noun
first time ever for the saints.
who dat indeed?!
update, feb. 7:
you know, i moved to los angeles in the summer of ‘99, and that season the lakers broke their losing streak and won the championship. i moved here in the summer of ‘09 and…well, i think you get my drift.
you’re welcome, new orleans.
first, the formalities: acadia was a region of canada colonized by the french. the acadian people were exiled at some point and migrated to other areas, including, most notably, new orleans, where the name acadian morphed into “cajun.” cajun music is the music of the (white) acadian people and is comprised of waltzes and more up-tempo two-steps played with an accordion, fiddle, bass, drum, and, of course, a vest frottoir—a steel washboard worn like an umpire’s chest protector and played with, at least where i just saw it, a pair of spoons!
so okay, where i just saw it is at tipitina’s, a new orleans music staple since the 70s, created for and dedicated to revered new orleans musician professor longhair. i went there dolo hoping that i would somehow get to learn the partner dancing that goes along with this style of music. inside was a fairly good sized dance floor covered with ashy, super old school linoleum tiling worn out in some places in a way that suggested i might be in luck. the clientele that trickled in and sat in the folding metal chairs that surrounded the floor on three sides, however, suggested that i might not. these were old people. i mean old for real. like ye olde. it looked like i had stumbled into a nursing home social. an all-white nursing home social. perhaps the 5:30pm start time should have tipped me off.
there was one brotha there, though, who had come in at the same time i did. at first i thought maybe he and i might huddle together, seeking safety in numbers, but then i saw that he knew all these old white people. folks greeted him by name and came up and hugged him and such. buh? luckily for me, megan and guadalupe showed up pretty early on and sat down next to me. turned out they were tourists from none other than my Favorite City in the World: san miguel de allende, mexico. neat!
so i sat and waited while the locally famous bruce daigrepont cajun band was busy sound-checking and giving me a little of my first exposure to people speaking cajun french. ooo-la-la! ‘bout time, chère. once the bows were rosined and the levels were good, the music began, and i quickly learned not to judge a book by its cover: those old white people could dance! they were just a’two-steppin’ and a’waltizin’ and a’twirlin’ all over that linoleum. and they weren’t hesitant to ask us newbs on the sidelines to join in. in fact, smitty had come over and addressed me and my girls-by-default before the music even started.
smitty, we ascertained, was the club social director, which we all appreciated because he made sure we had a good time. he stayed grabbing us up to teach us circle dances and every other kind of dance that went with the music. and he was good, yo. at one point, he grabbed me up for a really fast two-step. he threw everything he had at me and, as is the mark of a really great lead, i was right there in step with him for all of it. wherever my feet needed to be, they were there. it was awesome! later on, though, i was talking with one of the other two brothas that had shown up, and he laughed his ass off when i mentioned that we thought smitty worked there. “smitty paid his seven dollars to get in here just like you and me,” he cackled. hmph, i say!
so, in conclusion, bruce daigrepont’s “fais do do” (which i just now discovered is cajun for “dance party”) makes for a good time and an early night. so put on your twirly skirt, tie on a bandana, and get your ass to tipitina’s on sunday. the music is fantastic, and you’ll dance the night evening away, whoever and whatever you are. smitty will make damn sure of that!
next stop: zydeco. because, as i learned from the brothas at tipitina’s, it is not the same thing.
I like to say that I’m not superstitious. If you split the pole with me, I won’t walk back around. I won’t throw spilled salt over my shoulder, and I secretly relish black cats crossing my path, an occurrence which, residents of my current New Orleans neighborhood will tell you, is almost impossible to avoid here anyway. However, all this aside, there is one superstition that I regard differently than others. Every New Year’s Eve, I am conscientious about what I do, where I go, and who I go with because, as the superstition goes: what you’re doing when the new year enters at midnight is what you will be doing all year long. If you’re sleeping at midnight, you will sleep away the year. If you’re drunk, you will drink it away. And if you’re surrounded by white people…
…enter my current identity crisis. See, the where and when of my growing up included a great deal of self-segregation among blacks and whites. My middle school and high school were majority white—probably a good 75% or more—and that was fine. We all got along. Attended classes together. Participated in sports and extracurricular activities together. But when it came to socializing and friendships and even just eating lunch, we parted ways like left and right. And if you didn’t? If you were a black person whose friends were white? Well, you weren’t one of us. You were one of them. And this felt right because being that way—so comfortable with white people, preferring their company even—seemed unnatural, treasonous, and utterly incomprehensible. So if that was what you were about, you were abandoned to it. Ostracized. Marked, labeled, and left alone. Oreo. Crossover. Sellout.
