[Recovery Pen has been a column about New Orleans life, from the vantage point of a transplanted northerner with a soft heart and an eye for detail.]

When I was a kid, my mom tried to cheer me up at the end of a fun weekend or family vacation with this old saying: all good things must come to an end. It wasn't much comfort then, and it's not much comfort now. "But why?" I'd ask her. "Why do good things have to end?"

She didn't have an answer for me, and I don't have an answer for you. My fellow bloggers have already said their goodbyes, and now it's my turn. As you've heard, our blog has been cancelled, obviously not because of our writing quality, but because our parent company wants to go in other directions. Bloggingneworleans, and its short-lived predecessor bloggingohio, were to be the vanguard of location-specific sites across the AOL network. But when Bloggingla and bloggingbrooklyn never manifested themselves, well, it didn't come as much of a surprise when we heard they were pulling the plug on us.

Personally, I can say that I received the news with a mixture of sadness and relief. Unlike my fellow bloggers, who plan to set up camp in new spots in the blogosphere, I am looking forward to the old-fashioned pursuit of writing a novel. It's something that I couldn't balance with my full-time job, healthy social life, activist pursuits, and weekly blog, but now I can fit it in. And I'm so grateful for this site which has forced me to sit my butt down and write on a semi-regular basis. Having this practice will help my novelist pursuits immensely.

And yet, and yet... As we recently passed the two-year Katrina anniversary, it saddened me to realize that the city still needs a Recovery Pen, because we're still recovering. And maybe we always will be, the way alcoholics call themselves "recovering" for years after they put down the bottle.

But some rays of light pierce through the thick haze of chaos hanging over our city. We're becoming greener, despite our best efforts to the contrary, with Brad Pitt commissioning Green Spaces down in the Lower 9th, a return to curbside recycling, a bike lane to be installed on St. Claude Avenue, and a long bike path planned for the new, improved City Park. As I write these words, I can feel fall in the air, which always means that the craziness of summer (and the murder rate) will be going down soon. The kids are back in our public schools, which have nowhere to go but up. Next month, we get to exercise our right to put new faces in the governor's mansion, in the state legislature, and on the New Orleans City Council. Thank God this is America, where we can keep electing people until one of those chuckleheads gets it right.

I'm sad that I won't have this forum to comment and read the commentary of my fellow bloggers as the city changes for the better (crossed fingers.) You won't hear our takes on the election outcomes, or on Voodoo Fest 2007. We won't be reporting from this year's Independent Book Fair (on Frenchman Street, Saturday, November 10) or from Thanksgiving opening day at the Fair Grounds Racetrack. You'll have to spend Christmas, and Mardi Gras, and Jazzfest without us. But before I get too sad, I should remind myself that I'll still be writing for www.nolafugees.com when I feel inspired, so please keep a bookmark there!

Let me close this blog by finishing my NOLA alphabet, a project I'd started without realizing I'd have a concrete deadline (today) to finish it. I've been dragging my feet on these last letters, but like all good things, even the alphabet has to end. So thanks for reading, my dear friends and New Orleans well-wishers! Keep coming, keep dreaming, keep believing in the best for our fair city!

W is for Water

Flood Day, September 11,1998. When the rain started, I was working in the English grad student office up at UNO. My fellow grad students were smart to skedaddle out of there. But I, having been raised in a place where people don't fuss about the weather, stayed put until I finished my work. Then I thought it smart to drive to Lakeview to meet friends for a birthday lunch. When I found a closed restaurant with a flooded parking lot and no friends in sight, I realized that maybe I should have gone home sooner.

I got on I-10 to get back to my uptown home, but the police had blocked it off and so I was forced to exit on St. Bernard Avenue. Never will I forget the terror of driving my low-riding Saturn coupe through deep floodwater in one of the worst parts of town. To soothe my frayed nerves, I turned onto Claiborne Avenue under the overpass, so that I could sit in standstill traffic with an ambulance stuck behind me. I don't know why the driver thought having the siren on would help him get through the traffic. No one could move. So we stayed stuck there, listening to the blaring siren echo against the concrete overpass.

Finally I had to abandon my car on the St. Charles neutral ground, right in front of Igor's bar, where I stayed for the rest of the day. The whole episode reinforced a New Orleans lesson that I'm still trying to un-learn: nothing is so terrifying that alcohol can't fix.

X is the Rescuer's Mark

Two years after Katrina, you can still spot Xs sprayed onto houses where the rescue teams came searching. Marked with the date of the search, the search team's code, and the number of living and dead, this letter lays bare the destruction. As much as we can try to gloss over what happened here, the Xs remind us most viscerally of the depth of this tragedy. I remember when they found a body in my neighborhood nine months after the storm. For all I know, they're still finding bodies in the Ninth Ward.

Y is for YURP

Last month, the Times-Pic did a cover story on the Young Urban Rebuilding Professionals that have flocked to New Orleans to be part of our "renaissance." Architects and educators, urban planners and doctors, these idealists are ready to sacrifice high salaries for the chance to make their mark on a city full of raw possibility. I'd like to send a big thank-you shout-out to all YURPs and URPs of all ages for investing in us. Hopefully our color and charm will keep you here while you realize that affecting change in such a stagnant place can be a bitch. But stick it out - we need you!

For anyone interested in the faces behind this movement, or anyone needing a date for this weekend, check out the new networking website aimed at this demographic: www.nolayurp.com.

Z is for Zapp's

Let me end this alphabet, and my blog, on a wonderfully spicy note. From Cajun Crawtator and Hotter n' Hot Jalapeno to Sour Cream and Creole Onion and Cajun Dill, Zapp's has a chip for all lips. They even offer a no-salt variety for the health-conscious out there. Not that I've tried that flavor, myself. For if I've learned anything from living and blogging in this city, it's that life goes down better with a little bit of spice!

If you want to catch up on the rest of the alphabet, click the letters below:

A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, J, K, L, M, N, O, P, Q, R, S, T, U, V

[Recovery Pen started as a response to the post-Katrina wreckage: physical, emotional, and societal. Unfortunately, its author still finds plenty to write about, two years later.]

Let's face it: we're all sick of Katrina. Maybe the news media is excited to have a pre-made story as August 29 roars down upon us, but the rest of us would rather be rid of the whole damned mess. Still, it's impossible not to think about, as impossible to ignore as the elephant standing on your foot.

This week, my fellow bloggers will be posting Katrina remembrances and photos, and I will continue on with my NOLA Alphabet as a way to commemorate what I've learned from this great city, before and after the storm. Yet I wanted to dedicate today's column to Katrina's children, who've had to survive the powerlessness of this trauma with the added powerlessness of being a child Adults can decide whether or not to leave the city as a killer storm approaches. But what about the children without a choice, the ones whose parents or guardians didn't have the sense or the money to evacuate? What would it be like living through such a storm as a child? Or as an infant, so sensitive and completely unable to make sense of the experience, likened to having a freight train running over the house, for hours on end.

And then, what about the aftermath? What would it be like to wade through filthy flood water, which goes a lot higher on a small body? And having your home - the center of your tiny universe - swallowed by water, your few toys ruined? What would it be like to leave all your friends, and maybe even lose your very best friend, your pet? To watch your relatives drown while you wait for rescue?

To think of it, makes me feel teary and a little sick. I don't want to imagine myself as a child going through such an ordeal. Even though traditional "wisdom" tells us that children are more resilient than adults, that resilience comes with a heavy price. Because children understand less of what's happening and remain powerless long after the storm, their scars can run deep. If no one teaches them what to do with their pain, those scars can fester for a lifetime.

Whenever people bemoan the crime problem, I always think of children. Because, my friends, crime is not a quick fix, and if you're truly interested in making the world a safer, better place, it's best to start with the kids. For there's no better recipe for crime than keeping a large group of traumatized, powerless children severely undereducated and living in desperate poverty.

And that's what brings me to the Renaissance Village, a FEMA trailer park outside of Baker, a suburb of Baton Rouge. After Katrina, FEMA bought up a cattle pasture to place row after row of trailers: almost 600 trailers in all, to house 2000 New Orleans evacuees. Mind you, these were not evacuees with cars to drive into town; these were evacuees who'd been rescued from their flooded homes, shunted to a Baton Rouge shelter, and then isolated out in the country. Many of these people had never been outside their New Orleans neighborhood, and now their world consisted entirely of dusty ground and white trailers filled with poison (a topic already discussed in this column.)

