Dead, for a ducat, Dead! Part 2-The Ducats

I changed my mind. Once my butt was firmly planted on a barstool, I ordered a Barbancourt neat instead of whiskey. I noticed that I was unaccountably angry, well, maybe not unaccountably. Account. Interesting word choice. The young woman who had held up the sign in the beginning of class was there too. We commiserated over our drinks for a while until she headed home, then I started dissecting my anger. I was trying to find the core and found that the core wasn't nice and tight like a pared down apple, it was more like a seed in the applesauce.

I felt a bit like an old timey scryer. Staring into the glass, the surface became an amber colored screen for a mental slideshow. Pictures of young men, black, white and latino, in orange jumpsuits. Sometimes their eyes showed trauma or surprise or fear, sometimes anger, sometimes nothing at all. Pictures of bright young faces in their eighth grade school photos, shiny and smiling, ready for a framed place on Grandma's mantel. Pictures of young men in white tshirts, their bodies in improbable positions, framed by yellow crime tape with a pool of something shiny and dark on the ground. Pictures of bereaved relatives on the news or at the funeral. Pictures of the Instructor, the other members of the class. The round, slightly ruddy face of the Police Chief, grainy video footage of a robbery from a convenience store, more of the same from a bar. Pictures of tables full of guns: pistols, revolvers, sub-machine guns, just like in the free encyclopedia but with somber police officers standing proudly behind the stacks. Gordon Liddy behind a table full of gold coins and bullion saying that this yellow metal will save me when times get tough as they inevitably will, never actually saying but clearly intimating that “they”, however you personally define “them”, will be coming for YOU and you better be ready. You'll surely need a gun or six to protect the gold ya know. Glenn Beck in a chalkboard frenzy screaming Van Jones, Van Jones, Van Jones-he's a liberal socialist with a socialist agenda bent on taking away your civil rights, and mark (socialist) my words, people, am I the only one that sees it? This guy is out (socialist) to change your way of life, not the America I know, and it's not cuz he's black (socialist) that I'm saying this, I'm just sayin' that he's a socialist and he wants to shit on the Constitution (cue tears) and stomp on the flag and you better get some guns to protect yourself before the socialist black guy tries to take your guns away—by the way do you need a Survival Kit for your bunker? Oh goodie. Now my slide show had a soundtrack. Sketchy white guys in tall foam rubber and mesh trucker hats outside a trailer next to a pickup truck complete with loaded up gun rack, a Confederate flag bumpersticker and a macho pose, speaking a readily identifiable proud-to-be-an-ignoramus dialect: Telling us about the Second Amendment, which may be the only one that they readily recognize, while stating with firm resolve that they are something that sounds like “Mur-i-kins.” Ten guys in camo on ATV's patrolling the border with scoped rifles and sidearms and handcuffs and not a badge among them ready to “catch” some goddamned pregnant wetback carrying an anchor baby intent on taking their jobs. I guess these testosterone and fear spiked guys all work as maids at the local Holiday Inn. A tastefully dressed and coiffed woman, wearing a crucifix pendant in 18K gold in the mega-church parking lot shows off the secret zip up compartment in her purse in which she carries her “made specially for women” Lady-whatever gun. A gorgeous tall thin babe in scanty clothes and a holster blasting away in hi def glory without ever ruining her makeup or moving beyond her mark by the wind machine so her hair streams in sexy fronds across her sweaty, determined but beautiful face as men 13-80 replay the scene in slo mo. Elderly men with angry faces, prone to saying “get off my lawn” and “turn that racket down” have guns in every room and one right there on the TV tray next to dinner. Men who grew up in a very different world, where people knew their place, and they by god aren't gonna stand by and watch it all go to. . . . .go to them, go to hell, go go go go. . . .I'm tellin' ya, it's going. The suburban soccer coach sobbing on the news saying, “I told Tommy never, ever to touch that gun. I kept it way up high in the closet. Who would have thought a six year old could get up there? My family and I feel terrible about this and we hope that Johnnie's family can find it in their heart to forgive us. It was an accident. A terrible accident.” The newscaster saying, “Six year old Tommy Smith is being questioned today in the death of his friend, five year old Johnny Martin. . .” Angry young men in Matrix trenchcoats with more guns and ammo than Rambo, purchased on Dad's credit card over the internet or by phone, shooting up the affluent high school or the University as helicopters fly overhead and the burghers are stunned speechless. News photographers reduced to tears at the sight of a young girl's head cradled in her father's arms, dead.

Hey, barkeep, mind getting me a beer in a really tall glass? And a semi-automatic pistol with a side of hollow points. Something's off with this rum.

So many scenes. So many motivations. So many accidents. So many deliberate acts. So many entertainments. So many. . . bullets, erupting, projecting, flying out of so many barrels of so many guns. BOOM. I'm so sorry. BOOM. I'm not sorry. BOOM. I didn't mean it. BOOM. “Honey, I love you so much. I regret that I couldn't take better care of you. Tell the children that I tried.” BOOM.

Okay, lemme stop ya right here. I am not saying that anyone but the person who pulled that trigger, except in the case of a kid getting hold of Daddy's Glock, is responsible. So don't start. I am saying that there is something that underlies the pulling of that trigger. And you know as well as I do, if you played back your own slideshow, that mine was just the tip of the proverbial iceburg.

What I realized was that I was angry about the wholesale marketing of fear and the gun being sold as the cure for that particular malady. It's also the cure for low self-esteem, free floating anxiety, the feeling of lack (aka greed), and anger stemming from someone disrespecting you. These diseases are contagious and the cure is lethal. I was angry that anyone would consider a possession, any possession, as inherently more valuable than a life, whether they were the individuals in possession of it or the individuals trying to appropriate it. I was angry that it was so easy to get hold of a gun, for anyone: kid on tiptoes on a kitchen chair in the closet, upstanding citizen at a sporting goods store, violent criminal choosing one from the unfolded blanket in the trunk of the local underground gun guy. Hell, I learned recently from an 11 year old that a gun can be rented for a specific time period at a specific price to be determined by the renter and that it had to be returned “without a body on it.” WTF? Why on earth should any 11 year old know this or even know that term? He might have seen it on TV. I really hope that's the case.

I was really furious at the folks like the Instructor, the gun manufacturers, the gun lobby, the scared-I'll-look-soft-on-crime legislators, the gun sellers-legal or illegal-who all make a ton of money feeding and growing that fear and churning out more guns, putting them into more hands in the doing. And not a one of them seem to feel any responsibility for the free fire zones we see in this country. Following the old adage, “find a hole and fill it,” they took it literally and are filling the hole by creating a different kind of hole. (The new and improved hole, thanks to our R&D wizards, is the BULLET hole. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, just take a look at our beautiful Rachel, isn't she beautiful, she's holding up our brand new Tektonik 1078, it's a beauty too. You can't have Rachel, chuckle chuckle, but for the low price of . . . )

Sorry.

Lucre. Spendolas. Bucks. Greenbacks. Cheddar. Dollars. Ducats.

Fear, guns and money are a bonanza. The manufacturers make them, lobby against restrictions, are (unlike car manufacturers who have been sued when their product killed too many folks) protected from liability, export them to regimes who then use them against us in battles all over the world. Lots and lots of money there. For them it's a win-win. The retailers mark them up and fill their cash registers. Ammunition manufacturers follow suit. Ammo retailers do the same. The NRA grows their war chest becoming more and more powerful with unprecedented amounts of cash. The guy down the block selling illegal guns makes a bunch, probably selling guns stolen from citizens, so one gun can be sold over and over from the time it comes out of the factory to the retailer to the citizen to the street gun seller to the out of the trunk purchaser.

From there, the money pot widens. Private security forces for gated communities paid high prices to keep the gun carrying bad guys away from the gun carrying good guys. Security systems with passcodes and lights and cameras, all money makers. Police, lawyers, judges, ambulances, news reporters, prisons, oh yeah, prisons and sheriffs and correction officers, whole towns whose economies are based on that lockup (Plantation System 2.0 or how to make money on the backs of people of color like we did in the old days); parole officers, drug testing labs, electronic bracelet developers, after market gun accessory companies making cases, high powered scopes, gun safes, gun locks; gun show producers collecting admission fees and booth fees, and the gun sellers who pay them; bulletproof glass makers, installers; doctors, nurses, hospitals, gurney makers, body bag makers. And let's not forget the morticians, the gravediggers and the florists.

I'm guessing someone will make an impassioned argument that they are the premiere job creators.

I am not being flip. Nor am I representing that all of these businesses or individuals are pro-gun, pro-violence or that they revel in the blood rivers in our streets. I am saying that that list, and I'm certain that I left a few groups out, are indeed part of the money honey pot one gun can create, nevermind millions of guns. That, my friends, seems crazy to me.

Years of talk radio, divisive fear mongering TV show hosts, slanted news coverage have all fueled the fear machine. Reliable gun stats are hard to come by. I've buried myself for days in pro-gun and anti-gun statistics. Sometimes the numbers are really close, just framed according to each side's particular bias. I'm going to settle on the number I saw most often: 14+ million guns sold in the U.S. in 2009. (Industry projections say that we have surpassed that number since the election of Obama, and that the numbers are trending higher in 2012.) The Instructor advised not buying a cheap gun, and told the class better to buy a more expensive gun that could be depended on. He used numbers like 300-500 dollars as sort of the low end. Certainly guns can be had even cheaper than that or much more expensive than that, but let's use the high number of the low end: $500, and multiply it by 14 million. Excluding accessories or ammunition, gun manufacturers made a minimum of $7 billion dollars in the United States alone in 2009. Plenty of ducats, eh?