I learned this in schools, and I learned it at home, too, where white people were generally discussed or commented upon only for their otherness. Somebody died trying to save a dog’s life? “You know they were white.” Little throwaway comments like that, as easy as breathing, maintained a distinction between us and them. A mental segregation. At its most harmful: a prejudice; at its least harmful: a constant reminder that they weren’t the same as us.
And when my white schooling and an affinity for Mtv and the white-dominated pop music of the era affected my speech? I was called the occasional name by my cousins. White girl. Molly. I understood well the gravity of this and made sure to pull myself back from that dangerous crossover precipice. I learned to “code switch”—the pedagogical term for speaking distinct variations of the same language. I spoke the patois of black folks when I was with them, and I spoke proper, upright English in educational, professional, or majority white settings.
So this is where I came from. My friends were all black. My family was all black. My neighborhood was all black. I was all black. But fast forward to where I am now. I’m in a new city doing a year of service with AmeriCorps, and the majority of my peers are white. My roommates are white. The places I go are white. The people I meet are white. As a result, my friends are white. And inside, I’m instinctively recoiling. It goes against everything that was ingrained in me since I was a child. Us. And them.
Dr. King had a dream of an integration that went beyond physical spaces. It was a mental integration. A place where we stopped even thinking about each other in terms of race. Where we would regard each other solely based upon the content of our character, not the color of our skin, not our manner of speech or our preferences, ways, or harmless quirks. I find myself now in a place where white people are living that dream, throwing open their doors for me, welcoming me into their world and puzzling at my sometimes resistant response or my occasional overt assertions of blackness when I’m with them. To me, walking through that door still feels like a turning of the back, a leaving behind, a crossing over to some other, less familiar, less comfortable place from which I will be negatively judged. I know in my heart that the differences shouldn’t matter, but in the back of my mind, I still hear oreo…molly…sellout.
This is why, on New Year’s Eve this year, I staunchly avoided the company of a good white friend—at white bars and white parties—until after midnight. Silly? Yes. Regrettable? That, too. Perhaps one day Dr. King’s dream will be a reality and I will simply hang out with the people I like with consideration given only to the content of their character, not the color of their skin. And I do believe this day is close at hand—closer each time I do go out with my white friends, each time I do have a good time in their company—but for me, at least, the day is apparently still not today.
okay, so there was this storm here, right? it struck louisiana on august 29, 2005. (1) it was absolutely a big deal, (2) i am, by no means, belittling the tragic nature of what occurred, and (3) i have discussed it in less cheeky terms here: my first ever new orleans post. so if you don’t care for cheek, get your ass outta here. (get it? heh.)
so any-hoo, here’s the thing that i find wild about The Storm: more than four years later, people are still talking about it. i mean, like a primary topic of conversation. i mean, like, i can’t go wait in line to buy a cherry pepsi at the breaux mart without hearing it come up. it’s un-freakin’-canny. i’m not putting anybody down over this; it just bugs me out is all. i was living in nyc when the towers fell and was still there more than four years after, and trust me, we weren’t still talking about it on the daily. different dynamic, i suppose. less widespread devastation, i reckon. bigger city, you might add. well, bethatasitmay, i have decided to use new orleans’s quirky little habit for my own personal, diabolical amusement. behold, i give you (read: me)…
here’s how the game is played: any time you (read: i) hear any mention of “the storm” or “katrina” in a location shown on the card, that location is marked off. the goal—duh—is to get five in a row in any direction. the prize? personal satisfaction at a job well done and front row seats at the award ceremony in your (read: my) honor, to be held just south of the river styx. 
…wanna play?
being impoverished coordinates well with not being much of a drinker. however, much most of new orleans’s social life (and seemingly ALL of big red’s) revolves around drinking. that said, i have now visited a bar or two twelve here, despite being more interested in watching the paint age on my walls than breathing in these yokels’ secondhand smoke. indoor smoking has been banned since 2003 in nyc, people. when are you bamas gonna get the memo? anyway, here begins my running list of liquor-laden establishments i’ve patronized been dragged into:
apple barrel: tiny frenchmen street spot with live music. this is where i first met big red. at a bar. shocker.
balcony bar: only good because you can sit on the nice, big outside balcony thereby diffusing the amount of secondhand smoke you take in
bj’s: super-über local bywater dive…good jukebox, though
bywater barbecue: smoke-filled sports-type bar (in back…restaurant in front)
candlelight lounge: went here on a smoke-free initiative night (!!) and heard the treme brass band play. good times!
