They will be wasting their time postulating and pondering their theories. Mitch Landrieu lost the election on his own accord. That, I will describe towards the closing of this email.

Politics can be much like an addiction to heroin. Once it is injected into your veins, you cannot seem to get away from it, nor do you want to. It seems that nothing else in the world matters. As you pound the pavement, day after day, you do not allow anything to stand in your way. You are invincible. Sleeping becomes something that you do when you can no longer stand straight or speak coherently, and eating becomes an obligation, a way to avoid the light-headedness that makes you trip upon minute sidewalk cracks. People tell you that you are losing weight and you don’t care. When you are in the political arena you are “… dancing with Mr. Brownstone … he keeps knocking, he won’t leave [you] alone.”

Comparing an addiction to heroin to the penchant that some people have for politics perhaps sheds light on the perennial politician. It also explains, to a degree, why men sell their souls, integrity and, eventually, their convictions simply to remain within the game. Politics is a complex mixture of art and science, talents and drives, and, above all, money.

My initial experience in politics, though I did not realize it at the moment, came back in November when I first distributed my thousand flyers in the Quarter. On that solitary day, it was as if I had pricked my veins for the first time. I was hooked. Within less than two months I decided to run for office.

Sometime after April 22nd I awoke and realized that the primary election had passed. My trip was over and I was standing around pondering how an entire five months elapsed without me even noticing. Moreover, I was lost. The month of May had arrived; a birthday was upon me. There were still movies in the theaters and songs on the radio. I had come down — and damn me if I did not voraciously crave being back in the political den, where neither sleep deprivation nor the beating sunlight prevented me from that exhilarating high obtained while engaging the opponent. I could not stand idly watching on the sidelines.

I considered campaigning for someone — anyone — just for the sake of being on the streets and working the people. Around April 25th Nagin’s people called me and asked whether or not I would endorse Ray. I respectfully declined and stated that I would remain neutral. Some friends close to me strongly suggested that I endorse Mitch. I was reluctant, but at the same time it appeared to be the smart thing to do.

Within this same period of time, I had met with a few of the other former candidates and corresponded with still more. I had begun to get bad vibes about Mitch and the way he approached encouraging the other candidates to endorse him. That, combined with the comment from someone close to Landrieu’s campaign that I “wasn’t worth Mitch’s time”, solidified my belief that Mitch was not only arrogant but also temperamental. I began to question how he would handle impasses over larger civic issue if he treated his former opponents so poorly.

I began to look at the money trail. Mitch was out-raising Ray nearly 7 dollars to 1. Something about that number bothered me to the core.

On the eve of May 1st, I couldn’t sleep. I got up and drafted a single page of reasons why Landrieu was bad for New Orleans. Suddenly it was November again and I had a list, which by morning, I had revised, and then with the few remaining dollars I had, made 1000 photocopies. That Monday evening I was back out in the African-American neighborhoods making sure that these people were going to vote, and vote for the right man. I told no one, not even my closest friends, what I was doing.

Here I was, once again by myself in the precincts of the seventh ward, on the orange sidewalks that reflected the last heat of the day, stomping up the front porches of wretched, dilapidated houses and engaging whomever I met. But it was a bit different this time. A few people actually knew my name. When I told them I finished ninth out of twenty- two I sounded a bit credible (I didn’t mention that I only received 114 votes). I was offered few beers along the way as we argued, traded stories and laughed. All the while under the creeping May humidity we all seemed to understand that, amid the sting of mosquitoes and the buzz-sawing locust orchestrations in the live oaks, the fate of the City was at stake. Most of those who I spoke with were going to vote for Ray with or without my request. Those who told me that Ray “wasn’t one of them,” found themselves having to answer whether or not Mitch was. The hardest thing to convince the people of was the fact that this “white boy” was out there without having been asked, but guts triumphed over that question in their eyes.

For a week, each night, for three hours until the streetlights flickered on, I wandered the seventh and eleventh wards and sat on sideways sinking stoops of homes where everyone congregated while the paint continued to peel, and the hole from last summer’s stray gunshot rotted a bit larger, to drink beer, shoot dice and smoke cigarettes (and probably do more than I wanted to know about). The purple hue of the sky was my only cue to get back to my car without any further B.S.’ing

Meanwhile, other developments were occurring among those who were Mitch’s presumed allies. One by one they began to endorse Ray Nagin. This was out of the ordinary, but knowing how Mitch was treating people, I believed that the endorsements were logical.

By May 15th, I had drafted a letter to the Times-Picayune endorsing Ray and outlining my reasons for doing so. This was a calculated risk on my part; I was pretty certain that the Picayune would ignore my letter (which they did) but if they had chosen to publish the endorsement I would have a few friends mad at me. Those friends of mine in Orleans Parish, I suggested that they vote for Ray.

I cannot say that my campaigning for Ray amounted to anything. It makes no difference other than the fact that I had fun walking around and talking to the black voters. What made the difference for Ray were the three endorsements which he picked up as a result of Mitch’s arrogance. Rob Couhig, Tom Watson and Virginia Boulet all came out and endorsed Ray Nagin.

Now, let us look at the numbers. Boulet, Watson and Couhig represented 13,918 votes. If they were able to bring 50% of those votes over to Ray Nagin that would add 6,959 votes to his tally. Nagin defeated Landrieu by 5,329 votes. In order for Ray to defeat Mitch by one vote Nagin needed 1,631 of the 13,918 votes represented by Watson, Couhig and Boulet. I believe that it is reasonable to state that the three endorsements that Landrieu threw away cost him at least 1,631 votes and the election. Mitch Landrieu can blame no one else but himself for his loss. He blew the election through his own arrogance. All he had to do was be humble for a minute or two and it may have meant the difference between winning and losing–and with this understanding of how and why Mitch lost, I feel much more comfortable with Ray behind the executive desk at City Hall.

For me the ride is over. I am working in Kenner doing a bunch of Civil Law Notary work for whatever that’s worth.

My polling location was, before the storm, my neighbor’s garage. A voting venue such as a neighbor’s garage was not only convenient, it was also quaint. You would walk a few blocks and then down your neighbor’s driveway to enter a room where motor oil was stationed on a shelf next to the shelf with the laundry detergent, above the washer and dryer next to the parked bicycles. Hanging on the back wall was a garden hose or two, a spare tire may be found lurking upright in a corner and left over lumber had been laid on the rafters above your head.

