we won't go back

There's a recall effort underway for the Louisiana governor. https://www.fox8live.com/video/2026/05/11/supporters-gather-government-plaza-recall-petition-targets-gov-jeff-landry/ 

The bar seems high -- 800, 000 signatures? -- but enthusiasm is running high also, so -- who knows?

A dear friend, born and raised in New Orleans, remembers Jim Crow well. It wasn't that long ago. She remembers being put off the city bus to accommodate white passengers, the long walk from Canal Street in her best dress and gloves, all the way back Uptown. 

Her first communion, when she, a thirsty six-year-old, drank from the Whites Only fountain because it had cold water. She watched her grandmother thrown to the ground and handcuffed for allowing it. Neither  spoke of it for decades, trauma compounded upon trauma.

Three of the New Orleans Four are still alive! They ride in parades; Leona Tate started the TEP Center as a way to remember and continue the work.

We cannot, we will not, go back.  

a mardi gras day for the ages

During my first extended stay in New Orleans, I read an article about then-mayor Cantrell noting that she was not born-and-raised. I think she'd lived in the area for 18 years and was still looked at as an outsider.

That should tell you something about how insular the communities are. 

Despite my growing affinity for grits or how many boil-water advisories I've endured, I know I'll always be considered a Northerner, an outsider. 

So it was an honor to be asked to support the N'Awlins Dawlins baby dolls on Mardi Gras Day this year. They were to strut from the newly-refurbished Dew Drop Inn around 11am and so the call went out: arrive by 9am. I put on my sequin jacket and comfortable shoes and headed out early to catch the beginning of the Zulu parade on Jackson Street. 

Then I walked along Lasalle, among the growing clusters of full-on BBQ set ups, canopies with smokers and grills, music blaring, sleepy-eyed kids in their striped Mardi Gras finery. The baby doll queen hollered at me from a porch, where she was helping pour drinks. And so the day began.

We focused on setup first, pans of dirty rice and fried chicken on Sternos, then inflating blue and silver balloons to festoon the MG Indian headquarters. Then we hurried to the Dew Drop, where the ladies were getting dressed in their pale blue and silver finery. I helped out with safety pins and bobby pins, hunting down lip gloss and fussing over bows. The grand marshal's custom-made cape needed a bigger pin. And the mimosa glasses always needed refilling.

Eventually everyone was ready and headed out to the stage for photos. The brass band began to play and I stationed myself outside the door, waving at doorman Ace, to video the strut. The baby dolls were so joyous and beautiful, with a little doll baby and her brother joining in the with their own finery and smiles. I followed along, taking photos, holding purses and water bottles and enjoying the gorgeous carnival day.

quote of the night (he's not wrong)

Working a gala last night, among the daily horrors.
I was tasked with finding out where the second line would start.
Unsuccessful despite polling all the organizers, I returned to the models' dressing room and reported No one knows. A tall guy cackled. That's New Orleans right there. We operate on vibes, not efficiency.

N'awlins D'awlins baby dolls

the day my wallet made it home before I did

The other day I went out to run a quick errand before work.
A pleasant morning, got my errand done, left the store and saw the bus I hoped to catch approaching the corner 1/2 block away.
Never run for the bus, a friend always told me, but I ran, caught it and paid my $1.25 fare. As I sank into a seat, enjoying the air-conditioned blast, I looked down and saw my bag gaping open.
Minus my cute pink wallet.

***

Break for panic, a quick search of my shopping bag, cursing, jumping off the bus, running full out 2 blocks back to where I boarded.

***

Now I remembered hearing a horn honk as I ran for the bus. Did someone see my wallet fall out?
I retraced my steps once, twice, went into each neighboring business, asked at a taco truck, a tire shop, a gas station.
A panhandler on the corner said he hadn't seen anything. You just paid for a whole lot of day drinking.
Where's my karma, I despaired. I've returned countless IDs and whole wallets over the years.
Then my phone rang. My front door, someone trying to get in my building.
As I pushed Decline, it hit me: maybe someone saw the fortunately correct address on my license and was bringing me my wallet!

***

Break for panicked waiting, please call back please call back.

***
Another call. My front door again.
Hello, I have your wallet?
Yes!
However, I was a long bus ride from home and even a fast Lyft would take 15 minutes.
The call kept dropping. I yelled out my cell phone #.
The good samaritan called me. Brittany, she said. A 504 number. She agreed she'd leave the wallet in a planter.
I'm so grateful, I'd like to pay for your gas or something, I said, and the call ended abruptly.
I got in the Lyft, tried calling her back. Again and again. The call didn't even ring. She blocked me!?