Now, how about those nice folks I took the class with? They were nice people. I'd say if I'd asked each one, which I didn't, why they were considering gun ownership (if they didn't already own one—see previous post) or a conceal carry permit, they would all have said self protection or protection of property. Their property. Isn't that what produced a George Zimmerman? He appears to have been a basically decent guy, based on what people who know him are saying, but for whatever reason, that night he saw a young black man in his neighborhood, felt the need to protect that neighborhood, and called the cops. Even after the dispatcher told him not to follow the young man, Mr. Zimmerman did, no doubt in an effort to be a help to his neighbors and the police. At least that's the story. Had he done all that and not had a gun, he probably would not have approached Trayvon, or perhaps the whole thing would have ended with a couple of fists thrown. (Zimmerman claims Trayvon hit him. If I had a guy following me like that, who then approached me, I might hit him too.) But Zimmerman had a gun. On his person. My guess is his defense will be that he thought he'd just hold Trayvon (at gunpoint) for the cops. That gun made him a big man. Whether he was a racist in his daily interactions with people may or may not be an issue. What is an issue is that he absolutely profiled Trayvon (young, black, in a hoodie), had a gun on his person and pulled the trigger. On his person. A gun.

I can tell you that there were at least two people in the class I took that I'd really prefer not have guns on their persons. One was terrified and I think might hurt someone in a panic and the other had the “big man” syndrome going pretty strongly.

I don't think I'm entirely stupid (except in the fields of economic theory, surgical procedures, internal combustion engines, oh wait, this could be a pretty long list come to think of it). I don't sit here thinking for one minute that a gun free world is possible. In fact, I'd have to give a whole lot of thought to my philosophical stance regarding its desirability. I do admit to lusting after the low crime stats and gun limiting laws of other countries, and I really am baffled by the American love affair with guns even in the face of monstrous costs to life and the giant bogeyman--taxpayer dollars. I don't understand why, upon seeing kids killed or locked up for killing, we aren't screaming at the top of our lungs for solutions and regulations that might change that. Even the hardest hearted out there have to know that if they don't care about urban center violence (let 'em all kill each other), they probably do care if their brother blows his head off in a low moment because a gun was there instead of a baseball bat. (Some would be criminals have been rebuked with Louisville Sluggers, but I've never heard of suicide by baseball bat. However the stats I've been steeped in appear to show that possibly as many as 50% of the gun fatalities every year are suicides.)

The moaning over the crime rate. The lock 'em up mentality. The “I'll get a gun and they can't get me” thinking. All of this is strictly reactionary. The logical conclusion would be, upon seeing the carnage in this country that is directly tied to guns, to restrict and regulate them. For chrissake, DO something, cuz clearly what we are doing isn't working. Say that out loud in a bar or a town hall meeting and see how many catcalls you get. Immediate shouting will occur replete with the tired “guns don't kill people. . .” You can fill in the rest. Or “they can have my guns when they pry them from. . .” Or “you want to gut the Cons'tooshun, second amendment sez. . .” Or my personal favorite, “if they take our guns only the criminals will have guns.” Remarkably in countries with strict handgun laws that isn't what has happened. Nor has their government come to take them all away and put them in socialist re-programming camps. We have friends who live in Australia who are flabbergasted by our complete refusal to regulate handguns. When they ask us why, I really can't answer them with anything that approaches a rational statement. As for the criminals with arsenals:

Ya know, folks, a shitload of those criminals' guns came from YOUR house, YOUR car, YOUR closet, YOUR dresser drawer. Many were driven into your state after having been bought in a state with less stringent gun laws than your own, bought legally, transported illegally. Pay some fine upstanding citizen (on paper) to go to the local sporting goods store or the one in the more lenient state, have them get the background check, and they can walk out with several guns.

I called a local sporting goods store this morning. I told them I was considering purchasing a firearm and had some questions. I asked if there was a fee in addition to the purchase price of the gun for the background check. No. I asked how long it would take. The answer was that for most people it takes a minute or two, some others might take up to three days. (She said it as though she'd been coached to tell someone who sounded overly eager, ya know, like someone who might want a gun this afternoon to kill her wayward husband with after smelling the Chanel she doesn't own, when he comes in the door tonight, that it could take up to three days.) Either way, by Saturday I could have had one on each ankle, two in shoulder holsters, one in the back of my pants (just like in the movies, man!), another in my bag and one in my pocket. All with one free background check and enough cash to flash around. As long as I'm on my own property, in my house, my office (if I have a key, which is the key in that particular location, no pun intended) or my car, all that firepower would be legal. Again, yeah, I think that's nuts.

The American love affair with guns and money, along with the mass marketing of fear of the “other”, will be a roadblock to any slowdown in the blood letting. If we really want to change this situation, we're going to have to knuckle down and change some thinking, change our cultural view, and pass some laws that a lot of people won't like.

Some people and municipalities are already trying.

Next up: Dead, for a ducat, Dead! Part 3-Gun Laws and Culture

(It may be a week or so before Part 3 is done. I will be out of town next week so will be taking a break.)

Dead, for a ducat, Dead! Part 1-The Class

A text message from a neighbor: “Did you see your mail today?” I hadn't. Intrigued I headed for the mailbox and saw what appeared to be junk mail. I turned it over, a large postcard type item, and saw that it was an announcement for a free one hour class to be held at a local coffee shop. The class topic was how to get a conceal carry permit, and it said the first ten people to show up would get a free encyclopedia of armaments: great full color pictures of pistols, revolvers and sub-machine guns. I was surprised that this particular coffee shop would have this class there. The place is routinely full of artist types, bicycles chained up on one side in the street, nice chats held out front. A regular gathering place for locals, its denizens would probably be labelled at first glance as having a bohemian liberal bias. Definitely not the kind of place I think of when I think of guns. At first I was just surprised and I tossed it into the trash. A few minutes later I was curious and retrieved it. I decided that I wanted to see which of my neighbors would attend, would want this kind of information, would think this was a good idea.

The night for the class came and I headed over. I passed some young people, one with a guitar, another with what looked like a portable chess set, as I made my way through the vegetation that constricts the sidewalk around the entrance. As I entered I was greeted by the barrista but it looked empty, so I walked into the next room. There was a fairly large table, a public pay by the minute computer or two, a couple loose chairs scattered around the walls. One young man with a blonde not quite mohawk and tattoos was completely focused on one of the computers. No time for distraction at these prices. At the head of the table and standing slightly to the side was a large man with a friendly smile and a former football player build. Wearing a casual shirt and camo cargo shorts, he looked to be in his late 40's or early 50's. He asked if I was there for the class. I said yes and he gave me the book and a CD of his local band, which he explained, he'd been told he couldn't sell on eBay because of an injunction filed by the Who Dat trademark owners. We talked about how silly that was and a black man, probably in his sixties who was already seated at the table with his book and CD, agreed. The large man straightened his glasses and said we'd give it a few minutes to see if more people would show up. His graying hair was well cut, his manners perfect, his personality outgoing. He was not the gung ho upcountry redneck I had expected and I was ashamed of myself for that assumption.

Just then a young woman walked in. I had already taken a seat at the foot of the large table and put a stenopad in front of me. I had also put my phone prominently on the table next to the pad. The young woman took a seat in a chair by the window behind me and said nothing. The young man at the computer finished what he was doing, looked at us and left. As we waited we chatted easily: he was a New Orleans native, grew up Uptown, went to Brother Martin. I asked how he made his living, he said he was a musician, a sometime real estate salesman (we bemoaned the economy), does some standby work for a local radio station if there's an emergency like a storm, and he said, he made his living doing this: Instructing and training people about guns, the laws involved in their ownership, and safety. I asked how he chose this neighborhood and he told me that he planned on doing this in other neighborhoods in weeks to come, and that this was just the first because the date worked.

As we chit chatted, others filtered in. First a 30-40 year old white man, dressed impeccably with a long white silk scarf, a Rolex, and beneath that, a collection of small beaded bracelets. He sat at the head of the table next to the Instructor. He was waiting for his partner he said. Next a woman in her 50's, fit, comfortably dressed, long neat gray hair, very interested and a bit nervous sat down to my right. These two were followed by a 50-ish professional man of mixed race, who said he was a professor at UNO; a 50-ish white guy with a graying well trimmed beard who sat in the back near the windows unobtrusively and looked like he was probably middle to upper middle class; a 60-ish white guy, probably blue collar with a Dogs and Generals tshirt; a late 30's white guy, upper middle class with what looked like a $200 haircut and pricy casual clothes who headed to a chair near the wall by the computer. Finally the owner of a local business and the owner of the coffee shop joined the group and we were a group of eleven excluding the Instructor.

Most of the people had come in looking around the room. They all looked vaguely uncomfortable, almost as though they wanted to be sure, extra sure, that no one thought they were gun nuts or militia types. It was interesting to watch them all size each other up, trying to divine the others' motives for being there. The Instructor retained his charming, chatty, smiling demeanor, welcoming each one as they came in and finally he introduced himself and explained what we were there to learn.