But I wouldn't write about this depressing scenario if there weren't a ray of hope. (Instead, I'd still be in bed, hiding under the covers.) Currently on display at the New Orleans Museum of Art through October 7, "Katrina Through the Eyes of Children: Art by Displaced Children at Renaissance Village," demonstrates the necessity of the arts in the post-K world. In October 2005, a handful of art therapists ventured to Renaissance Village to help the kids process the storm through art. According to their website www.katrinaexhibit.org, art therapy works for kids because it's easier for them to express themselves visually than verbally.

And even a quick glance around NOMA's exhibit bears this out. With few exceptions such as the watercolor I posted above, the kids colored water as brown or black. They painted the hurricane in brown, black, and often red. Dead birds fill the skies, and black snakes float through water. This exhibit depicts the children's consciousness of dead bodies, ruined homes, and their own tiny bodies clinging to the page's edges.

Each work is framed with a snippet of text meant to add to the art. Some of the writing came directly from the young artists, who explained their art with quotes such as "brown in the center is the hurricane," or "this is a scary, haunted hurricane." I wish more of the pieces had quoted the kids in their brilliant simplicity, but alas, most of the descriptions come from therapist grown-ups trying to interpret: "Note the triangle-shaped houses, which signify that childrens' idea of home (safety) has changed." Interesting, but too cerebral. Let the visceral shock of black skies and bloody ground stand on their own.

Much of the work was done in watercolor or Crayola marker, but the artists used other materials at hand. In the exhibit's center, posterboard and pipe-cleaner houses stand under a glass display case. There's a popsicle boat sailing up to a row of brown king-cake babies awaiting rescue on shore. Another powerful piece layers a cutout hand over a tangle of masking tape - a poignant symbol of the chaotic renovation if I've ever seen one.

As I left the exhibit, I pondered how I might paint the Katrina experience. I'd draw people of all colors standing in waist-high waters, with pink people flying over them with wings made out of dollars. There would be lots of green dollars in my drawing, dollars floating through the air but out of reach of the grasping hands, and even more dollars sinking into the watery muck below.

[Recovery Pen is a column written by a NOLA local, born into this life as a Yankee.]

Ten years ago yesterday, Mom and I pulled into a Metairie motel parking lot, my Saturn coupe stuffed with the detrius of my adolescence: novels and notes, photos and purses. My brother and his girlfriend turned in behind us, with my couch hanging out of the family station wagon. As we'd creeped south from Chicago, each rest stop hotter than the one before, the truth kicked us in the guts: we'd gotten in too deep. We're Andersons, half Norweigan and half German, and had no business being south of the Mason-Dixon line in the middle of August.

And so my brother and his girl stayed in the hotel room for their entire stay. Too hot to even venture to the pool, they sat in front of the TV and ordered pizza. I didn't have that luxury, as I had two days to find an apartment of my own, my first apartment alone.

While everyone else gathered around the room's air conditioning unit, I started circling want ads. I'd come down in July to scope out the city and find a place, with help from some of my new compadres, MFA grad students at the University of New Orleans. One of them brought me on an errand out to Metairie; a group of us went drinking at the Dragon's Den: neither of these events got me an apartment. Still, I'd decided to try uptown, where some potential friends lived.

I don't know if it was luck, or God's Own Hand that landed me an apartment that first afternoon. Six hours after our arrival, I signed a lease for a place in the Irish Channel. Mom was comforted by the fact that the landladies, a young lesbian couple, lived in the back apartment. Her baby wouldn't be completely alone with these nice girls around. Of course, had we realized that the straight one would move to New York City and the other one would con me into buying a motorcycle with a bad title, we might have felt less satisfied with the arrangement.

But if we could see into the future, would anyone have moved here, back in the August of 2007?

I would hardly say that this anniversary snuck up on me, as the length of time one's lived here becomes a badge of honor. When you're clearly not a native - maybe you're a Germanic-looking lady with a Chicago accent - people always want to know how long it's been. So you keep track when the years pass. You stop saying "you guys" and you start saying "y'all." You start dropping your r's like a yat. You forget which Mardi Gras was which. Then one day, someone asks where you from and you tell them the truth: you from mid-city, dawlin'. You know, up by the bayou. And you treasure this moment, because you remember when you first moved here, when people learned you were brand-new and they gave you that look that said oh baby, will you learn.

And oh baby, did I learn. I learned so much my head exploded and I picked up what I could and I carry the rest in my pocket. I learned so much, I don't know where to start with it, so I figured may as well go through the alphabet. Do a few letters a day and end up right around that other big anniversary around the corner. So if you're new to New Orleans, or are thinking about a move, get out a pencil:

A is for Air.

Specifically, August Air. This lesson we learned first, as we drove down. Somewheres around Hammond, we looked at each other and said, "Shit, I thought air was a gas. This air's solid!" What took longer for me to learn is that one treats August Air differently than regular air. Never run through August Air. Late for work during my first summer here, I actually ran for a streetcar, which I missed anyway. It took me two weeks to recover.

The corollary, of course, is wintertime humidity. Northerners like to scoff at the notion that New Orleans gets cold in the wintertime; that is, northerners who've never been here during our winter. One of the coldest events of my life was an impromptu roadtrip to Biloxi at daybreak in November, to watch the sun rise over the Gulf. Wrapped in a sleeping bag, my old friend from home and I agreed: Gulf air can be just as cold as Chicago. Really.

B is for Beads.

I hate to discuss something so cliched as Mardi Gras beads, but if you don't live here, you really don't get it. Before I moved down, I thought Mardi Gras was for stupid frat boys and that sophisticated people preferred Jazzfest. Then I went to a parade.

A boyfriend came down to visit during Mardi Gras and went on at length on how people were idiots for chasing beads, bits of plastic manufactured in China. Two floats later, and he was knocking the elderly and infirm over for throws.

Beads make everyone pretty, as they sparkle under the streetlights. I don't know if the tradition of bead-throwing is meant to represent luxurious jewels, or pious rosary beads, but either way: they draw attention to the chest while covering it at the same time.

And tourists, please: do not buy beads, ever. I don't care how fun they are. Find you a local and they will be happy to just give you some.

C is for Costuming.

Sticking with Mardi Gras for just a moment here. I never thought of myself as particularly costume-worthy; before I moved here, I could easily cruise through Halloween without a costume. My sewing skills are weak, and I don't have any particular fetishes or obsessions.

Yet it doesn't matter. New Orleans breeds fetishes like mold in August Air. I've become fascinated with space girls, with voodoo, and with royalty. You can costume as anything, using anything. Trust me on this. I've made costumes from spanish moss, from saran wrap, from skittles, and from trash bags. Sewing can help, but if you've got a glue gun and some twine, you're in great shape. Hell, do like my friend Julie and wrap a towel around yourself - you're a girl out of a shower. As she famously said, "Amanda's running around in her underwear, and people are shocked that I'm wearing a towel!"

[More quotes from Julie, and the rest of the alphabet, in the days to come. Keep reading!]

[Recovery Pen is a blog devoted to the addiction that is New Orleans.]

It's the classic New Orleans experience: you greet the day with a throbbing head, a dry throat, and a stranger in your bed. You resolve to quit drinking, today, a resolution which lasts for the four hours until your next-door neighbor invites you over for beer bongs. Although the best cure for post-drinking angst is more drinking, sometimes a good laugh can help. As self-admitted attention addicts, the four men who comprise The Comedy Addiction Tour don't care if you're a drunk, as long as you show up and laugh.

But if you're committed to your alcoholism, you might want to skip this show, which allows all four "friends of Bill" to relate their addiction and recovery experiences with disarming honesty and hilarious detail. Billy Robinson, who grew up in the projects in Ohio, describes an early AA meeting when he confused a reference to "the highest authority" with the Housing Authority. Starting off the evening, Jesse Joyce spoke of his many injuries he suffered from drinking, and how he lied about them, such as blaming a broken ankle on a game of basketball. "But that doesn't work when you forget and lie to the guys who saw you drunk," he explained, saying that his friends who watched him puke on himself and then fall down three flights of stairs didn't buy the basketball story.

All of the men discussed their other addictions: food, sex, women, endorphins. Not only are all of them different manifestations of the same addictive drive, but they're all funny. In regards to his compulsive eating, Mark Lundholm asked the audience if anyone else ever ate food off their own shirt. "Off someone else's shirt?" he added. And although Kurtis Matthews confessed to being addicted to women, he made a point to interject at numerous times that he'd never gone to a hooker. "Although I probably should have," he said, alluding to a marriage gone wrong.

