HumidCity

from a hotal room in los angeles (hurrication day 2)

alright, here we go again. we all know the premise. a storm of biblical proportions, except instead of the misadventures of noah, this time we’re visiting the lonely onan. he’s the guy who got in trouble for spilling his seed in the sand. hopefully, this exercise in paranoia will prove to be just like onan’s sin ~ masturbation.  people get excited, breathe heavy, moan, groan,,, it’s over soon, you breathe a sign of relief and clean up,,, realizing guiltily it was highly overrated (or was it?)

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phfred@mcnawlins.com

so it’s as if i’m charlton heston walking down the beach…. DAMN DIRTY APES! DAMN DIRTY BUSH! DAMN DIRTY FEMA! but somehow that post-apocalyptic analogy is missing something… no witty or insightful sequals (thank goodness), no action figures (although the t-shirt biz and faux fleur de crap is still blooming), and no great tie-ins (apologies to brinkly, rose, spike lee, and the cast/ ace bandage of k-ville)

no it’s hard to survive new orleans… you know the day in/ day out life in a trailer or the previously unheard/ unreported/ or downright ignored gunshots, the visits for katrina related illnesses or the lack of understanding and loss of jobs, the strain on relationship, the self doubt, the suicides and countless others contemplated or attempted…hard indeed, but are you really that happy to see me?

new orleans has become a forgotten city perhaps except when luminaries like brad pitt draw the media or criminals too numerous to hold office get elected and re-elected… it’s hard geetting to sleep, it’s hard getting out of bed… and yes, i remembered to take my medicine,

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phfred@notthat.com

in the most inane govermental scientific report to date, scientists now blame pigeons for the recent bridge collapse in Minnesota. WTF? WTFFF? well, it appears that the acidic content of pigeon excrement is strong enough to rust through the bolts that help hold the bridge together… AND this ubermensch-like poop caused or at least contributed to the bridge’s demise… IF ONLY the corps of engineers had thought of such a preposterous EXCUSE for the levee breachesin New Orleans.  Nutria droppings anyone? Pelican pooala mode? BTW i wonder if State Farm, Allstate, or Louisiana Citizens covers this. It could fall under wind or flood damage…

Just sounds like more bull stool to me… speaking of which, our fearless leader will be visiting on wednesday since he missed our anniversary last year.  Now can we REALLY talk about BS…BLOG THIS!

 phfred@notthat.com

a day after the election and two days after the only “midcity” mardi gras event of the season, i have an epiphany or rather a suspicion. no, make that a diagnosis. we are no longer connected. i’m not just talking about utilities. i’m not just talking about the islands of repopulation across the metropolis. i’m not talking about the fact that people elsewhere don’t get it. i’m talking about a deeper disconnection. the fact that ms. carter’s comments in spike lee’s film contributed to bill jefferson’s re-election, the fact that harry lee (an asian) still believes in racial profiling and mudslinging, the fact that most of the world thinks we’re okay and that the new orleans saints are “america’s team” du jour (remember the patriots won the superbowl post 911)– ALL these facts prove that we have lost touch. period.

what is really important this holiday season (post K II)? another fleur de lis? a set of spinners for my FEMA trailer? hopefully not things because there’s no room to put gifts in the doublewide. how about something not in a store? how ’bout human interaction? how about re-connection? or is that too scary? in this feared, frightened, and fearful city, we have lost touch with other human beings. it’s rough (even dangerous) to get out…the joy of living here has melted into short-tempered outbursts gilded in sadness (can’t be covered in copper… someone keeps stealing all that). even after this year’s winner of the nobel prize names poverty as the biggest problem in the world, new orleans’ recovery is really about… well, poverty. it’s about money. it’s about priorities and the lack thereof. if the state and the insurance companies hold onto the money, their coffers get more interest. the longer the insurance companies hold out, the more desperate we become and more likely to accept a smaller settlement. is this fair? is this america? is this why we fight and die and vote? (you can change the order of those if you’d like.) i’m not asking anyone to agree with me, i’m not asking to be elected or assassinated. i am only asking for a dialogue to begin, a braintrust to be assembled, a connection to be made. (nice asyndeton, eh?)