At that moment, the young woman who had come in early and had sat by the windows, unfurled a Day Glo orange posterboard. She looked solidly at all of us, held it up over her head to be sure we saw it. It read: “If you're afraid of your black neighbors, don't buy a gun. Move to Metairie.” The Instructor said he respected her point of view. A few respectful words were exchanged, with her explaining that she definitely saw all of this as a racial issue (she was white) and then she left. The Instructor didn't miss a beat, although some of the other attendees looked uncomfortable, the close-to-elderly black man was unfazed.

As he started the class I reached over to my phone, making sure that he saw me hit the audio record button. He had seen me scribbling on the stenopad, so it didn't seem to bother him. He started by asking if we already owned a gun. All but the last three to come in and myself said yes. The woman said her husband had a .45 but it was too big for her and she wanted advice on what gun to buy.

Over the next hour he explained various kinds of guns, recommending a .380 to the woman and quickly condemning the idea of a shotgun for home protection as being misguided. He explained that a revolver would pretty much never jam, bringing a self satisfied smile to the face of the man who said he owned a .38. He talked about gun safety, stressing training. He cited statistics of gun incidents in which a citizen had pulled a gun and no harm had come to either the “perpetrator or the carrier.” He talked a lot about defense of one's own life, quietly and expertly ramping up the level of fear without ever saying the hordes were at the gate. It was subtle and understated and smart. Someone asked where a gun could be kept without a conceal carry permit, where in a car can a gun be carried, what about open carry? The Instructor laughed his infectious hail-fellow-well-met laugh and said open carry was legal but you'd have to decide how often you wanted to be stopped by the police after someone called them saying they saw you walking down the street with a gun.

Then he suddenly stopped, took his watch off and seemed to fumble good naturedly with it, saying he was trying to find the stopwatch function. Then, almost as an aside he said, “They tell me that the response time in Orleans Parish to a 911 call is 9 minutes.” He then continued dispensing information and fielding questions. Does he recommend keeping it loaded? How about trigger locks? How about keeping the ammunition separate from the weapon? He confidently answered with only a tinge of machismo scented swagger. Steady and responsible, training training training. Firm confident voice. No Elmer Gantry of guns here. No histrionics, no NRA militantism. He was more like a master poker player, continuing to build the fear by increments, looking at his cards without making a move while the whole table waited to see if he was going to call, fold or go all in, forcing the players in the direction he wanted them to go with the psyche factor alone. It was impressive manipulation.

He talked about carrying a gun from state to state. He said that most states have a conceal carry law and will respect one from another state, but you'd have to check that out on your own. He did get the states that do not have conceal carry on their books wrong. (After looking it up, it would appear that the seven states he cited mostly have conceal carry and reciprocity, although some of the laws in some states are so byzantine that it would be hard to know precisely what is allowed and what isn't. From what I can tell, pretty much only Illinois doesn't have it, but that's a story for later.)

People started asking about the paperwork, how long will it take and what's needed. He started to explain, then BEEP BEEP BEEP. He picked up his watch and grinned. “That's nine minutes. A lot can happen in nine minutes, huh?,” he said with a laugh. There were audible gasps as the fear continued to climb. “Bring your divorce papers,” he laughed. “They'll want to see those along with all your other documents.” Now people were asking questions rapid fire. How much? Mail or go to the place? How long is it good for? Fingerprints?

Now came the pitch: He can help. He can help you choose and purchase a weapon. He'll come to your house and train you. He'll take you to the shooting range. One on one will cost $175, two people, for instance you (he looked at the woman) and your husband $150. He can help you with all the paperwork, he has copies of all the forms and affidavits. Of course you'll need to get them notarized, but how fortuitous, one of his relatives is a notary and will do it cheaply. The fingerprinting and background check will have be done, he can't do that but he will tell you where to go. He explained the fees and said he offers group classes, but it was clear that most of these folks would probably opt for the private ones. He can also offer home security advice.

Sadly, he saw no irony in the fact that the money for gun permits goes to the Department of Safety and Corrections.

People started asking where to buy a gun. There was some discussion about Brady Laws and gun purchasing, and an explanation once more about where you can keep a gun without a conceal carry permit. I asked about the complete lack of regulation at gun shows (he said, “They're supposed to do a background check on the spot.” “Yeah, but they don't for the most part,” I said. He nodded.) and in one to one sales. He conceded that both gun shows and one to one sales are virtually unregulated with little to no oversight and even less enforcement of laws that may be on the books.

The attendees talked to him and each other. Their tone was a little bit bravado, a whole lot fear. Mention was made of the middle school kids who had been shot a couple days before. Everyone measured their words. Careful. Careful. The quiet ones remained quiet. The white silk scarf looked for his partner, then at his Rolex, then at the door again, clearly perturbed. Dogs and Generals guy had that gleam that affirmation of one's already deeply held beliefs brings to the eyes, lighting up his slightly rough face. The Instructor exhorted, “Training, training training! We learned in Florida recently what a lack of training can do.” He followed that remark with a slight, tight chuckle. The Professor asked me if I was going to do it: get a conceal carry permit, or for that matter, a gun.

Everyone looked at me. “No, sir. Definitely not,” I said. The Instructor looked at me like a priest patiently forgiving a recalcitrant sinner. “I didn't think so,” he said quietly. I waited a second, steeling my courage, took a deep breath and said, “Many years ago I was raped. A gun at my temple, a pillow over my head. In my own bedroom on the fourth floor of an apartment building. My window was open and the fire escape was right there.” The group stared in disbelief, some squirming, the woman to my right horrified. I continued, “Short of having a gun strapped to my naked hip, I can't see how a gun would have helped me do anything but get killed. And even then his trigger finger would have been faster than any movement I could have made to retrieve the weapon.”

The whole place went silent and everyone stared uncomfortably. The Instructor, regaining his poise, said “I'm sorry that happened to you.” Then turning his face to the group he said, “But that's not how things usually happen, and don't you want to give yourself a chance?”

It was a bravura performance. When he closed out the class, the silent guy by the window applauded. The others looked confused, but a couple of them half heartedly clapped their hands a few times, then each looking at the other, they converged on him to ask a private question or two. The Instructor smiled patiently and took them one by one, a stack of business cards sat on the table in front of the empty space where the free gun encyclopedia copies had been, a couple of CD's left for the taking.

I headed out the door toward whiskey.

Dead, for a ducat, Dead! Part 2: What did I take from all this?

Swim, Baby, Swim

My 12 year old grandson lived in New Orleans for a while. He grew very fond of the Dry Dock restaurant on the Westbank. We'd bike to the Ferry building, get on the boat, go have a bite to eat, then ride back home. He is growing fast, is a smart kid (my personal bias aside) and rocks English vocabulary. He's coming for a visit this summer and when asked what he wanted to eat, one of his requests was a visit to the Dry Dock. I told him yeah, we'd better do that because next time he comes there might not be a Ferry anymore. He was silent for a minute then said, “What morons decided to implement THAT idea? Don't they know the Ferry is important?” After I finished laughing I asked if I could quote him, and so from the mouths of babes and all that. . . . .

We actually wound up talking about it for about half an hour. He's convinced the Bridge will collapse with all the extra cars. I told him not likely immediately but that one day it might need some extra bolstering. We talked about traffic jams and closed entrance/exit ramps. We talked about the impossibility of riding a bike over that bridge, forget about the extra riding distance to get to it. A 12 year old. He was appalled. What about people with no cars, he asked. Did I tell you he's just 12?

So some people want the toll booths gone and don't like paying the single greenback (or the .60 I think it is with a bridge pass) and if the toll goes, there go some entrances, some exits, probably maintenance, landscaping, policing and possibly lights on the Bridge. And probably adios to the Ferries. Probably gone unless privatized some way. (Hey wait a minute, doesn't the City of New Orleans need some bucks? Judging from the outrageous traffic/parking ticket extortion, I'm thinking it does. Can we work out something here?) And jobs: toll booth folks, maintenance folks, CCC police, Ferry employees, and lots more that I can't name. (CORRECTION: It's been brought to my attention by several people, including that guy that lives in my house, that it's .40 with a bridge pass. I should have known that since the pass still resides on our windshield.)

Jobs will also be an issue for the good Westbank dwellers who work on the Eastbank and rely on the Ferry to get them there. Income will be an issue for some Westbank landlords who will lose tenants who can no longer get to their jobs. (This I know first hand. I lived on the Westbank prior to the storm. The Ferry didn't start running again for a while and then not reliably. With both of us working in the Quarter and commuting by bicycle, it became untenable to continue living there so we moved. To the Eastbank.) Once those people start making their Westbank exodus the Eastbank rents, already ridiculous, will rise even higher. Or if they decide to stay on the Westbank and buy a car, there will be that many more cars to contend with on the Eastbank. Fun, any way you look at it.

As of now it's one dollar coming from Westbank to Eastbank by Bridge or by Ferry if you drive your car onto the boat. Pedestrians or bicyclists are free inbound and out. I've always thought everyone should pay, but then I also thought the Ferry should run longer hours as well. I'm evidently in the minority on both points.

Loss of the Ferry would increase (and this is just me making a guess) DUI's, and we'd probably see more traffic accidents, more injuries, more fatalities. I've seen folks stagger onto that Ferry who most assuredly shouldn't have been driving. They get off the Ferry and go home, all in one piece. I can count myself among that group on a couple of occasions.

One buck.

The Mississippi River is a fact of life here in New Orleans and it's gotta be crossed now and then. It's not going anywhere.