***

Break for panicked riding, calling my bank, calling the good samaritan, and my partner, who was now inside the building and saw no wallet.

***

At my building, leapt from the Lyft and ransacked the planters.
There it was, my wallet in the dirt, ID and credit card and debit card all still there.
And zero cash.
All gone, including a quarter for the bus. 

***

The adrenaline rush left me exhausted. 
I was mad, at myself for being careless. 
At Brittany for cleaning me out.
I asked a kind neighbor to do a reverse look-up on the number and she found a little information, but in the end what did it matter who Brittany was or wasn't?
In a world full of me-firsts a stranger drove across town to return the important things, the stuff that's hard to replace.

*

Good people exist, I guess. But as always, it's complicated.

K20: day 2 at Louis Armstrong Park

My second day helping out at the K20 event was busier. Back at the info tent, the rain had stopped and the crowds began to flow into the park. A different krewe of volunteers so I made my introductions again. (I flubbed names and still feel like an idiot.)

One talkative lady wore Tulane socks, Ms Roseanne, a history professor. We talked about the need for more research and work in environmentalism. I’m a transplant, she said, but she’s been here 30 years. (My 3 were waved off. Unremarkable.)

I handed out meal tickets with Roger, a calm soft-spoken young man, who along with the professor, talked of having older parents and how that informs your outlook on life.

We gave away t-shirts including to a group of 4 aunties who’d asked for them the day before.

And when the t-shirts and meal tickets ran out, we handed out bandannas. Ayu bakery cookies. Water bottles.

Some folks, including an older white man, came again and again, staying to chat. They didn’t want to be alone, I think. Some charged phones.

I saw Megan, director of OBONO, her children performing with Congo Kids. They’d been at the levee Friday too. I’m glad I’ve been so busy, she confided. No time to break down.

Timothy came by, the lovely soul from Friday. He’d taken a 4-hour nap, exhausted from Friday. He’d been at the mayor’s event at Gallier Hall, had met General Honore. When I asked how it was, he said, I listened to what he had to say. When you’re in the presence of so much wisdom, that is what you do.

A vision in crisp white, Miss Brenda (I think, I know her from museum shows) walked through, having also just left the mayor’s event. She talked about caring for 300 S&WB workers through the storm and aftermath.

Then a distraught woman: she’d set her phone down on the sanitation station and when she emerged from the port-a-potty, it was gone. We called, texted, walked around: no phone. :(

A man asked for a meal ticket and when Roger explained we were out, to try again tomorrow, the man said angrily, sounds just like Katrina. You brought me right back to Katrina, y’all. He stomped off. Roger said it didn’t bother him but I think it did. People can be so nasty about free things.

As the afternoon wound down, I ate curried vegetables and rice, watched Big Chief Brian & Nouveau Bounce and his performers (shake that booty like a tambourine) on Congo Square, listened to Roger’s raptures about Disney World, the amenities as you wait in line, his joy in the experience.

*

We missed Al Gore, my neighbor texted me. Apparently he’d been at the levee and other events. I’d wanted to go over to where the crowds were Friday but she wanted to go. Also, we had our experiences. We held space for the day.

We didn’t miss anything, I don’t think.

K20: a transplant’s experience

I wasn’t in New Orleans for Katrina. On August 29, 2005 I was sitting on my couch watching the news of the storm, first in disbelief, and as the days passed, in horror and anger.

I hated how New Orleaneans, the citizens of America’s national treasure, were stripped of their dignity. Treated like enemies, threats, burdens, when all most were trying to do was not drown.

I saw how ordinary people cared for each other, the Cajun Navy and random folks with boats went out every day to rescue their neighbors. (And I saw how the State, including the federal government, demonized and harmed them.)

*

I live here now. The scars are evident. The Katrina crosses still visible on some houses. The stories, the pain barely concealed.

Many friends said they wouldn’t observe the 20th anniversary, were trying not to think about it, didn’t know. I hoped to support where I could, to make space for grief however it surfaced.

*

My neighbor picked me up around noon to go to the Industrial Canal, where the levy near Jourdan St breached 20 years ago, allowing 15 or 18 feet of water to roar through a residential neighborhood. The wall has been repaired and B Mike Odum’s Eternal Seeds have added colorful, poignant murals. There were speakers, some dancing, some singing, many somber faces.

She wanted to head out so we drove around the Lower 9, looking at the shameful Brad Pitt Make it Right houses, already fallen into disrepair, and then other well kept structures, and the many, many empty lots, some with skeletons of foundations, many overgrown with trees and brush.