coop’s place: decatur street bar with kitty inside; scene of my first (and last) hot buttered rum (hi, pie!)
delachaise: non-dive—only top shelf hard liquors + wine; don’t try ordering a Mounds Bar* here
finn mccool’s: smoke-filled dive with cheap drinks
half moon: smoke-filled dive with pub quizzes
helix @ the le cirque hotel: really upscale-y, modern-looking bar—you could think you were in soho or some such—with a live dj playing hip-hop and classics much more loudly than is necessary. this was on a thursday night, which is ladies’ night, which means free mojitos for the chicas. up side: free drinks! down side: turns out i officially don’t really like mojitos.
lafitte’s: probably big red’s favorite spot; smoke-filled, no-electricity-having piano bar
markey’s: smoke-filled really sports-y bar…but also birthplace of the Jan Special Mounds Bar (*bailey’s on the rocks with a splash of malibu)
masquerade @ harrah’s casino: went here for ladies’ night as well; drinks were free but consisted mostly of water + mixer. cheap asses.
mimi’s: smoke-filled bar with upstairs club where soul sister spins on saturday nights and makes up for every other bar i’ve been to
ms. mae’s: dive at magazine & napoleon
pirate’s alley café: pirate’s alley absinthe spot
prytania: non-dive spot with ladies night; like, TEN drinks free to ladies…wtf? even i turned into a drinker for that. peaches couldn’t hang with me, either. lightweight. hahaha!
R bar: walked in and back out. don’t even remember what i saw (read: smelled). update: hung out in there on a thursday night. it’s smallish and reddish with a pool table and a decent jukebox. :: shrugs :: nothing to write home about.
spotted cat: frenchmen street spot with live music (read: smoke-filled jazzy bar)
vaughan’s: local bywater dive with a dog inside—avoid, avoid, avoid! update: went on a thursday night to hear kermit ruffins play. included on the bill was branford marsalis; not included was the dog. 
yellow moon: local bywater dive with a kitty inside PLUS open mic spoken word-slash-potluck night—attend, attend, attend!
yo mama’s: little pub in the quarter where everybody knows big red’s name. shocker. LOL.
jeebus…look how long this list is! and i know i’m leaving out a spot or two five. blame big red for this debacle; don’t worry—if anything, he’ll be proud.
happy 2010! this new year’s eve, i finally paid a visit to The Treehouse! (a treehouse! oooo!) i’d heard it spoken of and seen a picture of it on my roommate’s phone once, and the very idea of it made my wittle eyes light up. imagine! a real actual treehouse for grown people to hang out in! well…as it turns out, “grown” might be a bit of an overstatement.
my companion for the evening—let’s call him big red—astutely pointed out that “these people look really young.” mind you, big red is my junior by *cough* years, so if he thought they looked young…sheesh. he was right, though. those people were really young. so, after climbing to the top (high heels be damned!) and back down and discovering that (surprise!) the party was BYOB, we sallied forth to greener, more mature, less outdoorsy pastures. this in no way, though, takes away from the fact that: it’s a treehouse, y’all! oooo!
any-hoo, i was going to write up what i saw, but my description would pale in comparison to what i read when i sought an existing photo to link, so i’m just going to re-post the disgustingly thorough (“golden rain tree”?? O_O) write-up i found at http://atlasobscura.com/places/new-orleans-treehouse. wanna hear it here it go:
“Hidden in the back yard of a creole mansion on Esplanade Avenue, the New Orleans Treehouse is a five-story installation constructed in the limbs of a golden rain tree. Composed primarily of materials salvaged from abandoned sites in the aftermath of hurricane Katrina, the structure includes a rope bridge, canopy lookout tower, and waterslide.
The installation undergoes continual change as new materials are discovered and acquired. The house at 1614 esplanade is known as the NOLA Art House and is home to HomeMade Parachutes, the group responsible for the construction of the Treehouse.”
without further ado, i present…THE TREEHOUSE:
oooo!
for more pics and info, visit www.1614esplanade.com. there really is a waterslide and a pool, so i’m thinking summer parties are off the hook. kiddies be damned, yo: TREEHOUSE WATERSLIDE! oooo!
what says the holidays more than a no-eyed flying snowman? well, i just don’t know the answer to that! so, by all means, feast your eyes on new orleans’s own Chreepy Christmas tradition: the story of mr. bingle!