Although drunks and drunkenness make for a rich mine of humor, these guys joked about other topics as well, such as their own aging, romantic relationships, their families, and television. As Matthews said, "when [I] feel really bad about my life, I watch television." And the addict-in-recovery's favorite show? Cops, of course, which opened the door for Matthews to make several standard white-trash jokes. Robinson also took the tried-and-true humor route as well, joking about his ghetto family, like his grandmother with spinning hubcaps on her wheelchair. With Robinson, though, a comedic tension existed between his obvious whiteness and his ghetto speech and mannerisms. Although he played it for effect, with a sly demo of how "all black girls dance the same," he came across as the real deal. Who knew Ohio was producing black people with skin as white as The Man?

I suppose it behooves a comedian to have an odd appearance, as it's just more material for the act. The opening comedian, Jesse Joyce lamented his "squirrelly coke eyes," because they often lead people to pester him for drugs. "I hate going into dance clubs," he confided. And it doesn't help with his other addiction - women - either. "When I see a cute woman, I have to tell myself, 'squirrel down, squirrel down,'" he said, furrowing his brows and scrunching his eyes down to normal proportions. When I asked him for his picture, he let me choose: "squirrel up or squirrel down"? And I shouldn't have been surprised that this woman addict would want me in the picture with him.

The creator of The Comedy Addiction Tour, Mark Lundholm closed the show with his more serious brand of humor. Although undeniably funny - regarding his cigar-smoking habit, he called cigarette smokers "pussies" - he exhibited the poignancy and introspection of someone who's faced down their worst self. After years of homelessness and crime, he tried to kill himself, but when he pulled the trigger on a gun in his mouth, it didn't go off. "And then I thought, 'I am truly unsuccessful,'" he confided. Of the four comedians, Lundholm was the most frank about his pain. From a family of alcoholics, he began drinking his mother's vodka at age seven, thinking it would endear him to her. It didn't.

"The humor muscle develops in response to pain, grief, and shame," he theorized. "Nothing is funny until it hurts." He went on to compare "normal" people to "the rest of us." Using a metaphor of a jigsaw puzzle, he said the real difference between normal - "which just means most" - and the rest of us is that even though we're all putting our puzzles together one piece at a time, normal people have a picture to work from. The rest of us, well, we just muddle through.

The New Orleans connection is hard to miss - by now, we're all strutting around with 6-packs of humor abs, trying to figure out if we're still "normal" after two years of tragedy, or if we ever were. And if we can't drink, or shouldn't drink, at least we can still laugh.

[Recovery Pen chronicles the baffling, beautiful life in the American outpost of New Orleans.]

I've done some strange things post-Katrina, but perhaps Friday night was the strangest: not only did I stay home to watch TV, but I flipped past Pulp Fiction and stand-up comics for C-SPAN. I'd never spent more than a nanosecond watching that channel before, as much as I've always felt that as a good American, I really should see what those clowns in Washington were up to. Maybe if they dressed more like clowns, instead of those drab suits, I'd have tuned in before.

But I digress. Friday night, they were airing the congressional hearing on formaldehyde in FEMA trailers, so I felt obliged to watch. I'd heard nothing about formaldehyde in the trailers, but I wasn't surprised to hear that they were full of poison. Sadly, I was less surprised to hear that even though the FEMA field workers responded with alarm, the FEMA lawyers in Washington played it cool. Cold, even. They advised the field workers not to do anything, because, and I quote, "once you get results that show something, our clock is running to do something about it."

Now that's the sort of laissez-faire attitude you might expect from a New Orleanian regarding a paternity test, but you like to think that the federal government might could step up when it learns that its overpriced trailers are poisoning people. Of course, Katrina has showed us all how much the government really cares about people in a desperate situation.

But interestingly, I've found that the less the government cares, the more I care personally. Not that it's going to do a whole lot of good, besides helping my mom stay abreast on New Orleans issues, but what more can I do? So I sat through two hours of testimony, most of it from Mississippi Gulf Coast residents. A pediatrician who's noted a jump in asthma and sinus-related problems among children in FEMA trailers spoke, then an industrial safety specialist, and then three trailer residents: a white military guy, a white mother with sick children, and a black minister.

The industrial safety specialist explained that formaldehyde is in the glue used to keep the particleboard and plywood on the trailer walls. Not only can it bring on respiratory miseries of all sorts, from scratchy throats to bloody noses to breathing difficulties, but it's a known carcinogen. While OSHA standards allow for healthy, adult workers to be exposed to trace amounts of formaldehyde, they need to use a respirator when levels reach .016 parts per million. And, of course, these workers get to go home to sleep in clean air at night. On the Gulf Coast, infants and children and the elderly live 24/7 in trailers which have been tested by environmental groups as having up to .75 parts per million. Note that when FEMA did finally check out their trailers, they first opened all the windows and had the air running constantly for a few days before doing the air-quality test. So when an internal FEMA email stated that "there are no health concerns due to formaldehyde in our trailers," they were referring to the air from their rigged test, not the actual air-quality conditions in their trailers.

For all of the new technology out there, it was a bird that helped Paul Stewart realize the grave health risk in his trailer. When his pet cockatiel seemed lethargic, he called the vet, who advised him to get the bird out of the trailer immediately. The vet said that if the bird continued to live in the trailer, it would die. Even though Stewart and his wife had already been miserable with respiratory problems, seeing his bird's fragility brought it home that he and his wife were living in a health hazard. In his testimony, which you can read here, he details his struggles trying to get a new trailer from FEMA, who kept advising him to air his trailer out, despite the fact he'd been airing it out for months. At one point, they suggested that maybe he was just "chemically-sensitive," and he pointed out that he'd been tazed and pepper-sprayed in the military, and so his sensitivity wasn't the problem. When he did get another trailer, it also reeked with formaldehyde, and after more struggling, he got a third trailer, which was filthy and infested with bugs. Finally he plunked down $50 grand on his own trailer, which was larger and nicer than the one which FEMA paid $65 K for.

I figured Lindsay Huckabee, mother of five in a FEMA trailer, would give emotional testimony, as mothers of sick children often do. However, she was quite composed, given the circumstances. Yet my heart went out to her, and especially for her youngest child, who missed 42 days of kindergarten due to formaldehyde-related ailments. You don't need to be a schoolteacher to know that missing over a month during your first school year will not get you ahead in life. Many days, Mrs. Huckabee sent her little girl to school, and the nurse had to send her home, due to unstoppable nosebleeds. One day, she found her daughter on the floor of the trailer, covered in blood, and thought nothing of it; later that night, she cried for hours to think of how she'd gotten accustomed to her daughter's ill health. As well, her 30-year old husband got diagnosed with mouth cancer while living in the trailer. Coincidence?

Lastly, Mr. James Harris, Jr. testified as a minister and a trailer resident. He stated numerous times - five times in the first minute of his speech - that he'd been "blessed" by God, and also expressed how grateful he was just to have a trailer. Still, his family's health problems and the noxious smell of their trailer couldn't be ignored. Like the other trailer residents, all he got from FEMA was the advice to "air out" his trailer. He ended up in the ER, and eventually had to borrow money to buy a high-quality air purifier. He reminded us of all the folks that don't know what to do, and so make the best of it and suffer in silence. Tens of thousands of these people are breathing in this foul, cancerous air right now.

As Chairman of the Oversight and Reform Committee, Congressman Henry Waxman (D, CA) stated that "it's impossible to read the FEMA documents and not become infuriated," and I completely agree. As politicians yammer on about "family values," tens of thousands of families are being poisoned in government property. Although it can be fun to focus on the hypocrisy of Christian Sen. David Vitter's dalliance with prostitutes, no one's getting cancer or going to the ER based on his bad behavior. That a government agency charged with protecting us is slowly killing us instead - this should be the front-page news, and we should be filling the streets, shaking with anger.

(If you are living in a polluted trailer, click this link to report your story and get more information.)

[Recovery Pen is an ongoing tale of a native Midwesterner living in the Big Easy.]

Hot town, summer in the city

Back of my neck gettin' dirty and gritty

-The Lovin' Spoonful, 1966

After living in New Orleans for many summers now, I've come to accept the heat, the humidity, and the bugs. Summer's intensity provides an excuse for so many indulgent behaviors: two-hour catnaps, daily doses of Brocato's ice cream, all-nighters at The Club, and weekends to the country. I'm a little embarrassed to say that for all my time down here, I haven't gotten to see much of the Deep South. When I do get away, I head for Gulf Coast beaches or the hipster island of Austin, Texas. Neither of these places, charming though they are, really give the traveller much sense of Deep South culture.