I have made the acquaintance of many a Ferry: New York, San Francisco, Seattle. All are used as a form of mass transit by commuters and visitors alike. I've also crossed bridges in those areas, because like the Mississippi, people have to cross the Hudson River, the East River, the San Francisco Bay and the various waterways in the Northwest, as none of those are going to disappear either.

The fact that anyone is complaining over one dollar is ludicrous in light of what other cities are charging for ferries or bridge crossings. Here are some samplings:

George Washington Bridge: Paid inbound not outbound $12 cash. Multi-pass cost $9.50 during peak hours, $7.50 off peak. Multi-axle vehicles $22-$78 bucks depending on what you're driving. (I didn't look but as I recall, the Lincoln Tunnel is the same rate. Either way people are getting from New Jersey to Manhattan in cars via one of these routes. I think the Brooklyn Bridge might be the same. I didn't check that or the Triboro or any of the other bridges in the area. I also found an article saying something about these rates being raised soon. I haven't checked that out yet.)

Ferries from New Jersey side of the Hudson to Midtown (there are several that I saw in my quick search: Hudson River, East River and Belford). I chose the Hoboken to Midtown for rates. First know that it is drop off only. No cars. Unless you want to pay to park which is another monthly fee not included in your crossing. So, no cars on the boats. However the fee structure is incredible. Pedestrians $9 (inbound to the City only), kids 6-12 $6, a 10 trip card will run you $76. Or you can buy monthly for $272. Want to take your bike? See above fees and add a $1.25 surcharge, or buy a $310 bike/ferry pass for the month. I believe there are senior and student rates, but I just grabbed up some numbers.

Here in New Orleans, Crescent City Connection or Ferry: ONE BUCK.

Let's go to the San Francisco now. The Bay is a longer commute. I did it for a short time many years ago. If you miss the Ferry from Sausalito to the City, you're gonna wait a long while for the next one. How much are those folks paying?

Golden Gate Bridge: Paid inbound only. $6 cash. Monthly pass $5. Multi-axle vehicles $18-42. I didn't check the Bay Bridge or the cost of BART from San Francisco to Berkeley or Oakland.

Sausalito Ferry paid inbound only $9.25 cash. Senior or child 6-18 $4.50. Multi-pass fare $4.85. No cars (so drop off/pickup or possibly parking fees. Not sure and can't remember since I didn't have a car and used mass transit exclusively then.) There are ferries that run from Larkspur, and there are special runs for Giants games (reservations recommended for the Giants game ferries. Yes. I'm serious.) Bikes are allowed based on the class of boat being used. Some of them can take 750 passengers/200 bikes, others can only take 15 bikes, still others can take 100 bikes. That said, it's first come first served, so if you happen to be bicycle number 201 on the big boat, you'll be waiting for the next Ferry.

Seattle area has at least 8 different Ferry routes connecting various islands to the city. At least that's what I counted but I'm betting island to island there are even more. I took one once a long time ago. It was a long ride, but people regularly use them to commute in that area. Since I have friends who live on Bainbridge Island and commute to Seattle daily, I decided to use that one for the rates. The crossing is about 9.7 miles and takes about half an hour. Looks like there might be a bridge there too but I didn't check that. Ferry rates from Bainbridge Island to Seattle paid inbound only are $7.70 cash, Senior $3.85, Children 6-18 $6.25. Remember, these are pedestrians. A 10 ride ticket is $62.10, monthly ticket $99.40, Bike surcharge $1.00. (It must be godawful to have to make change for these rates every day.) A two axle car is $13.25, with rates for multi-axle going higher still, as with the other examples, however, on this ferry there's a catch: Vehicles pay BOTH ways, so a round trip ticket with your car is $26.50. You can purchase tickets one way or round trip, along with various multi-pass options.

Let's review. Ferry in New Orleans Westbank to Eastbank, free for pedestrians, free for bikes, $1 for cars. Bridge, no pedestrians that I've ever seen, or bikes for that matter, and $1 one way for a two axle vehicle.

I will no doubt upset someone's apple cart, but I think the idea of eliminating the toll is completely nuts, nevermind short-sighted. I would propose that we raise them. On the CCC, on the Ferries, all of it. Treat these arteries like the commuter lifelines they are and let the commuters pay their way like in every other metropolis on the list of world class cities. (We do consider ourselves that don't we? I hear it a lot in any case.) Make the pedestrians and bicyclists pay to use the Ferry. Most of us wouldn't mind, and those who do can take a bus or drive if they really want to get pissy about it. Raise the tolls on the Bridge too.

We have to view those ferries as part of a mass transportation system. Greener for sure, vital for many, we have to keep them. More cars in town, higher rents on the Eastbank, loss of income on the Westbank, closure of entrance/exits—I'm just not seeing how any of those possible outcomes are good things.

I haven't finished reading the CCC report which can be found at Keepthetolls.org . I will attempt to do that as no doubt I am overlooking something. I just wanted to get it out there that our lousy one buck toll pales in comparison to other fees in other cities. Cities that understand that there are commuters and that bridges and traffic patterns can only stand so much. That anyone is complaining about that one dollar is baffling to me, when in my view the tolls should be increased.

I know I can't be the only one who thinks eliminating the tolls is ridiculous. I mean, my 12 year old grandson realized it immediately upon hearing it. How can grownups even be considering it, he wondered? From his point of view it's moronic, his word not mine, and I'm inclined to agree. Unless, of course, we all decide to start swimming across.

Stabat Mater Dolorosa on Mother's Day

A 17-year-old has been arrested in the shooting of a 13-year-old boy who was caught in crossfire Wednesday evening shortly after he stepped off a school bus. . .

17 years old. 13 years old. Babies.

8th grade girl's bullet ridden body. Girlfriend of the 8th grade boy shot the day before. Possibly for shooting hoops (not bullets) in the wrong neighborhood.

And a woman is summoned to the morgue. She stands behind a window. The shades are drawn and lifted. On a shiny metal slab is a body. The body of her son. Of her daughter. Her knees give out. She drops to the floor. She keens. She wails. She cries. She tried her best and yet, there is her child. In the morgue. Nothing but a statistic in the ongoing gun battle. When another boy died the day before, in New Orleans East, the gunman shot a dog. A pitbull named Spartacus. A great dog. Protected the family. Wonderful dog. A fund is quickly formed to pay for the surgery needed for the dog. The humans have to figure out the funeral and the grieving themselves. A senseless tragedy.

Across town another woman quakes in the sterile halls of a hospital. The child whose eyes she sheltered as the pediatrician administered the well baby shots now has needles attached to tubes in both arms. The doctor tells her that her son might not walk again as the bullet nicked the spinal cord. The doctor tells her that her daughter might not see as the bullet might have caused some irreversible nerve damage. She cries silently and only outside the room. Her knees can't buckle. She'll have to be strong to help her child through this. She'll have to figure out the hospital bills and the rehabilitation and the permanent changes to her house and life that this injury will cause. She'll have to figure it out herself. A senseless tragedy.

In another part of town, a woman watches as the son she held up by both hands as he learned to walk takes his last steps as a free person. He is held on both arms now, by uniformed officers and there are chains around the ankles she delighted in seeing wobble uncertainly 16 years earlier. She may never get a chance to speak to her child except through glass again. He's still so young but his life is over. She doesn't understand why he picked up a gun and pulled the trigger. She tried so hard to keep him from that. She will blame herself. She will cry into her pillow alone in the dark, wishing she could hear his step in her house once more. She'll get little if any support in her loss. She'll keen and she'll wail and she'll notice the averted eyes of her neighbors and hear them clucking behind their drawn shades. She'll obsess over what she did wrong, mentally analyzing every minute of those 17 years. She'll never figure it out herself. A senseless tragedy.

A week from now is Mother's Day. We send candy, flowers, fruit with chocolate covering. We send whatever we think Mom would like.

These mom's would like nothing more than to have their kids bitch about the curfew they imposed, or hear their kids complain about the spaghetti they're eating when they wanted something else. They won't get that. They will get silence. They'll be trying to decide where to put the memorial card. They'll be trying to figure out how to pay the mortgage or the rent after ante-ing up the cost of the funeral, or the hospital bill, or the payment to the lawyer or bondsman. They'll be staring into a closet filled with the clothes that their kids cared about. Wow. She loved that red skirt. Wow. He was so proud of that Saint's jersey. And she'll stand at the closet, and she'll stand at the door, and she'll jump at the sound of the phone. Then she'll turn around and realize that he or she isn't coming home. Then she'll stare into a casket, or a hospital bed, or a prison visitor booth looking at her child, the one she carried, the one she taught to walk, the one she taught the alphabet to, in that red skirt or that Saint's jersey, not looking like she remembered as he or she vaulted out the door laughing at her overprotectiveness.

These are kids. Our kids. Their kids. OUR kids.

The blood is running down the streets like water after a rainstorm. The cop shop says isn't it terrible. The DA files a case against the accused. We all jump with glee that the asshole that did the shooting is caught.

And the mothers keen. And the mothers will never recover. And the family is broken beyond repair. And the mothers keen.

Why are we not looking at the societal issues that cause a 17 year old kid to feel that shooting a gun is the only way to settle a debt, or a moment of disrespect, or to make them a man? Why are guns so easily bought? Are we entering an entirely Darwinian age? Those who are the strongest by virtue of the weapons they carry are the winners? Really? Why are we not furious at this situation?

Why are we not raging at the idiots who rail in newspaper comments' sections that we don't need more and better schools, or after school programs, or more teachers, or more mentors. What we need, they say, is more prisons, harsher prison sentences, more locks and keys. More cemeteries perhaps? Certainly more guns, in my purse, in my pocket, strapped to my ankle, hey, come to the coffee shop for a conceal carry class. It's free.

