Speaking of circling my house, there's been a helicopter running the perimeter of the French Quarter since about Wednesday. Whether it's NOPD or media, I don't know. Probably the latter. Yesterday, it hovered directly over my house for four straight hours. I was trying to do some dialogue editing. Soon gave that up. This is compounded by the prop planes droning hither and thither (more often hither) dragging their banners for G€i¢ø Insurance and other totally useless pitches. I think they're turning N. Rampart street into an airstrip, actually. I demand the IATA code of MAN for the Manderley Arëopuerta. (As I end this ¶, another helicopter seems to be landing in my back yard.)
Jackson Square, erstwhile known as "my backyard," has officially changed its name to Superbowl Village, no lie. It is the epicenter of all the media, full of TV vans and camera krewes. I'm scared to go over there, but I might have to if only to document the madness with my own camera.
My dog-walking park has been tented and roped off. There are chandeliers in the tents. I don't even want to hazard a guess what's going on in there. I'm sure I'm not vippy enough to qualify, though my dog is saving quite a steaming load until this is over.
Parking is beyond fuckèd. Three days ago I found a spot in the Treme, only a ten minute walk from the house. Yesterday, husBen had the brilliant idea of going out to a proper grocery store to get cat litter and other provisions too expensive to buy in the Quarter. "Better do it today as tomorrow we'll be really screwed!" As we walked towards the Treme and saw a long queue of cars being directed by the po-po out of the Treme — cars searching and failing to find parking — we reassessed our ambition as one perhaps too lofty for the current climate. No way would we give up our precious parking spot. (It occurs to me now we could have scalped it and made a tidy sum.) Plus, the idea of having to drive right past the Supadome was a thought rancid enough to curdle the very blood in one's veins.
And perhaps the most annoying thing about the
There are a couple nice things about Supabowl. Our friend Dwayne rented out his house (for a mere $200/night) and is staying with us, so that is nice. He's a good cook. (We could have rented ours out for $2,000/night, but it would require removing all the animals, and rearranging the whole damn house, not to mention our lives. This droning helicopter is suggesting to me that we might have done well to have made the effort. Ah, hindsight.)
Also, the weather is absolutely fucking wonderful. We get, like, two weeks of perfect weather a year in New Orleans. This early February, weirdly, is one of them. Perhaps it will hold through Mardi Gras. If this is the manifestation of cataclysmic global warming, I'm all for it!
To sum: rah, for your local sporting team or preferred players. Enjoy New Orleans — we need your tourist dollars. But try to remember people actually live in this "pretty little Disneyland" as well, and refrain from micturating your steaming, colorless urine upon the properties, cheers.
Addendum: Ever the intrepid reporter, I ventured into the trenches to bring you these battlezone shots. I was actually dismayed that it was a lovely day, things aren't as bad as I thought, and there was a spring in my step. Imagine. Me. With a spring. In my step. I know, right?
I mean, it's still douchey out there, don't get me wrong.
We'll start with Bourbon St., which is looking very douchey today, but what's new there?
More Superbowl Village.
Bunny's poo park, closed down now, and tents being removed. What transpired there? Guess we'll never know.
However, here's Manderley, in the center of all the madness, and yet my street is quiet, calm, empty and lovely.
A neighbor's house. They always do themselves up to the nines — no, to the tens! I love them.
Another neighbor's house. You see this sign a lot on houses and in bars. People in the fútbol community will know his name, and the crimes of which he is guilty. Something about indicting Saints' coach Sean Peyton for some fútbol'y infraction? Docking his pay for a week, which amounts to, like, $47M or something. I dunno. I just like solidarity.
So yah, it's a lovely day. Sorry, Eric. But I think around 2:00am tonight when I'm starting to get sleepy and the helicopters and frat chants are all-pervasive, I'll regress back to the arthritic, rheumy old curmudgeon you expect me to be.