as i wandered like a zombie at that mardi gras party last friday, i felt unconnected. i was numb. i had sensory underload, something one never got in new orleans before, no matter how “hurricaned” you were. i talked. i sang. i performed. at least i vaguely remember doing so. i was so hoping someone there would get it. i so hoped someone there might give me a wink and a nod. maybe they did, but i missed it. afterall, this zombie gig is a new one for me, and i’m not quite comfortable with the role yet.

life is good here in the bloggerspace. but we still must put pen to paper, still turn talk to walk… and,whether we stay or go, we must fight with our last dying breaths…

this is not a movie. this not a t.s. eliot poem… this is my life… our lives… BLOG THIS!

the last week has been a blur of emotions but obviously an effective one at that. phone calls unsolicited from friends and strangers, emails unrequited with tea and sympathy, fan mail doused in fight and encouragement (unparallel structure anyone?). as the grammar subsides, I hear battle cries that the show must, might, may go on… (first weekend of jazz fest… in the kid’s tent , HA!) it’s as if the justice league has been reconvened, the avengers have have been reunited, and the stooges have been reconstituted (screw iggy, I just hope shemp is there). but what about the mcnola tie-in? what about the action figure? where’s the merchandising? what’s the backend on my emotional investment?

at times tears, at times laughter, but mostly frustrated anger mixed with a twist of betrayal (an odd cocktail for even odder times). drink up, just don’t spill it. libation good! spillage bad! a day in the ER. a night at the shrink. marx brothers, anyone? job offers in L.A. lunch offers in NJ. but such random offers just add to the mania. Such offers make me question myself more. should I stay, go, quote clash lyrics? not again!

the chest pains, the shortness of breath, another day spent in triage. the so-called lights in the tunnel are scarier than the dark. it’s the old devil you know theory. the scariest part is/ was the diagnosis. the bronchitis part I can handle (there’s a black mold in the air), but the PTSD? It’s hard to have and even harder to accept a post-traumatic syndrome when you’re still in the midst of the trauma. somebody consult a latin teacher . oh, that’s me. touche’ amice. Et tu prozac and call me in the morning. In the meantime, BLOG THIS!

last call?

so many words describe the current state of affairs here in new orleans:

betrayed, abandoned, scared, scarred, scary, broken

each word represents another shot of whiskey, another drug, another way to numb and be numbed … AND i dare anyone to spend a week in my trailer in my hood … piles of garbage, crime, pools of blood (i’m not exaggerating)…. these are my IKEA, my designer jeans…this is my hollywood. i dare people to say things are getting better… they’re not. i dare people to say they donated money or did a benefit … i ask where the money went and who benefited. i dare people to tell me what FEMA, insurance companies and the government have done …nothing. i dare people to crawl into my head and walk around a while … you can’t nor would you want to …

as a vietnamese woman on the westbank said … i came to america for freedom, to escape, now i fear for my life … i cannot expose my children to this

this is not america

everyday more life looters are driving & pushing me to the end of the line
how many strikes will it finally take before this city drives me away?
6 months ago i wanted to save it.
2 days ago i wanted to champion it.
today i just want to survive it …

not sure how or if i will
after further bouts of censorship, distrust,
poor attendence, and now empty coffers
the freddy fred show is coming to an end …

thanks to the artists, musicians, dancers, and clubs that were involved …
if possible, remaining posters may still be printed for archival’s sake
(to think the archive of contemporary music wanted to document this???)

i close my eyes now because the words are killing me …
someone has stolen my gift of laughter …
without that, i have nothing else to give …

is there a revolution in our midst? i doubt it…
should there be? but of course…

it seems that we as a citizenry, as a nation, as individuals have become complacent. we’re not cut from the same fabric as our forefathers. no boston tea parties for us, hell, we have starbucks (personally, i prefer ishmael) we have no MLK’s or JFK’s, just KFC’s and BMW’s…initial this! would our founders or past leaders have put up with this bureaucratic red taping and pecuniary foot dragging? Hmmm? NOT! so why do we? Is it our short attention span? is it our firm grasp of denial? is it hope for a hollywood ending or just our laziness?