"thank goodness santa shoved these christmas ornaments into my inexplicably vacant eye sockets!" (photo: http://ilovememphisblog.com/2009/09/29/found-mr-bingle/)
i’d heard about it. i knew it to be something that happens here. but i’d never SEEN it. until today. so okay…it rained a lot here yesterday. all through the evening. maybe all through the night. when i set out for my hair appointment today, though, it wasn’t raining. by the time i left the salon, however, it had begun again. nonetheless, i soldiered forth to run errands in metairie; it rains here all the time—i can’t let that stop me from doing things, right? WRONG! i can. and in the future, i will.
it was a little after 4:30pm when i set out for the 1100 block of veterans boulevard. the cars were all crawling. at first i thought it was because stoplights were out, but then i discovered that that had only been the case in one instance. so on i crawled until around the 1800 block, when i noticed a side street that looked less like a motorway than a waterway. a coursing waterway. sheesh—glad i wasn’t headed there, i thought. but as i crept farther along, i realized that the water was no longer just on the side streets nor just in the gutters at the side of the road. suddenly, it was the road.
an old Times-Picayune flooding photo
cars ahead of me were now plowing through several inches of water. coursing, rising water. and on it rained. pouring, driving rain. i started seeing debris in the road, and the world was dark, as black as if it were midnight. some cars were pulled over, as if they could go no farther. it looked like i was caught up in some kind of post-apocalyptic flight. i have to turn back! i thought. this is only going to get worse! so i did. i turned back, and fortunately the other side of veterans was slightly higher ground. not flooding yet. however, i had to get back to the highway and back to my house. this involved driving through waters that, at some moments, i feared would sweep my little civic away.
once, many moons ago, i drove my old nissan sentra through a really big puddle in the law school park-and-ride shuttle lot. the car simply shut off immediately. all systems stop. da hell? i thought, re-trying the key. but it wouldn’t turn back on. i learned that i had gotten water under the distributor cap. that driving through any fairly deep amount of water must be done carefully to prevent this from happening because the result is that you are stuck, stuck, stuck. a car with water under the distributor cap will not start again until that water has dried on its own. in my case, that was at least the time it took for me to catch the shuttle, sit through class, and come back. in the meantime, my poor sentra could do nothing but sit, helpless, right where it had died.
this is what i thought about today as i crrrrrawwwwled through water that, in places, reached the bottoms of car doors and lapped at them like a persistent cat. all jokes aside, i was shook. if my car died out, what would i do? the rain was not letting up—still hasn’t. the water was rising and roiling and climbing over curbs. and i didn’t even have on rain boots. i had on converse. low-top converse! *sighs* any-hoo, as you can see from this writing, i made it home. i feel lucky and grateful for this and, from now on, when i tell somebody i’ll make it somewhere “Lord willin’ and the creek don’t rise,” i won’t be speaking in jest.
UPDATE: here’s an article with photos on the day’s event: http://www.nola.com/hurricane/index.ssf/2009/12/flash_flood_warning_issued_for.html …damn you, metairie!
noun
a smug satsuma putting on airs, as usual
listen…i love new orleans and all, but don’t believe the hype. local produce or not, “satsuma” is but a synonym for “orange.” or, if you’re from here, “urnj.” O_O
UPDATE: i ate one of you jerks today, satsuma. turns out, many of your boasts are true—you really do peel easily, and you really are seedless. but at the end of the day, satsuma, you still have stringy white stuff i had to pick off and sections covered with waxy, unchewable skin. translation: as stated, you are but another orange. good day.
noun
one day, the “nutritionist lady” came to my school to speak to the students. at one point, she was talking about frying food, and then, inexplicably, she started talking about some strangely named family of people that i could only surmise were friends of hers who also liked to cook. it all happened really quickly, but from what i gathered, their last name was earl. this, in and of itself, is not too strange, but get ready for their first names: olive, canola, corn, peanut, and vegetable. i thought, my God, who would do such a th—
—wait a minute…!
it…it can’t be!
alas…oh, yes, it is.
not to spurl the joke or anything, but my purnt here is that there is a distinctly louisiana thing that happens when there is an -oi- in the middle of a word. i’m not saying that everybody here does it, but i’ve heard it enough now to know it for a truth. so if someone ever asks you, in sincerity, “how you durn?”…go ahead and ask him or her, in equal sincerity, when the next crawfish burl is—’cuz that mofo is bound to know.
UPDATE: omgz…the nutritionist is here right now, and she just told the class to keep their “appurntments!” LOL! (reporting live from my job, december 8, 2009)
