September 15th, 2005
From the number of hits this site has received in the last two and a half weeks, it appears that readers were curious as to how we fared. And considering that this writer’s obsessions and observations nearly always include her beloved home of New Orleans, those visits are not unsurprising. Thank you. But rather than transcribe from various bits of napkins and cheap paper those musings I scribbled from Mississippi to Alabama during our two-pronged evacuation (all desperately depressing, I assure you) I shall first describe the unholy, strange behavior of the place I’ve landed for the time being, the City I Love to Hate: Los Angeles. She is not unlike the “toothless, Russian bitch” known as Katrina—just nipped, tucked, and better dressed.
So far the best, least emotionally distressing days have been spent with other New Orleanians or ex-pat New Yorkers. They seem to understand. They miss what you miss, remain hopeful for a future. They don’t scrutinize your Louisiana ID at the store only to say “Have a nice day” when you really want to hear, “Oh, I’m sorry, baby.” I was on the ass-end of a rotten cold last week when a New Orleans chef invited me to a Katrina Benefit at a West Hollywood club that I would otherwise never have been allowed near—or would have ever wanted to go near for that matter. But I gratefully attended, hoping to find familiar faces.
I was talking to an ex-con pretending to be a New Orleans refugee when the kindly chef took my arm, excused us, and whisked me across the room to meet a lovely lady “from da East” who was “celebrating” her 63rd birthday. When we met and she realized I had evacuated, too, well you would’ve thought we were old friends. But no sooner had we girlishly put our hands on each other’s laps, chatting about the finer points of Dillards department store, when The Red Cross Woman swooped down between us, announcing to my new friend: “Ma’am, there’s a SUPERmodel here who wants to meet YOU!”
No “excuse me, but,” no “pardon me, please.” Just the declarative statement that a woman desperately in need of a sandwich was ready to meet a bona fide Internally Displaced Citizen. Despite the fact that the benefit was intended specifically for us, my own Super Citizenship was trumped by a supermodel.
Welcome to Los Angeles. Where Limousine Liberals Impress Themselves To Death.
There are days when it seems the world, the universe, everything implores you to simply stay at home. Tuesday was one such day—though its start was most auspicious. After chatting with the friendly hardhat Electric Company workers (The Power People) who gave me suggestions for jazz clubs in this vast territory, I continued west to the Post Office.
The line was long. There were two postal servers with open, bulletproof windows.
A rather friendly man with a slight rocking affliction mentioned the obvious above; I concurred. He carried on. He had recently switched from Cingular to Sprint and, though he now had the cumbersome task of carrying two phones around, he was clearly happier for it. I agreed, said I was looking for one final reason to give Cingular the boot. We both looked at the line, felt its defeating sloth. Then, the rather friendly man dropped his empty plastic bag. After a moment, I made light of the situation.
“You dropped your bag, sir.”
He paused, halted his slight rocking. “So? What do you want me to do about it?”
“Well, I think you should pick it up,” I said, smiling, barely acknowledging the sensation that he was a psychopath (I should note here that I was rather encumbered myself with mail bound for Baton Rouge; I should also note that this conversation would NEVER have taken place in the South).
“They pay people to do that.”
“What? I don’t see your mama here. It’s your responsibility. Pick it up,” I demanded.
“Why should I?”
Oh dear.
“Because it’s aesthetically unappealing,” I said. [And I did say just that].
It went on and when I fully realized that he was a loon, I turned my back on the Formerly Friendly Man
and, after a minute, he said, “What? Are you never gonna talk to me again if I don’t pick it up?”
As if I were an old friend, a despised mother, his ex-girlfriend. I remained silent. Thankfully, a woman behind the bulletproof glass cheerfully called my name: “Next!”
My transaction complete, I picked up the plastic bag and handed it to him at the counter. “You forgot something.” And I headed for the door, but not without mumbling “asshole” under my breath because that is always the most creative solution to any heated discussion. I walked out, waved to the Power People and came to an intersection—the now infamous intersection detailed in Entry 1 of this online column. I pressed the WALK button. I waited. I saw a large, non-military vehicle stretch itself across my pedestrian path. It was not moving. The light turned amber and though I could have negotiated my way to safety with merely the large butt of the formidable vehicle in my way, what revved its way through the now-red light quickly dashed hopes of ever crossing the street in the allotted time:
A Red Cross van.
Thank you. You’ve been great, Los An-ge-LEEESS! Good night.
Wednesday, September 28th, 2005