BAYOU Time!

Dancing in the Park

2013-05-24T14:26:00.001-04:00

Bopping in Beach Chairs.

The '80s were alive and well at La Freniere Park Thursday night. Mostly the '80s. A little of the '90s and some contemporary. But mostly the '80s.

It was the Mojoeaux Band playing in the park's spring Thursday concert series. They're a local party band, and they're pretty good. They had the audience, which I'd guess around 500 to 800 people – mostly around my age, so that was a little funny watching them try to rock, bopping in their beach chairs. There was also a host of little kids – 2 or so to 10 – who knew just what to do when the music pounded. Get up and move! Tori and I and a handful of other adults joined them and were on our feet most of the night.

The band name, of course, is pure NOLA. Pronounced mojo, but since this is Cajun country we spell it with a lot of imported extra verbs. We have signs that say "Geaux Saints" and Tostitos ads that say "We Kneaux How to Party."

We'd been meaning to get to the concert series for a month, but it was always something. A school activity. Then I got sick and that ate up three Thursday nights – I don't want to dwell on it since I wrote about it recently. I'm mostly better now, Even have my voice back, just still feel a little wrung out.

So anyway, Thursday was also the last day of school, so we celebrated by walking down to the park. We strolled through the bird sanctuary than around the pond. It was peaceful, quiet, even with the band starting up not far away. We were fascinated by the maneuvers of a Roseate spoonbill circling around, his beak in the muddy water, to pull up his dinner.

Then we entered the area where the concert was, and things got very lively. We had a couple of excellent tacos each while the band played a blend of '80s favorites – Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'," Whitney Houston's "I Want to Dance with Somebody," bunch of other songs that made me go, "Oh, yeah! That song!" and a few more contemporary songs. They'd be a fun band to have at a wedding or something.

Soon as we finished eating Tori was on her feet and, unlike me, she can dance and she got into it. We haven’t' had a lot of fun lately, so this was a great chance to let go, and she did. She even got me on my feet, sort of bopping in my middle-aged white guy way.

Mojeaux rocks out.

Max and his friend met us there. Max enjoyed dancing and moving to the beat, especially when Mojeaux rapped ("Gangsters Paradise") but his friend seemed unwilling to let the beat infect her, she seemed self-conscious. She'll get over that pretty quickly if she hangs around our family for any length of time.

Anyway, we had a great time last night. Just a lot of fun, and fun is something that's been in short supply the last month, The Louisiana Philharmonic orchestra will play in the park tonight, and we plan to go give it a try. Sounds fun!

Random Thoughts from the House of Menthol

2013-05-17T11:31:00.001-04:00

Almost better now, but not quite well. Been sick for over a week now, a cold/cough/fever/ that just doesn't want to go away. It's finally breaking up, but I mean, in my life I have never been this sick for this long. Back when I had pneumonia in '89, it only lasted five days.

We've had the vaporizer going full steam, tried a variety of OTC treatments. I was kind enough to pass this on to Tori and Kate. Neither of them have had it as bad as I have, but it's still unpleasant. Max seems to have avoided it. (Knock wood.)

Worst for Tori has been that every time I lay down and close my eyes, I start coughing, which wakes both of us up. Several nights I've given up and gone to sit in the armchair in the living room, where I've been able to snatch a few hours of sleep.

So random thoughts are really all I've been able to come up with for the last few days.

• Nothing tastes as vile as Robitussin. It's the nastiest tasting medicine there is. Yet, I have to say, I've never taken anything as effective.

• Laying on the couch watching daytime TV, the endless reruns of "Law & Order," "Supernatural," "Friends" and the occasional awful sci-fi movie on the SyFy channel, I had one of those epiphanies for a story that could be really good, blending a couple of the shows I saw. At least I think it's a good idea, but that might by the NyQuil talking. But Tori agreed it has promise, so I'm working it up as a movie treatment and we'll see what I can do with it.

• It's almost as deep a divide as between religions. Tori was raised in a Vicks Vapo-Rub family. I've always been a Mentholatum man. It's ridiculous, they're both essentially the same thing, doing the same job in the same way. But Vicks just smells wrong to me as I slather it on my chest. I can't even describe the difference. But that doesn't mean it's not real.

• Kate commented last night, "Wouldn't it be an awful world if cherries actually tasted like the cherry flavoring in cough medicine?" Yes it would. What a sad, sad place the world would be.

• I have raised six children. I know what pink eye looks like. So how come I have to go to a doctor's office to get a doctor to look at it and say, "Yup, that's pink eye?" Instead of paying ten bucks or so for the drops, which are the same drops I've been using on pink eye for 30 years, they want me to pay 80 bucks or more for an office visit to confirm what I know. Fortunately (fortunate in a relative sense) we had a case of pink eye last year and some of the drops are left. My eyes are fine now, thank you very much. There's little about the health industry that pisses me off more than that.

• I am a terrible patient. I've always known that. I don't like being sick, don't like acting sick. Don't like complaining, don't like carrying on about being sick. Don't like surrounding myself with the accoutrements of being sick. This means I'm always trying to get up and do things before I should. It drives Tori crazy. She's all but had to set a timer for me to stay in bed, and of course there are issues about me, say, making school lunches for example. No one is more ready for me to be over this than me. But Tori is right behind me in line.

Today I'm not bad. Tomorrow I'll be fine. Monday at the latest.

Unrelated note: Wednesday we went to our very last middle school spring concert (last unless something surprising happens.) Max moves up to high school next year, so this was it. The band was really, really good, better than many high school orchestras I've heard. Band is Mr. V's thing, and the kids sounded great. Sadly, the choir was not nearly as good. They sang all the same notes more or less in sync, but there were no harmonies, no dynamics, and most of the girls apparently learned to sing by watching American Idol, with all the swoops up to the notes and crap like that.

So great job band! And to Mrs. Cafarella, Kate and Millie's choir director back at West Albany, thank you for being such a great teacher. They were as fortunate to have you as Max is to have Mr. V.

The Only Thing Better

2013-05-06T09:55:00.000-04:00

The only thing better that I can think of than lasagna for dinner (Tori makes GREAT lasagna) is ...

Wait for it ...

Leftover lasagna for dinner the next day!

Not a great photo, but great lasagna!

There is no photo of the leftover lasagna, because we ate it too fast!

Is This as Low as it Goes? I Hope So

2013-04-11T12:43:00.000-04:00

I honestly didn't know what a Kardashian was until last year, so I may not be qualified to even discuss this, but the story in the news this morning was the lowest thing I've read in a long time.

A young woman who had been on MTV's "Teen Mom" show, which I also was unaware of, was desperate to extend her 15 minutes of fame. She'd tried singing, and writing a book, and bikini modeling (why not? What's the difference between being a writer and a bikini model?) Didn't work. So she made a sex tape which then "leaked out" on the Internet. She claims she made it for her own personal use, the fact that her partner is a professional porn star notwithstanding.

There was a survey, gosh, it must have been more than a decade ago now, in which teens were asked what their goal in life was. The majority said they wanted to be "famous." Not a famous singer, or a famous lawyer, or a famous artist or even a famous accountant. They didn't say they wanted to be so good at something that it made them famous. They just wanted fame.

And that's why we have today's news about some 21-year-old woman "leaking" a sex tape online so that people will keep talking about her. She didn't even sell the recording, so there would at least have been a monetary reward. All that mattered was to keep people talking about her.

The story was complete with all the tongue-clucking about pop culture reaching a new low. But the worst part of it was this comment from a woman who runs a pornography production business.

