Oh won't you take him to...Funky Town?

Just when you thought things couldn't possibly get any weirder, our fearless leader pipes up with the "Chocolate City" comment. What on earth was that all about??? Aside from the fact that Chocolate City sounds like the name of a particularly bad porno flick, it is actually a Parliament song! Was Ray channelling George Clinton??? I would consider that except for the whole God thing he had going on. And have you ever noticed that his speech cadence and articulation change depending on his audience? And I don't mean he speaks five languages either. That would actually be pretty cool. No. Our mayor starts acting like he's all down with it when his audience is African American and when he is speaking to "those Uptown people", he sounds like a Hermes krewe member or something. It makes me feel all squirmy. Kind of like when this acquaintance of mine in New York, an Asian-American Republican (not that there's anything wrong with that) visits Brooklyn for an afternoon and comes back acting like he's in Wu Tang Clan or something. It's just icky.

Now, on to more important things. Has anyone else noticed that there is no CDM at any of the grocery stores?? Right between the Folger's and the Community dark roast is a huge blank space of emptiness. Seriously, if CDM is going the way of Crystal hot sauce, I may have to go to Funky Town myself!

P.S. I couldn't help but notice that Willy Wonka totally ripped off my last year's Mardi Gras costume -- at least the hat and hair part. It's exactly the same! Except mine was blue...and it had red barbed wire wrapped around a cut out of the State of Louisiana ending in the business end of a blue donkey.

The end of the earth

So my friend, Lexie, and I drove over to Mississippi on Monday so that I could sign up to have our lot in Clermont Harbor cleared of storm debris. It's what -- 4 months since Katrina? I'm still dumb struck and wobbly when I see it.

I grew up in Bay St. Louis and as a teenager couldn't wait to leave. After all, there had to be something else out there besides sailboats and beaches and small minded people. It was the 60's. I was a flower child (or something).

Two of my sisters have (had) homes over there. One on the beach in Waveland and one 3 blocks off the beach in Bay St. Louis (the house where I grew up). We had just purchased a "fixer upper" on August 6th. I was so excited when we'd finally found a little place near the beach -- excited at the prospect of getting out of the city. On weekends at first -- and then I thought, who knows?? There are worse places to grow old.

Lexie and I grew silent as we drove along the water past the destroyed beach towns...Lakeshore, Clermont Harbor, Waveland and the western end of Bay St. Louis. We had to turn down a street just before St. Stanslaus because the road dropped off. Since none of the buildings are there, it's hard to tell what street we were on! Everything once so familiar is now alien.

We had lunch near the train depot at Benigno's grateful for a spot that seemed untouched and normal except for the way people were hugging each other like attendees at an AA meeting. Or maybe a reunion of survivors of the Titanic. We downed the last of our root beers, got in the car again and headed down Main Street toward the water.

I'd done this before, but this time we climbed down the rocks and rubble to walk the sandy beach parallel to what had been Beach Blvd. There is something about seeing your town's infrastructure exposed like a patient abandoned mid abdominal surgery -- pipes and water lines exposed -- that makes you experience intense embarrassment (like walking in on your parents having sex or something) and then utter despair.

I put my sun glasses on so it wouldn't be obvious that I was crying but when I came to the beginning of DeMontluzin Ave. (my old street) I was sobbing and didn't care who saw me. It is just too sad. Lexie reached down into the sand and pulled up a pristine little blue and white china plate and silently handed it to me.

We climbed the pile of asphalt -- huge chunks still showing the now useless broken yellow line that had marked the center of the road -- and peered into the shell of the old A&G Theater, now almost beautiful in a Roman ruins kind of way. The ceiling had collapsed and the only recognizable portion was a bit of the framing for the stage/screen area and dangling from an overhead beam the rusty remains of the chandelier. My mind latched on to that one little piece and began filling in the interior; the glittering bulbs, the red velvet drapes, the smooth leather seats.

