Six murders in 24 hours.
It seems like the thugs are running things. They don't fear the police. Even before Katrina, it was hard to successfully prosecute anyone the for murder because nobody will testify. Mostly out of fear of revenge. Also a bit of us-versus-them dislike of the cops.
Now the criminal justice system is broken down. Even the thugs have the right to an attorney. The public defenders office is broke. It's an incredibly stupid system, but the public defenders are paid for mostly by traffic tickets. Anytime anyone pays a fine or pleads guilty to anything or is convicted of a crime, they pay a certain amount to the public defenders office. Which is possibly unconstitutional, because it gives the public defenders a motive for encouraging their clients to plead guilty.
Anyway, the cops are out giving tickets for public drunkenness on Bourbon Street (!) and not using a turn signal. Because they need to get money to the public defenders office, so the system can get rolling again.
In the meantime, while you're getting a ticket for an illegal RIGHT turn, six murders in 24 hours.
Monday, July 31, 2006
Sunday, July 30, 2006
Another sign of New Orleans' decline
The Roman Candy man's mule must have died, because he's pulling his cart around behind a big white pickup truck.
Once I saw him with his mule and cart leaving his house. He lives on Constance Street near Whole Foods. I wondered how it was that he could keep a mule in an city neighborhood, but it's New Orleans after all.
Once I saw him with his mule and cart leaving his house. He lives on Constance Street near Whole Foods. I wondered how it was that he could keep a mule in an city neighborhood, but it's New Orleans after all.
Saturday, July 29, 2006
Touchy subjects
It's Saturday night and I'm home alone. The town feels empty and hollow.
I took Hank for his late-night walk. We walked by a bar, and a guy standing outside told me Hank was a cool-looking dog. (He is a good-looking boy. I'd post more pictures of him, but he gets all wiggly for the camera.) But a couple of hoodrats saw Hank coming and scrambled across the street.
People in the ghetto are generally afraid of dogs. Sometimes I feel bad about it, when little kids run screeching from Hank when he just wants to get petted and play with them. But when the kids turn into 17-year-old gangbangers I'm glad he keeps them away.
There are plenty of people who would call me a racist for referring to hoodrats and gangbangers. I admit that I am stereotyping black teenage boys loitering on the corner, wearing extra extra large white t-shirts and big jeans falling down off their asses (surely one of the dumbest, most non-user friendly fashions ever, yet it has lingered for years now) doing their best to intimidate everyone on the street. And yeah, I do get some satisfaction when my dog makes them back up. Unfortunately, though he's a hardy and resilient boy, he can't deflect bullets.
I'm still a good liberal, but I'm tired of the apologetic white liberal thing where if you dare to notice anything bad about the black community around you, you have to explain it away by invoking historical racism. Yes, there is a problem that has its roots in the fact that white New Orleans never gave a shit about, say, funding decent public schools where someone might learn to read or gain other marketable skills, that it turned its gaze away from the poverty and squalor festering the next block over. Etcetera, etcetera, and all true.
But when the overwhelming majority of the murders in the city are done by black teenage boys spraying bullets at other black teenage boys, and taking out a few bystanders besides, and when those boys are actually proud of New Orleans being Murder Capital USA... well, I'm not going to apologize for noticing that and getting a bad attitude about the kids hanging out on my corner.
What spurred this rant? Well, this afternoon I saw the kid who snatched my purse about a year and a half ago. I'm not sure if I ever wrote about this, but a boy about 13 years old or so grabbed my purse when I was walking down the street in my own neighborhood. I ran after him screaming, which he didn't expect. And since he was a fat little fuck and I was in good shape from being a bicycle commuter, I caught up with him and he dropped the purse. There were a bunch of people sitting out on their stoops watching this, and no one did anything to help me. Then this lady told me I better get out of this neighborhood, and I stood there in the street and screamed at them that this is my goddamn neighborhood. This was just around the corner from my old apartment, which I'd lived in for five years by that time. It was the day after Valentines Day.
And then later today I had the unpleasant experience of watching this video on YouTube, taped in the Magnolia projects. I'm sorry, you're going to have to cut and paste, and then you're going to have to turn the volume down and I'm warning you you won't be able to watch it for more than a few minutes:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7QGon3B0FJc
New Orleans was always a precarious balance of beauty and ugliness, love and hate, grace and despair. Since the storm, it seems to me that the balance has shifted in favor of the ugliness. I'm starting to think that I should move away, even if I can't generate that much enthusiasm for anyplace else.
Right after the National Guard returned, there was a dip in the murder rate, but for the last few weeks there has been at least two murders a day almost every day.