“The fact of the matter is a few weeks ago this girl was just some girl on a past season of a reality TV show. She was actually one of the more responsible moms on the show – yes I watch it – which should be a good thing, but unfortunately it made her yesterday’s news really quickly. The more messed up moms on the show, like A**** and J******, are in gossip magazines all the times because they are constantly in and out of rehab or jail or whatever. In any case, everyone is talking about her now. And what is she going to do, get a ‘real job?’ It’s hard to go from being on TV to being a manager at Best Buy.”

Yesterday's news. Horror of horrors! Is that like the worst thing ever? Might as well be dead as to be yesterdays news. In or out of rehab or jail, whatever it takes to keep the camera on you. Makes it sound like Lindsey Lohan is a role model rather than a cautionary tale. Heaven forbid someone should go from being on TV to having a "real job."

There once was a notion that a celebrity was someone who had done something worth celebrating. Now it's just a person people talk about, for whatever reason. Like the late Zsa Zsa Gabor, who as near as I could figure out was only famous for being famous. The definition of a Kardashian. And really, is this that different from the PBs (professional beauties) of the Edwardian era? The human race has never been short of people willing to sell their soul. Now it's a career goal.

From where I sit, being manager of a Best Buy would be kind of a cool job.

Guess I'm getting old. Very very old.

Big Pot of Red

2013-04-10T11:33:00.000-04:00

Made some really good chili. I'm a basic chili kinda guy, nothing fancy and no beans. Spicy but not burn-your-head-off hot.

Stew beef, a bottle of beer, an onion, garlic, chili powder, paprika. A little salt. Would have used a red pepper and cumin, but we were out of both. Then just cook it until you can't recognize any of the constituent parts, about six hours. Adding water as needed, but not much. I like my chili thick.

Man it was good. Tori made a pot of beans and rice for those who just haveto have beans with their chili, and there were no complaints. It's probably been 25 years since I made a pot of chili, and I wonder why I waited. So easy, just requires attention so that it doesn't burn, and so damn good.

We realized we'd been falling into a rut at dinner time, the same eight or ten things over and over, and decided to change it up. We began a concerted effort to try new things, or things we haven't made in years, and so far no complaints. Tori turned out some fabulous chicken enchiladas a couple of weeks ago – it's probably been three or four years since she made those and they're always good – and a nice beef stew. I have made the chili, and barbecued pork sandwiches. Well, I can't really call it that since I didn't barbecue the meat, but it gives you the idea.

And it's so much less expensive than buying processed foods, or ordering out, and so much better. And the cooking is fun.

Friday has been pizza night at the Baurs almost as long as we've been married. I came home from work about 20 years ago and the kids were all excited, telling me Tori had decreed that "Friday night is pizza night!" These days we make our own, because it's less expensive and way better – everyone gets what they want on the pizza they make. Kate has taken over making the dough and takes a lot of pride in her bread-making prowess. Max grates the cheese, we all chop of the vegetables and whatever else we've got. It's a family thing.

And now Sunday is turning into, "What have we not made in a while?" night. And so far it's working out.

Weather and GPS

2013-04-06T18:35:00.002-04:00

Where was I?

Weather – The weather in Oregon was the primary reason we moved in 2008. Cold and wet almost all the time, except for a couple of months in the summer when it was dry and hot, and a couple of glorious weeks in spring and fall. The rest of the time, cold and wet. My dad once pointed out that every time they visited – every single day they spent in Oregon, even in the dry, hot summers, it rained. So in 2008 we moved to the Caribbean. On St. Croix it was always the same weather unless there was an actual hurricane going on – high in the upper 80s, overnight low in the low 70s, "chance of rain, 30 percent," as the voice on the Weather Channel said. Always.

So getting used to the weather here has been challenging. Not that it got particularly cold, but colder than we're used to. Sometimes. In the last few months we've had cold days followed by sunny warm days followed by muggy days followed by light rain or torrential rain. There have been days when we woke up shivering, and by afternoon had the air conditioning running.

The problem isn't with the kindof weather. It's that there's SO MUCH weather.

Visitors and hobbies – A few weeks ago we had a visit from some Oregon friends, Phil and Linda Brown. Ever since Phil retired a couple of years ago they've been traveling. In fact, they spent a week at St. Croix two weeks after we moved away. Bad timing. We could have made their trip a lot more enjoyable.

Anyway, it was nice to see them, catching up on news. They're daughters are doing well. When the girls got into high school Linda missed the kind of things they used to do, she was a Girl Scout leader for them and had really enjoyed it. So she borrowed Kate and Millie a lot. Took 'em on camping trips, running lemonade stands. Lots of stuff like that. They had a good time.

Linda's new hobby is geocaching, so we spent the afternoon – well part of the afternoon, we spent the longest part of it waiting for service at a really disappointing restaurant – walking around the French Quarter fixated on her GPS device. Found three of them. There's a sense of accomplishment when you find some tiny container that someone hid years ago, some as small as the end of your little finger, few larger than an old film canister (remember those?) You sign your name and the date on a little piece of paper and replace it, then go home and log it on the geocache website.

We found one in Pirate Alley, and as Linda was signing it, a group of college students from South Carolina came by, peering at their GPS devices. We told them to wait, turn their backs, and replaced it. We found another across the street from what is reported to be the New Orleans home of Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie.

Tori thought it seemed like fun, so it prompted her to learn to use the GPS feature on her new phone. Right now she and Max are out prowling Mike Miley Park, a half block south of here, tracking down several she found on the website. One we had search for last week, but couldn't find it and then it started raining. (See comment above about lots of weather.) She checked again on Google maps, and the site came up exactly where we'd been standing. I mean, when we clicked for the satellite photo I recognized the area instantly. We'd been standing right there.Either it was extremely well hidden or someone had removed it. She and Max will take apart the fence if need be to find it.

UPDATE – They're home, and they found it! Plus had several other adventures.

Well Mow Me Down!

2013-03-19T20:05:00.002-04:00

It took two weeks and I'm almost crippled, but the front yard has been mowed.

Don't talk to me about the backyard. I'm counting on a fire, or a miracle. Or a miracle fire.

Our lease requires that we take care of the yard. That's not unreasonable. When we moved in last August we acquired through Craig's List a push mower. It was what we could afford. It got the job done and didn't kill any of us, although it was a lot of effort. Then thankfully the fall and winter came and the lawn didn't grow much.

But time moves on, as it will, and as spring approached we were quickly becoming the bane of the neighborhood. Our neighbors are people who take their lawn care seriously, out there at all hours of the day and dusk edging and blowing and mowing. And our lawn was as shaggy as a pirate's beard.

We had gotten the push mower out two weeks ago and were eyeing the tangle of grass, when the guy across the street came over. He's a nice guy who is having his own trouble with the neighborhood home care Gestapo, and may well be leaving soon. Lawn care is the least of his worries, and he offered us his lawn mower. It had been given to him by a neighbor and he'd never been able to get it running, but it should work fine, he assured us.

It didn't. I will spare you the monotonous details, but it didn't start. We drained the gas, which was green. Our benefactor had thought it needed two-stroke oil in the fuel. He was mistaken. Replaced that and we could get it to start, sputter and die, start, sputter and die. Obviously there was a problem with the carburetor. Tori thought it was just dirty. I was sure the choke valve was stuck. We probably were both right.

Sunday, after two weeks of fiddling and fussing and swearing (mostly the latter) we gave it one more try without any better luck. It was maddening. We knew the problem – gas was not getting from the tank to the cylinder – but nothing we tried worked. I threw up my hands – one of which had a broken blister from repeatedly pulling the start cord, and my breath was coming in short gasps. "I'm done for today." I said.

I gave it one more tug. The motor sputtered to life. And ran. 10 seconds. 20. It coughed but kept going. It ran for two minutes. Three. When it sputtered, Tori would spray a little more starting fluid and it kept going. Four minutes. Five. At seven minutes she decided to see how long it would keep going without the spray. At 12 minutes, we realized it was running.