On the other side was the voting booth and a table where the poll commissioners, who all knew your name and family history, sat ready with their voter’s log. Due to the flood my polling station had been relocated to St Dominic’s church on Harrison Avenue, a block off of Canal Boulevard. The quaintness had been removed but the building served its purpose nonetheless.

Somewhere at the corner of Harrison Avenue and Canal Boulevard is a traffic light; on Saturday it was obscured by the millions of yard signs which had commandeered the intersection. The signs themselves made up a collage of which Picasso would have raved. They ranged in size from the small vertical uni-stick to the mobile billboards that roam the streets of Manhattan. Along with the signs came the “wavers.” These are the supporters of various candidates who stand on the corners shouting at you to vote for their candidate as you drive by, hoping that one just might step a little too close to the street where the mirror on your driver’s side just might bust a knuckle or two.

The intersection, being so close to a condensed polling station, afforded candidates a unique advantage this election to concentrate their “wavers” in one locale and reap this particular once-in-an-election benefit. In ordinary times during an election the intersection of Harrison and Canal would have had a handful of supporters. Saturday they were en masse by the bushels for their respective aspirant. Each was doing their own little part to drum up a last minute vote. As I slowly maneuvered my car through the crowd, I think that I may have actually witnessed a person doing backflips, but I cannot state such with absolute certainty.

After successfully navigating around the “wavers” I found a place to park and got out to walk what turned out to be about the equal distance as from my home to my neighbor’s garage. The day itself was temperate and held an electric atmospheric feel as residents milled around St. Dominic’s engaging in the political process to fulfill their civic duty to dictate the future of New Orleans. The area in the immediate vicinity of the church had not seen this much activity since well before the flooding. It was good to know that my friend Phil Nugent had been there in January replacing the trash bags and cleaning the streets in preparation for the April 22nd event.

New Orleans and the State of Louisiana pulled off this election with extreme efficiency. Everywhere you turned there was a poll monitor and someone to guide you to your polling station. If you had a question there was someone with an answer. And despite the many people who were at St. Dominic’s to vote, I was in and out in fifteen minutes.

Yes, it is an odd experience voting for yourself. Once that task was completed I made my way back to my car, through the crowd of “wavers,” without one backflipping onto the hood of my car, and then to eat lunch. By eight in the evening the whole event was over and the City of New Orleans became still as it held its breath awaiting the outcome of the past four months of worn shoe leather and hoarse debate voices.

As I made my way to a couple of election parties I was struck by how eerily quiet the City had become. I drove down Claiborne Avenue, making it over to the house of James Arey, an opponent of mine, only spotting a few cars on the road.

James Arey, as I stated above, was an opponent of mine. So was Marie Galatas, whose party I also paid a visit during the evening. These two parties were unlike what you are accustomed to seeing on television. Marie had set up chairs outside and had two televisions sitting in the back of a pickup truck. As the bugs bounced off the screens we sat on the edges of our seats observing the numbers. And in truth those numbers were not favorable to all of the hard work and time invested by most of the candidates. It was clear early on that the people of New Orleans, who had once been clamoring for change, swallowed exactly what the media was pushing down their throats — invariability. By the stroke of midnight incumbency remained the rule and the political shackles that everyone hoped to shake loose were reapplied, to New Orleans’ consternation.

I could rail on here about the media. They chose early on to narrow the field to 1/3rd of its true size. Those who had the best intentions for the City but were unable to raise the funds to amplify their voices were relegated to the back pages of the B Section of the paper when they did receive recognition for their diligence. That is how the game of politics is played. Those who can afford to run advertisements get the attention whereas those who cannot are never heard from because they are considered uncompetitive. And as we stand around wondering why American politics issues us the same people running each and every time, New Orleans shines as an example of where the system fails. No good man will ever come forward to serve the will of the people when the media immediately discounts him as insincere due to his inability to raise money.

And so a new day dawns in New Orleans with little change from the day beforehand. As the millions of signs which were once hammered into the soil of the neutral grounds are pulled up and destined for the landfill, the choice before every New Orleanian is the same as it has always been: lackluster candidates.

Jesse Jackson and his gang are now threatening to sue in Federal Court on behalf of disenfranchised voters. Personally I wish he and his merry men would stay somewhere else and spread their grief upon people who need such pain inflicted upon them. But that would be too much to ask. Hurricane Jesse is not what New Orleans needs to fan the flames of racism drummed up by the media. If he and the media had let things well enough alone race would have never become such an issue and Ray Nagin probably would not have made the run-off.

The question now remains: Was it worth the time, energy and money to get 114 votes and place ninth amongst a filed of 22? Absolutely. The answer is absolutely for a multitude of reasons. The most of important reason is that I made an impact on the process. By my candidacy I was afforded the opportunity to raise the issues that I felt were important not only to me but to those people that I had the pleasure of interacting with. On a personal level, my candidacy allowed me to grow, it allowed me to learn about myself, and I was able to discover talents that I never knew that I possessed. Above all I learned that I had at least 114 friends in New Orleans — I never knew that I had that many friends!

What must be done now is to take the talents I learned that I had and put them to use for the future benefit of New Orleans. Though I am penniless and unemployed currently I must continue onward with the fight. In the past week I wrote each member of Congress a letter requesting funding for New Orleans in accord with the duty of Congress to provide money during a National crisis to preserve the domestic tranquility the Congress swore to uphold. 535 letters is a lot of work, but it had to be done. My hope is that one member of Congress reads the letter and brings the issue to the floor — if this is done then I have accomplished my goal.

I must also work to ensure that whomever is elected to hold the office of Mayor of New Orleans holds true to their promises and works for the good of all the residents of the City. This will not be an easy task, yet I have obligated myself to such a challenge.

And yet, there it was. Letters to be mailed to supporters and an opening speech for this evening’s debates. Where is Mr. Landrieu at this very moment? Well until 4:30 CDT he is preparing for a debate. At 4:30 he will be in the Magnolia room at the Hilton Riverside then off to the Royal Sonesta Grand Ballroom for the debate. Mr. Landrieu will then cap his evening off at the Windsor Court to raise funds.

What does the small guy do with such material? Well if he is an honest man, and yes a fool, he calls the person who lost the material and returns it. And that is what I did. Nonetheless it did occur to me to redraft tonight’s speech for him to see how he could handle himself unscripted for a moment. It would have been fun but what would such an act prove?