i remember the talk the talk and the walk the walk of the vietnam era. i remember political rallies and secret service men as the republican party nominated george sr. at the superdome in 88. there was a still some talk though slurred, there was still some walk though limping. but i no longer see it. we chat the chat, we blog the blog. perhaps? but can we force the cyber into a concrete reality: sim city? sin city? our city?

yesterday a survey pointed out that the many new orleanians plan to leave the city within the next two years. but where to go? does the location change the frustration? does the new zipcode suddenly fix the broken nation? does the big picture get smaller? or for that matter, does the big picture even matter any more? do we cut bait and leave? or as frank zappa asked,” does the torture ever stop?”

for those of you planning, packing, and leaving, i can relate to your dilemma as i bang my bloodied head and live out my own dented doubts daily. but… let’s stay. let’s fight. let’s force a change.

don’t run, phidippides, because you just die at the end of the marathon. stay, talk, walk.

DON’T BLOG THIS, DO SOMETHING INSTEAD!

i started out Post K year two with grand ideas… shows to REBUILD NEW ORLEANS: ONE LAUGH, ONE SONG, ONE SHOW AT A TIME… little did i know how trite the rebuild would seem to so many, a catch phrase for catch alls… i put the band back together, I released a mock opera, I hired singers, dancers, and musicians… i enlisted artists from around the world to help (40+ actively involved, including Peter Bagge, Tony Millionaire, and Mark Newgarden– artists from US, UK, Austria, Czech Republic, Australia, France,and New Zealand). a grand plan or a manic delusion?

and so the shows (and the idea of the shows) have been quality.. but the audiences have not been quantity,,, each show brings me deeper in debt… the poster project has turned out well artistically.. but now my gutted house is a warehouse for unsold “art” and i still have my sorry ass in a FEMA trailer… perhaps i should have forgotten the altruistic REBUILD NEW ORLEANS efforts and REBUILT MY LIFE instead… the past few weeks have been flanked by manic black out binges and depressed self inflicted thoughts… i keep myself awake with screams that are racing faster in slow motion… suddenly primal therapy makes sense again…

only a handful of shows to fill out the year…

plus the BLOG gets released in book form

canada is postponed for now… it may occur this summer along with europe (depending on FEMA, insurance, and doctor’s orders)

have to make the big picture smaller for a while otherwise i might wakeup dead– another casualty to post K or the big easy or just my disease BLOG THIS!

has new orleans become the new n-word? you know… unmentionable. uncomfortable. laced with racial stereotypes and undertones. a source of hatred and misunderstanding. able to be used by some publicly, yet used by many more behind closed doors. antiquated yet somehow clung to. in years to come only members of the club will have priveledge to utter its name or show its sign. the downtrodden. the liberated. the freed. and just like the other n-word — not understood by linguists, the media or our dear government… BLOG THIS!

Main Entry: comic relief
Function: noun
: a relief from the emotional tension especially of a drama that is provided by the interposition of a comic episode or element

Hmmmmm….so that’s comic relief in the traditional, dictionary ala Greek and/or Shakesperean sense… thus spoke Zarathutsra, er, i mean Webster. No mention of Falstaff, neither the charcter nor the beer, doing a benefit. True comic relief doesn’t draw attention to itself or its celebrity drinking buddies. It doesn’t shake a can, have a phonebank, or arrange for photo opps. True comic relief is the laugh at the funeral near the murdered corpse real close to the tragedy right before we return to the scene of the crime. What we need in New Orleans is that laugh, that oh-so cathartic laugh, before we return back to the horror and get back to work. BUT do we really need another celebrity-baitied and celebrity-baiting fundraiser? REMEMBER: it took years for George Harrison’s money to ever make it to Bangladesh. Personally, I’ve been leery ever since.

Don’t get me wrong. Parts of last night’s show were inspired. Oh inspirational and perspirational Muses, though ye are oft mispronounced round here! Bob Zmuda was right on the mark that things are still broken. Billy Crystal was dead on with his Lord Buckley-esque character sketch of the old clarinet jazz cat. “Can you dig it?” However, Robin Williams’ crotch grabbing was neither comic nor relief. Likewise, Whoopi’s ethnic presence was just that: ethnic and present. PERIOD.

