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The title kind of says it all. Earlier this month, Kathleen, Maryclare, and I absconded to New Orleans for a desperately needed long weekend away from our lives in New York. Anyone who knows me well knows that I have a tendency to return from pretty much anywhere I visit announcing that I might like to move there. But I mean it this time. New Orleans felt really, really good. Great music everywhere you poked your head. Just as impressively: great music fans. People stopped and watched, and people appreciated and participated. Just a great city, and a great, great time with great friends! And as if that weren't enough, I closed the month with not just one, but two Bon Jovi shows! If I could just remove the fact that work actually managed to reduce me to *tears* on Thursday, these 10 days really might have been perfection!
Join me, if you will, for a crappy iPhone picture tour of the last 10 days of my life!
Kathleen and I arrived to New Orleans on Thursday afternoon and got about doing what people do in New Orleans: Enjoying a cocktail or 17. This is a picture 
taken out the window of an ancient old bar called Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop. In hindsight, I wish I'd taken a picture of the bar. It was built sometime around 1772, and it survived a couple fires in the late 1700s that nearly destroyed the entire city. So it's a burnt out kind of place, lit exclusively by candles. But instead, I took pictures of the family of miniature livestock that came walking down the street!
Moving on ... The picture below is of the beignets at Cafe du Monde. To hear people talk about these things, I expected they'd change my life. I suppose they were okay. Maybe if I were more of a doughnut person I'd feel like entirely new possibilities had revealed themselves to me in the form of piping hot fried bread covered in powdered sugar that left us all looking like we'd had a bit of a cocaine incident? Regardless, it's apparently some kind of rule that if you go to New Orleans, you have to eat these things. So we did. And I took a picture of them.
And these are the hurricanes (named after the shape of the glass -- like a hurricane lamp -- not the devastating storms) at Pat O'Brien's. Like the beignets, it's my understanding that one's trip to New Orleans would be incomplete without parking oneself on the back patio of Pat O'Brien's. Unlike the beignets, these things lived up to the hype. We went back twice.
We took the streetcar out to the Garden District one afternoon and happened to stumble upon this cemetery. I guess it makes sense: Everyone is buried above 
ground in New Orleans because of the swamp land. It's an interesting place if you can get past the creepiness!
We decided to be good little tourists and take a swamp tour one afternoon. And I'll have you know: Everything about it, including (perhaps even especially) the ride out to the swamp, was excellent. I'd been a little conflicted about the Katrina stuff going out to New Orleans: The part of me that cares about my country and the people who live in it was curious to see the affects of the storm with my own eyes. However, the part of me that lives in a city with a tragic tourist attraction of its own understands that it's strangely frustrating to have people cast a glance over the worst day of my life and then go bargain hunting at Century 21.
So the ride out to the swamp was perfect: We necessarily had to drive through some of the worst-hit areas of New Orleans, and the driver was excellent about telling us what we were seeing out the windows. Some of the stuff was pretty disturbing. Weirdly, the most striking to me was a Six Flags amusement park that had been bathed in 10 feet of water during the storm and is just an abandoned ghost town now. I'm not sure why that one made such an impression on me ...
... At any rate, we drove through all that horrible stuff, and then we did the New
Orleans version of going shopping at Century 21: We hopped on a boat and burned our butts off in the swamp! That's a marsh-mallow that the alligator is eating in the picture below. I don't recall how exactly the swamp tour folks determined this, but apparently alligators love marshmallows, so they deploy them liberally to ensure that their tour isn't like one of those "dolphin encounter" boat trips where you so often don't get much bang for your buck. And those are wild boars in the second shot. They're not native to the swamp. You'll have to forgive me for forgetting the details, but they were introduced to the swamp so they could be hunted and eaten by the people who lived on the land. Turns out they also like marshmallows. Which I suppose is understandable. I mean, who doesn't like marshmallows??