Max came out to do most of the actual mowing. It is not at all a well lawn mower, and the thickness of our tangled lawn almost did it in. But we were able to get the whole front yard mowed. Every time it died – and it did often – we were able to start it again. I can barely lift my right arm, but our neighbors may stop cursing at us, at least about the lawn.

The real proof of the pudding will be the next time. Will we be able to start it cold?

And then there's the backyard, a mess. But thanks to the fence, our neighbors don't see that. So screw 'em.

Apropos of Nothhng

2013-02-22T13:05:00.000-04:00

These aren't NOLA or island-related thoughts. Just things that pop into my head from time to time.

Am I nuts?

If I suggested a movie plot about backwoods brothers – isolated, lonely, religious – who decide to make their way to the nearest town, grab some women and take them away to be their brides, you'd at least expect there would be a scene – possibly the whole last third of the movie – involving a standoff with agents from the FBI and ATF. It'd be one of those true crime, "ripped from the headlines" stories.

Instead, it's a famous musical. "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers," possibly the stupidest musical of all time, in which the brothers are the heroes of the piece. It has to be the worst idea for a musical I've ever heard. A musical about kidnapping and conspiracy to commit rape? And it's a classic.

Speaking of musicals: There's an ad for a lite beer featuring manly men singing about their workout regimes and how hard they try to be manly, and how Miller 64 fits in with that. It's a rousing song, a "Student Prince" sort drinking-house singalong. You've probably heard it. "To Miller 64! To Miller 64!" In one regard, it's very effective. Every time that ad comes on, it makes me want to sing. It does not, however, make we want to drink their shitty beer.

Light beer? No thanks, I try not to drink cat urine. I'll take a nice micro-brewed dark beer, or when I can get it, Rogue Brewery's Dead Guy Ale.

Last Mardi Gras Thoughts

2013-02-18T17:41:00.000-04:00

-- When we marched in Tuesday's Mardi Gras with the Krewe of Pirates, we were joined by members of the Whiskey Bay Rovers, a pirate and mariners folk group who provided music from time to time during the sojourn.

The Whiskey Bay Rovers were a couple of men short, but they had made up for it with wit and personality. I particularly liked their take on "Cape Cod Girls," with an unusual syncopated rhythm that made it a great marching song.

And meeting them provided an unexpected ego-boost.

We were at the fleet-master's house in the morning, waiting to get moving, when the Rovers showed up. And as they walked in the backyard, Duffy introduced us and one stopped with a look of pleased surprise, then shook my hand. "I love your book!" he said. "It's one of my favorite books! It changed my life."

He was talking about "Pirattitude!" which Cap'n Slappy and I wrote about 10 years ago, self-published as "Well Blow Me Down," then rewrote and rewrote until it got picked up by a publisher. (An author never really finishes his book, he just fiddles with it until he eventually decides to ship it off to a publisher.)

Imagine my reaction when he explained that the book had helped give him the courage to stand up to his boss and get fired from his job at a collection agency, then spurn their offer of severance pay in exchange for keeping his mouth shut about the thing that had prompted the standoff. Instead of taking the payment (hush money,) he preferred to keep his freedom and self-respect. He went on and became a teacher.

I'm pretty sure he already had the intestinal fortitude for that, but still, it felt really good to hear.

-- One of the pirate brethren Tuesday had the most beautiful pirate hat I've ever seen. Don't get me wrong, I love my tricorn, which I got 10 years ago from Captain Jack's Pirate Hats, made by the MacKay and topped by a long orange macaw feather given me by the bird's owner. It's a little old, a little battered, a little worn – just like me. But still proud. And Cap'n Slappy's cavalier hat from is a sight to behold.

Now THAT'S a pirate hat!

But this hat was gorgeous, a big leather tricorn in a deep, dark red, almost mahagony, with hand tooling, silver buttons, a ribboned medallion and several long plumes. The picture here shows it, but (like Mardi Gras itself) you have to see it up close to get the full effect. It glowed, burning with an inner fire. I've never seen anything quite like it. It was made by a local artisan and when I learned how much he paid for it, I was stunned. That was a really reasonable price for such a beautiful head piece. More than I've got to spend on a hat right now, but really reasonable.

Part way through our march, the hat's maker – who goes by the pirate name Jean Lafitte Papillion – joined our throng, a really nice guy who talked about how he'd seen some nice leather work and decided, "I could learn to do that." And boy, did he. He tells me he keeps making himself swords, and baldrics and things, then ends up selling them to admirers. So he finally set it up like a business, along with performing as a pirate in venues around southern Louisiana and Mississippi. You can see his site at http://www.etsy.com/shop/ChapeuxPyrate. His own hat was very nice, but the one on Capt. Sir Henry Martin was unreal.

-- I mentioned in Thursday's post that one of the pirates in the krewe was pregnant – seven months – and pushing her two-year-old daughter in a stroller. You'd think that'd be a good reason to skip Mardi Gras this year, but no, you can't skip Mardi Gras, even if you can't drink and you no longer live in New Orleans, or even in Louisiana. She and her husband had moved away, but came back because you just have to. And this year he was crowned pirate king by the krewe, so she was there for his big moment. As I watched her pushing the stroller down streets cobbled in plastic beads, all I could think was, "Now there's a good sport."

More Mardi Gras: Wouldn't You Rather Be a Pirate?

2013-02-14T19:32:00.001-04:00

Increasingly random recollections of Mardi Gras.

You KNOW he'd rather be a pirate!

– As I mentioned in the previous post, people put a lot of effort into their Mardi Gras costumes. There was a little bit of everything. But everyone I passed, no matter how fancy their duds, I thought the same thing, and a couple of times I said it aloud: "Admit it. You'd rather be a pirate."

This was especially true of the guy dressed as a daisy, or the cowboys.

Marching down Royal.

– Early in the going were were marching down Royal Street with our good ship, followed closely by your classic New Orleans jazz band playing a lively march. It was slow going and one of the band members asked me if we couldn't go faster, because this was a wedding party and the they had to get to their destination by a certain time. Certainly seemed like a bad idea – not the Mardi Gras wedding but the idea you'd schedule something that depended on your arrival at a specific time on this date. I explained I had absolutely no control over the Pirate Krewe, let alone the flow of traffic. So they stayed behind us. As it turned out, the wedding was directly across the street from the bar toward which we were heading, and the band was delivering the bride. So it's not like the wedding could start before they got there. We were witnesses to the whole ceremony, which took place on the porch. The "minister," who was dressed in something like a giant beach ball, was using a woefully underpowered microphone, so we didn't hear much even though we were less than 30 feet away. But judging from the reaction, "She said I do."

– A band of musicians was winding down the street, heading in the opposite direction we were traveling. They were all painted sort of green, like the patina on old copper, and barely legally dressed. The percussionist was wearing a vest and a small pouch on his genitals. As he passed I leaned over and said, "Arr matey! You've got yer eye patch in the wrong place."

Max takes a turn pulling the ship.

– A word about the ship. The Krewe of Pirates has built a small ship, maybe 10 or 12 feet long and four feet at the beam. They've actually built several, but they keep getting stolen, or at least they have disappeared with some regularity. (I smell frat boys!) It's built so that it can be taken apart and stored and put together again fairly easily. And it was light and maneuverable, easy to pull through the crowded streets, and we managed to never hit a car!

Fog or fire?

Tuesday morning it was out in front of the master of the fleet's house, loaded up. But they had one more thing to add. A couple of guys had a portable fog machine which they put in the bow. The idea was, it would look like the ship was coming through a bank of fog like when you first see the Black Pearl in "Pirates of the Caribbean. But when they installed it and turned it on, it looked less as if the ship were emerging from a fog bank and more as if the ship were on fire. So that idea got scrapped. I don't know if they were mollified when I pointed out that, no matter what the movies show, there is no fog in the Caribbean. The recipe for fog is warm moist air and cold dry air. The only fog I ever saw was on a particularly warm wet day when my car's air conditioning was running full tilt.