It's not just the crime. It's the fact that no one seems to be in charge. It doesn't seem like anyone has a plan, at least not anyone with the power to implement it. Actually, one of the mayor's advisors is working on getting some big box stores in Orleans Parish. Great.
One of the few good things has been the turnover on the city council. But it's not enough.
It's been almost a year, and it's actually shocking how little progress there has been in cleaning up and rebuilding. I mean, they've started to tow away the flooded cars. Supposedly the levees are being rebuilt. When you drive through Lakeview, there might be one or two houses on each block that is being renovated, where people are living a trailer out front or actually in the house.
The music still exists, but it seems subdued. Kermit Ruffins opend a new club on Frenchmen Street, which is cool. The Dragons Den reopened last week.
Magazine Street is still busy, lots of hip people spending money. Where they come from I don't know. Rents are approaching New York and San Francisco levels, but I don't know where anyone gets the money to pay it.
What's left? Pretty houses, corner bars, shrimp poboys, good radio, dramatic afternoon thunderstorms. I'm not sure if that's enough.
I took Hank for his late-night walk. We walked by a bar, and a guy standing outside told me Hank was a cool-looking dog. (He is a good-looking boy. I'd post more pictures of him, but he gets all wiggly for the camera.) But a couple of hoodrats saw Hank coming and scrambled across the street.
People in the ghetto are generally afraid of dogs. Sometimes I feel bad about it, when little kids run screeching from Hank when he just wants to get petted and play with them. But when the kids turn into 17-year-old gangbangers I'm glad he keeps them away.
There are plenty of people who would call me a racist for referring to hoodrats and gangbangers. I admit that I am stereotyping black teenage boys loitering on the corner, wearing extra extra large white t-shirts and big jeans falling down off their asses (surely one of the dumbest, most non-user friendly fashions ever, yet it has lingered for years now) doing their best to intimidate everyone on the street. And yeah, I do get some satisfaction when my dog makes them back up. Unfortunately, though he's a hardy and resilient boy, he can't deflect bullets.
I'm still a good liberal, but I'm tired of the apologetic white liberal thing where if you dare to notice anything bad about the black community around you, you have to explain it away by invoking historical racism. Yes, there is a problem that has its roots in the fact that white New Orleans never gave a shit about, say, funding decent public schools where someone might learn to read or gain other marketable skills, that it turned its gaze away from the poverty and squalor festering the next block over. Etcetera, etcetera, and all true.
But when the overwhelming majority of the murders in the city are done by black teenage boys spraying bullets at other black teenage boys, and taking out a few bystanders besides, and when those boys are actually proud of New Orleans being Murder Capital USA... well, I'm not going to apologize for noticing that and getting a bad attitude about the kids hanging out on my corner.
What spurred this rant? Well, this afternoon I saw the kid who snatched my purse about a year and a half ago. I'm not sure if I ever wrote about this, but a boy about 13 years old or so grabbed my purse when I was walking down the street in my own neighborhood. I ran after him screaming, which he didn't expect. And since he was a fat little fuck and I was in good shape from being a bicycle commuter, I caught up with him and he dropped the purse. There were a bunch of people sitting out on their stoops watching this, and no one did anything to help me. Then this lady told me I better get out of this neighborhood, and I stood there in the street and screamed at them that this is my goddamn neighborhood. This was just around the corner from my old apartment, which I'd lived in for five years by that time. It was the day after Valentines Day.
And then later today I had the unpleasant experience of watching this video on YouTube, taped in the Magnolia projects. I'm sorry, you're going to have to cut and paste, and then you're going to have to turn the volume down and I'm warning you you won't be able to watch it for more than a few minutes:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7QGon3B0FJc
New Orleans was always a precarious balance of beauty and ugliness, love and hate, grace and despair. Since the storm, it seems to me that the balance has shifted in favor of the ugliness. I'm starting to think that I should move away, even if I can't generate that much enthusiasm for anyplace else.
Right after the National Guard returned, there was a dip in the murder rate, but for the last few weeks there has been at least two murders a day almost every day.
It's not just the crime. It's the fact that no one seems to be in charge. It doesn't seem like anyone has a plan, at least not anyone with the power to implement it. Actually, one of the mayor's advisors is working on getting some big box stores in Orleans Parish. Great.
One of the few good things has been the turnover on the city council. But it's not enough.
It's been almost a year, and it's actually shocking how little progress there has been in cleaning up and rebuilding. I mean, they've started to tow away the flooded cars. Supposedly the levees are being rebuilt. When you drive through Lakeview, there might be one or two houses on each block that is being renovated, where people are living a trailer out front or actually in the house.