People. THINK. FEEL. LOOK AT THIS MESS.

I frankly don't think the “Framers” had this in mind when they wrote the second amendment. Do ya really think they envisioned “that a Glock is due to all?” I think the NRA and their big bucks lobbying is part of the problem, not the solution. Call me a commie. Call me a socialist. Call me whatever you want. Are you really that cold that you can't imagine for one minute what being in the place of one of those mothers would feel like? Seriously? Without the guns the kids would have a fist fight, you know, like the old days, and the mom would pull out the iodine and the bandaids. Without the guns the mom would have to explain that sometimes leaving the fight is the better choice. Without the guns the mother would be able to make pancakes for their kid on Mother's Day while bitching that they should have made them for her.

Ah. I see. Y'all are reading this thinking to yourselves that these Mom's are all, oh, I dunno, crack whores, welfare queens, certainly baby mama's that didn't think ahead. Certainly some are, and you bet there's some really bad parenting going on, but you'd be overwhelmingly wrong on one count. Statistics show that most welfare moms are white. But hell, why should a fact interfere with your pre-conceived notion of the world? I mean, really? You have your ideas, and thems the facts regardless of proof to the opposite.

Nevermind your latent (or not so latent) racism. Yeah. I know. You're not a racist. You have a black friend. Maybe. Okay, not a friend exactly but a black person you work with. And that let's you skate. In your mind. How is it that you assume that the children mentioned above are black? Why not Hispanic or Asian? Oh yeah. Asians are good at math. Nevermind the Asian gangs. Or the Hispanic gangs. Or the WHITE gangs. Think Aryan Brotherhood. Or Neo Nazi's. What the hell is that about? We have a wife of a North Carolina (I think) senator talking about how some proposition before a vote that is mostly about gay marriage will somehow protect the “Caucasians”. No. I couldn't make that up. All of them have guns, possibly even that Senator's wife. (Hey, Second Amendment sez we can, you stupid liberal bitch. I can have a whole bushel of them, and I can't help it if those project people, or the barrio people, or the trailer park people, or the Chinese alley people have them too. I need MINE to protect myself from them, so stow it.)

You are also probably assuming, along with the fact that all these tragedies are only found within black communities, that the Moms we're talking about are single and unemployed. Nice indictment of an entire segment of our society—easy, bumper sticker thinking: Teen mother, on welfare, lives in project, no husband. While certainly that tidy little stereotype exists, it cannot be applied to everyone. We gotta stop that. Besides, it is really insulting to all those dads out there who are holding up their buckling wives.

In New Mexico the blood is running too. Only there the commenters say: “Yeah well the vatos are shooting each other. Probably illegals anyway.” Every major metropolitan area has the blood of children running in the streets, it's not just us. This is a nationwide problem that more prisons and more cemeteries won't fix.

It comes down to what kind of country do you want.

One where every one is armed and we assume the “other” is dangerous? Those kinds of assumptions get people killed. Ask Trayvon Martin's family.

Or how about one where everyone is scared to death of the police they should be able to turn to when there is a real danger? An over-amped paramilitary crew with itchy trigger fingers and only rare and lengthy (let's get past a couple of news cycles and it'll fade away) accountability?

Or one where we take an entire generation of kids and just consider them lost to the streets? Even that choice would require that some pre-emptive and positive action be taken for the tiny ones. Things like daycare options, education that's meaningful to them, and I dunno, FOOD. Wouldn't be a bad thing to add some healthcare options in there. Mental health care, the red headed step-child, as well.

It's easy to say the P word if it's prison. Not so easy if it's poverty.

By now, if you're still reading this, you are either arguing with me, agreeing (maybe only in part) with me, or tossing your sandwich at the monitor hollering “Apologist!” I never once said that the shooters should go unpunished, I only decried the loss of a young person's life to an irrevocably bad choice in pulling that trigger. What I am saying is that we, as a nation, as a city, as a neighborhood, need to figure out why so many make that choice. We need to decide if we're going to be a reactionary, Darwinian society where the bigger bullet wins, and the blood runs down the streets, and the children are carted away in hearses and ambulances and cop cars and prison vans, and we're okay with that. Or are we going to take a long hard look at this seemingly intractable problem of violence, and a really good look at ourselves in the mirror under the harshest light we can find. In doing that we'll have to face some hard truths: some of us run to the easy fear, the easy stereotype, the easy racism, the easy .38. Our shoulders have to start cramping up from all the fucking shrugging we do at some point. Our necks will seize up if we keep shaking our heads upon hearing the news. Our tears must give way to outrage. Once that happens we have to find a way to listen to each other and not shout each other down as we look for solutions. There are no quick fixes, but we can't just throw up our hands and throw these kids away.

These are kids. Our kids. Their kids. OUR kids.

And the sound you hear next Sunday emanating from houses all over this country won't be back up singers for your favorite band. They'll be mothers. Wailing. Keening. The Stabat Mater Dolorosa rising in sorrow. Inconsolable.

As we should be.

Slumber Parties, Death Songs and DNA

Some songs are in our DNA. I think.

I was at French Quarter Fest and over the speaker came a song I knew all the lyrics to: Who Shot the Lala by Oliver Morgan. I didn't identify the singer at the time just knew all of the lyrics. Like automatic pilot they came spilling out of me onto the grass. There were others of my vintage singing along as well. “I heard it was a .44.”

I was a lucky kid. On top of our fridge was a radio. AM radio. My mama had it on as we ate our cereal, fruit juice, milk and the One a Day vitamin that lay in our spoons as we headed off to school. I heard all the latest and greatest. Not sure to this day if Mama knew how much she was shaping me and my musical tastes. (It was thanks to that fridge radio that I first heard the Beatles and the Rolling Stones.) The poor lady had no sense of rhythm but seemed to like music, although fact is I don't know if she listens to music for fun now. I'll have to ask her. But back then she played the radio and had a few albums. Hell, she turned me onto Harry Belafonte without realizing it. Nevermind it was next to the Mills Brothers and Mario Lanza (Drink, drink drink!). That AM radio and the Ed Sullivan Show planted a lot of songs and artists in my head.

So somewhere in my psyche lay Oliver Morgan and Lawrence “Lala” Nelson and the .44. I heard it that day and I realized that I had no earthly clue who or what the “Lala” was. So I set about investigating (which got bonus points for justifying my procrastination on a bigger project). In the process I uncovered a possible murder mystery embroiled in the entire New Orleans dynastic music scene. It was a joy. Forget that everyone else I know seemed to already know the story. Lawrence “Lala” Nelson was the brother of “Papoose” Nelson, the guitar player for Fats Domino—and the pedigree and totally overlapping business that is New Orleans musical dynasties goes on and on. I now am the proud owner of an Orpheus oversized doubloon with Oliver Morgan on it, and the title of the song as well, along with a pristine .45 (no NOT a gun) record of the song. I can't wait to hear it on a turntable.

But how'd I get there? Why was I so curious about the Lala?

Well, I was listening to the songs on the radio over my pineapple/orange juice. We heard the Four Seasons, the Beach Boys, Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis, all the Motown stuff, Wilson Pickett, James Brown, Otis Redding. That list is actually much longer. But a lot of the songs we heard were about death. Really romantic death—or so it seemed at that age.

Jan and Dean's Dead Man's Curve with the doomed race between a Corvette and a Jaguar. Last Kiss with Frank Wilson and the Cavaliers (about 1964, I was in fourth grade) about the car crash, him holding her tight and losing his love, his life, that night. Nevermind Tell Laura I Love Her. They were all sort of mysteries. (I mean they were young and they died! That in itself was the mystery since only old people died.) Romantic mysteries to be sure, but mysteries that didn't send me off to Google to find out who died/cause of death/was it a who or a what: indeed was it real. Most of those were mysterious only in their idiocy, as in “guess I'll enter a race to buy you a wedding ring.” Pfffft! Kids!

I heard Stagger Lee, the Lloyd Price version, back then. I knew completely that Lee shot Billy over a Stetson hat with a .44. The first version of House of the Rising Sun that I heard was the Animals: Eric Burdon plaintively wailing about his sins, not technically a death song. Although certainly at that age I could only imagine what those sins were, they were clearly romantic and probably deadly. (Most certainly deadly in the sinnin' way if I had asked the local priest.)

But at every slumber party, .45's like Last Kiss were played. There we were, with rollers in our hair, boobless chests heaving, tears welling up in our eyes, it was too, too too too romantic to stand. Oh, just so :::sob:::dreamy. He'll never love another, I'll never love another the way I loved him:::sigh::: . He musta been cute. (Well, ya know, Mary, when I bought that wallet at Woolworth's two weeks ago, there was a picture of FABIAN in it. Uh huh. Really! No I won't trade it for Bobby Darin.) :::sniffle/haughty stare:::


So why did Oliver Morgan's song hit me so hard, causing me to research it? No idea. Some songs break into our DNA, of that I'm pretty sure. As we're dying, it would be great if we could all tell the folks around us what song is in our internal jukebox at that moment. (I would prefer my last song related words be something like Voodoo Chile rather than Tell Laura I Love Her although I could add some laughter to occasion but shouting out "Little Deuce Coupe!" right before I breathe my last. Good lord, it could be that old novelty song They're Coming to Take Me Away, ha ha, where life is beautiful all the time and I'll be happy to see those nice young men in their clean white coats. . . holy shit, why do I know all of THOSE words?) 


