to get away for a weekend, you come
stay in my house in Tunisia, I insist, I will give you
my card."
And after the brochures of Tunisia and the history of
the small African country, that is exactly what he
did.
"Us continent hoppers must stick together,” he said
with a laugh and a wave of his hand before running off
to fetch me another glass of the Italian Chianti. He
came back with it and his card and imploring once
again how I must stay at his place in Tunisia, how I
would love the people and the land.
"Thank you Naomi for coming finally to eat with us,
thank you kind neighbor, and please come back again.
If you are too lazy to cook one night, do not worry,
just holler across the street, kind neighbor, and we
will make something for you and bring it over."
This city is like no other. The trencherman
sophistication of New York with the temperament of
Southern charm and hospitality. Open, yet always
closed on Sundays, except at Jamila's Café.
Jamila's Cafe
7808 Maple Street
New Orleans, LA 70116
T: 504-866-4366
On Racism, Nola
December 16, 2006
Overheard in a bar by Robert last night:
Woman at the bar: “You’re racial”
Bartender: “I’m not racial, I’ve got a color TV”
Overheard in a bar by Robert last night:
Woman at the bar: “You’re racial”
Bartender: “I’m not racial, I’ve got a color TV”
On Driving & Communicating, Nola
On driving & communicating:
New Orleanians’ kindness is only surpassed by their stupidity.
This is the town with the worst drivers, as slow as their responses and comprehension.
Granted I’m generalizing, but I have to, and after a month of experiencing this my mouth is in a permanent gaping position. I mean, who stops at a blinking yellow and blows a stop sign? Apparantly, at my last count, about 32 New Orleanians; And “directionals” are just mere decoration on the bumper of ones car; and who honks when you overtake them in a two lane area with more than a car space between you and them when you finally pass them? I’ve seen more side dents and bang-ups here than anywhere else, and the speed limit is only 15-30mph (depending on where you’re driving) and they usually GO SLOWER!
New Orleanians’ kindness is only surpassed by their stupidity.
This is the town with the worst drivers, as slow as their responses and comprehension.
Granted I’m generalizing, but I have to, and after a month of experiencing this my mouth is in a permanent gaping position. I mean, who stops at a blinking yellow and blows a stop sign? Apparantly, at my last count, about 32 New Orleanians; And “directionals” are just mere decoration on the bumper of ones car; and who honks when you overtake them in a two lane area with more than a car space between you and them when you finally pass them? I’ve seen more side dents and bang-ups here than anywhere else, and the speed limit is only 15-30mph (depending on where you’re driving) and they usually GO SLOWER!
November 18th - A Little Cajun Philosophy
2:05AM
The Uptown Cajun
7708 Maple St.
Overheard the chef, Chris Dukes:
“I love life. It’s the shit that’s in it that fucks you up”
Chris makes the best Po’Boys in the city.
The Uptown Cajun
7708 Maple St.
Overheard the chef, Chris Dukes:
“I love life. It’s the shit that’s in it that fucks you up”
Chris makes the best Po’Boys in the city.
November 13, 2006 - Taxi Dancer
United Cab ride from 1231 Prytania St. @ Erato to home, 7809 Maple St.
My cousin Will. That’s what he said I should say if I ever have any problems with the United Cab Co. Call them up and tell them that my cousin Will said I should report any problems. He is a “Born and raised down home local” as he put it.
He and his family lost everything in Katrina. They managed to evacuate to Dallas, but when he came back he couldn’t find “not even a thimble”
He said he remembered having a shed, with all his tools and Halloween “stuffs” in it, but when he came back it was gone – “I still haven’t found it [the shed], no idea where it went”
He recommended a couple of eats. One, The Upperline, on Upperline off Prytania (towards St. Charles I believe), he insisted I should go to and meet Joann. “Tell her Will sent you”, for the best service this side of the Mason/Dixon. She wears her hair “The old way, you know, with a pencil stuck in, and she call you ‘daaaawlin’, ‘what can I git ya dawwwlin? You know, like that” He asked me what I liked to eat. I said anything. “Aw good darlin’, you’ll be easy to please, and we sho know how to entertain down he’ah”
I think he’s right.
He said the city hasn’t yet recovered, “Like a boxer”, he said, “whose been hit hard. He’s not knocked out, you see, just dazed. Very dazed and doesn’t know what’s going on.”
I told him I thought it was honorable and brave that he moved back.
The cab stopped at my door.
Will, in his 60s, full head of salt and pepper hair, a former Navy man (the only other time he left the city besides Katrina) turned a little over his shoulder and he said: “If people like me don’t come back, what will you have? You can get anyone to sell tickets, but they won’t have the demeanor, they won’t know how to entertain like we do. Noone wants a new New Orleans. You come down here to party, and we know how to throw a party.”
I hope there are more like Will.
My cousin Will. That’s what he said I should say if I ever have any problems with the United Cab Co. Call them up and tell them that my cousin Will said I should report any problems. He is a “Born and raised down home local” as he put it.
