My OperaStill the Big Easy
Sunday, November 20, 2005 4:20:04 AM
A fucking war zone. This is how I would have to describe New Orleans upon reentry. Flipped over trucks and hearses line the median of North Claiborne Ave. as I make my descent into the raped shell of my home. Effin’ hearses! Pigs howl up and down the street in protest to the military’s authoritative superiority. Normally, the cops are the trial, jury, and hangmen in NOLA. But now, the military rules with an iron gun. Hummers and two ton Hee Haw Honky Tonk trucks flying Old Glory and Missouri plates coast over downed power lines towards their next chore. Trees look like they have been in a fight with Godzirra.
The biggest standout (in Uptown at least) is the refrigerators. A lot of people in Uptown got off good because they live in the highest part of the city. Uptown...get it! The historically wealthy part of town.“Don’t fuck with us OR our money or we’ll kill you and make your family slaves!” (Direct quote from my landlord to his TeeVee.) In 1927, our own government blew the levees on purpose to save Uptown, leaving the rest of the city to swim. Imagine that. I wonder what his approval rating was… That’s why I live in Uptown though. In the South, one must constantly be aware of their elevation. Anyways, most of these assholes didn’t have alot to worry about, and they got to come back earlier. They cared about one thing. Getting the fridges filled with the rotting flesh of young immigrants “OUT of their house!” Imagine a million refrigerators taking to the streets, waiting in line at bus stops, trying to hitch rides with anyone gutsy enough to pick them up. Whole rolls of duct tape are used to seal the moldy tombs like something macabre was pounding from the inside attempting a gruesome escape.
Swimming pools of death water swirl in the backyards of the elite. The summer fun is over.
The bottom floor of my two story townhouse smells like an asshole filled with mushrooms. I hastily discard half of what I owned. The borders of the pictures in my photo album are a congealed psychedelic mess, which is kinda cool, I guess. My fathers yearbooks from the sixties and seventies are lying out by the road in a pile of moldy trash. I never should have taken them. And I never should’ve owned leather couches. The water line only reached a foot in my house, but it destroyed three. Upstairs, time stood still, a frozen reminder of a lightning fast retreat.
The motley crew that have chosen to return to this enchanted wasteland are a hardy bunch. They are on a first come, first serve kick. The camaraderie here is surreal. Everybody got fucked on this deal, so we’re all getting along great. It’s easy when you don’t have to wait for a beer, or stop for a traffic light. Even though we’re under military control, there seems to be a sense of lawlessness. Two things that never left: an endless supply of booze, and the spirit of debauchery. When you add those two up, it’s easy to forget.
To be continued…
The biggest standout (in Uptown at least) is the refrigerators. A lot of people in Uptown got off good because they live in the highest part of the city. Uptown...get it! The historically wealthy part of town.“Don’t fuck with us OR our money or we’ll kill you and make your family slaves!” (Direct quote from my landlord to his TeeVee.) In 1927, our own government blew the levees on purpose to save Uptown, leaving the rest of the city to swim. Imagine that. I wonder what his approval rating was… That’s why I live in Uptown though. In the South, one must constantly be aware of their elevation. Anyways, most of these assholes didn’t have alot to worry about, and they got to come back earlier. They cared about one thing. Getting the fridges filled with the rotting flesh of young immigrants “OUT of their house!” Imagine a million refrigerators taking to the streets, waiting in line at bus stops, trying to hitch rides with anyone gutsy enough to pick them up. Whole rolls of duct tape are used to seal the moldy tombs like something macabre was pounding from the inside attempting a gruesome escape.
Swimming pools of death water swirl in the backyards of the elite. The summer fun is over.
The bottom floor of my two story townhouse smells like an asshole filled with mushrooms. I hastily discard half of what I owned. The borders of the pictures in my photo album are a congealed psychedelic mess, which is kinda cool, I guess. My fathers yearbooks from the sixties and seventies are lying out by the road in a pile of moldy trash. I never should have taken them. And I never should’ve owned leather couches. The water line only reached a foot in my house, but it destroyed three. Upstairs, time stood still, a frozen reminder of a lightning fast retreat.
The motley crew that have chosen to return to this enchanted wasteland are a hardy bunch. They are on a first come, first serve kick. The camaraderie here is surreal. Everybody got fucked on this deal, so we’re all getting along great. It’s easy when you don’t have to wait for a beer, or stop for a traffic light. Even though we’re under military control, there seems to be a sense of lawlessness. Two things that never left: an endless supply of booze, and the spirit of debauchery. When you add those two up, it’s easy to forget.
To be continued…