After a stop at gorgeous organic market and a detour around the departing second line, I went to Armstrong Park and worked the info tent for the K20 city project. It rained most of the afternoon, and attendance was light.

I met Jeremy Oatis, the suit maker behind Resist and Remembrance: Display of Masking Indian Suits (Original Wild Tchoupitoulas).

A distraught man who talked about being flooded out of his house on Tennessee Street near the levee, voice breaking as he recalled not being able to save his godson and another child from the water. I can’t forgive myself, he said in despair. One of the volunteers, Ellyn, comforted him until he was able to go get some food. I needed to talk to y’all, he said.

The twenty-something son of another volunteer Willa sat with us, eating greens and talking softly and sweetly about growing up in Georgia, moving to New Orleans at age 8, then evacuating during the storm. We aimed for Houston but we only made it to Baton Rouge, he said. They were so kind, low key giving me clothes and food when I needed anything.

The healing dancers came by the tent. A flock of City Year teens in their red shirts, begging for a t-shirt or a bandanna. Tourists. Strays from Southern Decadence.

There was food truck drama when they stopped taking meal tickets. Then the bathrooms shut down. Volunteers stopped by to chat, kids playing with bubbles or jumping around. Willa’s granddaughter shares my name so I admired pictures of a sassy 8 year old.

I went to watch Gladney play his last few songs, he’s a Grammy-winning performer who was friends with Timothy and brought joy to Congo Square (I’d seen him perform at Jazz Fest!). I said goodbye to Timothy and left around six p.m., tired and contemplative.

a bittersweet birthday month

It’s my birthday month (all hail fellow Capricorns!) and already I’ve enjoyed some great food, laughs with friends and one impromptu serenade of Stevie Wonder’s “Happy Birthday.” To honor the wonderful city of New Orleans I’m asking you to hold your loved ones close, and go hear some live music and celebrate safely. This is a city that knows hospitality and entertainment and the New Year’s attack on Bourbon St. is still weighing heavily on hearts and minds. 

If you’re of a mind to help the families of the 14 departed or the scores of victims, NOLA.com has a list of verified ways to give: https://www.nola.com/gambit/news/the_latest/here-are-ways-to-help-new-orleans-bourbon-street-terror-attack-victims-and-families/article_d615d2e0-c923-11ef-a9c4-6bd6a4a8ab49.html

Peace and love.

the biggest small town

New Orleans is the biggest small town I know of.

A dear friend who works in the hospital system told me he'd met so many of the Bourbon Street victims' families. I gave away the store to these dear people, he wrote: flowers, candy, hugs. He listened to the sorrowful stories, friended them on Facebook and kissed their babies. 

My neighbor's partner is in law enforcement, they told me today, one of the first to arrive at the scene on New Year's morning, on the heels of the officers who were wounded. They worked 26 hours that day, over a hundred hours this past week, and they're exhausted and worried.

At the 12th Night parade last night a police car blared its siren and the woman on the sidewalk ahead of us flinched visibly. That's all I heard that night, she said. She was at the hostel on Canal.

rest easy

 

 

 

 

 

another building crumbles and a parade every Sunday

I’m no closer to understanding this gloriously paradoxical city than I was two years ago. It’s been 0 days since the last building closure for structural damage. (The city even sent emergency alerts last night about the most recent one.)

And at noon on Sunday another second line sets out, one of thirty-seven this season. A social club literally dressed to the nines, a brass band, and dancing in the streets.

 

when a tipsy stranger hands over her phone and credit card

It was a night the other night.

Walked in the drenching 6pm heat to watch silky smooth Stephen Walker 'Nem. Kid Chocolate played a crisp, sparkling trumpet, a friend sat in on jazz piano. We took a table by the floor-to-ceiling window, close enough to catch cool air, but still on the sidewalk to enjoy the passing scene: a local or two, clumps of women, bro's striding by. A musician in a hand-painted PT Cruiser, showing off his matching red pants and shoes and a brand new pair of silver-studded loafers. Come to my show Sunday at BMC, he urged, before heading home with his wife. 

As we got up to but our table and go get food, a drunk woman stumbled up. You're from here, right? I need to get to the Marigny Opera House. Another woman and I pointed out she could walk there in ten minutes. I've had too many cocktails, she insisted. Help me figure out Lyft. It keeps telling me to verify my email. She handed me her phone and credit card. 

Unwillingly I started punching in numbers. Fail. Tried again. Fail. I'm going to be late! the woman wailed. It's New Orleans, I bluffed. They'll let you in. Tried her credit card once more. Finally. I accepted the to and from, showed her "driver's details will display in 1 minute" and handed back her phone. She grinned, an unlit joint dangling out of her mouth, and drifted around the corner. We departed, hopeful she'd make it, too hungry to hang around.