He and his family lost everything in Katrina. They managed to evacuate to Dallas, but when he came back he couldn’t find “not even a thimble”
He said he remembered having a shed, with all his tools and Halloween “stuffs” in it, but when he came back it was gone – “I still haven’t found it [the shed], no idea where it went”
He recommended a couple of eats. One, The Upperline, on Upperline off Prytania (towards St. Charles I believe), he insisted I should go to and meet Joann. “Tell her Will sent you”, for the best service this side of the Mason/Dixon. She wears her hair “The old way, you know, with a pencil stuck in, and she call you ‘daaaawlin’, ‘what can I git ya dawwwlin? You know, like that” He asked me what I liked to eat. I said anything. “Aw good darlin’, you’ll be easy to please, and we sho know how to entertain down he’ah”
I think he’s right.
He said the city hasn’t yet recovered, “Like a boxer”, he said, “whose been hit hard. He’s not knocked out, you see, just dazed. Very dazed and doesn’t know what’s going on.”
I told him I thought it was honorable and brave that he moved back.
The cab stopped at my door.
Will, in his 60s, full head of salt and pepper hair, a former Navy man (the only other time he left the city besides Katrina) turned a little over his shoulder and he said: “If people like me don’t come back, what will you have? You can get anyone to sell tickets, but they won’t have the demeanor, they won’t know how to entertain like we do. Noone wants a new New Orleans. You come down here to party, and we know how to throw a party.”
I hope there are more like Will.
November 12, 2006 -Martinique Bistro
Martinique Bistro
59008 Magazine Street @ Eleanore St.
It’s possibly 55 degrees in the shade and they’re turning the heating lamps on. The heat of the one emanating across the small courtyard reaches me within seconds after being lit.
I have a fly in my wine. It’s so silent on this Sunday afternoon, except for the baby gurgling out an approval when he hears “blackened scallops with poached egg in hollandaise sauce” is on the menu. An expensive pallet begins at such an early age down here in the Bayou, the Garden District.
The streets are shrinking, sinking. Every time a small truck or SUV goes by, rolling down Magazine St. (French for: shopping) at a 20mph clip, my chair shakes.
This part of LA reminds me of L.A. The Echo Park region mixed with bits of the Canals of Venice Beach. The hidden away bistros amongst the lavishly ornate and multi-colored homes and simultaneously only blocks away some depravity.
November 11, 2006 - Sometimes Life Sets You In Strange Lands
NOW
Taste of catfish,
An amber ale.
The sound of rustling palms
On a cold day in NOLA.
The wind blows the outdoor fans
No need for electricity
Outside the Uptown Cajun.
Waiting on a misty evening
to capture the red framed windows
in a golden haze
on Maple Street.
2PM
Igors, on St. Charles
Sometimes life puts you in the strangest places…like Igors. A Bloody-Mary, a chili-burger, a cigarette, a few games of slots, maybe one of pool, and don’t forget to put the softener in before its too late. That’s right, a city that combines all the necessary essentials, including the football game on TV. Laundry, drinking, smoking, gambling, gaming, television and food. But it’s the laundry that always gets me. Laundry. As soon as you wash it and take it out its technically dirty again, dirty with the smell of the smoke and the chili burger, and its very possible, you might spill your drink your on it as you are inevitably drunk by the time the spin cycle is done, writing poetry.
2133 St Charles Ave (Cross Street: Jackson Avenue)
New Orleans, LA 70130-5320
(504) 568-9786
Ode To a Barmaid
She limps
In a town of debauchery
24 hr drinks
slips from her lips
as she serves
a hurricane, “to a pregnant lady?
Or is she just fat”
At The Mental Laundry
Poem by Rob Signom
At the mental laundry
I was in the spin cycle
And no bleach or softener
Could cleanse my heavy load
And me being wet will
Slowly tumble dry
To be folded crisp
And stored on the shelf
Until the annunciation day
If I shrink and am too tight
Or dry too hot and crack my silkscreen
I’ll only get that lived in look
That is so expensive these days
November 11, 2006 - What Nola Wants....
Morning Thoughts
NOLA was always an aged whore, but pre-Katrina she had grit and spunk; an old gal with lots of wear and tear but great stories to tell from her debaucherous experiences.
But she fell in love, in love with a man who beat her. A town in love with a location that was not meant to be. She bent over backwards for him only to have him violate and beat her and then leave. I wonder if she’ll ever recover?
NOLA was always an aged whore, but pre-Katrina she had grit and spunk; an old gal with lots of wear and tear but great stories to tell from her debaucherous experiences.
But she fell in love, in love with a man who beat her. A town in love with a location that was not meant to be. She bent over backwards for him only to have him violate and beat her and then leave. I wonder if she’ll ever recover?
November 9, 2006 - Nola First Impressions
First impressions. Quiet. It’s awfully quiet here. Painfully, eerily, quiet. I don’t know if I like it. Potholes & devastation. I feel like I’m in a third world slum, maybe somewhere in the Caribbean. Don’t quite feel like I’m in America.
“I’ve only ever seen the end of The End” – Robert Signom
“I’ve only ever seen the end of The End” – Robert Signom
November 5, 2006-Arrival
I’ve arrived. Too busy working and taking it all in to write anything down.
Rob picked me up at the airport in his Alpha Romeo (license plate NJULIET) for a seatbelt-less ride on the i10 with the top down. Hmmm, palm trees and warm air.
Rob picked me up at the airport in his Alpha Romeo (license plate NJULIET) for a seatbelt-less ride on the i10 with the top down. Hmmm, palm trees and warm air.
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