Last weekend, some neighbors invited me to go tubing, with a side trip up to McComb, Mississippi, for Sunday dinner at The Dinner Bell. Excited to try it, they told me about its charms: patrons share large tables with other diners and help themselves to plates of Southern country fare off a giant lazy Susan in the table's middle. Intriguing as this sounded, the practical side of me couldn't help but wonder if we really needed to drive an hour and a half just to eat out in the middle of nowhere. From New Orleans, you can get to a tubing spot within forty-five minutes; this place had better be good.

I would have eaten my words, had I any room left. Let me say this: the next time I have New Orleans visitors ask me where to eat, I will put them in a car and point them to Mississippi.

At The Dinner Bell, they sat us down at a round table for fourteen, glasses of sweet tea waiting. We chatted with our neighbors, who shared our enthusiasm for the gigantic spread already sitting in front of us. As the lazy Susan began her slow spin, we helped ourselves to ham, butter beans, field peas, smothered okra, potato salad, dressing with gravy, sweet potatoes, collard greens, potato salad, cole slaw, cornbread, and chicken & dumplings. One man recommended the fried eggplant, but I'm a fried chicken girl from way back. (For my fifth birthday dinner, we ate KFC on china.) After hearing everyone else groan about it, I gave it a try and I'll be damned: not often does fried chicken come in second to eggplant, but it was double-fried in a cornmeal batter. The summer squash, buttered up good and served partially mashed, won out as my other favorite. Again: when there's fried chicken on the table and I go for seconds on squash, you know it's worth a ninety-minute drive.

Along with the dinner items, plates of desserts were already out when we first sat down, tantalizing us from the lazy Susan's center. Clearly the staff knew we'd need these reminders to save room. Before long, I helped myself to a piece of coconut pie, and was happily surprised to find that it was also lemon flavored. The seven of us friends tasted each other's pieces of carrot cake, red velvet cake, pound cake, almond coconut cake, custard pie, ambrosia pie, and bread pudding until our engorged bellies pushed against our swimsuits. To close my palate, I managed to choke down a piece of yellow watermelon, a novelty to me, and found it to be just as mouth-tingling sweet as the pink variety.

Afterward, we headed to Tylertown, MS to float down the Bogue Chitta River on our innertubes, the most relaxing way to deal with the heat. Drifting along wooded banks, passing stands of elephant ears, I stared up into the sky and felt summer buzzing through my bones. Although it did rain on us for a spell, we then got to finish up our trip through the mist rising up from the river. We'd only been out of the city for ten hours total, but it felt like a week away.

For the long holiday weekend, I was supposed to visit a friend in Austin. When it fell through, I'd been disappointed but still determined to get away. Not often do I have five days off, and I wanted to make the most of it. Since I had to stop in Baton Rouge for work, I decided to go west. I'd heard that St. Francisville, about 30 minutes north of the BR, was nice - historic and quaint, and not far from a remarkable nature area in Mississippi called Tunica Falls, where one can actually find hills along with the waterfalls of Clark Creek.

After some searching, I found a place that would let me bring my dog: Lamplighter Suites, a stone's throw from St. Francisville's historic district. Duane, the owner, greeted us as we rolled up, and helped me carry my luggage to my suite. Although workingmen tend to lodge there, because of the apartment furnishings and free laundry, it's lovely for tourists, who are welcomed with blooming crepe myrtles along the bricked front gate, a colorful courtyard, and well-kept green space on the corner lot next door.

Exemplifying Southern hospitality, Duane gave me the lowdown on St. Francisville's restaurants and offered me the use of the pool at his other property, Historic Plantation Village. Along with the room keys, he'd left a personal letter addressed to me and my dog Maggy, listing all the conveniences of our new suite and his cell phone number. He'd also left dark chocolates for me, a pig's ear treat for my dog, and the new copy of Country Roads. Before he left, he warned me that his construction guys might be working early, and that they get a little rowdy in the evening after a few beers. "Just call me and I'll take care of it," Duane advised. Any worries I had about being a single woman travelling alone vanished.

That evening, Maggy and I went out for a walk. Around the corner, the Magnolia Cafe had a blues band playing to a full house. We continued our stroll down the red-brick sidewalk, and I marvelled at the absolute lack of trash blowing about. (Maggy, who eats lots of snacks off the New Orleans streets, was less than thrilled by the town's cleanliness.) Every few feet, signs cropped up to point out a house's historical or architectural significance. We window-shopped at used bookstores, art galleries, and garden shops.

After the sun set, I was startled by the primordial beauty of a gigantic full moon peeking through the moss-draped live oaks. In a Southern literature class in graduate school, we learned about the "Moonlight and Magnolias" myth, how Southern plantation life was romanticized by Southern writers after the Civil War as a way to preserve regional pride in the face of defeat. The myth depicted the South as a land of gentlemanly plantation owners, graceful ladies in hoop skirts, and happy, servile slaves. Of course, being a myth, the "Moonlight and Magnolias" way of life was primarily fiction. Life for most Southerners, black and white, man and woman, meant long days under a hot sun, toiling in the fields for little or no economic gain.

But as I ambled along the silent streets, in the humid, jasmine-scented air, I could see how the South's beauty could lead one to believe in the romance of a languid life amongst the flowers, sipping mint juleps and playing the banjo under the glowing eye of the moon. It's not real life, but it does exist, and I really should visit more often.

[Recovery Pen is a semi-weekly column which tries to provide a clever take on New Orleans life.]

So if you're not here to witness it firsthand, let me tell you that June is the month in which everything slows down. Way down. The college kids have scrambled back to their northern homelands, the musicians have gone on tour, anyone with a few extra bucks has made arrangements to get the hell out of Dodge. Restaurants and shops close. Of course, no one minds the heat. It's that humidity that makes us crazy to the point of homicide.

And the bugs.

And the "budget" summer tourists who don't tip.

And, of course, the likelihood of being drowned in a killer storm.

That said, I wish I could say that "Recovery Pen" is on hiatus due to Prince Charming whisking me off to lounge away the summer solstice in the Riviera. But no. Although life slows down for everyone else, my work has been heating up. I help run an alternate-certification program for teachers here in the NO, and anyone who works in education administration knows, summer is a busy time. Currently, I'm in charge of an event where first-year teachers' performance portfolios are assessed by experienced educators, so that these first-years can get their Louisiana certification in the fall.

True, this work probably isn't as important as gadding on about local characters in a public forum, but I gotta pay the bills. So don't despair, dear readers! Recovery Pen is in a brief dormancy, soon to emerge from its sweltering cocoon.

Upcoming topics: building a Bike Project bike, travelling circuses, hula-hoopers, high-school hijinks, and so much more.

[Recovery Pen chronicles the simple pleasures and gratuitous joys of living in New Orleans.]

With the foul breath of hurricane season prickling the backs of our necks, optimism is as elusive as dry land during a flood. Still, I am thrilled to report that this June 1st not only marks the official beginning of storm season, but also ushers in a major recovery benchmark: Fair Grinds Coffeehouse opening for business.

Even if you don't think you're familiar with Fair Grinds, you probably are: it's that place by the old Mid-City Whole Foods which has inspired both locals and tourists, old and young, hip and square, all to ask: "What the hell's going on over there? Are they open, or what?"

The Fair Grinds has earned its confusing reputation. Clearly coffee has been served at this establishment, as locals regularly gather around the benches out front and hold forth with the passion and loquacity that only caffeine inspires. The careful observer will also notice people carting laptops to and fro, as well as Friday night guitarists and Saturday morning AA members. Yet, when one tries to buy a cup, or god forbid, ask for some tea, she is rebuked.

But no more! Starting tomorrow, anyone with a few bucks can buy anything on the menu at the newly-renoved caffeine emporium. To celebrate this once-unimaginable event, I stopped by the other evening and chatted with owner Robert Thompson. I took notes while he painted the finishing touches on the outdoor trim, stopping numerous times to chat wiith the parade of friends and neighbors "just stopping by."

It's easy to be a journalist in post-Katrina New Orleans: start with the storm, and the story writes itself. This is how I learned that the Fair Grinds had been open for exactly three years when Katrina hit. Owners Robert and his wife Elizabeth hadn't planned any special celebration for the anniversary on August 29, 2005, and in the end, they marked that day like the rest of us: staring at our TVs in another city.

With the help of Big Al, proprietor of the nearby Asian Pacific Cafe, Robert first snuck back into the city during the Rita evacuation to check on his shop. Although they were spared much wind damage - Robert told me that he'd inflicted more damage by his panicked storm preparations - they got two feet of water inside. They hadn't been looted, but someone had broken in, took a single oat bar, and left a dollar for it on the counter. "I don't know why they didn't take all the food," Robert told me, annoyed: "it just rotted anyway."

