Dis Dat And D'Other
I never took time away from work. And as per traveling, I loathed the very idear. In my mind, you don't need to go somewhere else to find what you're looking for, and your imagination can and should take you anywhere you could possibly get with Jet Blue. Still, I was murder on my co-workers -some of whom were (and still are) regular jet setters, with their seemingly monthly trips to the beaches of Brazil or the villas of Italy-until one year, as it was rounding on my birthday, and the suggestion box began fattening up with these ballots: "If you could go anywhere, where would you go?" And such and forth. In the end, they all chipped in and bought me a trip. In fact, I was told in no uncertain terms that the express purpose of the $300 bucks they raised was for me to take a trip. And I was to go to the only place I could see myself ever going, (and even then only if I had to) and that place was New Orleans.
But my rent was teetering on being in a rears, and that's where the cash wound up. Ergo, murder on my co-workers.
Flash forward to this summer. I had moved home on Groundhog Day this past year. Nothing had changed in the rent arena, I was jobless and after six years, New York had left me -well, underwhelmed. I hadn't worked in the bar in a year. I was playing with Huck Slim,(and that was good) but for whatever reason (maybe it was winter, maybe it was fate) something wanted me out of the city for awhile. So I moved home. Got a bullshit gig. Got out of hock. Saved up some scratch. Spent the scratch. And was pretty thoroughly in the doldrums when my old friend called me up with a proposition.
His mother had bought a hybrid car, and so was giving him her old guzzler. He had to drive it from Virginia to San Francisco. The last time he had gone cross country, he had driven his truck for 53 hours sraight en route to propose to his now wife, woke up careening through a cornfield in Kansas, rolled his truck, and escaped with a mere scratch on his elbow. But he managed to take a piece of the shattered windshield to place in the engagement ring, and hitched the rest of the way with Jimmie Johnson, a trucker from Colorado. But this round he wanted some company. He wanted me to come along, and he wanted to go the southern route through New Orleans. Nevermind that our trip coincided with his Kansas car rolling drive six years to the day. Never mind that I didn't have a leg to refuse him on and withdrew what was left in my account -a cosmically spooky balance of exactly $300. Never mind that we were pulling through Austin on my buddy's birthday. Never mind that by year's end, gas prices will be so astronomical that road trips won't even exist anymore. The whole trip smacks of coincidences like this. We were going through New Orleans and that's enough to get me.
We camped on Lake Ponchartrain. We drove over it into the city. A brass band greeted us with JUST MY IMAGINATION upon crossing over onto Bourbon Street. We ate muffalettas and po' boys. We walked into strips clubs, and walked out just as quickly because we were po' boys ourselves. I said to burn my bags the second we got there. I dreamt of moving there, and then thought against it because I knew the only way to make a living down there was to walk into the zoo of the French Quarter. But I fell in love, just like I knew I would. We woke up, swam in the lake, hung our clothes to dry in the backseat, and drove route 10 West to Austin where my old friend Phil Korshak would be celebrating his birthday. I did manage to take a seashell from the lake before we left.
And now that's all gone. Lots of folks I know will never see it. My kids will never see it. It's the cradle of jazz and the music was beyond anything I've ever heard. The television's like a bad mad max movie. 10,000 trapped in a football stadium with the water rising. A guy protecting his bicycle with a hatchet he keeps in his sock. Looting, rioting, you name it. I keep thinking of Randy Newman's LOUISIANA, 1927 ...
"President Coolidge come down in railroad train,
With a lil' fat man with a notepad in his hand,
President says, "Lil' fat man, isn't it a shame,
What the river has done to this poor cracker's land?
Louisiana, Louisiana,
They're trying to wash us away,
They're trying to wash us away"
Those words never felt more true. In hindsight, had I never left New York, there's no way I would have ever seen New Orleans. I had to be home, doing nothing, and depressed. Otherwise, I would have surely said No on the grounds of work or rent or money or some other such thing. But I was lucky enough to have absolutely nothing going for me at the time, and it afforded me what will be my only glimpse of the once great Nawlinz. I'm richer for it, and most thankfull. It will be sorely missed. Sorely missed indeed.
But my rent was teetering on being in a rears, and that's where the cash wound up. Ergo, murder on my co-workers.
Flash forward to this summer. I had moved home on Groundhog Day this past year. Nothing had changed in the rent arena, I was jobless and after six years, New York had left me -well, underwhelmed. I hadn't worked in the bar in a year. I was playing with Huck Slim,(and that was good) but for whatever reason (maybe it was winter, maybe it was fate) something wanted me out of the city for awhile. So I moved home. Got a bullshit gig. Got out of hock. Saved up some scratch. Spent the scratch. And was pretty thoroughly in the doldrums when my old friend called me up with a proposition.
His mother had bought a hybrid car, and so was giving him her old guzzler. He had to drive it from Virginia to San Francisco. The last time he had gone cross country, he had driven his truck for 53 hours sraight en route to propose to his now wife, woke up careening through a cornfield in Kansas, rolled his truck, and escaped with a mere scratch on his elbow. But he managed to take a piece of the shattered windshield to place in the engagement ring, and hitched the rest of the way with Jimmie Johnson, a trucker from Colorado. But this round he wanted some company. He wanted me to come along, and he wanted to go the southern route through New Orleans. Nevermind that our trip coincided with his Kansas car rolling drive six years to the day. Never mind that I didn't have a leg to refuse him on and withdrew what was left in my account -a cosmically spooky balance of exactly $300. Never mind that we were pulling through Austin on my buddy's birthday. Never mind that by year's end, gas prices will be so astronomical that road trips won't even exist anymore. The whole trip smacks of coincidences like this. We were going through New Orleans and that's enough to get me.
We camped on Lake Ponchartrain. We drove over it into the city. A brass band greeted us with JUST MY IMAGINATION upon crossing over onto Bourbon Street. We ate muffalettas and po' boys. We walked into strips clubs, and walked out just as quickly because we were po' boys ourselves. I said to burn my bags the second we got there. I dreamt of moving there, and then thought against it because I knew the only way to make a living down there was to walk into the zoo of the French Quarter. But I fell in love, just like I knew I would. We woke up, swam in the lake, hung our clothes to dry in the backseat, and drove route 10 West to Austin where my old friend Phil Korshak would be celebrating his birthday. I did manage to take a seashell from the lake before we left.
And now that's all gone. Lots of folks I know will never see it. My kids will never see it. It's the cradle of jazz and the music was beyond anything I've ever heard. The television's like a bad mad max movie. 10,000 trapped in a football stadium with the water rising. A guy protecting his bicycle with a hatchet he keeps in his sock. Looting, rioting, you name it. I keep thinking of Randy Newman's LOUISIANA, 1927 ...
"President Coolidge come down in railroad train,
With a lil' fat man with a notepad in his hand,
President says, "Lil' fat man, isn't it a shame,
What the river has done to this poor cracker's land?
Louisiana, Louisiana,
They're trying to wash us away,
They're trying to wash us away"
Those words never felt more true. In hindsight, had I never left New York, there's no way I would have ever seen New Orleans. I had to be home, doing nothing, and depressed. Otherwise, I would have surely said No on the grounds of work or rent or money or some other such thing. But I was lucky enough to have absolutely nothing going for me at the time, and it afforded me what will be my only glimpse of the once great Nawlinz. I'm richer for it, and most thankfull. It will be sorely missed. Sorely missed indeed.
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