Meanwhile, Candidate Adriani is on foot in Baton Rouge while more nails are removed from his tires. I should have bought a couple of pin cushions to ride upon. There is one thing for certain: Mitch Landrieu does not worry about flat tires and moreover he does not know that the little guy who runs against him would have loved to use the schedule he found against his opponent.

I am certain the last statement made you blink, but I have been to far too many meetings and witnessed far more rhetoric than I can stomach. Nothing is being accomplished.

And so I went looking for the few that are working to restore their lives. I discovered nothing but tragedy.

I walked New Orleans East; a predominantly black section of the City; the middle class African-Americans. The meetings that I have attended over the past month have highlighted one thing: New Orleans East has been forgotten. I have a difficult time understanding how elected officials can forget about a portion of their own city. But they have. New Orleans East deserves the attention that every other section of the City is getting.

My friends at FEMA has fallen off of the American radar screen and they should not have. FEMA is currently wasting more of your money than can be seen by the eye. I have complained about the sluggish trailer delivery rate, but there is much more egregious malfeasance under the surface. As the trailers trickle in one by one, they become utterly worthless when they do not have electricity. Understand that power has been restored to most of the neighborhoods; getting the wire from the utility pole to the trailer is another thing.

I wish that I could tell you that getting the electricity to the trailers was the worst of the trouble, but it is not. I met a man this afternoon who has had a trailer since mid-October. Up until this week he HAD electricity. When the trailer was delivered he had an electrician run conduit from the trailer to the pre-existing electrical service on his flooded out home. This Wednesday he came home to find a temporary pole installed by the trailer according to FEMA specifications and that the pre-existing service to his house had been disconnected. The problem is that there is no wire from the utility pole to the temporary pole and no-electrical meter installed. Now he is living in a hotel room at his own expense.

And this demonstrates the problem with FEMA. Everyone, from the guy supplying the tires to the guy erecting temporary electric services, has to have their cut of your Federal Tax dollars. All the while people are in desperate need of housing. How is it that, we, in America, can give someone a temporary place to live so that they can rebuild their lives and not provide them with readily available and accessible utilities? FEMA is only enriching contactors and not assisting people in their time of need.

Through out the flooded areas the situation is all the same. Most people have gutted their homes and now ponder the next step. No one knows what to do next. Thousands upon thousands of empty shells sit vacant because no plan has been put forward by any governmental agency to move things forward. Life has become a constant battle. The battle with the mold; the battle with the insurance company; the battle to get a trailer, the battle to get utilities; the battle to get building permits; and the battle with the uncertain future looming ahead.

I have been vigorously advocating a system of redundant levees. My theory is that if one levee fails the entire City does not flood. But progress is painstakingly protracted ad infinitum. And it should not be. People outside of New Orleans shudder at the cost of rebuilding. Nothing is more distasteful to me than to watch money being poured into New Orleans with minimal impact. If you believe that New Orleans is slowly coming back to life as a result of your hard working tax dollars, I warn you, be not deceived. It simply is not true.

The people of New Orleans are warehoused in hotel rooms, travel trailers and tents. With all of the money being wasted on pork projects for the cronies of politicians we could build everyone who has lost a house to flooding a new home. And that is the crime I witnessed on the streets this very day.

*

More information about Johnny Adriani’s campaign for Mayor of New Orleans is available at his website.

Throughout Orleans Parish, where FEMA trailers are sprouting up, lighted decorations abound, wreaths are placed upon aluminum doors, and the Street Cars, donned with garland and bows, pace up and down Canal Street, on a stretch of viable rail which is a pittance of what once was. Yes, it is a fraction of what once was, but it is a start, and I can attest to the fact that even though there is no snow, Santa is on his way, and Peace and Goodwill abounds in the wake of rioting and looting.

Those who are spending Christmas in New Orleans are the die-hards. They are those who are willing to rebuild, they are the few who have dreams amidst the rubble.

Over the course of the past months, as I have commuted back and forth between Baton Rouge and New Orleans, I have observed the painful and slow rebirth of a water-ravaged City. This is not 16 acres of rubble but hundreds of square miles of rubbish piled upon the curbsides. Personal belongings have been carted out to the road and made ready for the landfill. In these piles you see the strangest things that people possess. You find the old phonographs and LP records which were once covered in dust, rotary telephones long replaced by cellular, old electric fans which would slice off a finger in a fraction of a second. At one time I believed that I was the only pack rat around, but a quick observation of the trash on the side of the road, where old software, tax returns, and manual typewriters have been revealed has proven me wrong. As people throw out the old and begin anew, they shed their skins, they re-examine what is all-important, and move onward with their new Christmas decorations. 16 acres of twisted metal and pummeled concrete taught this Nation little. For the World Trade Center in Manhattan was an office building for the powerful and the rich. The terrorist in New Orleans did not discriminate. Both terrorists took lives, but the terrorist in New Orleans took the possessions and the homes of rich and poor alike. The remark is always the same in New Orleans: “I have lost everything, but at least I am still alive.”

And this is what is all-important in this world: life. The people in New Orleans have learned this. While we as a Nation moved at breakneck speed to cut out the last I-beam from the WTC so that we could demonstrate to an unknown terrorist that we had resolve, we, as a Nation, sit on our hands and observe despicable Washington practices without protest, allowing an Alaskan zealot to mire down disaster funding in order to line the pockets of the rich oil industry. How is it we can watch people living without electricity, living in tents under Interstate overpasses, living in mold filled houses, in Louisiana, while at the same time, we watch a Congressman tack unaffected Alaskan oil, so far removed from Louisiana, to a bill which affects hurricane recovery?

We, as a Nation, would not have stood for such an antic if this was regarding the WTC. Why, then, are we allowing this to occur in the Gulf Coast without outrage today? Is it because Mother Nature is a terrorist who we can identify with a rhythm that we can predict? That would seem strange. Or would it?

But it is life in New Orleans. Mankind forges onward regardless. We, the people, of New Orleans, have learned the difference between worldly possessions and life. The watermelon grows out of the fertile soil without the grace of the almighty dollar. And it reminds us through its colors that our spirit cannot be deterred.

And that, Charlie Brown, is what Christmas is about — Life.