The one thing about the swamp tour: It was really fucking hot. We were afraid it might be bug-y out there in the swamp. But apparently it was too hot even for the bugs. So it was back to the hotel and into the shower for us; and even though the water in Louisiana has a way of kind of sticking to you (Seriously, my first shower in New Orleans might have been my longest shower ever because I just couldn't get to the point where I felt rinsed off.), we emerged feeling like brand spanking new people. Maryclare, unfortunately, had to head back home, but Kathleen and I set off to Mother's for some more fairly disappointing New Orleans food. Seriously. Lest anyone think I'm an elitist New Yorker and/or a Yankee who can't appreciate southern fare, I'll have you know that my second favorite food city in the world is Charleston, SC. I did manage to find the best seafood gumbo I've ever tasted at a place called The Gumbo Shop, but otherwise, the food was seriously underwhelming.
After Mother's it was back to Pat O'Brien's for another hurricane, then out to stand in line for Preservation Hall, which is a jazz venue in New Orleans that 
opened in the early 1960s to preserve New Orleans style jazz (and, at the time, provide local, often older, New Orleans style jazz musicians with a place they could play for tips). The place had a great hole-in-the-wall vibe that made you feel like you were seeing something really special, even though the same thing happens there five nights per week. It doesn't serve food or drinks. Seating is minimal -- just a couple wooden benches and some chairs along the sides of the room -- and most people just stand in the back. Kathleen and I were having so much fun that we stayed for all three sets, taking turns ducking out to use the restrooms and replenish our beers at the bar across the street and gradually making our way up to the front row. Just an excellently fun time ...
... as was the band we found after Preservation Hall! They came with a terrible name -- The Jumbo Shrimp Jazz Band -- but fortunately for everyone involved, 
their musical talent far exceeded their band naming capa-
bilities. I don't know what you call their style of music. I even asked the banjo player, and I forget what he told me. (Look, we'd been out for awhile.) But they had a drummer, a guy on the big bass, a banjo player, a trumpet player, and a trombone player. They all sang, and it felt a bit like vaudeville big band as it might be played in a small back room in a southern city some time around 1920. They were totally into it. The crowd was totally into it. It was pretty much everything I loved about New Orleans wrapped up into one amazing experience.
But all good things must come to an end. (Must they, really? Or is that just something we tell ourselves so that we don't feel too bad about spending three-quarters of our lives at work?) But fortunately, the week ahead had not one, but two (!!!) Giants Stadium Bon Jovi shows on the calendar, so coming home wasn't the worst thing that ever happened to me.
This is a shot I took last night looking out of the new stadium at what's left of the old house. It was interesting and kind of sad to watch people's reactions to 
it: You had to peer through the ugly slats in the new stadium to see it, so there we all were, bending over and cocking our necks and looking a little longer than maybe we thought we'd need to and feeling compelled to comment how sad it all was to the people standing next to us. I don't think this new football stadium will be embraced the way the new Yankees and Mets stadiums have been embraced. It's ugly. It doesn't feel like an improvement. And were there really that many problems with the old stadium anyway? At any rate, here's what's left. I wish I had a camera that was capable of better detail because it was pretty creepy looking. It really didn't look anything like a construction site: It just looked abandoned, or like a disaster had happened. Almost post-apocalyptic.
And these are just a couple shots from the shows! Which were incredible. I knew it would be a good time because Bon Jovi are, above all, entertainers. But I didn't know what to expect in terms of the music: The last time I saw Bon Jovi, Jon's voice was a little shot. (In fairness to him, the last show I saw was the last show of that tour.) And I worried that their show might be so choreographed that Saturday's show would be a carbon copy of Thursday's. But the band sounded absolutely fantastic, and it was only the absolute biggest hits that I heard twice. I won't labor the point because anybody who reads this likely knows I'm a big fan of the band, so perhaps I can't be trusted to be objective. It was a great pair of shows, though, and I had a great time. Some parting shots:
I should have started tracking this shit ages ago. God knows it hardly took a psychic to see it coming: After all, our current mess started when our former mess got caught with a prostitute. It would be hilarious if it weren't so disastrous. Check back for updates. I'm sure there will be many.