He sprayed the fridges down with Microban, but without electricity, there wasn't much more he could do. He returned to Houston to continue waiting. A few weeks later, another neighbor informed him that the electricity was back, so he returned with Elizabeth. Sure enough, the neighbor had electricity at his house, but the Thompsons' house stayed dark for three more weeks.

The gas was on at the Fair Grinds, so they began offering hot showers to the few grateful souls who'd made it back to town. When their electricity came back, they gave out free ice as well. As Robert surveyed his inventory, he found a good supply of dry, vacuum-packed coffee. Using bottles of Red Cross water, they began brewing again.

When you're the only spot around with coffee, and free coffee at that, you make lots of new friends. Robert told me of the kids he met with the National Guard, the Verizon Wireless tech guys, and even the clean-up contractors with Philips-Jordan. FEMA even registered them as a grass-roots community center. I asked Robert what that meant, practically speaking. "They dropped off lots of pamphlets," he replied. "That's all we got from them."

With only a two, three month supply of coffee, Robert had to get resourceful if he were to continue his coffee relief. Fortunately, Dean's Beans, his pre-storm coffee vendor, donated a huge box of coffee when they learned what he was doing. Each one of the Dean's employees personally donated a five-pound bag to the cause. Orleans Coffee Exchange sold him coffee for cheap, and the locals who'd begun to trickle back donated coffee also. As the Red Cross got stingier with the water bottles, Robert worried that they'd have to start using city water. Just when they were about to run out, a truck from the Vernon Parish Miller brewery pulled up. They had a truck full of water, but no one would accept it because all their bottles were glass. Robert offered to take it off their hands, and the brewing continued.

Even though he's not a religious man, Robert had to admit that instances such as the water truck from Providence, er, Vernon Parish, gave him pause. Another time, when he and Elizabeth were too exhausted to clean out the shop in time for its scheduled gutting, a group of volunteers from Allegheny College showed up out of the blue. They boxed, marked, and organized the inventory in perfect order, according to Robert, doing better than their one remaining employee could have done. (That employee soon quit, after opening a box of french-press coffee makers filled with Katrina water. One whiff and he was out on the street, vomiting into the gutter.)

Because they didn't get help from the government or their insurance company, the Fair Grinds renovation process has been long and slow. Working as his own contractor, Robert is quick to point out that he's also "Katrina-damaged," which makes it hard to get going some days. Also, with free coffee comes free freeloaders, whose problems and dramas tend to get in the way of an efficient renovation. The Fair Grinds already had a reputation for attracting weirdos; post-Katrina's dearth of psychiatric resources only increased the population of mentally-ill free coffee drinkers.

Still, Robert doesn't like to send anyone away. Since all of the help he has gotten has been from individuals, he doesn't want to risk losing a possible friend. One depressive hanger-on donated $500 to the renovation effort. As well, a plasterer donated about $10,000 worth of work. The amazing lamp hanging over their counter was also donated by local junk artist Adam Dowis.

So the process has taken time. Although it was easy for Robert to ignore passers-by asking about a reopening date, when his construction helpers began getting on his case, he knew he had to reopen soon. And, bless the gods, that time has come. Not only is the shop itself beautifully renovated, but the upstairs will continue running as a meeting space for local nonprofits and other community organizations such as AA. A Mid-City collective plans to assist Robert in running the meeting area, under the new name Fair Space, to allow him to focus his efforts on running the shop. To be sure, there will still be plenty of challenges: finding local bakers to make pastries, training neophyte staff, and keeping the psychos at bay, but as the storm season approaches, New Orleanians can be proud of one more goal accomplished: another neighborhood home has relit its fires.

[Recovery Pen is about the small victories that take place in New Orleans.]

To celebrate the freakishly-nice weather this weekend, a friend and I biked down to the upper Ninth Ward Saturday afternoon. The Bywater Art Market has become one of those few reliable things that one could set a clock to: if it's the third Saturday of the month, there's going to be an art market. Because this market is so reliable, it's easy to take it for granted: why make a point to go today, when you can catch it next month? Or the month after that?

Located at the park on Piety Street, just past the Isle of Salvation voudou shop and Frady's Food Stop, the Bywater Art Market has established itself as one of the premier art markets in town. Granted, New Orleans only has a couple of art markets, but even if there were more, the Bywater Art Market would still be a destination for serious art lovers. This market focuses entirely on fine art, not craft art, and only allows artists to sell original works: no commercially-made prints or reproductions.

Unfortunately, it usually takes something like a hurricane to remind us how important it is to cherish such gems like a free fine-art market. Indeed, I wouldn't have gone on Saturday had my friend not invited me. She'd never been, and with such great weather, I was happy to join her on my bike. I hadn't planned to write about the market, but I brought my notebook just in case. And once I got my notebook out, lots of folks were ready to chat.

As I began wandering, I couldn't help but notice the double-wide tent with woodwork on one side and herbal soaps on the other. Such a strange pairing needed explanation, so I asked the woman with cowrie shells woven through her light brown hair. Of course: she shares the tent with her husband, wood turner Mark Daynes. His hand-turned wooden vessels didn't seem to be selling as quickly as her soaps, but then again, it was only his third time in the Bywater, and she'd been long-established there as Mermaid's Purse Naturals. Measha Daynes, the soap mermaid, informed me that this Saturday was the Bywater's fifth-year anniversary. How nice to hear of an anniversary that doesn't involve "that storm."

Between her soaps and his bowls sat a double-wide stroller containing two of their three children: two-and-a-half year old Miku and eighteen-month-old Marek. "That girl's grown up at this market," a family friend said of little Miku, who I later caught parading around in her daddy's cowboy hat. Daynes first brought her daughter to the market at two weeks old, all the more remarkable considering some parents wouldn't set foot in that part of town, let alone with a newborn infant. So of course I had to get a picture of the family.

Not long after I took this family portrait, I saw another one at nature photographer Charles Bush's tent. He had a giant photograph of a roseate spoonbill family at the nest. Those birds really seemed to be posing, with the two adult birds' spoon bills crossed over their three babies, who all had their heads up and looking at the camera. The viewer would never guess that it took Bush four mornings of trekking out to the nests at Lake Martin before he finally got the picture.

For a much different interpretation of nature, I spent some time with Trish Ransom's Debris Art. Made from found objects along the lines of bottle caps and soup cans, her turtles and fish are an ode to the fauna of the artist's adopted southern Louisiana home. Her catfish's whiskers used to be guitar strings for Geno Delafose's bass player. Y'all, I don't know how it gets more Louisiana than that.

"I couldn't do this in California," the Grand Coteau resident told me, "they don't let anyone throw trash anywhere." So while the rest of us bitch about the litter, Ransom walks for miles, her eyes glued to the ground. She also teaches found-art summer workshops for children, teaching them to use hammers, plyers, and even the cordless drill. In defense of giving power tools to ten-year-olds, Ransom informed me that "only the adults get hurt." And if you can't afford one of her bottle cap fish, she is more than happy to bargain art for junk, so save up those beer caps.

I could have easily chatted with all the artists there, but I tried to lay low for awhile. I saw some amazing glass artists, showcasing art-deco stained glass pieces and "glass collages" made from broken pieces of glass set in resin. As well, several painters displayed gallery-quality works of nudes, historic New Orleans homes, and abstract nature scenes. I bought a ring holder from another woodworker, and a hand-made picture frame from Bergeron Woodworks, who makes his frames from old wood salvaged from around New Orleans.

Despite this market's reputation as a fine-art venue, whenever people are in the business of making money, the kitch finds its way in. I sped past a booth called "Red Beans and Nice," where the artist has dedicated much of her talent to pleasing pet lovers and grammas. I scanned over the crawfish paintings at another booth, remarking on how that little mudbug has gotten so fetishized, until I saw a painting of a pasta-laden fork spearing a globe under the words: "I want to roux the world!" And with that, I knew I'd had enough fine art for one weekend.

[Recovery Pen is a column about New Orleans festivals, and the other life events sprinkled in-between.]

At the risk of coming across like one of those weak sitcom episodes where they rerun clips under the guise of the characters reminiscing over old times, I've decided to join those who feel they must process Jazzfest by picking out the highlights. I know it's been a few days since Fest closed its gates, but the music is still playing in my head.

Read through my picks, and feel free to add your favorite moments in the "Comments" section at the bottom.

Best Crowd Singalong: Bonerama's version of the Beatles' "Helter Skelter." I belted out those lyrics at my loudest, and I still couldn't hear myself over the crowd. Something about having four trombones blasting in your face makes you want to scream.