The Krewe of Pirates' ship is a wee small barky, but she's yarr. Pulling her through the crowded streets was easy enough. If people didn't move, you just kept going, shouting "Make a hole!" and "Pirate ship coming through!" If that didn't work, you shouted "No brakes! No steering!" It was true, and it tended to work.

Beads and bubbles cascade down from a balcony.

But as the day went on, the streets got harder to traverse. Not because it was crowded. It was crowded all day! That was the fun of it. But as you may have heard, beads are the common currency of Mardi Gras. And it has nothing to do with tossing beads to girls who flash their boobs, although that still goes on too. But it's mostly just beads everywhere. Beads flying through the air. Beads cascading down from balconies and flying up to balconies from our cannon. And by late afternoon, the streets were coated in beads. It wasn't possible to take a step without crunching through beads. And since there had been a light sprinkle of rain, the roads were paved with wet beads. Treacherous underfoot, and doubly so when pulling a pirate ship.

– I made one huge tactical mistake Tuesday. I have two pair of pirate boots – I chose the sharp looking ones instead of the comfortable ones. Wrong wrong wrong. By the end of the day I was dragging, and my feet were throbbing. I mean absolutel agonoy. They have never hurt so much in my life, even when my foot got run over by a car. As we walked back towards the master of the fleet's house, I was falling behind and it really was painful. I also had to pee so bad I was almost cramping up. I knew I was in trouble when the pregnant pirate pushing her two-year-old in a stroller was pulling away from me. I made it, but just barely.

– Meanwhile, I had lost Tori and Max, or they had lost us. Tori's friend Marina, who she hadn't seen in about five years, was in town for Mardi Gras, so Tori and Max broke off late in the day to visit with her and the friend she was staying with. I was frantically sending her directions by text when she ran across Charles Duffy, the master of the fleet, who walked them back. (It was after all, his house.) Stopping at a couple of bars on the way, and constantly getting sidetracked by boobs. They got their eventually, and I was almost able to walk again.

Tori guides the ship while maintaining proper hydration.

What a day! Can't wait to do it again – in the right boots!

No Other Word for Mardi Gras than – Wow!

2013-02-13T18:12:00.000-04:00

There is simply no way to explain Mardi Gras. You've heard and said it before, "You can't explain it, you had to be there." This time that statement is absolutely true. Absolutely.

Mad Sally and Ol' Chumbucket had an awesome day!

Let me start by thanking the Krewe ofPirates 2013 for inviting Tori, me and Max to join them for the most amazing afternoon. I've met and I've marched with more than a few pirate crews and they all tend to be fun, open-minded, big-hearted and occasionally empty headed (in a really good way,) and the Krewe was no exception. Special thanks to Charles Duffy, master of the fleet (and Max's newest Drunken Bastard Uncle II. Captain Slappy is the original, one and only Drunken Bastard Uncle to our kids. And when he and Charles eventually meet they'll get along famously.) – anyway, special thanks for making the contact and making us feel not just welcomed, but wanted.

There's way too much to write in one sitting, and certainly way too much for anyone to read. So today is just a start.

It's not just a party – it's a state of mind

Mardi Gras is not a parade. It's not even really a party. It's a state of mind. There are official parades, of course, very famous ones, but most of the revelers scoffed at them. Those are run by chamber of commerce and visitor association types who put them on for the tourists, they said. The real Mardi Gras is the seething, celebrating mass of costumed humanity that takes over the streets and dances and struts and unabashedly enjoys itself.

Imagine a costume – any costume. Someone was wearing it on the streets of the French Quarter Tuesday. Teams in themed costumes. A guy dressed as both a samurai warrior AND the dragon he was battling. Lots of French aristos. A couple of guys dressed as good luck kitties. A guy wearing a large sheet of cardboard that said "Free mammograms" – and over the two holes cut out for his hands, "Place breasts here." I wonder how well that worked. Cowboys and flowers and "scientists" and plenty of scantily clad partyers of both sexes, playing both sexes.

There is no official route, though we did on several occasions find our way mingling with or cutting across more organized parades. And there isn't a line between paraders/partiers and the watchers. Everyone was just out there, and it was beautiful. Peaceful was NOT a word you'd use. Loud, raucous, wild, those all apply. Still, with tens of thousands of people, most of drunk or working on it, jamming the streets and flowing in different directions, there was no aggressiveness or ass-hole-ry, at least none I saw. When people bumped into you (and that was a given, happened hundreds of times) they'd quickly apologize (and I always answered, "Oh, my pleasure!")

One of the highlights, if not THE highlight, was breaking the window of a multi-million dollar home. Not that it was necessarily US who broke the window, I'm certainly not admitting that. But a window was definitely broken. Talking about it afterwards, several of the pirates said it was even better than a couple of years ago when they almost killed the little old lady.


Taking aim at a party. This is NOT where the window broke

The Krewe of Pirates is renowned for its bead cannons, two long pieces of PVC pipe mounted on wagons, with surgical tubing for a firing mechanism. They loft a load of beads high above the crowd and hundreds of feet down the street. When people gather on the balconies looking down on the streets, we would stop and fire, lobbing swag into their parties, sometimes with amazing accuracy. A guy on one balcony held out his hat, and our gunner shot a load of beads straight into it. While this was going on, people would happily clear a circle for it, watching and cheering. Everyone loved it.

So there were a half dozen people on a second story, wrought iron balcony of a very lovely, classic French Quarter house. They were egging the pirates on – I mean some group of pirates, I'm certainly not admitting it was us. A load of beads would be fired, and just miss, overshooting or undershooting or just off to the side. So finally the powder monkey put a bunch of beads into a small pouch and loaded that into the canon. The cannoneer took careful aim and let fire. If the guy on the balcony – he was waving and catcalling about how the gun couldn't hit anything – if he had just put his hand up and TRIED to catch the thing instead of ducking, he would have deflected it. Instead he just watched as the bag flew past him and smacked into the window, punching a hole into the glass and shattering the pane, followed by the full-throated cheering of the thousands of costumed revelers. Not that any of them could or would identify the shooters, as the pirate captain quickly shouted, "Haul anchor, haul anchor! Run away, run away!"

If I happen to see that gunner, I'll tell him, "Good shot!" Not that I have any idea who it was.

Tori, center, and Max join the cheers for a good shot!

The bead cannons figure into a key piece of Krewe of Pirates lore, the 2009 Mardi Gras when they routed the Christians. Every year an aggressive group of Bible thumpers goes down to the quarter to scold everyone for having fun, carrying huge signs explaining exactly why we are all going to hell, and offering friendly advice about what God thinks of our behavior. Spoiler alert – she's apparently displeased. Somebody once defined puritanism as "the haunting fear that someone, somewhere is having a good time."

In 2009 the Christians were gathered in front of St. Louis Cathedral on Jackson Square. The pirates were just coming out of Pirates Alley (that's an actual street, right next to the cathedral. Gotta love a town where Pirates Alley is an official street, not a tourist shop.) and decided to do something about it. There's video on the Krewe's website of what they call The Battle of Jackson Square.A broadside of beads, one of which hurtled through the air and landed perfectly around the cross, like a game of holy ringtoss. Then all the sinners flocked towards the thumpers, surrounding them with amiable but abandoned Mardi Gras mayhem until the Christians beat a hasty retreat. This year they were back, but they vamoosed before we could get there to give them more of the same. Pussy Christians.