February 12, 2010:
Simon Doonan, speculating about the contents of the New York Times expose about Governor Paterson: “When people don't say what it is, one can't help but think it involves a tranny. It's better to come out and tell everyone. If you have a scandal, put it out there. If you don't, people are just going to think it involves a tranny. I should say 'transgender'? A trans-person. When people are being super evasive about it, one can't help thinking it involves a trans-person. Maybe I'm wrong. Just speculating."February 22, 2010:
NY Magazine, reacting to David Paterson’s comments that he is the “Teflon Governor”: “The Teflon Governor? That's rich. In some ways, Paterson is the opposite of a Teflon politician -- even things that aren't his fault, like the State Senate's dysfunction and New York's financial crisis, seem to stick to him.” March 16, 2010:
There was a special election in Queens today to fill the seat that opened when Hiram Monserrate was expelled from the Senate for, among other things, conviction on misdemeanor assault charges for slashing his girlfriend with a broken glass. Here’s how bad things have gotten in the NY State Legislature, people:
1. One of the key candidates vying to fill Hiram Monserrate’s seat is … Hiram Monserrate! How completely fucked is my state that this is even possible? Dear Legislature: If you ever get your act enough together to pass anything even remotely worthwhile, please add “Hiram’s Law” to your agenda, i.e., “If you are expelled from the Senate, you are legally barred from running to replace yourself.”
2. The other key candidate vying to fill Hiram Montserrate’s seat is apparently handing out pamphlets that say, “Jose Peralta: Not a wife beater.” When that’s (literally) the only reason you’re voting for someone, you have a problem.
March 17, 2010:
Ohferchrissakes!!! Hiram Monserrate lost the special election yesterday. Though he did take home 27 percent of the vote. Who the hell are these people who voted for him?? There's the whole attacking-his-girlfriend-with-a-broken-glass situation, but if that's not enough reason to deem this asshole unfit for office, let's not forget that he was also involved in that attempted legislative power swap that crippled Albany for several weeks last summer. Remember that circus? Let's review:
Last June, no doubt in advance of their own political careers and agendas, Democrats Hiram Monserrate and Pedro Espada briefly aligned with Senate Republicans, giving the Republicans a two vote majority in the Senate (32-30). Confusion ensued. Like, can you do that? Nobody knew. This was hardly the brilliant coup everyone should have known it wouldn't be, so exactly one week later, Hiram Monserrate decides to cut his losses and declares, "My bad. I'm a Democrat again," and attempts to present himself as Super Bipartisan Man.
With the sides now deadlocked (31-31), the legislature deteriorates into a comedy of errors. There's a lot of walking out and locking out. Like, the Democrats literally refuse to turn over the keys to the Senate chambers. (Apparently having the majority means you get to keep the keys? I don't know.) Somehow the Republicans get a set. The parties hold dueling sessions, but neither side can get anything done because you need a majority (32 senators) present to pass a law. Comedy reaches its apex when a Republican senator enters the chamber during a Democrat-run session, I believe, to retrieve his coat, and the Democrats declare a quorum. In what must have been hilarious to watch -- Democrats furiously attempting to pass laws, Republican senator guy trying to get the hell out of the room -- the Democrats manage to pass a couple bills on stuff like motel taxes and 911 service fees.
Ultimately, Governor Paterson decides to stop the madness by appointing Democrat Richard Ravich Lieutenant Governor. (The position had been vacant since David Paterson became governor after Eliot Spitzer got caught with the prostitute.). With power now back in the Democrats' hands, Pedro Espada says, "Ya know what? Nevermind. I'll be a Democrat again. Do-over!" and it gets a little weird because I feel like everybody's just kind of decided to pretend that whole episode never happened. Four weeks of total legislative uselessness. We should be outraged, but it appears instead that we've decided collectively that we won't talk about *that* anymore.
So yes. Hiram Monserrate. Convicted of misdemeanor assault of his girlfriend. Central participant in failed political coup. Expelled from the Senate by his peers. You'd think the guy would say, "Perhaps it's time for me to disappear from the public eye for awhile. Lay low. Work on my image." But if you thought that, you'd be wrong. Because guess what is rumored to be the man's next move: Yes folks, allegedly he will run to fill the representative seat vacated by the guy who just beat him in yesterday's special election; the special election, remember, to fill the Senate seat which opened when he was expelled from the Senate. Seriously. Has this man no pride? Go away!