So does this mean I need to investigate Betty and Jimmy? I can tell you that for SURE, Leader of the Pack by the Shangri La's (ignoring the obvious over-teased hair additions of the lead singer) could reduce a slumber party to tears over our Bugle snacks. Rollers--brush rollers only, usually pink or with pink pins; jammies--usually flannel and baggie; and hormones--raging and completely beyond our comprehension----this was the sexiest song ever written from a fourth/fifth grader's point of view. Forget that she said “what could she do” after Jimmy crashed, (maybe call 911 or was that extant then?). The feminist views that announced themselves in the late 60's and 70's weren't there yet. Her daddy was a bigoted classist prick and caused Jimmy to die and she had no option but to obey the bastard. Somehow that was understood, assimilated and taken for granted. Besides, this girl also had some seriously bad luck in the boyfriend department. Remember the schmuck who went away, then wrote her a Dear Betty letter in Walking in the Sand? Geez. This girl could pick 'em. Should I spend a day on Google checking to see if Jimmy ran into a tree or just skidded out? 


Not gonna happen. 


Besides, shortly after that we were listening to the Beatles, the Stones, the Yardbirds, the Box Tops, the Byrds. Eventually we got to Jim Morrison singing The End where it was pretty clear what was happening. (Or wait—did he want to fuck his mother or kill her, or fuck her then kill her? Maybe the reverse?) Sick bastard, but dreamy Brylcreem boys had been replaced by sullen long haired and/or leather clad sexpots. We did contemplate that scream a bit and discuss it some, mostly in terms of how much did it annoy and frighten our parents. I played it in a loop for three weeks prompting my poor mama to call a psychologist. 


The only song with a real mystery is Who Shot the Lala. It appears it was a hot shot. Heroin. Possibly delivered to Lala deliberately out of jealousy, not over a woman or a Stetson hat but over his musical prowess and burgeoning fame. Or maybe his wardrobe choices. A cold case. But as the glorious new acquaintance HotG sez: Oliver Morgan isn't exactly an investigative reporter. 


Nevertheless, that song piqued my curiosity. And that's always a good thing. And it had managed to stay intact with all the lyrics in my brain for decades. That really IS a good thing. I'm lucky. 


At least from my point of view. Wanna hear the .45 about the .44? Got a turntable? 


Look out! Look out! Look out! Look out!:::::screech. . .crash:::::

Between St. Roch and a Hard Place

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Neighbors. Seems I've been writing about neighbors one way or another for a little while now. I've always told people that I've never met friendlier people than reside here in New Orleans. Lately though I've found some anomalies in the tapestry of friendliness and neighborliness.

I remember someone telling me a story about a person who had moved into the French Quarter, a lifelong dream. It wasn't Bourbon Street, I can't remember exactly where, Dauphine or Burgundy Street perhaps, at any rate off the tourist path for the most part. After a little while they started complaining about the bar across the street, a bar that had been there for decades catering mostly to locals. I couldn't help but wonder upon hearing that story, if somewhere between the “hey this place has good closet space” and “I'll sign the lease” they really hadn't noticed that they were moving in across from a bar. Just didn't see it? I guess it's possible, unlikely, but possible. Now having moved there they wanted the bar to change its ways, quiet down, stop people from talking outside just by virtue of their entitled ass having moved in there. I was incensed when I heard that story.

When we moved into a house near a 24 hour market, we knew it was there and signed the lease anyway. The market has been here longer than we've been in the house, not decades, but longer than we have. We knew it was there when we moved in. We knew it was open 24 hours. We don't now get to get pissy and ask that they close at ten. We made the choice, as did the French Quarter resident. There seems to be a spate of whininess on the part of people in neighborhoods that they chose to move into, probably making that choice BECAUSE of the very things they now complain about. These neighbors seem to be multiplying. But that's a story for another day.

The neighbors in this story are different. They seem to be pursuing some sort of vendetta.



On the corner of St. Roch and Marais you will find the St. Roch Tavern. For those of you familiar with Buffa's on Esplanade, I've always been sure that the St. Roch was designed and/or built by the same bunch as they both sport unique windows that remind me of submarine ports, not that I've actually seen a submarine port. Long ovals, atypical design for windows in the areas surrounding both places. One day I'll verify my theory. But this isn't about architecture interesting though that may be. That too is a story for another day. This is about neighbors and livelihoods and gathering places.

Opening in the 1930's, Caranek's (which can still be found in a browser search, sometimes called Caranek's Ale House) was a neighborhood tavern. Operated by the family for nearly 70 years, it has always been a tavern. A local watering hole. A gathering place. Nine years ago the Caranek family sold it (I heard that one of the last of the Caranek owners recently passed away at the age of 84 meaning that that particular Caranek traipsed through those doors at about 4 years old. Remarkable.) About nine years ago the Caranek's sold it, but their name is still embedded in the tiles on the step and in the back of the place near the pool table.



Having worked in casinos and eventually construction, John Victorson decided after spending a few days working underneath a house trying to avoid a large population of spiders that there had to be a better way to make a living. He bought the business, which by then had been renamed the St. Roch Tavern. While he might find a spider here or there behind the bar, most of the spiders he'd see now would be people in costumes with eight limbs. That sounded good to him and he happily threw himself into running the St. Roch. He also felt strong ties to the past and prided himself on keeping the neighborhood character of the place intact.

At the St. Roch on any given night, there is an interesting population of patrons: maybe some young black men playing pool being watched by young white Goth'd out kids sharing a pitcher and a hot dog, while an elderly lady plays the poker machines. Performers, musicians, little old ladies on a pension, skinny 21st century punks with puppets or puppies (used to be able to take your dog in there—no more, and that's too bad), a tall black man who suddenly turns around and belts out a song with pipes reminiscent of Sam Cooke, filmmakers, a large lady who hollers Who Dat and hugs you for every touch down the Saints make, poets and artists, sometimes one and the same person, will give impromptu readings of poems just now scribbled down on a napkin.



Along with that diverse group, occasionally the likes of Dr. John, Deacon John, Al “Carnival Time” Johnson, and others will show up, maybe do a set, maybe be there in support of a friend. That old piano in there has been played by many hands. Hands filled with talent, hands with no talent at all, drunken hands, awkward hands, and I-can-still-play-chopsticks hands. I'll have to ask if it's original to the place. It might well be.

In the last 18 months or so, St. Roch Tavern has been the target of a concerted effort to harass the bar itself and its customers. Launched by a neighbor, who in fact used to work there, it has become a purposeful, obsessive attack which has spilled out on occasion to the neutral ground. While there hasn't been a ticket for anything written inside or outside the St. Roch in four years, according to one of the bartenders there, the police have been called over petty complaints repeatedly by this neighbor. The City Council person, Kristin Gisleson Palmer, has also gotten complaints. Formerly a partner in the food concern at St. Roch (not an employee, the food suppliers are separate business entities), this neighbor is on constant alert from reports I've heard. Evidently this guy and his domestic partner's sole purpose is to get the St. Roch Tavern shut down. (Who they'll harass if that happens I don't know, but it has become clear that these people are folks who need to have someone in the crosshairs in order to be happy.)

The constant harassment has taken some dark turns, reports of customers allegedly being physically attacked by these neighbors aren't rare. Verbal attacks are apparently standard fare. The staff is walking on eggshells in order to avoid drama. The livelihoods of St. Roch staff are being endangered by an obsession for vengeance. I wish I could ask the neighbors why, but I have no doubt that the answer would make no sense to me.

Bar on the corner for 80 years. Neighbors doing all this? Moved into the neighborhood barely 2 years ago. We can't let this neighbor and his partner close down a business out of vengeance. Police were called on New Year's Eve. Police were called Krewe du Vieux night. The Fifth District police want to see a show of support from those of us who care about this place. They've been very good at communicating what they need from us and I applaud that. Let's help them by contacting them, signing petitions, patronizing St. Roch Tavern.

Hell, let's light some candles to St. Roch, who has a long list of causes he's linked to, including: protection from storms, skin diseases, cholera, knee problems, dogs and those who love them, bachelors, invalids, surgeons, gravediggers, second hand dealers, apothecaries, those falsely accused and epidemics. Let's get him on this.

As John Victorson said, “I just want St. Roch Tavern to remain the hub of the neighborhood as it has been for 80 years. I want it to be all inclusive.”

Too bad these two neighbors don't see things the same way.
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Special thanks to Marlena Asher for the use of her photo of Dr. John with JD Hill at St. Roch Tavern a couple months ago.

Of Blight and Circumstance

EDIT 1/19/12: Thanks to all of you for your support. There is now a Ku's House Facebook page to coordinate information, updates and requests for help/volunteers. Please head over to Ku's House Facebook Page
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We all know that there is blight in some neighborhoods in New Orleans. We also know that some people are taking advantage of that blight to knock down homes, buy them for a song to fix up cheaply and rent out, or just to get a neighbor they have a grudge against up against a bureaucratic wall. Since the storm we've seen that happen all over town. In some cases blight complaints have ruined lives, dreams, futures.

Here in my neighborhood sits a beautiful old shotgun house. Built in 1866, it's the oldest house on our block. It was once occupied by members of the Tujague family. Mrs. Tujague had a niece who was her particular favorite. That niece was a member of the Poor Clare order, who had been shuttled hither and yon due to various diocesan edicts for many years. Although the Order had been invited to New Orleans around 1877, they had left for Cleveland for a while. Upon their return, Mrs. Tujague's niece was now Mother Mary Magdalen, the head of the local order, and the nuns moved into the house and used it as a base of operations from about June 16, 1885 until they built a proper monastery.