Tori, Max and I can't say it enough. THANK YOU Krewe of Pirates! Thanks for inviting us, thanks for making us feel so welcome. The best day we've had in a long, long time.

More tomorrow.

Pirating Up

2013-02-12T09:29:00.003-04:00

Too damn early in the morning. Pirating up for Mardi Gras.

Details – or blurred recollections – to follow.

UPDATE – I'm home, I'm in some pain and I'm told I'm slightly – justy slightly mind you – inebriated.

Apparently a grand time wass had by all. I'll let you know tomorrow if I remember anything.

A Super Week

2013-02-05T00:10:00.000-04:00

What famous veteran (and by veteran I mean old) CBS sportscaster used the men's room at the Super Bowl Media Center Wednesday and left WITHOUT WASHING HIS HANDS?

Answer below.

The Super Bowl in New Orleans is over. The bars and the French Quarter are – well, they're not emptying, this is New Orleans – but the people from Baltimore and San Francisco and the sports writers are mostly gone. The airport Monday was jammed with people heading home, some still reveling in a great game, others bitterly disappointed in coming so close. This is NOT about the game. If you didn't watch it, its probably because you don't care.

The top story on the local news Sunday night, Monday morning, and still Monday night – and will be for weeks to come – was not about the Baltimore Ravens hoisting the Lombardi Trophy. It was about the blackout. Right after the 108-yard second half kickoff return by New Orleans native Jacoby Jones, the lights went out, and it took 34 minutes to get them back on. New Orleans was embarrassed, and the finger pointing and blame ducking will go on for weeks.

Back in October Tori saw ads on Craig's List looking for people to staff some of the Super Bowl events. With tickets running into the thousands of dollars, we figured this was the only way we were going to get close to the action, so we signed up. We ended up working only one day, Wednesday, helping with food service in the media center.

I've been in the news business for 40 years, and I finally made it to the Super Bowl Media Center! Making sure the coffee urns were filled and the steam table trays stayed fresh.

The Super Bowl Media Center - Made it at last.

But we had fun. The company we worked for sucked, and we decided we were done with them after one day. But we had a good time. Unlike everyone else working that day, we were there at least as much to enjoy the experience as to serve up trays of vegetarian chow mien, rice and some kind of meat (looked like ground beef to me) and broccoli. Tori especially had fun, chatting with everyone who came through. She made a lot of press people's day a little lighter, joking with them, chiding when they didn't take their vegetables and pointing out that the cake at the end of the buffet and warning, "The cake is a lie." Most people didn't get it, but those who did revealed themselves to be techies, and fans of the game Portal.

Tori and the Axe space man.

Late in the afternoon it had cleared out, when in walked two guys carrying a large white bundle. Turned out it was for an Axe promotion, touting their new hair products. The bundle was a space suit costume and the young guy who was supposed to wear it was having trouble pulling it on. Tori has a lot of experience as a backstage dresser, so she lent a hand. Got the guy's whole story as she helped him suit up. He's a young guy trying to make it in show business. He's been in a few movies and TV shows, has had some lines. He and his girlfriend were both in last year's comedy, "Campaign," and one of their twins was the baby that Will Ferrell punched! There's glory for you!

We were so interested in the young guy we didn't notice when the other half of the promotion came in. It was J.J. Watt of the Houston Texans, who on Saturday would be named NFL defensive player of the year. Seemed like a nice enough guy, but by the time I realized who he was he was heading for the door and I didn't get his picture. But I've got several Tori stuffing the kid into the astronaut costume. If you know us at all, you know that's what we thought was really cool.

Speaking of taking pictures, one we didn't take was of Beyonce. As we were being led down to the hall where we worked, we were told "Beyonce is here today. Do not approach her. Do not go near her. Avoid her. And above all DO NOT take her picture." Basically she would be affronted if we breathed her air. Those of you who watched Sunday know she was the Super Bowl halftime entertainment. She performed a very moving tribute to – herself. Worst Super Bowl halftime show ever, worse than the Michael Jackson lip sync fest. Give me old rockers who just like to get up and rock for 15 minutes - the Stones, Springsteen. What did Beyonce actually do besides wiggle? (OK, Sports Illustrated reminds me that Madonna did a Super Bowl. And there were a couple of weird Disney efforts. And Up with People – TWICE! So in all fairness, Beyonce's was not the worst halftime show. It wasn't good by any means, but it wasn't Up with Creepy People. In all fairness, not that fairness is usually a consideration. jb 01/05/20013)

We also spent some time talking to a radio/TV producer associated with the Patriots. He hates going to Super Bowl week, which he's been doing every year for years. Nothing happens. He'd rather be home with his kids – he showed us a picture, cute kids. "Everyone says, 'Oh, you're going to the Super Bowl. That's cool!' It's not cool! It's work!" he said. There's nothing going on, but everyone has to fill a whole week's worth of air time as if it's the most important news in the world. So he has to arrange interviews with anyone walking through the center, and his job is made exponentially more difficult by agents and PR reps who promise their client will be available at a certain time, then call to reschedule or cancel or say he's running late. "They are all – pardon my saying it – fucking assholes," the guy told us.

He did have one good story that week. He'd been to a party the night before where a band was playing. No one paid them much attention, but he realized, "Hey, that's Dan Ackroyd playing with the band!" Ackroyd was great, he said, and played for half an hour. No one seemed to notice until right at the end when the band said, "Thanks Dan Ackroyd" as he left, then suddenly everyone jammed over, but Ackroyd was gone.

We had arrived at the convention center at 8:45 a.m., which is when the staffing company, Global Staffing Solutions, told us to be there. We checked in, then waited. And waited and waited. There were scores of people there, all waiting to be given some work to do. It was almost 11 before we were assigned to the media center. When we came back at the end of the long day, the Global Staffing guy started chiding us about working our full shift. I still don't know whether he thought we had stayed down there too long or not long enough. We stayed while there was work to do, and we left when everyone else on the crew left. And the most important thing – no one ever told us when our shift ended, including the guy from the Global. No one ever said "Be back at 6," or "Have your manager sign off."

We also learned that we were only going to be paid for the hours we'd been assigned to the shift, not for the two and a half hours we'd been cooling our heels because they told us to get there early. That didn't sit well, you can imagine.

Then we asked about Thursday. They said someone would call us that evening. "We're calling everybody, every night," they lied.

We haven't heard from them since. Which is too bad, because we wanted to tell 'em there was no way we'd work for them again. Even though one of the assignments was for after the game, a private party for the Ravens. We didn't want to work until 4 in the morning, Monday being a school day for Max we thought we should be home. And who knew the Ravens would win? Besides the Ravens, I mean. It was probably a great party.

Would have been a great wrap up to a super week, but we were happier watching the game from home. If you didn't see it, it turned out to be a pretty good game.

As I've mentioned, it was a rough year. So this was actually fun for us. We're going to try to have some more fun soon.

Oh. The CBS sportscaster with bad hygiene? Pat O'Brien. Saw him myself. Walked in, took a leak, walked out without so much as a glance at the sink. After the game I thought I caught a glimpse of him on the field talking to a player. All I could think was, "Dude! Don't shake his hand!"

Classic street scene

2013-02-01T21:57:00.000-04:00

Downtown New Orleans, near the convention center. It's Super Bowl week, and this is the center of the sports universe.

It's a Thursday night, not a weekend. About 6:30 p.m.

Walking down the street there's a guy holding a drink in his hand. Apparently not his first.

He has a bucket on his head, wearing it like a hat.

He shouts to anyone who will listen, "God I love this city!"

Wonderfully Crazy New Year

2013-01-02T00:37:00.005-04:00

Wow. The fireworks.

It started about 7 p.m. Monday, five hours before the start of the new year. Not just bottle rockets and firecrackers and fountains. There were Roman candles, skyrockets, all kinds of stuff going up in the sky. For hours it sounded like a low grade firefight, with bombs bursting in air all around the neighborhood.