As a city, New York buys its umbrellas from street vendors or Duane Reade. We do not expect that they will be with us for long -- we abuse them, we forget them places, we lend them to one another as if they were community property -- so we do not spend money on high quality gear. As a result, any rainy day turns this town into an umbrella graveyard. But yesterday was unlike anything I'd ever seen before -- 24 hours straight of the windiest, wettest weather I've seen in 11 years living here. Umbrella carcasses as far as the eye could see, strewn about the ground, or jutting awkwardly from trash cans.
By noon, every block had one of these.
The top blew right off this one.
My umbrella on the subway at 2a.m. Its stem got bent against the sheer force of the wind, and it can no longer collapse to purse-size. But it did yeoman's work yesterday, and its service was appreciated.
Yesterday afternoon, a co-worker posted this blog entry from Nick Carr to his Facebook page. The moral of the story, as Carr tells is, is that the accessibility of music and the abundance of it have flattened the experience of it: Music isn't as magical as it used to be; discovery isn't as powerful.Toward the end of the blog post, Carr references a comment from John Taylor (the drummer of Duran Duran, and the author of an article that inspired Carr's blog post) that tracking down an album used to be a quest of sorts, and, "as with all quests, there were risks involved." I guess he's talking about the risk of wasting your time and energy biking 10 miles to the nearest record shop and blowing 10 bucks on something that sucks? But that's hardly the stuff of great adventure, you know? Those aren't the kinds of risks that are going to heighten dramatically the intensity of an experience; they are the kinds of risks, though, that will keep you from discovering something that might be great.
Because, do you remember how difficult it used to be to discover something new and awesome? Unless a band made it big, it was usually a matter of luck. Contrary to popular belief, my favorite band is not Bon Jovi; it's The Tragically Hip, and the only reason I know about them is because in 1999, I dated a Canadian guy named Scott who loved them, and I loved him, so I attempted to love everything he loved in a youthful misinterpretation of what it means to love someone. (Fortunately for me, Scott had good taste.) My favorite band to see live, meanwhile, is Great Big Sea, and the only reason I know about them is because they opened for The Tragically Hip at a free show they played in Central Park on Canada Day in 2000. Those two bands have brought me so much happiness over the last decade, but I'd probably never had learned about either of them if I hadn't met Scott.
But then you have these days: I had the most intense music experience of my entire life at a concert I attended this past summer: Dave Rawlings' guitar solo during his cover of Bob Dylan's song Queen Jane Approximately during The Big Surprise Tour's stop at Beacon Theatre. I went to this concert because I wanted to see Gillian Welch, who was going to accompany Dave Rawlings at the show. And I'd started listening to Gillian Welch because I'd heard a band called The Great Atomic Power cover some of her songs. The Great Atomic Power was nothing more than a temporary gathering of some musicians in Toronto to play a charity gig (and then a few gigs stemmed from that), but someone recorded one of their shows and posted it to archive.org. I heard the show because two of the musicians in The Great Atomic Power used to play together in Moxy Fruvous (In case you've been living under a rock and haven't heard, I'm a little obsessed.), so the show turned up when I searched for Fruvous shows on archive.org.
Now, there are two things about this story which speak to why the way we experience music today is kind of awesome:
- First, I never would have had that experience if I couldn't listen to music risk-free. I might have heard that Great Atomic Power show because fans have been taping and sharing shows for ages, but I never would have gone out and purchased one of Gillian Welch's CDs to see if her versions of her own songs were as great as the ones The Great Atomic Power played. I was curious enough to fire up my Napster-to-Go membership and listen to her music, but I wasn't curious enough to blow 10 bucks on the endeavor. "Those are the kinds of risks that keep you from discovering something that might be great." (And in an old-school-style discovery, Justin Townes Earle was the opening act at that Dave Rawlings performance. Even if you just sort of know me, you've probably heard me talk about that guy. Just an incredibly gifted songwriter and one damn charismatic showman.)