Now that is a great New Orleans story. But here's another one.

Kweku Nyaawie grew up in Central Texas based mostly out of Austin. A carpenter and cabinet maker, he came to New Orleans with his brother to help out with reconstruction of homes damaged by the Federal Flood in late 2005. He saw the destruction first hand and continued to work and save his money. At some point he decided to stay. He wanted to contribute to the community, buy a house, make it a home not a speculation project and found the shotgun at 616 Port Street. It needed work, but he knew he was the guy who could do it. He looked for period architectural pieces, was painstaking in his research, checked the history of the house, delighted in knowing that he'd be the one to restore this little bit of New Orleans history with the added bonus of living in it.

He got involved with the Community Garden Project in Treme and put his money and time into fixing the house. Long after the Poor Clares, the house had been purchased by a Mr. Frisbe, who lived there with his partner from 1977 until he passed away. His partner continued to live there until the storm. Kweku, or Ku as we all call him, bought it already needing repair in 2008. He loved working on the house and loved that it was exactly 100 years older than he was. When we moved here we knew him to say hello but never saw him because he was always at the Garden or working on that house.

Then came the summer of 2010. As Ku was riding his bicycle on Dumaine Street in the Sixth Ward, a black sedan hit him. Hard. Knocked completely off the bike, he watched as the car sped away without even checking to see if Ku was alright. He headed to his girlfriend's house battered, bruised and scratched badly. He didn't go to the ER as he thought he was just healing from some bad road rash and deep bruises. Knowing him now, my guess is that he also figured he'd just tough it out and he'd be fine. Weeks went by. His back still hurt. Months went by. His back still hurt. Then in December 2010 he realized that his legs wouldn't quite support his 6'3” frame. He headed off to the doctor but realized that he couldn't get the help he'd need here in New Orleans, he couldn't work so money was also an issue (given that the bastard who hit him took off, there was no insurance money coming in to help with medical bills), so he made the decision to move back to Austin and his family. Those of us who knew him were worried as we didn't hear from him.

He was busy. He spent nearly 14 months in therapy and is still on crutches with his legs still unable to support him. Although he's the most positive attitude guy in the world, he's also a proud man and a man who loves his house. He is unfortunately learning the lesson many of us learned after the storm: sometimes you gotta ask for help.

A few weeks ago he got a letter from the City. A hearing. Blight. Neighbors complaining. (We're neighbors, we couldn't figure out who would complain knowing how hard he'd worked and knowing what had happened to him.) At the hearing it was discovered that one complaint had come from a doctor (a DOCTOR? Wouldn't he know how devastatingly long spinal cord injuries can take to heal?) because some vines had overgrown the fence and were interfering with his backyard garden. (This doctor is also the owner of a lot of property on our block.) Evidently Ku's next door neighbor, an absentee homeowner and an attorney who lives in the house intermittently, wanted Ku's house demolished. Ku was given a list of things that had to be fixed or a $500 a day fine would be levied.(Although he wouldn't probably bring it up, he's one of only 2 black property owners on the four sides of this block, and some of us, though not Ku, can't help but wonder if that's a part of these complaints.)

Ku sat in an office chair for a week sanding the front of the house in order to get it ready for painting. Stand across from it and you can see how far the outer limit of his reach is, which frankly from a desk chair is impressive. Today he's working on the bricks that front the house from the sidewalk to the base of the house. Siding needs to be replaced for sure. His brother had been able to help for a while, but we heard he recently got a job so he's on his own for the moment and his next hearing is a week from today.

I am asking anyone out there who can help, who can climb a ladder, sand, paint, write a letter, anything that can toss a road block into the $500 buck a day fine that he can't afford, to get in touch.

This is the guy you WANT for a neighbor. This is the man you WANT to settle in New Orleans, buy property and make it home. This is the man you WANT to fix up an historically interesting home and not fill it with press board cheap fixes to rent out at an exhorbitant rate. We're outraged that knowing his situation, some of our neighbors chose this time, when he's most vulnerable, to call his home out as a blighted property. It's just not fair. It's also not JUST.

We know Mardi Gras is early this year. We're all tossing glitter around our living rooms and keeping feathers out of our cats' mouths and eating more King Cake than is good for us. I'm glad we're doing that. It's a part of New Orleans life and we love it. Kweku chose to set down roots here and become a part of the New Orleans community. There have to be some of us willing to help him, just as people like him helped us when we needed it.

Don't let a hit and run driver who changed his life be joined by hit and run neighbors with their petty complaints to the blight police. He chose to join us. He chose to come back to fight for his home. We need to choose to help him so he remembers why he wanted to join us here in the first place.

Please contact me if you can volunteer some time, some clout, some information. If we can build a float, we can paint a house.

Old Mrs. Tujague and Mother Mary Magdalen would want us to.

Soft Memories are Evergreen

When I was little, every year Mama would get out the ornaments as Dad fought the tree stand to make the tree balance perfectly straight as nothing else would do. Nearby would be aerosol cans of spray-on snow and several boxes of silver tinsel. The tree would be decorated, colored bulbs replaced, tinsel strewn carefully then finally tossed willy nilly at the branches. Then my Mama would take out the little church.

This little church seemed to me to be a cathedral. Tall steeple, rosette stained glass over the unopenable doors illuminated from within by a single little bulb. I would kneel next to the table it was placed on and turn the key to the music box that played Silent Night and be overcome not really knowing why. To my five or six year old self this was a thing of beauty and it was probably the first time I shed tears over something beautiful. For many many years that church was the big memory of Christmases past.

I left home and I guess the little church was retired at some point, replaced by the innumerable Snowmen that Mama loved, and as a result, became inundated with as my sisters and I scoured malls and catalogues for the perfect new snowman for her each year. I think she's probably retired many of those by now too. She finally asked us to please not send her anymore. By then they were practically taking over her house.

When my daughter was born, I cried again over beauty. She was and remains the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Over the next few years the soft memories are of her two year old self choosing ornaments for our own tree and particularly delighting in a fake hard candy garland held together with weak monofilament. The fake candy had to be restrung periodically over the years, but she loved it. We didn't have much money then, so we made a star for the top of the tree out of cardboard and tinfoil. Even when we could afford to replace it we didn't for a long time. Each year she chose two or three ornaments and they would get added to our collection along with those sent by family and friends. Eventually they became more sophisticated with porcelain doll angels added to the ones she had chosen at two and the clay/cookie bell she made in kindergarten. Each year they would be carefully unwrapped and delighted in, one by one, and hung very deliberately on our tree. If she didn't like the placement, she'd change it.

One year I labored over a tree skirt, having decided that I would make this thing entirely by hand. Plaid taffeta pieces for the top, crocheted lace for the edges and the softest red corduroy I could find for the bottom. I've always maintained that I put too much polyfil in it, but it made a nice cushion for wrapped presents. Sometime around my daughter's 7th or 8th Christmas I tied it around her waist like a skirt and plopped a Santa hat on her head. For the next nearly ten years, that was the expected tree trimming outfit and she was wearing it still when at about 14 she insisted that I'd been putting the lights on all wrong for years so she would now take charge of the branch fluffing and lighting. She'd force her dad up to put the fish ornament she'd chosen for him up high and she'd dance in the tree skirt as he pretended to be Frank Sinatra or Elvis depending on what holiday music we were listening to. Not big on tree trimming, he'd provide entertainment with his finger snapping Vegas lounge act, also done in a Santa hat usually worn a la the Coneheads. Even after she married she wore that tree skirt to trim the tree one snowy Christmas on the mountain.

My grandson was born and I cried at beauty again: the beauty of him and the courage and determination of his mother who didn't have an easy time of it. As difficult as it was, her damn mascara and eyeliner never smudged. She swears by Maybelline, or is it Cover Girl, to this day.

When the boy child was not quite two, the three of us went to buy some new ornaments and other sundry things at a Hobby Lobby nearby. It might have been the year of her own tree skirt. I'm pretty sure I made it for her, but she might have done it herself as she had decided to learn to sew. Funny. I remember her buying the fabric but can't remember if I made it. I think I'll say I did. As I pushed the cart down the aisle I noticed my grandson grabbing a Father Christmas that was half the size he was and was unfortunately sitting on the bottom shelf just within his reach. I had not planned nor budgeted for that fabric covered cardboard cone with glorious curls and a perfect smile. I tried the age old distraction technique, some bells in one hand, the Father Christmas in the other trying to put him back on the shelf. My grandson was not having it. He wanted that damn Santa and that's all he knew. He kept handing it to me to put in the cart and I was sure he'd drop it and break the porcelain face, so I figured I'd put it in the cart and then plop it up somewhere later where he wouldn't notice. But instead, after I put the boy in the seat on the cart (facing away from the cart's contents was my reasoning), he turned around and laser beamed onto that face. He was in love. I most assuredly wasn't going to rid myself of the big jolly guy, so I put something else back and Santa came home with us.

Soft memories, all. Bathed in light, music box sounds, fingers snapping and laughter. They all look like Marilyn in the Misfits: shot through a heavily vasolined lens so the harshness and wrinkles won't show.