The music still exists, but it seems subdued. Kermit Ruffins opend a new club on Frenchmen Street, which is cool. The Dragons Den reopened last week.
Magazine Street is still busy, lots of hip people spending money. Where they come from I don't know. Rents are approaching New York and San Francisco levels, but I don't know where anyone gets the money to pay it.
What's left? Pretty houses, corner bars, shrimp poboys, good radio, dramatic afternoon thunderstorms. I'm not sure if that's enough.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Psychotherapy
I mentioned the wonderfullness of Wellbutrin in an earlier post. The shrink at school who prescribed it for me suggested that I also look into doing some therapy. And I know I should. If my problems are serious enough to warrant antidepressants, they warrant examination, too, and now seems like the time. Even before the hurricane pulled the rug out from under my life, I had "issues" having to do with being in some ways a chronic underachiever, and also about relationships.
But.
The shrink gave me a list of therapists who are still in town and deemed competent. One of them was the girl that Adam dubbed the Sandspur--the one who made me feel like I was being stalked, dated at least two guys I had previously gone out with (including the Psychopath), and worst of all tried to get me to play kickball. (One of the perks of adulthood is that no one can force me to play kickball ever again.)
Adam himself dated a therapist who was a real nutcase. My old therapist had a tic.
And I wonder how these people are supposed to help me with my problems when they don't seem to be handling their own?
Okay, I know about avoidance and resistance and all that. I know I'm resisting something that would probably help me. I "interviewed" a therapist today and she seemed non-nutty and is willing to do a reduced fee if I commit to sticking with it.
But right now everything about therapy and therapists and the things therapists say and the very idea that I need therapy is INCREDIBLY FUCKING ANNOYING.
But.
The shrink gave me a list of therapists who are still in town and deemed competent. One of them was the girl that Adam dubbed the Sandspur--the one who made me feel like I was being stalked, dated at least two guys I had previously gone out with (including the Psychopath), and worst of all tried to get me to play kickball. (One of the perks of adulthood is that no one can force me to play kickball ever again.)
Adam himself dated a therapist who was a real nutcase. My old therapist had a tic.
And I wonder how these people are supposed to help me with my problems when they don't seem to be handling their own?
Okay, I know about avoidance and resistance and all that. I know I'm resisting something that would probably help me. I "interviewed" a therapist today and she seemed non-nutty and is willing to do a reduced fee if I commit to sticking with it.
But right now everything about therapy and therapists and the things therapists say and the very idea that I need therapy is INCREDIBLY FUCKING ANNOYING.
Friday, July 21, 2006
Bikini Girls with Machine Guns
I know I'm kinda late to the party, but all of a sudden I really love the Cramps.
See, Alex Chilton produced the first Cramps album around 1980 or so. Chilton was a fallen god to my ex-husband, and everything in his ouevre got a lot of play at our house. I didn't like it at the time. Partly cause my tastes were wandering elsewhere. Partly cause the childish and contentious dynamic of our relationship made it hard for me to like anything he liked. Partly out of some hipster reverse psychology, like if I rejected what the cool kids liked, that made me even more cool.
Maybe now I'm having a midlife crisis in which I reconsider and take comfort from the punk-psychobilly bands of my youth.
Whatever.
Right now they sound like everything rock 'n' roll was supposed to be. Loud. Rude. Fun. Cathartic.
Plus, you know, the guitarist is a chick, the singer is a guy.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
B&N
Yesterday I was looking at the table of new paperback fiction at Barnes & Noble. I was reading the back cover of a book that looked moderately amusing and learned that the authoress was a 26-year-old student at the very writing program that I attended. Not long ago such a discovery would have caused a tortured fit of jealousy, anxiety and insecurity.
But now it didn't really bother me. I take that to mean that I'm doing the right things with myself.
Of course, if it didn't bother me at all I would have forgotten all about it by now.
But now it didn't really bother me. I take that to mean that I'm doing the right things with myself.
Of course, if it didn't bother me at all I would have forgotten all about it by now.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
A higher circle of hell
My sister broke up with her fiance. I don't know the whole story, but I'm sorry to hear it. He's a sweet guy and they seemed to suit each other. My sister is really very cool and a unique person, and it might be that he really wasn't quite good enough in some ways. He wasn't super intelligent. But at the same time, sometimes my sister seems congenitally incapable of being happy. Or, like my mother, chronically dissatisfied with perfectly nice men who try to make them happy. I hope to avoid that particular pathology.
I didn't get my cash, but I got the new credit card, which is almost as good. Got the car back. Remembered how much I love my car. Got a new bag of dog food just in the nick of time.