It has been some time since I have written an update concerning New Orleans. In truth my delinquency is due to the fact that I have been extremely busy in the process of cleaning up. You know when I am busy when you do not receive a rambling of text ranting about the shortcomings of Government.

Through October and early November my parents, youngest brother Allen and I slopped our way through the house which was inundated by five feet of flood waters. In the process we removed all of the furniture, clothes and other household items which you have acquired over the years but have seemingly forgotten as these items become just part of the everyday mundane detail of household ambiance. As we hauled everything outside little things, long forgotten in time, emerged from the funky water, and gave you one last gazing gasp at time long forgotten.

I was struck, particularly, by a series of letters which I had stuffed somewhere between a bunch of books on a shelf in my room. I found them in a bunch, bound by an elastic band, lying underneath the wreckage of a sewing machine. Aged a decade and a half, I began to wonder about peers of my youth, long since forgotten, from my high school days, who once wrote me religiously, to inquire about my Louisiana endeavors. There were letters from girlfriends whom I had lost contact with years earlier. After a few moments of peeling apart saturated loose-leaf, I reminisced about the days of the past, then I heaved every last sheet out the front window towards the mounting pile of trash on the sidewalk. Such was the case with so many other items dear to one’s heart.

After the task of removing a refrigerator filled with decomposed food – which nearly killed my father, brother and I – we began busting down the plaster walls. All this work was in vain, the obvious solution is to demolish and, perhaps, someday, maybe we will rebuild.

There are numerous logistical reasons why rebuilding in New Orleans is impractical. By far the largest prohibiting factor in rebuilding New Orleans is the state of the levees. New Orleans is more in danger of flooding that ever before – and this jeopardy will not abate any time soon. Some may question why, and that is a very good question. The reason behind the future flood danger lies in the incompetence of Government (on every level). It is absolutely appalling to witness the snail’s pace by which levee reparations are progressing. I witnessed this work today as I viewed, for the first time, the area flooded by the breach in the now famous 9th Ward.

Along the levee there were no pile drivers, no army of men, only a handful of bulldozers pushing dirt around. The huge barge, that you have seen on television, probably seven stories high, still stands upon houses where the cadaver dogs are indicating there are bodies.

Never in my life have I ever seen houses picked up off of the ground, concrete slab and all, and just tossed about like a pile of legos dumped from a child’s toybox. Looking out from the levee breech, to a distance of approximately five blocks, everything has been flushed away by the water. Beyond that distance houses have been slammed together in a telescoping fashion. These are the images you have not seen on television, but the destruction has been at least mentioned in the headlines.

What I want to focus upon for a few lines here is the general vitality of New Orleans. A few weeks ago I read a piece in the Washington Post which painted a picture of businessmen downtown returning to work clad in suits and ties. The article gave the impression that everything was returning to normal. I respect the Washington Post, but in this particular article they missed the boat.

Through my observation of what once was and what now is, out of those who have returned to their New Orleans offices, one out of every five might wear a suit to work one or two days a week. Traffic throughout the city is the key indicator to how bad the situation is – there is no real traffic. More eerie than anything else is the outskirts of the City: the majority of New Orleans is a ghost town. This, I fear may never change.

After all the lights were trained upon the St. Louis Cathedral, where a grand speech was given to this Nation on “how this great City will once rise again,” New Orleans has been left in the dark to fend for itself. There is no army rebuilding levees, the FEMA trailers trickle in one by one in such a gross display of inefficiency that only Government could be responsible. Each trailer, rather than being brought in by rail or barge en masse, is hauled in via Interstate by guys driving pickup trucks hogging the left lane. Everything in New Orleans is at a virtual standstill. There is no housing, therefore there are few workers. No one is rushing in to rebuild until they can be guaranteed some sort of flood protection equal to or better than existed before the storm. Ultimately, New Orleans is dead.

As far as myself, I am in the process of trying to do what I can in the rebuilding process. Two friends of mine and myself are attempting to form a business which will begin with demolition and then ultimately transition to rebuilding. But we are only three. New Orleans needs one-hundred thousand times the three of us. Few are up to such a challenge.

I am going to attempt to post some photographs of what I have seen today. Perhaps I may place some photographs of the house. I will keep you all posted if I get this task accomplish. But I warn you that pictures do not do justice to the scene.

Here we go again, first from the East, now from the West. What a mess!

While in Jefferson Parish, Wednesday, I noticed utilities crews leaving in droves. The US Army was on the move as well. It was a strange day, very hazy. Haze and cloudy skies are a good sign with a Hurricane approaching the coast. At least that is what I thought. There was none of the atmosphere of a calm before the storm, just a lot of flies — and hence, I believed that we were out of danger. Another theory shot to hell.

I considered writing an email entitled “Exodus 8:21,” for it was the mass exodus on twenty-first day of the eighth month. Not being overly religious, I could not quote the Bible, so I decided to check the verse. It was Moses telling the Pharaoh to let His people go or face the plague of the flies. Something about this in conjunction with the flies in Jefferson Parish just did not sit well with me. I chose to forego my writing.

On my way back to Baton Rouge I stopped in a remote town (Donaldsonville, LA) and purchased 17 gallons of bleach, a sprayer, tarps, gloves, wading suit and other provisions that I believed would be necessary in my war against the mold in the house in New Orleans. At that time I was ready to execute my “shock and awe” battle plan made for Sunday. My plans, however, have been dashed by what appears to be the second coming of destruction.

Thursday morning I discovered myself back in the grocery store lines buying more canned goods and water. You would think that I still had that stuff from the previous Hurricane still in my stockpile. Most of the water I either bathed in or drank in New Orleans. The Spaghetti-Os, Chef Boyardee ravioli and canned Blue Runner Gumbo I killed off with the chips and the dips. ‘Cause I like ‘em. What a diet! You would think I would weigh a ton eating all this crap — perhaps it is the danged gas station exercises that have kept me on the lean side.

And yes, guess who called at ten? The gas station, who else. “Need you here, NOW!” This place is like a plague; I keep running from it and it keeps haunting me.

When I arrived it was a zoo. People lined up and trying to beat each other to the gas pumps. It was deja vu, the same thing over again.

It was ten after four in the morning before I got a reprieve.

Here in BR the winds are steadily picking up. This time will be worse than the last. We are on the eastern side of this oceanic spinning saw-blade. People are concerned about New Orleans flooding again. Who cares? Down at the house, the only thing that flooding could possibly do is clean things — it cannot get any worse.