Best Food Risk: The Alligator Pie. I got it in a combo with crabmeat-stuffed shrimp and fried green tomatoes, but the pie was so good it startled me. The gator tastes like ground beef, blended perfectly with just enough onion and tomato. It's rare to find such peppery stuffing in such perfect flakiness, at least when it comes to food.

Most Fun Quasi-Celebrity Encounter: I caught Times-Picayune reporter Gwen Filosa in the Media Tent on her day off, and let me tell you, that gal is a hoot! A little beered-up, Ms. Filosa had just returned from the Allen Toussaint show, where she got some pretty hot photos of the crowd as reflected in the tuba player's bell. When she saw my shot of Dwayne Dopsie, she asked me if I was a photographer. Of course I told her that I was.

Most Provocative Looking Instrument: No, this is not another ode to Joe Krown's Organ. Ba Cissoko, a visiting ensemble from the Republic of Guinea, brought the kora with them. It's a harp with a belly! Visually, it's masculine and feminine simultaneously, bringing a much-needed bit of gender-bending to a festival full of horns.

Nastiest Tease: During an amazing set, Taj Mahal started in on the opening lick of Hendix's "Purple Haze." After the audience began screaming in recognition of that famous tune, he then segued into one of his own songs. I love Taj Mahal's music all right, but it's not nice to tease us with Jimi, man. I stayed until the end, hoping he'd segue back to it, but he never did. Evil!

Celebrity Pound Watch: Maybe I just haven't been paying attention, but has Jill Scott put on some weight? Not that it really matters for such an awesome singer and strong woman; those extra pounds probably helped her belt out those stratospheric high notes at the end of her set, when she went diva on us with a climactic aria.

Hottest Pairing: To help him get his groove on, John Legend opted for a little audience participation and chose a slow-dance partner from the crowd. Mike already reported on this duo from his perspective at the Fest, but I was also at that show. I don't know her name, but that woman was Large and In Charge. A hell of a dancer, too: she kept pace with Legend's gyrating hips and sizzling steps. As I was back deep in the crowd, I really appreciated that he picked someone who could be seen from afar.

Best Advertisement for the West Bank: Knowing that dancing in the aisles was verboten, I tried to avoid the Gospel Tent this year, although the music did suck me in a time or two. On one foray, I was struck by the energy of a mixed-race gospel choir. Shades of Praise had let me down, but the singers of St. Joseph the Worker Music Ministry were full of the Gospel. Folks from Up North might find it odd that a Catholic church sponsors such a vibrant gospel choir, but I was mostly surprised that this group hails from Marrero.

Top Jazzfest Resolution: The worst thing about Jazzfest, like Mardi Gras, is that one can't be everywhere at once. I sure wish I'd seen the tribute/ jazz funeral for Alvin Batiste, a historic event, to be sure. I never saw the Gangbe Brass Band from Benin West Africa, and I hate to miss those international acts. I didn't catch Harry Connick, Jr., either, nor did I see Ludacris or New Edition or Joss Stone. Even though I could hear him, I should have tried to see Dr. John, too. But instead of dwelling in regret, I resolve to get out and see more live music this summer. First on my list? The New Orleans Bingo! Show, which I hear combines music, theater, and the absurd.

Best Jazzfest flag: If you haven't been to the Fest, let me remind you that it's a crowded place, especially on the weekends at the big stages. Because of the crowds, many Fest goers carry flags with them so their friends can find them easily. This also works well for folks without flags, who can navigate their way around using these flags as landmarks. "Turn left at the Kermit the Frog, then go right at the Gumby," you might hear someone shouting into a cellphone. I took this picture as I went into the Fest on the first day, and it's still my favorite. It works on so many levels: a symbol of the mix of music heard at the Fairgrounds, a blatant reminder of many fans' alcoholism, and a handy way to mix drinks with the vodka you smuggled inside.

Sexiest Singer, Female: I can't decide between Lucinda Williams, with her smoky, sultry voice and her big old belt buckle, or Gillian Welch, with her sweet smile and love of the banjo. I guess loving the banjo doesn't necessarily make someone sexy, but she can play it while also playing the harmonica. That skill might could come in handy in the bedroom, no? Guys, what do you think?

Sexiest Singer, Male: This one's easy. I'm officially in love with Dwayne "Dopsie," frontman for the Zydeco Hellraisers. Although it's true that Mark Mullins of Bonerama was pretty cute, with his sweat-soaked blue shirt bringing out the blue in his eyes, he couldn't compete with Dopsie's biceps and raw animal passion. Plus, there's something about a man squeezing an accordion...

So it may be that my jazzfest blogs have been a teensy obsessed with sex. But if the music doesn't move you deep down, way deep down where hunger and lust begin, then what's the point? You may as well just stay home and get your music by plugging into a machine. Live music has its own magic, which is why you'll see me out at the local clubs as long as my cash holds out. And if you're from out of town, I'll see you at the Fest next year!

[Recovery Pen tries to experience the best of New Orleans.]

Ass in the air, flash of silver panty, and she's back up, zooming forward, bulging thighs pushing skate against floor. God, they're sexy -suicide -those Roller Girls. Skirts flying. Bombs of cleavage. Pearls and fishnets and punk-rock makeup. Their sport is an intense blend of hockey and burlesque, at racing speed.

Best to sit in front, on the floor just outside the crash zone. Girls will tumble and slide right in your lap, which is why the prime seats are on the floor. Even from the back, you can see right up the girls' micro skirts, the way they skate bent over, focused on forward motion. So you might as well sit up front.

The bouts are at Mardi Gras World -where else?-so that giant heads and creatures of all sorts greet fans entering the ballroom skating track. As the Girls skate around the track, the pulsing lights of the dragon float and the dinosaur add to the hypnosis. Rock and roll plays, loud, techno and latin mixed in, music to make the heart beat faster. As if a heart needed encouraging, with these sexy ladies speeding circles. They are the woman everyone wants: tough, angry, cool. They speed into your heat on old-school skates, the kind with four wheels and laces.Warrior women, the Girls are decked out in full combat gear -elbow pads, knee pads, and helmets-because shoving and falling into a pile-up are just part of the fun.

They all have skate names: Crusty McKnuckle and Power Snatch and Wit Vicious. Each bout has a theme, and it's Spy Vs. Spy for the championship bout between the two New Orleans teams. The Black Team skates onto the floor wearing black derbys and long white cone masks so they all look like cartoon Spies. The derbys fly off, and the girls have to hold up the cones, but it's a bit of needed Mardi Gras drama in April. They toss Styrofoam bombs to the crowd as the emcees call out their names: Sophie Nuke-Em. Trixie la Femme. Illegally Blonde. They skate to the ring's middle, their dugout, to make room for the White Team. The Whites skate in wearing big white plastic sunglasses, Scabigail and Marquee de Squad and Victoria Von Doom.

The refs skate too, and also have skate names. The head referee, Henry Roll-ins skates in first, followed by Colonel Panic, Lionel Hurtz, and Mel Feasance. Lady refs like The Countess and Dynamite Dawlin' wear black fishnets to match their black and white stripes, and accent with red. If they aren't on skates for some reason, you might see them in hot red heels.

The emcees, Ian McNulty and Andrew Ward, don't skate, but wear top hats and tell dumb jokes along the lines of "Revenge is a dish best served rolled." At the previous bout, they opened the bout with a rousing rendition of the Louisiana state song, "You Are My Sunshine."

And who to serve as the Big Easy Roller Girls mascot? None other than Ruthie the Duck Girl, that French Quarter icon. She's based on a real person, Ruth Moulon, an alcoholic character with a soft spot for ducks and an affinity for roller skates. Word is that Ruthie finally passed away, but her spirit rolls on through the Roller Girls. Although mascot Ruthie doesn't skate, she plays the crowd during time-outs, running around the track tossing sponsor merch and moon pies. For Spy vs. Spy, the Girls went all out and made flashcards for each player, wrapped up with spy stickers and fake mustaches, for Ruthie to throw to the fans.

Once the Girls start to roll, it takes a few minutes to catch up with the rules of the derby. Each team has pivots and blockers and a jammer. Please don't ask me who's who, although the helmets help a little. The jammer's helmet has a star on each side, although the New Orleans jammers often use a fleur-de-lis instead. The pivots have striped helmets, and everyone else are blockers.

Five girls from each team skate at one time: ten girls on the track. The pivot leads the way, her striped helmet a beacon for the blockers to follow. Their job is to keep the jammer back, since only the jammer can score points. To score, the jammer first has to skate through the pack -- not an easy task, as the blockers will shove and link arms and do what they need to do to keep her from passing. When the jammer does break through, she skates a lap past the pack. She's the star, flying solo around the ring. Then she skates back through the pack, and scores a point for each opposing player she passes. From the outside, it's impossible to determine the score; the eye gets distracted by the shoving and the falling and the menacing expressions, taut lips, angry eyes. Scorekeepers in the middle tally the points and then flash numbers to the guy working the scoreboard.