And these were not the big fireworks down on the river in New Orleans. These were all around the neighborhood, house after house, street after street and echoing out into the distance. You can buy some cool fireworks around here. WAY better than the stuff we could buy in Oregon. (In the Virgin Islands, of course, you can't buy fireworks at all. You just have to go out and shoot your guns in the air. Everyone does. It's scary. Here's a link to a Source story about it, and a link to an audio recording of the barrage.)

We took a walk around the neighborhood at about 10 p.m. and it was crazy – wonderfully crazy. A constant pop-pop-pop-POW-crackle-BOOM! Aerials bursting over the roofs and treetops everywhere you looked. People were sitting out in their front yards with bonfires in the middle of the lawn, setting off their arsenals. There was a pickup truck with a bed FULL of fireworks. In front of some houses were trash cans full of empty fireworks boxes – they'd set their supplies off early.

We passed some people who had set up their chairs on the corner to watch. They told us to wait until midnight. Then they gave us Jello shots, and when we said we'd just moved there they told us to come by if we needed anything. There really is such a thing as Southern hospitality. People are unbelievably friendly.

Anyway, at five minutes to midnight we went outside to bang on pots and pans, as is our custom. And at midnight the place just exploded. 360 degrees, fireworks flying up everywhere. It sounded like Baghdad a few years ago. I kept waiting for Edward R. Murrow's voice to intone – "This ... is London." In terms of square footage and total aerial explosions it was the biggest fireworks show I've ever seen. It was amazing.

Good Riddance – I'm delighted to have 2012 in my rearview mirror. It was the worst year I ever lived through. I'm ready for something great in 2013. That's all I have to say about that.

Streetlife – Life is a theater in New Orleans. Last week we had a visit from some St. Croix friends, the Lopez family, who had moved to Houston in the great Hovensa Diaspora. Richard had to work, but Mireya brought the kids – Rafa, Patty and Ricardo for a visit.

We were showing them around the French Quarter. It's like Disneyland, right? You live in SoCal, friends come to visit and they want to go to Disneyland. St. Croix, it's the beach. And New Orleans, it's the French Quarter.

It was crowded Saturday. I hadn't taken into account that the Sugar Bowl is this week, so along with the usual crowds there were thousands of fans from Florida and Louisville. I had to park way the hell out there and walk ten blocks.

It was also cold. Not northern New York cold, of course, or Canadian cold. But for Caribbean emigres it was damn cold, like 38 - go ahead, any Canadian readerss can convert that to centigrade.

Walking up Royal Street we came upon a couple of buskers sitting in the middle of the street. The guitar player was bundled up, the violinist was in a sleeping bag pulled up past her waist. And they were playing "Stairway to Heaven" and it was FANTASTIC! I've paid money to hear people who weren't this good.

I tried to catch it on my camera but did something wrong and didn't get it. I picked up their card and got their names – Tanya and Dorise – and found them on YouTube. Their Freebird is really good, and Stairway is amazing.

The kids had been kind of cranky because of the weather, but we were all mesmerized. Tori later said it was the best, the very best, street performance she'd ever heard. Can't argue. It was great. Turns out they're regulars, you'll usually find them out on Royal when they're not traveling the world. The crowd Saturday rewarded them with applause, and lots and lots of bills in their bucket.

Got one more holiday story before we move on, but I'll save it. This is too long now.

Let there be lights!

2012-12-18T14:07:00.000-04:00

We love La Freniere Park, the 55-acre spread a few blocks north of our house, with paths and a bird sanctuary and a small lake, a dog area and a carousel and – at this time of year – thousands and thousands of Christmas lights.

There was a lot to celebrate at the holidays on St. Croix, and we loved the traditions. But there was nothing like this. Mostly not a lot of Christmas lights on the island, except for the Christmas boat parade.

A week ago we drove and walked through the La Freniere display ($3 a carload) and loved it. Here are a bunch of pictures, mostly taken by Kate hanging out the front window of the Beast.

Textbook Definition of Irony

2012-12-14T15:59:00.002-04:00

Earlier this week I saw something small crawling on the wall. With catlike reflexes I snatched up the book at hand and swatted it, and got it.

I had killed a small spider with a copy of Neal Gaiman's "Anansi Boys."

For those not familiar with it, "Anansi Boys" is Gaiman's extremely entertaining novel about two young men in modern-day London dealing with the fact that they are the sons of Anansi, the trickster spider god of so many ancient myths. One of the two characters is named Spider.

I'll probably be in some kind of trouble for that, karma-wise.

Catching Up

2012-12-11T12:39:00.003-04:00

So, let me catch up on some of the things that took place while I was busy not blogging. I mentioned them in passing here and I do want to revisit and comment on a couple.

Halloween – It was a successful day for the kids, less so for me and Tori. Understand first that Halloween on St. Croix was very different. There wasn't a lot of trick or treating in the neighborhoods, first of all because virtually every house is fenced, and Crucians just don't walk past the gate without an invitation. They will stand at the gate, even if it's open (and people were always telling me what a bad idea it was to leave my gate open) and shout from the street. In four years someone knocked on my door once, and that was last summer when my neighbor's mother was visiting from Minnesota and needed some help. I was so surprised I didn't know what to do. Even the Jehovah's Witnesses! Really! And the FedEx truck. A plumber you had called. Anyone. A Crucian would no more walk up to your door and knock than he would flap his arms and fly to the moon. But they wouldn't go away. They'd just stand there and shout until you came out and acknowledged them.

And frankly, many of the neighborhoods you wouldn't want your kids walking up to strangers' doors, even on Halloween.

The one place for a traditional Halloween was Estate Cottage, one of the Hovensa employee housing communities. Inside the security fence they maintained a community of a hundred or so homes for the upper level workers, it looked rather like a lot of western U.S. developments. And on Halloween they'd have a traditional Halloween, kids running up and down the streets, knocking on doors. all the houses decked out with pumpkins and decorations. It was fun. But Hovensa is gone, and the housing complexes are shuttered and vacant. It was sad thinking about those empty streets this Halloween.

Our neighborhood here in Metairie was all lit up and Kate and Max were excited. We had carved our pumpkins and put up some decorations that no one was likely to understand – Slender Man anyone? But the kids loved it. And they set out, returning some hours later with more candy than they had ever scored on a Halloween.

We didn't know what kind of turnout we'd get, so we bought a LOT of candy. Which mostly I ate. Because we had only four kids come to the door. If one more had come I was just going to dump the bucket in his bag, but no luck. Our house is towards the end of the block, and there are two vacant houses to the left, and the neighbors across the street were dark, so kids didn't see the point in coming down. Too bad. I was prepared to be VERY generous.

Learning to Fly. Yes, I did, but not like, in an airplane or anything. I was flying kids in the theater at the local school.

Max Baur IS Captain Hook!

Max was Captain Hook in the school district production of "Peter Pan" and I was dragooned to work on the flight crew backstage, pulling the ropes that made Peter and Wendy and Michael and John fly. My schedule is flexible and I like helping out, especially in theater where my background is useful. I was "flight captain," in charge of the flying, but it had less to do with my actual rope-pulling ability than my gray hair. The rest of the crew were high school kids and one dad who could only make half the shows.

It was fun, but my high school kids seemed to enjoy showing up at the last possible moment, as I frantically made plans for what we'd do when this person or that person wasn't there. They always were there, all 14 performances. They just enjoyed watching me sweat.