- Second, it wasn't walking to Samsondale Music or begging my Mom to take me to the Mall (my version of John Taylor's 10-mile bike ride), but the road to that concert was still a journey, and it was fun! A couple weeks ago, I spent an entire Saturday afternoon reading Bob Hallett's blog about music, searching the internet for the songs he described, and listening to them. I listened to probably 50 songs that day; some I liked, some not so much, but all were interesting to listen to, especially through the lens Bob laid over them, and the whole process was just plain fun. It was geeky and researcher-y and more or less right up my alley in those respects; and one of the bands I heard that day -- The Decemberists -- is the most exciting and interesting band I've heard in years. I've devoured their music over the last several weeks, and I cannot wait until the next time they are in New York City.
And how fucking awesome is it that I can link right to all these amazing discoveries I've made so anyone whose interest is piqued can watch and listen for themselves to see if the things that speak to me speak to them, too? Unless you are young and hopelessly in love with me, you probably won't pedal your way to the record shop to see if you feel the same way about Justin Townes Earle that I do, but you might click on the link in my post to see what you think. And it's fun to share! At least, if you're me, it's really fucking fun to share! I don't sort-of like things. I don't bother. I like things a lot, and I dislike things a lot, and everything in between doesn't really exist. So when I find something I like, I'm compelled to tell other people about it. I want to share it with them, and I love that I can. I don't know if you'll listen, but I hope you will. I don't think you'll like everything, but there might be one thing in here that you think is awesome, and you'll see (if your faith has at all been shaken) that music is just as magical as it always was; the power of discovery is just as great.
[Originally a Facebook post to Kerry]:
You're getting a second chance to see these guys: Thursday night @ Club Nokia. I know my taste in music is suspect, but an entire nation loves this band: If you can't trust me, then at least trust Canada. Gord Downie is an epically talented showman. He is what Bono wishes he could be. There. I said it. Even though I know it's not true. I'm sure Bono is perfectly satisfied being Bono; I doubt he wishes he were anybody other than who he is. But he could have been greater, and he never got there, and that irritates me.
Anyhow. The only downside to this band is that, if Los Angeles Canadians are anything like New York Canadians, there will be five of the biggest guys you've ever seen in your life at this show, built like bears and drunk in that aggressive way that only Canadian men can manage (American men, mercifully, pass out long before they get anywhere near this state.), alternating between tearfully declaring their love for Gord Downie and Canada and picking a fight with someone in your immediate vicinity. It's annoying, but it's part of the scene, apparently. They do have strong stomachs, at least: I've never seen one of them vomit. (This, unfortunately, needs to be said after a very disgusting concert experience I had earlier this year.) So there is that.
Update to Notes on the Month-Long Cleaning Extravaganza:
... For those of you (and I know there are many) who were eagerly awaiting some updates on the next stages of the Month-Long Cleaning Extravaganza, I'll have you know that I haven't been holding out on you. What I've been holding out on is cleaning my damn apartment. There was a fury of bathroom cleaning ... um, Sunday night, I think? But aside from that, my old roomie arrives in under 24 hours, and my apartment still looks like a bomb went off.
I actually went out last night and purchased giant pink Rubbermaid containers (They didn't have the usual clear ones, and I was desperate.), into which I plan to dump all the shit that currently resides on the floor of my roommate's old bedroom. (And if history is any indication, that is likely where it will stay. Until my apartment collapses in a heap of disrepair. Or I die. Whichever happens first.) The only upside of the mad cleaning dash that will commence around 6p.m. this evening is that it will encourage me to be ruthless. Because let's face it. I'm over 30 now. I'm probably not ever again going to fit into those pants that made my ass look so fantastic when I was 25. And on the off-chance I ever do lose the post-30 poundage, those pants probably aren't the sorts of things that have any business being on the body of someone over the age of 30. No point holding onto them any longer. Into the trash they shall go!
[Note to people who worry about this sort of thing: I would give my under-30 pants to charity, but the city removed all the Salvation Army boxes a couple years ago, I imagine, in a flourish of terrorism prevention. Which, while potentially keeping us all alive, has created complications not unlike the complications resulting from the terrorist prevention-induced removal of all the trash cans from Rockefeller Center at Christmas-time. (No empty coffee cup has ever gone on such a journey as the one my empty Dunkin Donuts cup embarked upon with me during the Last-Minute Christmas Shopping Adventure of 2008. Nary a trash can in sight.) There is simply not, at this point, any time to schedule a Salvation Army pick-up. And I do not, at any point, have the patience nor organizational skills required to schedule a Salvation Army pick-up, so that wasn't ever going to happen anyway.]