The bout stays close, teams only separated by a few points. At halftime, Liquidrone rocks for thirty minutes while the crowd wanders through the elephants and the princesses of Mardi Gras past to grab more beer and some Juan's nachos for the second half. One of the emcees holds up the Championship trophy-what else but a roller skate, spraypainted with silvery glitter and mounted on a two-by-four. But the Girls don't skate for the trophy or even for the glory, but mostly for kicks. They skate back in, shaking ass to the music, mooning the crowd, enrapturing their fans.

The last half is marked with mishaps. Bruise Springsteen takes a nasty fall and doesn't hop right up, a serious sign that the Roller Girl's been hurt. The volunteer EMTs gather around her. "In case you were wondering," an emcee reminds the crowd," this is real." Finally Bruise limps upright, grimacing through the pain. She's out. The Black Team has lost their captain. In the end, the Whites take the trophy.

Afterwards in the locker room, Little MaSCARa sits with her head in her hands. At first, it seems as if she's sad that they lost, but no. She is not well. That fall she took still rings in her head and she feels like throwing up. As the other girls roll up to her, offering water and concern, she breathes faster, the beginning of panic. A concussion? How bad of a concussion?

Girls gather around, forming a protective circle around their friend. Nearby, Little Miss Ruffit shows an onlooker her bruises and scrapes from a recent motorcycle accident. The nausea, the bruises: these are the dark little secrets of being the coolest girls in town, the toughest girls damn near anywhere.

[Recovery Pen is one woman's journey into the heart of south Louisiana.]

We missed the Reaux Shambo down at the Montegut gym. Melissa, our guide to this corner of Cajun country, said it wasn't a big deal -- only old people go to the dance anyways. We'd spent too much time at Spahr's Seafood in Des Allemands, eating fresh-fried softshell crabs and harrassing the bartender to put horseradish in his Bloody Marys. Spahr's is right off the highway, and so no surprise when we ran into Melissa's folks on their way back to Chauvin from New Orleans. Chuckie and Maxine seemed nice, like country folks are. He was sunburned; she wore a cross. Ms. Maxine slipped us a twenty for the bar tab on their way out.

We spent the night at Melissa's sister's in Montegut, getting our country on. Swimming in the bayou after dark, picking blackberries in the morning wind, eating Melissa's homemade biscuits with lots of butter and honey: things to make a girl reconsider her life in the city.

We'd come down for the Blessing of the Fleet in Chauvin, where shrimpers from around the bayou decorate their boats for the priest, who blesses their ships from his perch on the front boat (this year, he rode the Tiffani Claire, pictured above.) After they receive their blessing, the shrimpers join the procession sailing down Bayou Petite Caillou. Although we weren't shrimpers, Melissa procured a pirogue and a "pushin' stick," a long fork for bayou mud. We, too, could set sail, so we loaded it in the car and headed for the festivities.

We didn't get to use the pirogue, though; we caught a ride on Melissa's cousin's shrimper boat instead. The Heidi Marie was decorated up for the boat blessing with a theme of Lagniappe on the Bayou, a festival they used to have before the bishop decided that the church didn't need to be associated with so much drinking. It was a real loss to the community, Heidi told us, because it brought everyone together -- the fisherman and the church folks and the couple others who weren't either. They hadn't had the Lagniappe in years, so it was up to the Heidi Marie to recreate the good times. She had old festival flyers laminated and stuck up on her sides, and she palm fronds decorating her rigging, just like the thatched huts they used to use for the vendors. And with her party flags flapping madly in the wind, the Heidi Marie was plenty festival-worthy.

We'd already admired the other boats from shore, Pimm's cups in hand. (Although she's a coonass, Melissa has cosmopolitan tastes. She even remembered the cucumber garnish.) I can't decide which was more odd: watching a parade without brass bands and beads, or the juxtaposition of religious decoration and half-naked girls. Melissa told us when she was a kid, she dreamed of being one of the boat girls. Not a hard dream to realize living in Chauvin, once you hit bikini age.

The boats were impressive, with tidy rows of flags climbing to the very top of the masts. They had crosses and stars and the red, white, and blue. Some boats displayed a theme, such as the Fiesta Boat or the Saints boat, or -- my favorite -- the Pac-Man boat. Under rainbow-colored streamers, cherries and berries and other video food covered the boat's sides, just out of Pac-Man's reach. A whimsical choice, for sure, but also oddly symbolic of the state of shrimping in Louisiana: a game, where you might gobble up the sea's bounty, or you might fall prey to the ghosts of a competitive industry.

Ms. Maxine joined us for a spell. She told us how boats used to sail down the bayou all day long, how there were so many boats that you got tired of watching. Nowadays, there's only a few -- we maybe saw twenty boats, if that -- and it's lucky that they still come out. With the market flooded with Chinese shrimp, shrimping's a lot harder business these days. Who has the time to meet up and plan a boat blessing, or for that matter, to hang streamers from a boat? Wouldn't it be easier to sign on with an oil company and get health insurance?

Of course, no one decorates oil rigs for the priest to bless on a spring Sunday. And sharing the day's catch ain't as fun, either. But hell, the oil market's a much safer bet than making a living off shrimp.

Good thing we still got plenty of folks that don't give a rip about safety. If not, we wouldn't have gotten to sail down the bayou on the Heidi Marie and join the other boats on Lake Boudreaux. They'd put down anchors to enjoy the sunny afternoon, and grouped together, their glittering flags dazzled the eyes. While I enjoyed the view, my friends went for a dip. They came out a little bloody, feet cut up from the oyster shells along the bottom. To hell with safety!

Back on shore, we went to another cousin's bait shop for a crab boil. In true south Louisiana fashion, the table was heaped with potatoes and mushrooms, corn and onions, crabs and crawfish and sausage all in a spicy pile. We tore into the food and drank cheap wine from the bikers in their leathery Sunday best. One of the dudes with them turned out to be a local fisherman, a throat-cancer survivor who'd been muted by the disease. Instead of speaking, Sidney could only wheeze through a hole in his throat.

But it was Sidney who showed us how to calm a crab. One of the boil's survivors had been caught scuttling through the yard, and it didn't like being held in human hands. All of its legs squirmed, claws clapping with anger, as Sidney began to rub its belly. It continued to flail, but Sidney kept circling the crab's underside with his finger. Sure enough, the legs began to slow down and the claws went quiet. Soon it stopped moving entirely. He passed the crab to me and it didn't wake. Then he turned it right-side up and it began its crabbing again.

So many wonders. On our way out, we stopped at Mae Mae's Drive Inn for snowballs. Ms. Mae Mae uses an old-timey snow machine, which shaves ice as soft and as white as God's own pillow. Then she drowns the ice in syrup -- I got blackberry -- and pours condensed milk on top. Oh, baby! Sugary like a snowball and creamy like ice cream: the perfect dessert for a good old country weekend.

[Recovery Pen is a column about living a good life in New Orleans.]

April is the cruelest month, but not for the reasons that inspired modernist poet T.S. Eliot. Simply put, April is the cruelest month because there's just too much to do. Not only do we have our two best festivals of the year: French Quarter Fest and Jazzfest, but southern Louisiana is in bloom with April festivals: Ponchatoula's Strawberry Festival, Festival International de Louisiane in Lafayette, the Art in April Festival in Chalmette, PowWows in Kenner and Hammond, the Cajun Hot Sauce Festival in New Iberia, the Great Louisiana Bird Fest up on the north shore, the Angola Spring Rodeo & Crafts Fair, a Crawfish Boil Championship in Marrero, Baton Rouge's Earth Day, an Etoufee Festival in Arneaudville, and the Great Southern Bluegrass Festival in Angie. Oh, and let's not forget the International Cajun Joke-Telling Contest in Opelousas. Aiiih-eee!

Clearly, having fun is a full-time job here in the Big Busy. If only it paid like a full-time job. And, festival-goer's health insurance would be nice, too...