Vast has been the breadth of bad press. It is true that the scope of this catastrophe has gone beyond the bounds of everyone’s foresight. And, in the beginning, nothing short of evil seemed to be seeping from the deluged City. The bad press has evoked action from seemingly stunned inaction and forged a feeling of hope out of deep malaise. But the bad press has left behind a deep scar which will, in the annals of history, forever mar the reputation of New Orleans.

One issue which was brought out by the press is the poverty and crime which existed in New Orleans. For every idiot shooting at a helicopter there are ten thousand who did not. For every looter there were thousands who stole nothing. To the one photograph I saw of the black male traversing a flooded Canal Street carrying a white linen suit, there were many who were seeking provisions to survive. It is easy to watch the television and imagine how you would react under duress; it is not so easy to act under duress while you are on television.

It is important for the reader here to note, as I have mentioned before, that not all of New Orleans is below sea level. Not all of New Orleans flooded. Three hundred years ago, when New Orleans was founded, the forefathers sought out high ground. Consequently, the oldest sections of New Orleans did not flood. Nevertheless some in the press press on with the idea that all of New Orleans is a bowl; look at the flood maps if you are not convinced.

Equally important to note is that every major City has crime. Criminals left unchecked will rape, rob and pillage. Every city has poverty. Crime and poverty are not some isolated blight unique to New Orleans. We should all hope that this incident will focus some attention on these two problems. Though I do believe that we will soon forget these problems, because none of us are too poor to care.

The Levee System

It is also important for the reader to be aware that the catastrophic flooding which inundated MOST of the City occurred not during the storm but some twelve hours after the fact.

The reader is implored not to pay any attention to those detractors who claim that the levee system was incapable of sustaining anything greater than a Category 3 hurricane. Fact be known to all: the levee system which directly surrounds Lake Pontchartrain and the Mississippi River preventing them from spilling into the city remains intact to this day. What failed were levees along canals.

The larger question that should be asked, at this time, is why the levees upon the canals failed.

The levees to the east, those which failed during the storm, were older; and, to my knowledge these levees had not been updated as the levees on the western canals had been. The flooding that occurred within the 9th Ward came from these eastern levee breeches.

True focus should be on the now infamous 17th Street Canal levee. The failure of this levee allowed billions of gallons of brackish water to pour into New Orleans. This accounts for roughly sixty percent of the flooding. As stated above, this levee failed roughly twelve hours after the storm. An enlightened reader would question why.

Currently, there are fools and pundits out there with models demonstrating storm surge and everything under the sun to shed light on why New Orleans flooded. Nevertheless, no one has addressed the paramount question: why a brand new concrete (steel plate reinforced core) levee failed in a canal after the storm, when the earthen levees directly subjected to storm surge held true? Not one person in the media, the government or the Corps of Engineers has raised this ugly question. And why?

There is speculation, and I remind you that this is speculation, that a barge may be to blame. Anyone who has examined any aerial photographs has seen the breech. The breech occurred not too far south of an overpass. This overpass has been under construction for a very long time. There were barges floating in the canal with heavy equipment. Were they ever removed? That is anyone’s guess. But logic and candor dictate that something larger than a tree branch and high water created a hole in a levee flooding hundreds of thousands of homes.

Drive me a Bus Mister

I invoke a famous Mardi Gras call: “Throw me something Mister,” to parallel the calls for bus transportation out of the metro area. Far and wide has been the conjecture surrounding why so many people who remained in New Orleans could not be bussed out. In the metro area, over 1 million people out of 1.3 million evacuated. Some simply would never leave; and these people more than likely will not leave during the next event (again human nature stuns me).

Most who remained were poor blacks. These people had no transportation. Questions have been vehemently raised on why buses were not used to transport these citizens from harm’s way. The solution of buses appears simple, unfortunately simple solutions are rarely well thought out.

The first hindering point on the utilization of buses comes when you attempt to figure out who was going to drive them. I am not qualified to operate a bus; very few people are. The second obstacle is the handful of troublemakers. To screen everyone before they boarded a bus was impractical – to drive a bus without having the passengers screened prior to loading would have been a game of Russian Roulette.

The City of New Orleans did what it could to keep people from harm. But the best laid plans are typically eroded by the path to hell. There are photographs of hundreds of buses sitting in a flooded parking lot – would you have been one to volunteer to drive?

What about all of the Middle / Upper Class

Aside from all of the poor blacks remaining in the City, not a word has been mentioned, not a photograph has been taken, not a line has been quoted in the aftermath from anyone remaining within the city holed up in a hotel room. What happened to all of the upper class who stayed behind? This is a mystery.

I do not have the statistics before me, but New Orleans has tens of thousands of hotel rooms. It is a known fact that many people during hurricane evacuations (past, present and future), who choose to remain in the path of a storm in New Orleans and can afford to, rent hotel rooms. I have neighbors who do so, and I have yet to account for them.

After the graphically highlighted mass movement of evacuees from the Dome and Convention Center faded below the bylines, I assumed that I would next read about the migration of New Orleanians who were trapped in hotel rooms. My assumption made an ass of me, and I, to this very moment, ponder the whereabouts of those who could afford and procure a hotel room. I am puzzled by this obscure journalistic apostasy.

Many May Never Return

Unlike myself, and many other middle to upper-class New Orleanians, the option to return lies before us. Though we do not know what the future will bring, and learning the status of our houses is an event of the future, we do know that we have a tract of land to return to. For those who rented or resided in subsidized housing, very little or nothing remains. Some will certainly return. But as days become weeks and weeks become months, the likelihood of many uprooted poor people immediately returning dwindles.

Do people want to return, is the next question begged? We have seen Barbara Bush in Houston with evacuees. She is quoted to have said something about displaced New Orleanians enjoying the hospitality of Texas and aspiring to remain. Truthfully, I am certain that many people are entertaining the idea that they will never return to New Orleans. But home is home; and home will always be New Orleans to these people. There will always be a longing for home in the back of their minds. And someday, when New Orleans is back up and running, the call to a land which is familiar and known to many will be blaring, tantamount to the sirens in an odyssey. Life for the New Orleanian, rich or poor, is not going to change much outside of New Orleans. Once that fact is realized, many will return.