I recalled the time when I was 9 years old and stepped barefoot on a yellow-jacket while riding my bike at a playmate's house; running home crying so my mother could remove the stinger and apply baking soda. That night she took me to the A&G to see "Imitation of Life", a real tear jerker. For that hour and half or so my foot had stopped throbbing and I lost myself in the plight of Lana Turner, Sandra Dee and the rest of the movie's characters. By the time Mahalia Jackson did her singing bit at the end I was sitting in a puddle of tears. But my foot didn't hurt any more.

I had ridden on the back of my brother's bike to the A&G to see "The Tingler" and "Creature From the Black Lagooon"; had donated cans of vegetables with the other kids in my 6th grade class for admission to "The Ten Commandments". I tore myself away and stumbled over debris to the rear of the building where portions of rusted movie seats and springs from the cushions were tossed in a pile along with the building's bricks stamped "Laurel, MS". This is just one place.

The old Ramsey's building lay exposed like a doll house that a demented child had trashed. The front of the building gone. Visible the upstairs bedroom of the last unlucky occupant. Bed askew, but the night stand keeping it's post at the headboard...a chair teetering dangerously close to the edge.

I remember my friend Georgie in New York telling me about his childhood home. "It was truly paradise," he'd said. Beirut before the bombs. I feel that way now and cry for my home, for Georgie's home; for all the places lost to us and, it would seem, to God.

Walking after midnight

New Year's Eve in New Orleans. We hadn't really planned on going anywhere. We never do. My house guest from New York who is moving here pursuaded me to consider it. Barry said he could go either way. "Whatever you want to do, Venus". (He calls me Venus because I served time on InsideNewOrleans.com as their romance advice person.)

I put on a little velvet top and some red lipstick, dangly earrings and we headed out into the fog. It was warmish...just cool enough for a light jacket...but so foggy and muggy that we could barely see into the sky. They nixed the fireworks. We got to Frenchmen Street and strolled past the Apple Barrell, Snug Harbor, dba, the Spotted Cat, Cafe Brasil and turned the corner at Decatur past Check Point Charlie and on down to Coop's where Michael and Nicole were hanging out. There was a look of utter disbelief on Michael's face when I walked into Coop's at 11:30. "Wow! Mom, when was the last time you were in Coop's this time of night???" I thought about it and really couldn't remember...maybe 12 years ago? Not much had changed. Different faces, but some of the same old ones too.

The French Quarter seemed other wordly in the fog and the mist. People greeted each other in passing, "Happy New Year".

We walked to Jackson Square where the usual Jesus contingent was planted in front of St. Louis Cathedral. I always feel creeped out by these zealots. After all, I don't go into their churches trying to impose my belief system on THEM. So I wish they would just stay the fuck home on Mardi Gras and New Year's Eve. Singing hymns, waving flags, and ranting about sin all while surrounding some dude dressed up like crucified Christ isn't likely to convert the masses. I suppose some one MIGHT decide to do the "personal saviour" thing, but I've never seen it happen. I once overheard a small child say to her father on Mardi Gras day, "Daddy, why are these Christians so scary and creepy???" They have a way of harshing my buzz. I gave them a wide bearth.

We moved through the crowd toward the street across from Cafe du Monde. It was so foggy that the usally bright neon Jax Brewery beer sign wasn't even visible. Every once in awhile a smear of white would show up across the sky -- the faint ghost of the "beer" part of the sign but we realized that we wouldn't see the gumbo pot drop at midnight.

Nonetheless we stayed. Happy drunks were everywhere. We were among the group. Barry brought a bottle of water and we shared that. Finally, Ray Nay (the mayor) began to blather on about how New Orleans is the best city in the world and blah blah blah. Suddenly the countdown began, "10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2 1 (a pause -a collective intake of breath) HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!" We kissed. My eyes wet with tears that I had been holding back through the walk down Chartres Street. It just reminded me of being a child in the French Quarter with my parents. No guns being fired. No fear of criminal activity. Just friendly people greeting one another, "Happy New Year". We walked home again hand in hand.