So as I pondered what to write for this week's blog, it occurred to me that April is also a fine month for do-gooders. Although Earth Day tends to come and go without much notice, this week's calendar brings us some environmentally-significant events. On Friday, Step It Up 2007 is kicking off their nationwide campaign against global warning here in littl' ol' New Orleans. That's right: for once NOLA will be the first to do something; everywhere else in the U.S. will be protesting on Saturday, after we've started the noise Friday night at the Lower 9th Ward levee in Holy Cross. As I understand it, the goal of Step It Up 2007 is to promote the idea of cutting carbon emissions by 80% by 2050. If you need extra incentive to hang out at the levee Friday night, the Soul Rebels will be playing and they're giving away free T-shirts! In a display of cultural sensitivity, Step It Up's T-shirts are red so they can be worn to a crawfish boil and not show stains. To participate, go to the corner of Reynes Street and the River at 5:30 this Friday.

Another environmentally-sensitive event rivaling that of the Step It Up rally in historical significance,

the City of New Orleans is actually going to collect some recycling! Well, hell's bells, have pigs been flying or what? Of course, you're going to have to get in your carbon-emitting vehicle to drop off your recycling, but it's a start. They're accepting plastic, paper, cardboard, and metal (no glass) at four sites in the Metro area this Saturday. Jefferson Parish will be collecting in the morning, from 9 to noon, at the Alario Center, the West Bank Public Library (Gen. DeGaulle and Holiday Ave.), and the Yenni Building parking lot at Citrus Blvd. In Orleans, you can drop off your recycleables at S. Claiborne and Orleans Ave. from 1-4 pm. For more information, call 731-4612 in Jefferson Parish or dial 311 in Orleans. Unfortunately, most of us have gotten out of the recycling habit, but if you're an obsessive-complusive like me and have been storing your milk jugs since Katrina, Saturday will be a big day for you!

Now I know that recycling is controversial, as some folks don't think it helps that much, and certainly one could argue that hanging out on the levee listening to the Soul Rebels isn't going to do much to cut carbon emissions (especially if you have to drive there, like most of us.) But in case you haven't noticed, New Orleans is the Big Example of how our world is falling apart thanks to our greedy, consumption-driven careless ways. So I think it would be nice if we could at least show up for some of these events, if for no other reason than to show everyone -- both Blue-State tree-huggers and the Religious Right -- that we New Orleanians can do more than boil crawfish and drink our weight in beer. Even if that about sums you up, bring your beer to the levee on Friday and save the cans for Saturday's recycling bins.

If you're more of a people person than a tree-hugger, you still have time to apply to teach in New Orleans's Recovery School District. Not certified to teach? Happy news: if you've got an undergraduate degree with a 3.0 GPA, you can apply to teach through TeachNOLA, a new program dedicated to getting good teachers into our struggling schools. If you want to make a noticeable difference in the world, the New Orleans schools are your Ground Zero! Need an excuse to move to New Orleans? Here you go! Or, need material for that novel that just won't write itself? The RSD will fuel your creative juices for years to come. But don't procrastinate: their application deadline is April 23.

Not interested in actually teaching but still want to spout your ideas? You don't even have to leave your computer -- the State of New Orleans Schools project is hosting an online survey at www.stateofnolaschools.org. But they're only doing the survey until Monday, April 16, so get spouting!

Too depressed to try and save the world? One of the best remedies for that lingering post-Katrina PTSD (outside of talk therapy and heavy doses of antidepressants) is to consider the misery of others. Luckily for you, tomorrow kicks off the fourth annual New Orleans Human Rights Film Festival around town. I know we like to joke that New Orleans is part of the Third World, but honestly, we've still got American priveleges that are the world's envy (or terror, as it were.) Spend a few days in the Sudan, or god forbid, Iraq, and you'll remember how good we got it here in the land of obesity and credit debt. If you really are depressed, you might want to skip the Katrina-related films, one of which is being screened at One Eyed Jack's, and stick to the global fare. For a schedule, visit: www.nolahumanrights.org.

According to their website, Danny Glover is supposed to show up at some point. And do you really think Brangelina could skip a human rights event? Hell, no. So before you head out to the Cajun Hot Sauce Festival, consider how many celebrities you'll see there. That's right: none. Chew on that when you're making plans for this month.

[This is a special bonus edition of Recovery Pen, reporting on the issue brought up in Monday's column.]

Sitting next to a former neighbor at Monday's Mid-City Neighborhood Association meeting, I agreed with him when he said that if he lived in any other city, he'd never attend such an event. But hey, that's part of the New Orleans magic: the government ain't gonna do it, so citizens have to get involved, or else sink into the swamp.

Easily, two hundred people were at the standing-room only meeting, with concerned residents sitting on the altar steps at Grace Episcopal Church. WWL cameras were there, as was our city council rep. Shelley Midura. The MCNO started the meeting with good news: the new community center at Comiskey Park is breaking ground in early June, a library will indeed be opening in Mid-City sometime this summer, and a local purse-snatcher was arrested. The authorities think that this particular snatcher was responsible for some 22 incidents. Thank God he's locked up in time for Easter, which is prime purse season.

And more good news: the Friends of Lafitte Corridor (charmingly known as FOLC) reported that they got three grants totalling $400,000 as well as pro-bono work on a master skematic from a Baton Rouge design firm. The FOLC folks (sorry--it's just too easy) are working to turn the dead railroad tracks of Lafitte Corridor -- which runs from Armstrong Park to Lakeview, between St. Louis and Conti -- into a vibrant bike trail with grass and benches and everything. With the City Council behind this project, and with money and a plan, it seems like a go.

On to the meat of the meeting: Victory Real Estate Investments LLC's retail development plan for Mid-City. Jennifer Weishaupt, MCNO Vice-President and Chairperson of the Economic Development committee, gave a presentation, showing herself to be an organized, professional, and passionate leader. Frankly, seeing her at the helm of the Big Box Resistance Front was a giant relief.

First, she went over MCNO's goals for developing the area in question (Jeff Davis Parkway to Carrollton Ave, from Bienville to Toulouse Streets.) These goals: to incorporate a green space for walking and biking; to build mixed-use buildings to house locally-owned businesses; and to preserve the historic character of the area while expanding modern amenities. Ms. Weishaupt then asked us if we agreed with those goals, and got a resounding "Yes" in response.

She then went on to fill us in on the history of their meetings with Victory. The MCNO had to track them down, of course, and when Weishaupt finally got on the phone with Victory's president, he told her, "Young lady, I've never had a neighborhood organization find me before." A valuable clue to Victory's community relationships, no? At their first meeting back in November 2006, Victory had proposed a "lifestyle center" (develop-speak for "outdoor mall") with a residential component and a main-street feel. Not too scary. But at their second meeting in early March, Victory unveiled their "Plan B," with "B" standing for Beware Big Box Business Balderdash. This proposal was the one reported in Saturday's Times-Picayune which drew such outrage. At the meeting, we got some of the grim square-footage statistics as well as the galling news that Plan B also called for over 2500 parking spaces over two full city blocks. Hardly the Main Street that most of us remember. You can imagine the noise in the room when Weishaupt asked us if we agreed with this plan.

Still, the meeting was heartening. As my former neighbor observed, the MCNO is much more organized than many neighborhood groups, the Faubourg St. John N'hood Ass'n in particular. Weishaupt ticked off some concrete strategies for dealing with Victory, such as preventing them from getting any tax incentives and preventing them from putting in turn lanes, which helps to keep building size down. (I guess this is why there aren't any big buildings in New Orleans except for the Superdome -- because we have no turn lanes?) The Times-Pic already quoted Weishaupt as refusing to even hear about a Wal-Mart; she also told them, "if I can get it in Metairie or the Westbank, I don't want it here."

As well, the MCNO has enlisted the Urban Conservancy, the Preservation Resource Center, the National Trust for Historic Preservation, and Professor of Urban Studies Dr. Jake Wagner, along with the FOLC folks to fight for our cause. Despite the involvement of the historic preservationists, the area in question is not historic, but is surrounded by historic areas. And because the Lafitte Corridor runs through the proposed development area, city council members have made it clear to Victory that they will either need to work with it or go somewhere else.

City Councilperson Shelley Midura spoke briefly, reminding us that we voted for her, not Victory, and that she doesn't make secret deals. "My job would be easier if I did," she said, a little wistfully. She informed us that there's a city ordinance requiring large-scale developers to come to the table with the relevant neighborhood association. In short, "nothing's set in stone," as she told us. She also sees the fact that big box stores want to invest in our community as a positive thing, a bit of logic akin to the happy news that pretty girls are more likely to get date-raped.

So far, the only land that's about to change hands is the Lindy Boggs Hospital property, which Victory is about to close on this month. When an audience member asked about any plans for medical care in Mid-City, which has had no services since Katrina, Weishaupt let us in on a dirty little secret. When Oschner turned down the offer to buy Lindy Boggs, they put a covenant on that property stating that it could NOT be used for medical purposes for the next five ye