When Katrina came all the ornaments and that Father Christmas were in storage at Tulane and Broad. We weren't allowed in to the UHaul place for months. The stuff in there had been tossed around and dropped and stewed and mold had grown in places that the hydraulic fluid from the elevator hadn't bathed with its oil. With no lights in there as the power hadn't been restored, we signed the "not your problem if we die in there" waiver and entered it like miners from Germinal. I still don't know how my Christmas Sinatra opened that door, just sheer stubborn foolishness probably. When our flashlights saw the interior there were no words. But right on top of everything, wrapped tight in a plastic bag we saw our grandson's Father Christmas, seemingly unscathed.

It would take weeks to get through all the boxes of books and other treasures in that storage unit, but that Santa came home with us that day, a trophy, a gift, our crown jewel. We finally found the giant can of ornaments and most of them were trashed, but those that did survive I passed on to my daughter to put on her tree. A continuity from one set of memories to another.

Since then I think I put up a tree one year, but mostly I find it too difficult. I know the tree skirt survived and I think it's in the shed. Some folks don't understand my reluctance to put up a tree, but for me it triggers too many sweet memories mixed up with some very difficult ones, like when you put too much salt in a soup--Martha Stewart and her "drop a potato in and it'll absorb the salt" be damned.

But before you think me a total humbug, consider this. That Father Christmas is never in a box, never out of sight. He lives year around on a table in my living room. Some of the stryrofoam birds and eggs were pretty damaged, but removing them from his nest didn't hurt him any, and now he wears a special kind of Mardi Gras bead, the ones my grandson called World Record Beads. They are the old plastic cheapos with the push clasp that you can connect to one another. He once tried to make the Guinness Book of World Records by connecting one continuous string around Jackson Square in order to raise money for his school library. He actually made it all the way around the Square but Guinness wasn't interested to his great disappointment. I think his Father Christmas likes his new decorations.

And two years ago my Mama sent me the little church, a real surprise. My Mama is really good at getting rid of stuff, so I thought it had probably gone the way of my Beatle cards and 45's. It's so much smaller than I remembered it, and not nearly so grand, made of a now-yellowed plastic with a decal instead of leaded stained glass. The music box still worked, but the little church was pretty brittle with age. I found that my Dad had evidently put a bulb in it that was too hot, so the bottom of it is a little bit melted. Okay. A lot melted. Last year my Christmas Sinatra rigged a small maglite in there so I could see the stained glass decal lit up again from the inside. It was the best gift ever and yes, there I was crying again as I looked at it and heard the music box's sappy Silent Night pinging. The little church sits right in front of the Father Christmas, also never boxed.

I keep those soft memories in sight now as I stupidly never filmed the great tree skirted elf in her determined glory nor did I record the Sinatra songs as interpreted by a Conehead. I regret that. But I can still see them, and hear them, and remember the laser beam gaze of a tiny boy staring at a curly haired Santa. I still well up at the beauty of those memories: my father cussing at the tree stand, my mother trying to keep the tinsel off the rug, a totally futile exercise, my sisters handing out stockings with our names on them, Sinatra hanging a fish just below a tin foil star, the years that I was lucky enough to watch a little girl choose giant plastic lollipop ornaments growing up to deck her own house with lights, and a little boy whose belief in a magical being keeps me believing even when it's hard to. Incredible gifts all. Such luck I've had.

And the music box still works.

Orbiting Coco Robicheaux

Coco Robicheaux passed away Friday evening. Much has been written about the man, his music, his artistry, his character and his seemingly mythical background. Much more will be written. Many of us spent yesterday between tears and laughter, blaring his music through our homes to let him know we're here thinking about him. I double checked my files to be sure that I hadn't lost the 40 minute live set I recorded on my phone at Mimi's a couple months ago. I regretted never having given him the eagle feather I had told him I'd bring when I saw him next. I remembered that the ancients believed there is a four day window between the time the soul leaves the body and its transition to the higher realms. I'll have to light a candle for him today so he sees it along the way.

I saw some great remembrances yesterday and gathered them together in a little mental basket hoping to amass more and maybe put together the ultimate collection of “Memories of Coco.” Lord David spoke of learning about kindness through Coco's admonishments. Louis Maistros told a great story of breaking his elbow after a bike fall near the French Market and Coco laying hands on him telling him he'd be okay. Mark Folse spoke of Coco's authenticity. My friend Pam, who knew him for twenty years, told a story of taking a seriously drunk Coco home decades ago and carrying him up the stairs (once they finally found the house that he had forgotten the location of) only to be stunned the next day when he remembered her name even though he had been toast the night before.

There were many, many people who knew him longer than I. Many who knew him better than I. But once you entered Coco's orbit, he knew YOU. If he knew you, he never forgot your name or passed by without acknowledging you. In the end, I decided to stick to my own memories, adding them to the collection that someone else will put together.

I first became aware of Coco Robicheaux as a member of an audience. Many audiences actually. I'd seen him lots of times and loved his music, my closest contact being the dropping of a couple bucks into the tip jar. Then one day I happened to be on Frenchmen Street. I walked into the Apple Barrel to grab a beer and found myself sitting next to the man. He looked over and said hello. After introductions, him introducing himself as though I wouldn't possibly have known who he was, we spent some time in regular bar stool small talk. It was not long after the storm. The next time I saw him we were across the street from each other on Frenchmen. I shouted hello, he responded with, “Hey, you're the girl with the guy's name! How ya doing?” After that there were many bar stool conversations.

One afternoon we spent a long time discussing the time I spent on Reservations in the Southwest and what I'd learned, comparing and finding similarities to his Native American Swamp knowledge. I actually wish I'd taped the conversation. We wound up deep in our cups and deep into a sort of theology of earth religion discussion. We delighted in each other's understanding and knowledge. I learned a lot that day.

Another day I was locking my bike to the tree just down from the Barrel. My lock, notoriously rusty and difficult, was giving me fits so I was concentrating hard on that lock, bent over it and probably cussing. He came quietly up behind me and gruffed hello. He had startled me and found that hilarious. He laughed and laughed, then started down the street. I asked him where he was headed. He growled, “Goin' to make trouble wherever I can,” laughed some more and said he'd be back later. I watched him saunter down the street still laughing at me. I was laughing too.

Months later, I had an appointment at Electric Ladyland. I walked into the Barrel for a beer before my appointment and found the usual afternoon small group at the bar. The wraithlike woman behind the bar was terribly upset. The bathroom door wouldn't open. Now, in order to understand this, one has to know the Apple Barrel bathroom. The door is closed and a little hook and eye lock is ready for use, but the door has to be pushed just a wee bit back open in order to actually place the hook into the eye. This is something that couldn't easily be accomplished by a slight slam of the door from the outside. The odds of that hook landing in that eye exactly without human hands placing it there are astronomical. After much discussion it was decided that we should pound on the door as there might be someone in there who was in distress. Each of us took a turn, with one of us attempting to look under the door, a fruitless but beer fueled suggestion. Finally it occurred to us that we'd been there an hour and hadn't seen anyone enter that bathroom. We were all accounted for.

At that moment, the bartender said, “Goddammit, it was Coco! We had an argument and he left in a snit, but he walked back and forth out there for a while. He did this. He slapped a hoodoo whammy on it.” No one in the place thought this far fetched, although all of us, except the bartender, found it hilarious. One of the other denizens explained that an argument had taken place and told me what it was about, some petty thing I can't remember now, then nodded solemnly saying, “Yeah, it had to be Coco.” The bartender then determined that Coco Robicheaux would never be allowed in that place again. The bathroom door was eventually taken off at the hinges and the hook was indeed in the eye and the assumption that Coco's hoodoo had caused it became an Apple Barrel truth, remaining so to this day.

The last time I saw him to talk to him was a couple months ago upstairs at Mimi's. He was playing a great set and I asked him if he'd mind if I recorded it. When he said no he wouldn't mind, I put my phone on the couch three feet from his mic and hit record. I just left it there and took a few pictures. I had a huge yellow bag with me that had been signed by many of the cast members of Treme as well as Mos' Def and Lloyd Price. Coco said he wanted to sign it and did. On a break I asked if I could buy him a drink. Dumb question. Of course the answer would be yes. He squinted his eyes into a slit, knowing me for a sucker, and asked for either a Remy Martin or a Courvoisier, I can't remember which. Then he grinned at me waiting to see if I'd spring for it. I said okay and he looked a little surprised when I came back with that instead of his usual tequila.

His CD, Revelator, had come out and as he sipped his drink he showed me how it was packaged. He was so proud that it wasn't in the standard jewel case. The CD itself clipped onto a hard grey material entirely made of potatoes and the cover was entirely recycled/recyclable paper. He told me he was thrilled that his music wasn't going to damage the earth with its packaging.

As he got ready for the next set I teased him about his shoes. He was wearing these pointy square toed white loafers with fleur de lis on them. I asked him if he'd just raided his 70's disco storage. He laughed that laugh of his and said, “Hey, these shoes still walk good!”

I have no doubt that the spirits he spoke of as being constant companions are his companions now. While he'll leave a big hole in our world, I am glad he didn't have a lengthy illness. I'm glad he left us in one of his favorite places, wherein he'll no doubt reside in spirit forever, perhaps locking the bathroom door randomly to amuse himself. His current companions already know of his kindness, his artistry, his metaphysical prowess and his laughter. I just wonder if they told him to leave those shoes behind as he'll no doubt “walk good” to the other side just fine without them.

Cross-posted at B2L2

Coco Robicheaux