My Upcoming Week

Some of you who do not know me well probably are wondering what it is that I really do. I realize that I have been all over the map in during the last couple of weeks in my capacity. Just prior to the devastation of New Orleans I had resigned from a paralegal job in criminal defense. Being in between jobs I found that I was most needed back in a convenience store where I once worked nights while working pro-bono for the East Baton Rouge Public Defender’s office. It was through working at the convenience store and public defender’s office that I came to know some of the many fine Baton Rouge police officers. Nothing more ironic in my life ever occurred than selling potato chips to cops arresting criminals in the middle of the night and then working in defense of those who they arrested during the day.

My formal education is in History, English and Political Science. I did not last long as an EMT; it was not my calling in life. Regardless of everything, I have great interest in, and respect for, police, fire and EMS. These people are on the front lines of everyday life.

This week I will change hats once again. I will be heading to Jefferson Parish (just west of Orleans) to work in a lumber yard. This places me a little closer to home than I am currently. I will be commuting each day.

Waiting on a Zip Code

Despite working in Jefferson Parish, I will longingly await my return to the city. As most have probably read, the mayor is using zip codes as his method to incrementally repopulate New Orleans. My wait will certainly be one of the longest. Within this unknown period of time I have a list of things to accomplish. I need a HEPA mask, a pipe wrench, a saw, flashlights, rope and countless other provisions which will enable me to re-enter a waterlogged house. The task is daunting and what I will discover is intimidating.

My rough estimates place approximately three to four feet of standing water in a house with plaster walls. It may be more it may be less. Today I viewed photographs which give me confidence that all of the water has been drained from my section of town. Yet a predominant section of my zip code will be the last to drain. The house is in the southern most (towards the river for “ya’ll”) section of a zip code which extends all the way to the lake. The target date seems to be in early October. My father and I are currently formulating plans for a return to the house to salvage what we can. In Conclusion and In Perspective No matter where one lives in the world there is potential for a natural disaster. I have read many opinions which suggest that people in New Orleans were foolish to live there. With simple minds come simple conclusions. To sit somewhere in America right now with the air- conditioning running, the computer on, with a hot cup of coffee after having a nice warm bath and state “that it’s stupid to live in New Orleans,” demonstrates how ignorant some people really are.

California is subject to earthquakes. Middle America: tornadoes and drought. The Midwest: wildfires. Anywhere along the East Coast and the Gulf Coast: hurricanes and flooding. Along any river valley: flooding. In the north: paralyzing blizzards. In the mountains: avalanches. Washington State, Alaska and Hawaii: volcanic eruptions. Simply put, no matter where one lives they are subject to the outrages of Mother Nature.

Our family home in New Orleans is pretty much lost – hey, we rolled the dice from June to November for nearly SIXTY years. Maybe next year it will happen again, maybe it won’t happen for another fifty years. It is anyone’s guess. But people have got to live somewhere and the port of New Orleans is too vital to America to abandon.

So we take our chances. We rebuild. We close our ears to the idiots. Disasters can strike anywhere, and you never know the day nor the hour.

“Enter Orleans Parish,” read the green sign cocked at a forty-five degree angle announcing my arrival. And with that, I traversed the bridge over the 17th Street Canal, leaving Old Metairie behind and driving into New Orleans. My only impediment to this point was some traffic through Jefferson Parish and a large pile of sand haphazardly sitting to one side of the bridge.

Throughout Jefferson there were tree limbs all over the place, near-naked trees and leaning telephone poles. Power outages were spotty, witnessed by some inoperable traffic lights, but on the whole it seemed that Jefferson was slowly coming to life. Gas station canopies were tossed over on their sides; buildings sustained serious roof damage and there were emergency vehicles aplenty. On Airline Hwy there was a long line for ice and water – it appeared that the troops were keeping everything under strict control.

I meandered my way around until I reached Metairie Road. From that point I drove with fearful anticipation that around the next bend I would find a roadblock and be turned back. That never happened and soon I saw the green sign on the bridge. And I crossed, deeper into uncharted territory. The road was dry.

I came to the intersection where Metairie Road turns into City Park Avenue. As I descended underneath the Interstate I came upon the National Guard. I handed over my driver’s license and asked, “Where you from, sir?”

The National Guardsman said, “Oregon.”

I replied, “Well, welcome to New Orleans.”

This evoked a sigh and a smile. I explained that I was hoping to get through for a brief period of time just to check on the house and retrieve a few things that I hoped were salvageable. He replied that I didn’t appear to be a “shady type” and that I was free to pass. I thanked him for his service to the people of New Orleans.

That was just plain too easy. It was just the beginning.

Unless you have been living in a box these past few weeks you have certainly heard about the smell. It is the smell of death.

Everything is dead.

Driving by “The Cemeteries” (which is what New Orleanians call them) I noticed that all the grass was brown. Turning on to Canal Boulevard I found the streets mostly clear, but debris was everywhere. The waters had washed everything from dumpsters to shingles everywhere. The cleaning crews pushed everything that had floated out into the streets into the Neutral Ground (median). All of the shrubbery was colored a rust brown dead. The high water mark was clearly visible on the houses I passed. But, above everything, the stench permeated the air and you could not ignore it.

I made it to the house after a few short blocks and I sat in my car for a minute or two. I had never been to a war zone but I imagined that the frontline could not look much worse. With the exception of the live oaks and other tall trees, all of the foliage appeared to have received a large dose of Agent Orange. While I was mulling this thought, a Black Hawk Helicopter buzzed low overhead. What immediately popped into my mind: This was “Apocalypse Now.” I got out of the car and put on a respirator mask.

The property was a shambles. Lawn furniture, which was originally on one side of the house, was now on the other. There were some things that were remarkably in place and yet others that were completely out of sight. I pulled out a tape measure and placed it to the high water line – seven feet, two inches. I shook my head to rid myself of the daze but that effort was in vain. The only thing that made me conscious of the reality was the acrid salty air of death that surrounded me. I was completely alone.

I walked to the carport and observed the 2000 Toyota Camry, which had been completely immersed. Driver’s side window busted out, I soon came to realize that every car had a window busted out. It was not from the looters, but courtesy of those seeking the dead. Upon the brick wall in the back of the house there was a message sprayed in red. It was a big “X” with “06:14 / EN” on the left, “09-14 / No Ans” on the right, and below the X was “0.” Pretty self-explanatory.