Sharing the backstage area with 70 to 80 kids from first grade to 12th, but mostly clustered in the middle school range – it was a BIG show, my hat is off to the production team – was not always easy and I was the one who had to chase kids out of the wings or keep them from playing with props, and occasionally grabbing a drill and repairing some set piece a kid had sat on and broken but which had to go on right now. But they were good kids for the most part, and they had fun. I pretended to be the grumpy old man, but I admit it. I had fun too. And I think the kids learned a little about how to behave backstage.

And it goes without saying, Max was great as Captain Hook! Hilarious. The ultimate accolade was when he got booed! And there was a school performance when the house was full of kindergartners, first and second graders. As Hook snuck on stage to poison Peter, the kids were shouting "Look out Peter! There's a pirate behind you! Wake up!" You had to love it. For that audience, the show was working!

Captain Hook scolds Smee. By the way, the captain is wearing MY boots! The boy keeps growing!

Takin' It to the Street

2012-12-10T15:49:00.000-04:00

This was about a week ago, Friday Nov. 30, I think.

We were walking in downtown NOLA, end of a long afternoon, ready to head back to the car which was much too far away. And we sat down on a bench to wait while our friend Robyn checked out a local art gallery.

There was a busker playing blues guitar, and a woman with him playing washboard. We started chatting – Tori will talk to anyone, which is what makes life so interesting. We mentioned that a big part of why we chose New Orleans was the music. Max is interested in music, plays guitar, clarinet, drums and has picked up and noodled with a couple of other instruments.

Anyway, the guy asks Max is he wants to play. Max says sure – Max doesn't hesitate about things like that. So he starts strumming – it's tuned differently than he's used to, because the guiy plays slide. But with a little help from the woman, Lisa, he gets it figured out.

So we're chatting, and it turns out the guy's name is Dooley. He gave himself the name in honor of Dooley Wilson, Sam's piano player in "Casablanca" – the best movie ever. And that's when it starts getting eerie. Because when Tori was expecting, I had suggested naming him Dooley for the very same reason.

I shot some video of it, which you can see here.

Meanwhile Lisa has joined Max, strumming her washboard. She's good. Then she convinces Max to sing the song he wrote. It's called "Fish Orgy."

See, about six, seven months ago, we were strolling down the Frederiksted pier on the island and looking out into the water, we can see fish roiling around in some kind of biological ecstacy. Tori says, "It's a fish orgy! Hey, that would make a good name for a song." And Max says, "Challenge accepted!"

So anyway, Max played, Lisa and Tori chatted while Dooley watched the show, and the drunk guy drank and offered Max lots of advice about ... well, we never figured out exactly what. We exchanged phone numbers, Lisa made Max sing his song again, over the phone to her daughter. Some con guy polished my shoes over my objections and then demanded twenty bucks for the shine, Joke was on him – I had literally no cash on me.

So NOLA definitely earned points that day. It's the kind of city where a kid can go out with his parents, do a little busking under their eyes, then be home in time for pizza.

New Orleans in Metal and Stone

2012-12-01T16:40:00.002-04:00

Last week we spent more time as tourists in our new home than we have since we moved here. We had a guest, and Robyn wanted to see the town. So see it we did.

A lot of the pix will show up here in the next week, but there were far too many to show all at once. Today I'm going to post some shots of the statuary.

Albany, where we lived for so many years, had two bits of public art that I can recall – and one of them sucked. Three, if you count the man made out of muffler parts that stood in front of a mechanic's shop. There were a few good pieces of public art on St. Croix.

In New Orleans, you can't swing a cat without hitting another piece of statuary. Some are pretty plebian. Some catch your eye and won't let go.

This is a statue of Joan of Arc, Maid of Orleans, that sits in traffic down near the French Quarter.

Joan again, this time in the cathedral.

In Louis Armstrong Park there's a lot of statues, dominated by this one of Satchmo himself. Here I'm exchanging a few words with him, or maybe it looks more like I'm asking for directions.

Tori joins the dance in a statue commemorating Congo Square, a public space now within the park, where in the 18th century slaes were allowed to congregate on Sundays. It became an open air market, where the slaves would sing and dance, creating the environment that infused the city's culture with life and music.

This statue is a tribute to jazz pioneer Buddy Bolden. All three faces in the statue are Bolden, whose coronet helped create the rag time sound that became New Orleans jazz. From 1900 to 1907 his band was the biggest draw in the city. Then he was stricken by dementia, probably brought on by alcohol, and spent the last 26 years of his life institutionalized. He was buried in an unmarked pauper's grave, but his music lives on.

Tori gets up close and personal to a statue at the gate of the park celebrating New Orleans jazz bands.

I share a joke with Jacques the Butcher, outside the Dutch Alley Artists Co-Op.

Not a statue per se, but interesting. Max and Kate stand in front of a tomb in St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, the oldest cemetery in New Orleans. The pyramid behind them belongs to Nicolas Cage, the actor, and no, he's not technically dead yet. According to various tour guides we eavesdropped on, Cage lost a couple of properties in the city (and they sort of agreed it was Katrina, although one of the guides blamed back taxes) so he bought and built this tomb (for what the guides agreed was $1.3 million) so that he'll always have a place in New Orleans. Who knows, it could even be true.

This angel atop a large cemetery monument caught our eye because we're Doctor Who fans. Fellow Whovians will understand the weeping angels reference, and the word 'Silence' at the base adds on ominous note.

Some NOLA Scenes

2012-11-29T13:54:00.000-04:00

These are some pictures I've taken in the last week or so that I wanted to share. Tori and Robyn were out all day yesterday, and are out again today, and I'll try to get her to write a little something and post a picture or four. But these are some scenes I captured.

Jackson Square at about 8 p.m. Monday. I'm not sure why the sky is that color. When I took the shot it looked dark to me.

This is the Christmas tree across the street from the square. In fact, I took the first picture standing directly in front of the tree.

The whole gang Monday night next to the tree. From left, Max (sunglasses at night, naturally,) Kate, Robyn and Tori. And some guy who chose that moment to jump into the frame.

Tori passes one of the candlelit origami boats to Robyn, who released them into the Mississippi's current.

OK, I did not take this picture. My son Ben did in New York. It's Mille, the little blonde in the center, taking part in the AMDA Christmas choir performance.

Happy Birthday – Boats on the Water

2012-11-27T17:13:00.003-04:00

Tori, and the line of candles floating down the river.

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I like the song "Happy Birthday," don't get me wrong.

What I hate is when it gets sung like a dirge, slow as a funeral procession. I think it's because one person usually starts it off (usually in a key no one else can sing, but that's a different problem) and holds that first syllable/note - "Haaaaaaaa" long enough to gather the rest of the singers. And it never picks up the pace.

C'mon man! It's a birthday! It's a party! It's a celebration! And the wax candles are dripping on the damn cake!

There's no reason the song can't be sung in about 10 seconds, but at most birthdays it seems to go on forever. It's like the Super Bowl in Vegas, where you can bet on the over/under for how long it will take the famous country singer to sing the national anthem. (Always take the over.)

So Monday night, I made sure that we sang "Happy Birthday" at a nice, festive clip, the words floating out over the dark waters of the Mississippi as we celebrated Alex's birthday.

Our daughter, Alexandria Gail Boedigheimer, would have been 27 Monday. She died last summer – on her mother's birthday and Tori has already said we're simply not celebrating her birthday ever again. We still don't know what happened, other than she went to sleep and didn't wake up. It still hurts every day.

Monday was her birthday. It was a rainy morning, but that was OK, since we had plans. As long as it cleared up by evening everything would be fine. We spent the day making little origami boats. 27 of them. I even folded one, and if you know me you know not to associate me and crafts.

The sky did clear up and late in the afternoon we headed out for the Mississippi. Most of its sinuous length is bordered by tall earthen berms designed to keep it where it belongs in severe weather. Much of New Orleans is actually below sea level, and the highest point is only 20 feet (and that's probably the top of the berms) so you can see why that's a good idea. There is a path you can walk along the top of the berm, but the face is fairly steep and covered with riprap to keep it from eroding. So getting to the river can be tricky.