It's summer in New Orleans, which means a big dramatic thunderstorm every afternoon. I love that pounding tropical rain. Even if it does make big mosquito-incubating puddles everywhere.
My scholarship is safe for now. I talked to the dean of student about how I can learn to get a few A's and keep it safe.
It's too bad about the lost almost brother-in-law, but otherwise things got a little bit less hellish today.
I didn't get my cash, but I got the new credit card, which is almost as good. Got the car back. Remembered how much I love my car. Got a new bag of dog food just in the nick of time.
It's summer in New Orleans, which means a big dramatic thunderstorm every afternoon. I love that pounding tropical rain. Even if it does make big mosquito-incubating puddles everywhere.
My scholarship is safe for now. I talked to the dean of student about how I can learn to get a few A's and keep it safe.
It's too bad about the lost almost brother-in-law, but otherwise things got a little bit less hellish today.
Monday, July 17, 2006
My life is a hell
I got my champagne and fireworks--on the 4th of July in Mr. M's mother's backyard, while Mr. M was in his room, trying to sleep through wrenching pain. His mom had me pop open a bottle she was saving in the refrigerator, not because we had anything to celebrate but because she needed a drink.
It's miserable to see the suffering of someone you love and not be able to do anything about it. And he gets tired of being fussed over, of women worrying about him.
I wasn't prepared to see him in such bad shape. I knew it was major surgery, but I didn't really get how major. He's 6 feet tall and now weighs 130 pounds with his shoes on. He can't stand up straight and walks with a cane. The surgeon said to expect the recovery to take ten weeks. The good news is that even though he is miserable, he is recovering. He will get through it. And then he has to get in physical and mental shape for his transplant.
His time in the hospital was especially bad because they put him in a recovery room with brain-damaged patients who babbled nonsense. But worse than the patients were the mean nurses who made fun of them. And one of the patients died while he was in there. I can understand why he now dreads going back to the hospital.
I had parked my car at the airport while I was gone, and when I got back it wouldn't start. It turned out to be not that big of a deal--whoever put the new battery in got the wires crossed so it wasn't charging right. Still, it couldn't be jumpstarted and I had to get it towed out of the garage, which was an enormous pain in the ass.
I took a cab home the night I got in because I just couldn't deal with it right then. Then I left my cell phone in the cab.
I'm broke. I'm doing a nonpaid internship this summer (all six weeks of it). I got a thousand dollar grant which paid my rent and utility bill for July. I'm taking money out of my pathetic little retirement account to get through the rest of the summer. But they make it such a hassle to get your own money and they take forever to process a request, and I'm still waiting.
So my car is still at the garage and I haven't been able to pay the dogsitter. I forced myself to overcome my dread of credit cards and applied for one, because I can't be without some kind of cash flow if we need to evacuate. But of course the card hasn't shown up yet, either.
I got a B- in legal research and writing, which is better than I thought I would do. But I got all B's in the rest of my classes, which means I got slightly below a 3.0 GPA for the semester, which means they could take my scholarship away from me if they want to be strict about it. I think, I hope, they will have mercy since I've only a tiny bit short and my overall GPA is still above a 3.0 and they know it's been a tough year.
But I have to figure out how to get at least some A's to mix in with the B's. I can't spend the next two years in constant fear of losing my scholarship. And I'm pretty sure I had the highest LSAT score in my class. If I'm smart enough to get a 175 on the LSAT, it seems like I should be smart enough to get at least a few A's in law school.
I've been thinking of an old friend of mine who lives in New York. During the first few weeks after the hurricane, she sent me a gift certificate to L.L. Bean so I could get some warm clothes, since I left home with only a few t-shirts, jeans and sandals. But later, when I was in DC, I sent her a few emails because I was trying to get up there for a weekend and wanted to see her. But she never replied. I didn't pursue it any further because I just couldn't deal with any friendship drama. But I wondered if I'd done something that offended her, and if so what it was.
There's been a lot in the news about people spending their FEMA money on strippers and cruises, and I started to think maybe she's mad because I used some of my FEMA money to buy a BMW. On the face of it, I suppose it looks bad. But it was a ten-year-old BMW for which I paid a little less than $4,000. It might be the nicest $4,000 car that anyone ever got, but doesn't that make it a sensible buy? Did she miss the part about how I almost how panicked I was the day before the storm when I couldn't find a ride with anyone who would let me bring my dog? Or how I had to criss cross the country in the following months? I needed car just as badly as other people needed hotel rooms.
Well, who knows what's really going on with her. I suppose I could call and ask. But maybe I don't want to know.