New story out: Blister Dick, in Fiction on the Web

Thanks Fiction on the Web for publishing my story "Blister Dick."

"At the dentist, to whom she had begged him to go, he ran into his high school girlfriend. 

"We're going to meet up for coffee," he told Brett later, looking as pleased as anyone could with a jawful of Novocaine."

I loved writing this story of jealousy and imagined betrayal. Although, I'll probably regret the title and the illustrative AI image is not mine. Happy reading!

It might be nothing and it might be something

I’m continuing to pitch agents, submit short stories and excerpts, and refine my drafts while I wait.

I’m reading a ton--World War 2 histories, British mystery novels, celebrity memoirs--and thinking about a video project or two (I love ‘em but they take so much tiiiiime).

And, living life. Working of course, volunteering, going to shows.

*

I stopped by a brewery in my neighborhood yesterday to drop off some kids’ books. One Book One New Orleans is partnering with chef Isaac Toups and wife Amanda, who’ve taken food insecurity on full-steam. Books, food, mutual aid, and love, all on one humid patio. Amazing.

bayou metairie (city park new orleans)

 

bayou metairie

Week 15: an extra heaping helping of humility

 Good-byes are hard for me and this one stings. I hope it’s only a see-you-later.

To back up a bit: on Monday we breakfasted at Elizabeth’s with a trio of determined bees that we temporarily housed in upturned water glasses, then drove out to Whitney Plantation. This is the rare plantation that tells its story from the perspective of its enslaved inhabitants, which is powerful and grim. I can only imagine the futile loneliness of living in the middle of the swamps. Dinner was at the Sneaky Pickle, buffalo cauliflower wraps and delicious fries and lovingly-prepared cocktails.

Tuesday was predicted to be stormy, an unsettled day of tentative walks and random meet-ups, card games, charging up phones, and waiting. When the afternoon storms fizzled, we walked to Frenchmen Street but nearly every venue was preemptively closed. Overnight, around four a.m., thunderstorms raged, with lightning so bright I couldn’t sleep.

Wednesday saw the departure of the Christmas Day arrivals. They came by with wine, leftovers and a palpable air of relief. We cleaned, packed and worked, and headed out in the evening to the Blue Nile to hear the New Breed Brass Band, and a glimpse of Kid Merv across the street. I felt happy watching these talented young players tear it up on their brass, and also deeply sad to be leaving.

Thursday dawned hot and sunny, and we ate leftovers, went for farewell walks, and eventually hopped in a Lyft driven by a talkative Cajun and headed to the airport.

*

Arrival on the west coast has been complicated. Illness, bad feelings from a landlord, rain, confusion. I’m trying to remain calm and focused but my stomach is in an uproar. Today, laying low, a few errands, a distant hello at ETG, and now writing.

C’est tout.

patio time (theres a theme here)

Baldwin&Co

FrenchTruck

PeterNPaul

Rosalitas

StCoffee

week 12 and its cake every day

 

My sib and partner visited for five days and geez I’m tired!

They flew in Sunday on the heels of a drenching thunderstorm. I sloshed my way to the library and hopped the express bus to the airport. After dropping off luggage and a brief rest to charge phones, we got coffee at Bywater Bakery and rambled around town, visiting a vintage store and enjoying the post-storm afternoon. A stop at Mardi Gras Super Market netted beads, masks (including an exquisite rhinestone number) and a t-shirt. Dinner was Rosalita’s, then jazz in the FQ and on Frenchmen Street, ending with Treme Brass Band, all of us exhausted.

Monday, coffee and grits at St. Coffee. Everyone had work so we reconvened in the evening for Viet-Cajun cuisine at Bywater Brew Pub, including fried pickles and charred brussels, then over to the holiday market at Siberia (punk art!) and a thorough tour of Robert’s Grocery Store and all the Southern, Cajun, New Orleans special ingredients.

Tuesday we rambled in the increasing heat through the French Quarter in search of cake. Most bakeries were closed, so we made do at Cafe Beignet with their carrot cake, checked out the Backstreet Cultural Museum, tried in vain to buy vegetarian soul food (all venues were closed), then gave up and walked to the Quarter for Central Grocery muffaletta, another punk market, band-aids, and then to the museum for Da Truth Brass Band on the balcony. It was a pleasant evening with stiff drinks courtesy of Donny, an energetic brass band, and two young dancers who moved with joy. Then a quick trip to Goodwill, another vain search for veg-friendly soul food, and finally over to a chain for less than wonderful grits, mac-and-cheese and OK pecan pie.