I opened the back storm door to discover corroded locks and pressed the keys in, to no avail. The same was true with the front and side doors. Wearing a Yale T-shirt in honor of “Georgie,” I became a looter of my own house. I began kicking in the back door.

For those of you who have ever busted down a door before, a waterlogged door is the most formidable opponent. Dry doors are pretty easy, but a spongy door, that gives but does not yield to the force of a combat boot, presents a challenge. Complicating my maneuver was the fact that I was on a set of three steps leading up to the door. I considered shooting the lock – but I believed that this John Wayne approach might cause me more harm than the door. Eventually, I prevailed. The moment of truth had arrived.

It is said that sometimes the truth is hard to accept. This truth was no exception. What lay beyond the door was an act so foul that no group of vandals could have ever conceived of the notion.

My entrance into the utility room proved to be an entrance into an obstacle course. A refrigerator on its side, the bed frame that I had built with my own hands warped and washed across the floor. Newspapers, bottles, an ironing board, a washer well out of its original place – and a wet linoleum floor covered with a quarter inch of sediment.

I thought that the stench outside was bad – inside was magnified by the hot humid musty breath of rampant mold flourishing. I could have had five masks on, the smell would not have been deterred.

I came into the kitchen. The table was up against the stove. The refrigerator was lying on its back, the countertops simply collapsed into the cabinets. High above it all, hanging on the wall, was a battery powered clock which ticked away the time.

I proceeded to the next room. Furniture was everywhere. A sleeper sofa was leaning upright against the wall. Other pieces had floated to other rooms. Never have I ever seen such a sight. The hardwood floors had buckled. There was obviously fecal material outlining the water mark. Dead roaches (this is Louisiana, where everyone has roaches like it or not), which had come out of the woodwork, clung lifelessly on the plaster. Mold was everywhere and in some spots had begun to resemble moss hanging from the trees. Inside, the water had reached a level of five feet even.

I began to scavenge what I felt was worth saving. This was mainly some artwork – four items to be exact. I gathered a few things which my father had requested. In truth, there was no reason to hang about, there was not much really worth saving.

I brought the car around the back and loaded the booty. Next I pulled out the cordless drill and secured the aluminum door with some screws. This was probably pointless, as there is not too much worth stealing. From there I washed up with Hibiclens and bottled water. I will not return until I have a Class A MOP suit; if there was ever a hazmat scene, the inside of the house is it.

Back in Baton Rouge, I disrobed on the front porch – yes, in the middle of downtown. I came in and showered and then hosed down my clothing before placing them in the wash. I may have to burn what I wore today.

Water is a strange thing. I had visions during my sleep of the contents of the house floating around, those visions did not prepare me for what I was to find. As I said above, the most malicious group of vandals could not have caused more destruction. I guess now is the time to wait for the bulldozer.

Today is a day that will live with me forever. The stench is still in my nose. I guess I was lucky in my timing, upon my departure everything had been blocked and they were not allowing many through.

My first memories of New Orleans come from my childhood visits with my grandparents. My earliest memory comes from being told that if you dug down five feet into the ground you would hit water. As a toddler, this little nugget of knowledge stuck me, and I remember going into the side yard with a plastic shovel digging down into the ground five inches and wondering where the water was. As I grew older, I clearly remember afternoon thundershowers dumping an inch of rain on the ground causing the streets to flood. By the late 1980′s the drainage system had been improved so that flooding became a very rare event. Nonetheless, anyone who had a half a brain on their shoulders in New Orleans knew the potential for flood. Most of us lived in an area that was below sea level. Today, if I had a nickel for every critic who pointed out that fact I could build a high-rise apartment. But where were these wonderful detractors before the storm? Oh, yeah, today’s highbrowers are nothing more than yesterday’s drunk tourists.

I want to focus for a moment this evening on what did not flood in New Orleans and the “bowl” that the media seems to be so fascinated with. Contrary to what appears to be the prevailing belief, not all of New Orleans is below sea level.

“Vieux Carre” in French translates to “old squares.” The “old squares” of Nouvelle Orleans are what are commonly known to the outside world as the French Quarter. For years I could not understand why my grandmother, who is in her nineties, called the French Quarter “the French Quarters.” Several years ago I made the connection between the French and English translation.

For all of those you who are sufficiently astute, you will observe that the Vieux Carre did not flood. (And, thankfully, no one has taken a match to it as of yet). Regardless of fact, I beg of you the question why the French Quarter did not flood. The Answer is simple: it is on high ground.

The infancy of the Vieux Carre was perilous at best. Established around 1716, it was subjected to a hurricane in 1719, again in 1721, and then again in 1723. Yellow fever and malaria were amongst a few diseases which also had to be contended with. There were calls to move to another location; to establish a town less prone to disaster. But the founders, as headstrong as the leaders today, persisted and New Orleans prevailed. By 1721 there were nearly 400 people; by 1728 there were about 1000 inhabitants.

Geographically, New Orleans, during the colonial era, was considered an island. Consequentially, it was called the “Isle of Orleans” during the antebellum years. Despite being an “island,” however, New Orleans prospered as a port city and thus the population grew. Growth in population spurred development outside of the “old square.”

Much of today’s City has developed upon soil which was, during the early years, swamp. The first developments outside the Vieux Carre were on high ground, however. There are three natural ridges in the New Orleans area: The Gentilly Ridge; The Metairie Ridge; and the Esplanade Ridge. Along the Mississippi River was another area of high ground. Crescent shaped, as the curve of the River is, many of the oldest neighborhoods bloomed with antebellum homes along the highest ground along the River. After this locale was developed, by prospering merchants and entrepreneurs, other areas of high ground were built upon. The Esplanade Ridge was developed throughout the 19th century; Gentilly was developed during the early 20th century. Some areas in Gentilly are 10 feet above sea level.

After the development of all of the high ground had taken place engineers developed methods to drain the swampy land. Development began in these areas took place post WWII up until the late 1960′s with the Lake Vista area. Expansion outward took place there after. New Orleans East was developed on the eastern side of the industrial canal. And Jefferson Parish, to the West of the 17th Street Canal, saw phenomenal growth particularly due to white flight during the 1960′s and 1970′s. My father, a native New Orleanian, remarks that when he left New Orleans in 1962, most of Metairie and Kenner were nothing but swamp.

