August 29th, 2005

I Will Not Defame New Orleans.

Sour Awakening

I woke up to my cat crying in fear.

When you live with an animal (or person, for that matter) for so many years, you learn to speak their own individual language.

I know what Harley In Legitimate Fear sounds like.

It sounds like this bird outside my window at 7:30am (6:30 NOLA time).

I mean muther. Fucking. Exactly like Harley in a mortal jam.

Oh please please please please let everyone be okay today.

And please let me have a home to return to.
I Will Not Defame New Orleans.

Fingernails, Where Art Thou?

An update in my little life can be best summed up by this email I wrote to Pablo:
Hello, Mittens,

Welcome home. Hope you had a Scotastic time in the lowlands of the highlands.

Katrina is a fucking bitch, yes it's troooooo. What have you done for me lately, bizatch!?

I really have no idea what the fuck is going on. I've been watching the Weather Channel and CNN and all these journalistic devices are so hellbent on sensationalism I can't separate the fact from the fat any more.

I'm at my family's cozy lakehouse cottage in central New York state, by the merest of chances, enjoying refreshing dips, lots of delicious non-British food, and families of ducks stopping by to say "Quack," so I'm okay...

...except I have no fucking idea what's going on at home!

Ben didn't come here with me. He and Pamela refugeed to Lafayette (a few hours northwest) yesterday, the which drive took over 16 hours. They're safe. I'd rather be here than in a car that's not moving though.

I am very worried about Clifford, and my kitties who are all in the house.

Hard to get news. And by news I don't mean frothy, breathless reporting about worst-cast-scenario conjecture devised expressly to boost ratings from slack-jawed midwesterners who have hardly heard of, much less visited, New Orleans, but "news" as in, "So. What's NEW!? Like REALLY!?"

Word on the street (and certain web sites) says that the 9th Ward (Clifford's hood) is flooded. But they call it "lower 9th ward" which I never realized existed. Perhaps they mean over the industrial canal, and in the opposite direction from Clifford, which would be fine, but if that's the case, I wish they would call it "Chalmette," which, in fact, it is.

Things have names for reasons, ladies!

I take it as a personal affront to whip Todd into a veritable panic frenzy, these vagueries and blagueries.

I'm nearly bald.

My fingernails are quite gnawed away.

Despite the tranquility of the little duck family that has visited with me all day.

The most important thing to do in a time of crisis, of course, is to maintain a healthy two beer buzz. I wish to be neither drunk, nor sober, and it's a fine, teetering line, this Two Beer Buzz, which has helped emergency victims, bowlers and pool players so much in the past.

Looks like I picked the wrong week to quit sniffing glue.

I sincerely hope I have a home to offer to you upon your next jaunt to Ye Olde States.

If you have any deities in your pocket who are high up the divine echelon, do please put in a good word that Clifford and my kitties and all the precious things of the shop are intact and not waterlogged. Cheers in advance.

Yours, with wide, yet alluring eyes,