Alright. Wish me luck! If there's anything worth posting during my Night-Long Stashing-My-Ridiculous-Shit-Out-Of-Sight Extravaganza, I'll be sure to let you know!
Next Day Update: Discoveries from a Frantic Evening of Cleaning:
1. It turns out that, around 2:30a.m., the bathroom at the Wash World more or less turns into a public bathroom for drunk people who just aren't going to make it from the nearby subway stop back to their apartments. About five minutes after each train rumbled by overhead, a stream of people in various states of alertness stumbled into the Wash World and asked somewhat desperately to use the bathroom. It got a bit comical after awhile!
2. I'm a little irritated with myself for not cleaning my apartment sooner. It took only about three hours to clean "The Forbidden Mess" (so deemed by Joe, whose 
curiosity
about the situation was piqued when I invoked the value of 10 years of friendship to ensure that he wouldn't look behind the guest room door the last time he was here, so embarrassed was I by what was going on in there). Mostly I really just needed to throw shit out.
3. So yeah. Those of you who know me, know that I lost a ton of weight (since gained back, annoyingly!) when I started running marathons in 2003. Like, I actually got pretty skinny. I knew this much. What I didn't know, however, is that I apparently also started dressing like a slut when this occurred. I found a teeniest tiniest little denim skirt last night. Holy crap. I recall emerging from an unfamiliar subway stop in Brooklyn several years ago wearing this skirt and being appalled when the cop whom I'd asked for directions to the bar where I was meeting my friends asked me if I was a stripper. I still don't think that comment was quite appropriate coming from an on-duty cop, but at least I now understand where he was coming from. Good lord.
But yeah, otherwise fairly uneventful! Just talked to my roomie, and she'll be here is about two hours, so hooray!!!
taken out the window of an ancient old bar called Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop. In hindsight, I wish I'd taken a picture of the bar. It was built sometime around 1772, and it survived a couple fires in the late 1700s that nearly destroyed the entire city. So it's a burnt out kind of place, lit exclusively by candles. But instead, I took pictures of the family of miniature livestock that came walking down the street!
ground in New Orleans because of the swamp land. It's an interesting place if you can get past the creepiness!
Orleans version of going shopping at Century 21: We hopped on a boat and burned our butts off in the swamp! That's a marsh-mallow that the alligator is eating in the picture below. I don't recall how exactly the swamp tour folks determined this, but apparently alligators love marshmallows, so they deploy them liberally to ensure that their tour isn't like one of those "dolphin encounter" boat trips where you so often don't get much bang for your buck. And those are wild boars in the second shot. They're not native to the swamp. You'll have to forgive me for forgetting the details, but they were introduced to the swamp so they could be hunted and eaten by the people who lived on the land. Turns out they also like marshmallows. Which I suppose is understandable. I mean, who doesn't like marshmallows??
opened in the early 1960s to preserve New Orleans style jazz (and, at the time, provide local, often older, New Orleans style jazz musicians with a place they could play for tips). The place had a great hole-in-the-wall vibe that made you feel like you were seeing something really special, even though the same thing happens there five nights per week. It doesn't serve food or drinks. Seating is minimal -- just a couple wooden benches and some chairs along the sides of the room -- and most people just stand in the back. Kathleen and I were having so much fun that we stayed for all three sets, taking turns ducking out to use the restrooms and replenish our beers at the bar across the street and gradually making our way up to the front row. Just an excellently fun time ...
their musical talent far exceeded their band naming capa-
it: You had to peer through the ugly slats in the new stadium to see it, so there we all were, bending over and cocking our necks and looking a little longer than maybe we thought we'd need to and feeling compelled to comment how sad it all was to the people standing next to us. I don't think this new football stadium will be embraced the way the new Yankees and Mets stadiums have been embraced. It's ugly. It doesn't feel like an improvement. And were there really that many problems with the old stadium anyway? At any rate, here's what's left. I wish I had a camera that was capable of better detail because it was pretty creepy looking. It really didn't look anything like a construction site: It just looked abandoned, or like a disaster had happened. Almost post-apocalyptic.