It truly surprised me that Zmuda, the founder of Comic Relief, who allegedly spent six months here to do his homework prior to last night’s comic release and nocturnal transmission, did not include any local comics. Yes, we’re here… some us working the same clubs where Bob Zmuda milked Andy Kaufman’s ghost in the form of Tony Clifton.
Perhaps we local comics aren’t the A-List and A-Team of Hollywood Squares that pranced the stage last night. Perhaps we don’t have the name recognition or bank accounts or as friends on myspace. BUT unlike Dane Cook, John Stewart, or Roseanne Barr, we have that little something something that was missing from the soire. We have a comic insight that none, i repeat none, of those comics did have, do have, or ever will have. We lived in New Orleans. AND we still live here. We lost homes. We lost family. A part of us died August 2005. A part of us continues to die everyday. We know what it means to miss New Orleans. It’s a little disappointing and upsetting to have a non-New Orleanian bastardize and blaspheme that tune or even “When the Saints Go Marching In.” It’s hard to stomach really–like hearing Springsteen doing a Pete Seeger tribute by covering songs that Pete Seeger didn’t write. Right? He’s no boss of me. But I digress… How can you miss a city you’ve never been to? LIKEWISE both the spirit of the city and the gospel roots of “the Saints” were lost in the opening dance number. This isn’t the Oscars. This is my life. Did they miss New Orleans? NO. Did they miss the mark? YES. Heck, they were in Vegas. We appreciate the spotlight, but…

Let me end with my own experience, the tragedy that surrounds my comic relief (see definition above). In the past 14 months I have lost job(s), home, and family. My mom’s body was subsequently lost, er, misplaced by FEMA. I have received no monies from my insurance. I have received no monies from the Road Home Program. I have received no monies from Tipitina’s or any of the other musician/ performer foundations, although i have applied to several of them several times. There are several potholes in my road home. As Whoopi, Robin, Billy, and company were preparing to take the stage (once again, in Vegas, not here), I received my own form of comic relief, a FEMA check in the amount of $347.25 to cover my mother’s funeral expenses. Comic relief indeed. Check your local listings. BLOG THIS!

As i sit in my FEMA trailer amid tornado warnings and the meteor-logical(?) advice to flee to my gutted house, i wonder if things are getting better, worse, or just more surreal. Sure we weathered the hurricane season, but now the city has a bull’s eye on it like the proverbial trailer park in a country song. It’s as if the FEMA trailers came with an endorsement of the Nashville Cats and all the stereotypical trappings. I lost my wife. I lost my truck. I lost my my-o-my. Today the city is very humid indeed.  Stormy weather? Thunder storm? Brain storm? No brainer? The news reports how a batch of prefab FEMA modular houses were ruined by the weather. It makes me wonder if they would have been any good anyway if they can’t withstand the rain. Too bad it’s not like when we were younger. A flood meant splashing in the backed up sewerage. Kids, adults, and even circus animals rode bicycles without helmets (pardon my misplaced modifier). Monkeybars were built over concrete. Insurance companies paid claims. Politicians told the truth (yeah right, and George Washington really cut down the cherry tree). “Rain rain go away” seemed to give us young tykes power over the element as we play clad with yellow slickers and rubber boots. If there was a real threat of meteorological nature, Nash Roberts would save us… Heck we didn’t fear rain, snow, sleet, or flood… we had Nash and we had reliable postal delivery (soemtimes twice a day)… no fear indeed… not even of meteors…right? Oh the times have changed… the mail is undependable, the weather has become the “whether.” Toxins and poo monsters have ruined our puddle spashing. Black mold and broken levees have ruined lives and rosey glassed boone’s farm enduced oh-so-fond memories of Led Zeppelin 8 tracks. The glorious patter of rain on a tin roof has given way to shakey FEMA trailers… the weather is no longer a chance for Willard Scott to give a centegenarian birthday wish sponsored by Smuckers. TORNADOS that once brought us to Dorothy and munchkins now bring us to the wrong OZ… cable television my arse… TORNADOS that may cause us to make another insurance claim. TORNADOS that don’t resemble that “cleaning power” of a WHITE TORNADO or a Justice League HUMAN TORNADO. Meanwhile Japan prepares for a Tsunami after a Pacific earthquake. Indeed the deja voodoo is busy working it’s effects on good old mother nature… score at half time: katrina 2, nola 0. BLOG THIS!