I don't know why, after everything that's happened, that right now is the point where I just can't take one more damn thing.
If another hurricane hits, I'm not going to worry about school or work or anything. I'm just going to get out of here and go vegetate with my folks and with Mr. M. I'm almost looking forward to it.
A very nice woman I don't know has been reading my blog and leaving supportive comments. It's comforting. A little odd but not in a bad way. Ten years ago when I was trying to be some sort of confessional non-fiction writer, I wanted more than anything to interest strangers in my life. But my life wasn't all that interesting at that point, and I was not wise or talented enough to make something compelling out of nothing.
And now, well...
Be careful what you wish for.
It's miserable to see the suffering of someone you love and not be able to do anything about it. And he gets tired of being fussed over, of women worrying about him.
I wasn't prepared to see him in such bad shape. I knew it was major surgery, but I didn't really get how major. He's 6 feet tall and now weighs 130 pounds with his shoes on. He can't stand up straight and walks with a cane. The surgeon said to expect the recovery to take ten weeks. The good news is that even though he is miserable, he is recovering. He will get through it. And then he has to get in physical and mental shape for his transplant.
His time in the hospital was especially bad because they put him in a recovery room with brain-damaged patients who babbled nonsense. But worse than the patients were the mean nurses who made fun of them. And one of the patients died while he was in there. I can understand why he now dreads going back to the hospital.
I had parked my car at the airport while I was gone, and when I got back it wouldn't start. It turned out to be not that big of a deal--whoever put the new battery in got the wires crossed so it wasn't charging right. Still, it couldn't be jumpstarted and I had to get it towed out of the garage, which was an enormous pain in the ass.
I took a cab home the night I got in because I just couldn't deal with it right then. Then I left my cell phone in the cab.
I'm broke. I'm doing a nonpaid internship this summer (all six weeks of it). I got a thousand dollar grant which paid my rent and utility bill for July. I'm taking money out of my pathetic little retirement account to get through the rest of the summer. But they make it such a hassle to get your own money and they take forever to process a request, and I'm still waiting.
So my car is still at the garage and I haven't been able to pay the dogsitter. I forced myself to overcome my dread of credit cards and applied for one, because I can't be without some kind of cash flow if we need to evacuate. But of course the card hasn't shown up yet, either.
I got a B- in legal research and writing, which is better than I thought I would do. But I got all B's in the rest of my classes, which means I got slightly below a 3.0 GPA for the semester, which means they could take my scholarship away from me if they want to be strict about it. I think, I hope, they will have mercy since I've only a tiny bit short and my overall GPA is still above a 3.0 and they know it's been a tough year.
But I have to figure out how to get at least some A's to mix in with the B's. I can't spend the next two years in constant fear of losing my scholarship. And I'm pretty sure I had the highest LSAT score in my class. If I'm smart enough to get a 175 on the LSAT, it seems like I should be smart enough to get at least a few A's in law school.
I've been thinking of an old friend of mine who lives in New York. During the first few weeks after the hurricane, she sent me a gift certificate to L.L. Bean so I could get some warm clothes, since I left home with only a few t-shirts, jeans and sandals. But later, when I was in DC, I sent her a few emails because I was trying to get up there for a weekend and wanted to see her. But she never replied. I didn't pursue it any further because I just couldn't deal with any friendship drama. But I wondered if I'd done something that offended her, and if so what it was.
There's been a lot in the news about people spending their FEMA money on strippers and cruises, and I started to think maybe she's mad because I used some of my FEMA money to buy a BMW. On the face of it, I suppose it looks bad. But it was a ten-year-old BMW for which I paid a little less than $4,000. It might be the nicest $4,000 car that anyone ever got, but doesn't that make it a sensible buy? Did she miss the part about how I almost how panicked I was the day before the storm when I couldn't find a ride with anyone who would let me bring my dog? Or how I had to criss cross the country in the following months? I needed car just as badly as other people needed hotel rooms.
Well, who knows what's really going on with her. I suppose I could call and ask. But maybe I don't want to know.
I don't know why, after everything that's happened, that right now is the point where I just can't take one more damn thing.
If another hurricane hits, I'm not going to worry about school or work or anything. I'm just going to get out of here and go vegetate with my folks and with Mr. M. I'm almost looking forward to it.
A very nice woman I don't know has been reading my blog and leaving supportive comments. It's comforting. A little odd but not in a bad way. Ten years ago when I was trying to be some sort of confessional non-fiction writer, I wanted more than anything to interest strangers in my life. But my life wasn't all that interesting at that point, and I was not wise or talented enough to make something compelling out of nothing.
And now, well...
Be careful what you wish for.
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