Since the dawn of time in New Orleans, levees have played an important role. The first levees were developed to hold back the flooding of the Mississippi River. Later on levees were elemental to keeping the entire city dry. In the late 1880s the first canals to pump water out of the City were developed. 1903 saw the first pumping station. These two developments alone allowed building upon lands that were up until that time uninhabitable.

This is an extremely abridged history of the development of New Orleans. I write this to dispel the current press which would make you believe that everyone in New Orleans is an idiot and that the development of the City was arbitrarily positioned in some bowl waiting to sink below the surface of the sea.

There is one particular journalist who, if I could find, I would rip the pen out of her hands and break her fingers so that she could never write again. Lynn Woolley is an ignorant as they come. I quote what sparked the ire within me:

“This city’s very location should have set off alarms at the state and local level … Oh sure, they built levees and installed a system of pumps. PUMPS! For crying out loud, you have a city built in a hole with water on three sides, and they were depending on pumps!”

Let me parallel this insult to the Twin Towers: “110 stories should have set off alarms at the state and local level … 110 STORIES! For crying out loud, you have built two buildings 110 stories tall looming above the city and did not expect it to be a target?”

No-one would write the above statement because it is ludicrous. The statement made by Ms. Woolley is equally as ludicrous. New Orleans is a city nearly three hundred years in the making. Its location was not chosen out of a lack of foresight, just as the WTC in New York was not built with the knowledge of an eventual attack by terrorist with an airplane. New Orleans grew and prospered because it was one of the greatest port cities in the world. Just as New York will never be the same, neither will New Orleans. But rest assured just as they will rebuild a World Trade Center in New York, New Orleans will rebuild its City.

We all learn through our experiences and we adapt to the times.

Sept. 11, 2005: Stabilizing; Assessing the Loss

One of the things I should address here is how things appear to be stabilizing. Gone for now are the gas lines and the feeling of apocalyptic panic. These have been replaced with steady consumption and a low level fear. Most Baton Rougeans who exist in their little humdrum world of commuting to work and returning home to the television have reset their routine back to their status quo isolation to the outside world. The only complication to their oblivious mindset is the extra traffic and the lines at the grocery store.

In the beginning, when gasoline became an issue, there were many who were traveling long distances to stockpile fuel and goods. Many of these were from the Northshore, Covington, Mandeville, Slidell, Hammond, Madisonville, and Holden. Now that electricity has begun to be restored in that area, those residents have ceased their migration to Baton Rouge. This removes a burden from the City here. Be not a fool however, the fun may just be beginning, now that the Sheriff’s Office has come out and made mention of the potential for turf wars between gangs.

Assessing the damage in New Orleans from afar is a painful experience. Losing a house is hard enough. But when I viewed a photograph of Liuzza’s with water above the door, I realized how much more agony there is to come.

For those of you who believe that a neighborhood restaurant is located down at the local strip mall and a local grocery store is a Mega-lo-Mart ten miles away from your home, I pity your lack of experience. In most New Orleans neighborhoods you can walk to a corner and find a quality restaurant. You can wander a few blocks to a convenience store for a roll of toilet paper and newspaper. Not anymore.

When a decision was made to eat out or make an order to go, everyone had to gather around and make a decision where to go. Do you want a “whole half and half from Mandinas?” or a “WOP Salad from Ye Ole College Inn?” How about “Stuffed Artichokes from Liuzza’s?” or a really greasy hamburger “with Hickory Smoke Sauce from Bud’s on City Park Avenue?” The list could go on ad infinitum.

There is not one New Orleanian who could claim to know every restaurant — some of the best were hidden in some of the worst neighborhoods. Most of these, if not all, will never recover. And that is more painful to me than a box of photographs sitting under several feet of water.

The other morning I spoke with a man from Metairie who owned a lumber yard in New Orleans East. He had been back to his home, which had suffered eight inches of water. I joked with him for a moment: “Gee, only eight inches?” He returned my volley, “Yeah! There was a time when that would have been bad. It COULD have been eight feet! How lucky am I?”

We began comparing notes on what happens to sheetrock versus plaster in floods. His house had sheetrock and was growing mold like a freshly fertilized flower bed. Our house in New Orleans is old enough to have plaster walls. I envisioned for a moment the goop that has surely melted and covered the hardwood floors. I shook my head to rid myself of the image.

Sept. 12, 2005: Figuring out the Federal Fiasco

For all of you Republicans who have bitterly viewed me as a sellout, an absconder, a malcontent, because I decided to swap parties when Georgie Boy was elected, I present to you a theory which seems to explain FEMA’s foul-up. Indeed, I have made no secret of my views of “Mr. Inept,” but while the mud is being slung along from the swamp waters at local politicians by Federal States Rights types we must go to the very top to see where the pivotal error was made during the crucial hour.

Credit must go to a friend of mine first for pointing out the obvious. (Thank you Alan for the forward). I am only expounding on what I was too blind to see but read earlier on. I submit to you the following White House press release, which was aforementioned in a prior email. http://www.whitehouse.gov/news/releases/2005/08/20050827-1.html.

In a stunning stroke of brilliance, little Georgie and his advisors decided to declare a state of emergency in Louisiana two days before the hurricane made landfall. Back in 1999 when Mr. Inept was running for the highest office of this land we all laughed at the boy who could not read a map. Well, folks, the above should make you shake your heads at the laughter of the past. I remember reading the above press release and thinking it odd that the entire state was covered. I had merely glanced at the Parish names and noted that the Parishes included in the Emergency Declaration, among them the Cities of Shreveport and Monroe. But the colossal error, which I overlooked, was which Parishes were not mentioned: Orleans, St Bernard, St Charles, St John, St Tammany, Lafourche, Plaquemines to name the lot. Gee, if it were not for the fact that the Hurricane were the size of the Gulf of Mexico, we all would have been lucky that Georgie did not name the Counties of California in his declaration.

We have placed a huge blame upon FEMA. Perhaps they were just following orders?

It was not until August 29th that the first White House press release addressed the Parishes directly affected by the Hurricane. http://www.whitehouse.gov/news/releases/2005/08/20050829-2.html.

For all of you who have seemed to have found such fault with local government perhaps you should remove the plank from your eye. Why in the world anyone would want to turn local control over a disaster to a President who cannot locate the disaster on a map should not even be a question to entertain. The press releases speak for themselves -– and we expect these people to be able to run a country?