It took us a couple of tries before we found the set of steps going down to the water's edge, off the public parking by Jackson Square. We were separated from the city lights by the berm, but there was plenty of traffic on the river, barges being pushed against the current, a small freighter moving up river, a tourist-looking stern wheeler coming down. At the bottom of the stairs were a couple of young people sitting, watching the river. They offered advice on the best way to the water, and seemed interested in what we were doing.

From the shingle that ran along the riverside, we could see a form about twenty feet out in the river – I never did figure out on what, but he was standing on "something" – facing away from the bank, his arms outraised, chanting to the moon.

We got out the bin full of little paper kayaks and the plastic bag full of tea candles and set to work – but we couldn't find the lighter! Fortunately, the two people sitting on the stairs came over and were happy to help. They were a couple of kids, young 20s, who had hitched and hiked from New Jersey and were in no hurry to be anywhere. They were a guy and a girl in their 20s, long hair, backpacks, knit caps, dog with bandana. In fact, Kate was wearing a similar knit cap that she had gotten from Alex. These kids could have been two of Alex's hippie friends. Certainly I saw enough of her friends to recognize the type. When they said by next summer they hoped to have made it to Eugene, that cemented it. Alex lived there for a couple of years. It was perfect.

They had a lighter and we set to work.

The problem was the current. Between the fact that the tide was coming in and the traffic was moving up and down the river sending out bow wakes, the boats didn't want to go out. So Robyn rolled up her pants legs and waded out. The two travelers and Kate and Max lit the candles, then carefully passed them over to Tori, who stood at the edge of the river and gingerly passed them to Robyn. She set them adrift.

The boats didn't go out far, not much more than a few feet, but they drifted bravely down the river bank, bobbing in the current, their lights flickering merrily like so many birthday candles. Which was the point, of course.

We were joined by an old man, rail thin, grizzled and with a few missing teeth. And when I say old, I mean probably my age but he looked a lot older – didn't he? DIDN'T HE?? – because of the life he was living. He offered a few comments, then asked where we were from. We told him we lived nearby, and told him what we were doing, and he started crying.

He was a Cajun, from down around Houma, and he had lost his wife, Dale, some time ago – when was not exactly clear. She was his life, she was an angel, she was everything to him. When she died he tried to kill himself, but woke up three days later in a hospital, pretty pissed off about it. He finally left town, he said, because he couldn't take it any more, everything he saw reminded him of her, and he couldn't stand it when people told him, "You'll get over it," "Things will get better." And all the other stuff that just means, "I've never been hurt as deeply as you have been and don't get it, and I don't know what else to say."

We got it. Some things you never get over, you just learn to accept that the world now has a different shape, a hole where someone important used to be. A hole the shape of Dale. Another the shape of Alex.

That's just the way it is.

He was now living under a nearby pier, just waiting – for what, he didn't say. He actually was very interesting – and funny. He told "a Cajun story" so well, so brilliantly acted, that when he got to the punchline it was a scream. Told Kate and Max a longish story about honoring your father and mother. Told me when he first saw us he'd taken us for tourists and was coming by to panhandle, but now "I couldn't take anything from you. You've already given me so much."

We let him light one of the candles and set it out. We all shared a sip of wine we'd brought down. Then we all joined together, the family who could be there and the others who couldn't be but were there in spirit, our friend Robyn standing in for all the extended family who helped raise our daughter, our new young hippie friends who stood in for all of Alex's friends, and our Cajun acquaintance representing the people you meet on life's journey. We stood together and sang happy birthday, the notes ringing out across the water, joining the sounds of the river traffic and the cathedral bells ringing in the distance as the last of the lights flickered, then went out – too soon – leaving the water cloaked in darkness.

We remember you Alex, and we love you, and always will. Some things never change.

Oops! Moved the camera too soon.

Swamped

2012-11-26T12:30:00.002-04:00

Spent half of Sunday in the swamp. Seem appropriate.

We were touring the Jean Laffite Wildlife Management area. It was very cool (photos below,) although my knees are killing me today. Saw no gators. Heard a lot of birds. Saw one raccoon. The thing about swamps? They're swampy. And we've been kind of swamped too.

I know, I know. Haven't written here in forever. And it's not like nothing is going on. I haven't written about Halloween or Thanksgiving or learning to fly (not at ALL what those words imply) or just getting to know our new home. I'll try to explain all those things later this week.

Today is Alex's birthday, our daughter who died last summer. It still doesn't even seem possible. She'd be 27 today. We miss her every day. Tori's friend Robyn came out from California to be with her on the birthday, and it's helped. Tori has laughed more in three days than she has in three months. But it's not a happy day here. Seems appropriate that it's raining.

Anyway, I know I promise from time to time that I'll do better on the blog, and maybe I will. I certainly mean it when I say it. We shall see. In the meantime, here are some pictures of the swamp.

An ancient cypress tree, said to be 600 years old. And my beautiful bride.

A channel winds through the swamp.

Max and Tori on the path through the swamp.

Robyn and Tori (in her Saints jersey.)

On the bayou.

That was Disappointing

2012-10-17T10:46:00.002-04:00

It was my fault, I'm sure of that.

I made some really disappointing corn bread last night. I wasn't paying close attention when I bought corn meal at the grocery store yesterday and managed to come home with self-rising corn meal. I've never used used self-rising flour, and didn't even know self-rising corn meal was a thing.

So I had to follow the recipe on the back of the bag instead of the one I've always used. I should have added baking powder any way. But I followed the recipe, put it in the oven and hoped.

Hope, as they say, isn't a plan. It never rose, we got a corn plank about three quarter's of an inch thick, dense as a Romney supporter, and about as palatable. It tasted sort of OK, but wasn't anything you could call bread.

My inclination is to just dump the bag and get some new stuff, the kind of familiar with. Because there's nothing like good corn bread, and this was nothing like good corn bread..

A Blue Day

2012-10-16T13:47:00.002-04:00

And I'm not talking about the sky, which is bright and warm, or the water – there's a reason they call it The Big Muddy.

No, I'm, a little blue today. This morning drove Millie to the airport. She's going back to school, this time in NY. She was understandably very excited as we left the house. Me? Not so much.

This time, when she leaves, she ain't coming back. Sure, she'll visit from time to time, we get her back at Christmas for a week or two. And we're supposed to go up to see her final showcase in June. And we'll Skype and call and all that.

But when she finishes in June, she's going to start trying to make it in the very touch career she's chosen - show business. She's studyingh musical theater performance. And she'll succeed, I don't doubt it. She's always been that one who, when she's on stage, you look at her. Everyone has said the same thing. She's talented and she can be single minded. Lots of perspective to go with the most outgoing personality you've ever seen.

So we'll also see her on stage and screen and all that. Really. I believe that. She's going to the same program her brother Ben did, and he's beginning to break through. (Checkl out his very successful online web serial, "Hunting Season.")

But she's grown up and flying the next. Literally, right now she's on a plane.

And it's not just that. When she went to L.A. last year at this time for the first part of the program, she was near a brother, and a bunch of cousins and aunts and uncles and we have a friend or two in the area who would do anything if she needed it. People we know in New York? Two. Her brother Ben and my agent Eddie (who's in Brooklyn.) And my former agent Scott, but he's my former agent.

So this summer has been it, and now she's gone. I honestly don't know if we'd have been able to make this move without her.

It was tough watching her walk down the concourse and into the hands of airport security. I hung around the airport until she called to say she was at her gate and ready to go. Then I went out, got in the Beast and drove home. It's quieter here now.

Gonna miss her a lot. A lot.