Wednesday we noticed with the severe weather alerts, that schools were pre-emptively closing, then the museums. I walked my sib back to the Airbnb under lowering clouds and thickly humid heat with a stop for cake at the co-op. My landlord was frantic, insisting we not walk, giving me advice if there was a tornado. I got back home and settled in to watch a Christmas movie only to get an Imminent Danger alert around 3.45 to seek shelter. Shit. This was real. My sib was keeping an eye on the news and weather radar but I was too freaked out, so I followed orders and sheltered in the bathtub with a heavy quilt and some blankets and my charged-up phones. There was wind and drenching rain. The sky was dark, then lighter and green. It got loud, then quiet. Is this when to worry, I wondered. My sib called. There’s a tornado southeast and heading directly our way. Well fuck. We hung up. I pulled the comforter over my head and waited. My partner texted. A niece. A co-worker. By 4.30 the tornado had passed a few blocks to the east and I could finally step out of the tub but I was shaky. Was more coming? It rained hard for another hour. I watched the radar and the rest of my movie, fortified with whiskey egg nog. Later we had dinner at Cochon, my neighborhood empty and quiet, some fences blown over, the streets littered with palm tree branches and debris. Frenchmen Street was empty, all clubs except the Spotted Cat shuttered and dark. We browsed the bookstore and went home.

Blue skies Thursday, and cold. My family’s last day, so we hit the hot spots: Loretta’s for praline beignets, Bywater for chantilly cake, Elizabeth’s for fried green tomatoes and more charred brussels. Dr. Bob’s art estate, another vintage store, and then goodbyes. It was nice to have people here that know me. I say this to friends and they brush me off--well you meet people don’t you--but it’s not the same. Also, we lived through an ugly storm, huddled in our respective tubs, afraid and hoping for the best.

Today it’s back to work. I’ve got gifts to mail and Doreen Ketchens is playing tonight.

week 11 head down and werq

This is the week shit caught up with me.
Tired. Didn't feel great.
I went for some very long walks in the muggy mornings to sweat it out.
The panhandler outside District yelled at me when I didn't buy him donuts (the woman ahead of me in line
told me she'd gotten him coffee and 2 glazed).
I went to an art event but never found the person who invited me.
I bought a Creole cauliflower, creamy white with the most beautiful pale green leaves.
Croissant d'Or served up a rich slice of Italian cake.
I even had vegetarian poboys at Killer PoBoys.
Tomorrow family arrives and I'm excited.

week 6 setting myself free

It’s been a week of credits and debits, death marches and weird phone calls. And trying to let go.

Monday was Halloween, and the city was even more festive than usual. As I walked to my work space I passed an older man dressed as a wizard, carrying a sceptre topped with a skull. I’d hoped to have friends here to enjoy the holiday with but it was not to be, so I worked, walked the neighborhood checking out costumes and festivity, and then took myself home.

Tuesday: All Saint’s Day, and an unsettling one. I found out my landlord let himself into my house without permission (he insists it was a “miscommunication” but it cemented my feeling that it’s time to go, so I’m working on it). I started the day with a long run to check out a grocery store on Esplanade. Halfway there I came upon a car accident, two smashed, smoking vehicles, a trio of kids sitting on a curb shaken and crying, adults around making calls and looking anxious. I felt so helpless, bought juice at the store but by the time I made it back an ambulance was pulling away, and everyone had vanished.

Wednesday I volunteered at a local thrift store, took the bus both ways and hung up signs and cleaned and met some characters, including a Navy vet who proclaimed, “If you love New Orleans, New Orleans will love you back.” I hope so.

Thursday I had a rare quiet afternoon so I headed over to the New Orleans Jazz Museum, slipping in late and enjoying 30 minutes of a jazz pianist singing her heart out.

Friday -- knowing thunderstorms loomed on Saturday -- I took a long lunch break and hotfooted it to the Backstreet Cultural Museum, a compact but vibrant space in the Treme where the founder’s daughter gave a history of masking and Mardi Gras Indians. I lingered over the beautifully beaded creations, the photos of Allen Toussaint and Troy Andrews and Treme Brass Band members. Then picked up lunch from I-Tal Garden (a delicious mushroom po-boy and seasoned fries), walked through Congo Square where TanzaFest was setting up, and headed back to work.

Storms and wind moved in overnight Friday so Saturday is a writing day, coffee from the hipsters at Petite Clouet Cafe, hello to a new friend who teaches CPR, and settling in.