There's been a lot of talk lately about how much the Road Home Program stinks. The fingers are finally pointing to ICF, the contractor in charge of distributing grant money, who basically took $200-some million American tax dollars to jerk the good folks of Louisiana around. As if we already didn't have legions of politicians, business people and conmen that could jerk us much more cheaply and colorfully. (That said, the Krewe du Vieux parade introduced a new political movement to get Edwin Edwards, the convicted racketeer known as the "Silver Zipper," back into office on a platform of returning to "Competent Corruption." Supposedly, this is satire, but I'd consider voting for him. And where the hell is Huey Long when we really need him? We can clone sheep but we can't bring that sonofabitch back from the dead? Is our scientific community asleep at the wheel, or what?)
But there hasn't been enough talk about how the people of Louisiana are sucking it up with such panache. Really, now. Myself, I'm having trouble getting internet service at my new place, and I'm ready to knife someone. Yet, there are folks still living in FEMA trailers, having their homes devalued by tens of thousands of dollars, getting false promises by the bushel, dealing with relatives dying off and kids going unschooled, and yet -- no uproar. No rioting. Not even when the Saints lost, snuffing our last candle in the vast dark, was there societal unrest.
I suppose the historians might theorize that we shot our proverbial wad during Katrina, that we got all that noise out of our system then. Still, the puzzling thing about Katrina wasn't the looting and the mayhem, but the fact that there wasn't more of it. Anyone who's spent five minutes in the New Orleans August sun without a cold drink in hand will know that insanity follows about forty to fifty seconds later. The fact that thousands of people spent days in these conditions without going on a murderous rampage demonstrates the saintly forbearance of our populace.
And now, a hundred years later, we're still forbearing. A brief recap of the latest headlines: the Recovery School District has been putting school children on a waiting list, our murder rate is as rockin' as it ever was, and the Road Home program has gotten money to .5% of its applicants. (No, that little dot in front of the five is NOT a typo.) Now I see on this morning's headline that FEMA wants Louisiana citizens to give them its money back.
This is the sort of news story that I can't even read. So sorry, friends, you'll have to read that one yourselves. Just as I've come to block out anything regarding Iraq, or "American Idol," I just can't process that level of hopelessness any more. Maybe it's a good thing that I can't get the internet at my home; it's Divine intervention keeping the rest of my sanity intact.
Speaking of Divine intervention, another headline: out-of-town busybodies from the Catholic Church protested the Krewe du Vieux parade on Saturday, as they're still bent out of shape regarding the crude religious satire in the 2005 parade. Yes, folks, the 2005 parade -- two years and a million miles ago. It was a pre-Katrina event, back in those halcyon days when things were going so well that people idly swiped at the Church, for lack of a better target. But Church members are still angry that once upon a time, someone associated bare breasts with the Virgin Mary (who, as we all know, did not have breasts, being a virgin and all) and sheep with Jesus, an dirty association straight from the Bible.
Now I admit that much of the Krewe du Vieux is totally gross. They're silly perverts of the highest order, as exhibited by one of this year's floats to your right. But, for the love of Christ, does the Catholic Church really feelNow I admit that much of the Krewe du Vieux is totally gross. They're silly perverts of the highest order, as that their hurt feelings are worth a protest in today's New Orleans? Really? This year's parade king, Chris Rose, wrote that this group of disgruntled Catholics are even trying to get the krewe's parading license revoked. Which brings me to two questions, one practical and one theological: one, does the Church really have nothing better to do, in midst of a devastated city; and two, why on earth would anyone worship a God that can't take a joke?
In response to this second question, and in response to a copious amount of fermented grape, I became Jieuxish over the weekend. It was a bit of an accident, sort of like the Simpsons episode when Bart, after a Super Slushee sugar binge, wakes up to find himself wearing a boy scout uniform.
I was innocently watching the Krewe du Vieux parade, heckling Chris Rose and pestering paraders for throws, when I was approached by a friend second-lining with one of the brass bands. Consumed by the spirit of Dionysus, I joined their serpentine dance as it snaked through the French Quarter. It was one of those classic New Orleans experiences, to be cheered at in a second-line, dancing for the crowd with other revelers under the giant paper-mached breasts of Kathleen Blanco, our governor. Still, I grew tired and paraded until I reached my bank's ATM on Iberville, as I was out of cash.
Moneyed up, I walked back to Frenchmen Street. Soon I stumbled upon the Krewe du Jieux fundraiser at Cafe Brazil and began to chat with their K'vetch Doctor. He asked me what Krewe I belonged to, and when I told him that I wasn't affiliated, he told me I could join their fold for a mere $18. So, with sincerest apologies to my good Lutheran parents, I became a Jieux on Saturday night. The K'vetch Doctor gave me a bumper sticker (which reads: New Orleans: Oy! Such a Home) and let me have two potches on the lovely lady's tuchus at their spanking booth.
Supposedly I will hear back from the Jieuxs about future parading events, but it's moot at this point. In the new New Orleans economy, to get a bumper sticker, two spankings and a new identity for $20 is a damn steal. Besides, I'd rather the Jieuxs get my money before FEMA takes it back.
