It's Just Football

That's what I keep telling myself.

But it doesn't feel that way.

It feels like I've been punched cruelly and powerfully in the stomach. Where just months ago, was excitement and sheer joy, today is despair and disgust. What went wrong? Where did it go?

For those of you not currently going through this emotional hell, maybe you have no idea that I'm talking about the New Orleans Saints and their 0-3 start. What makes it really unbearable, so completely different than years passed when the fans wore bags on their heads and called their team the "Ain'ts", is that there is no one thing we can point to as an explanation. Sure, the secondary is weak, but that's not why we can't run the football. Sure, we're having trouble running, but that's not why Drew Brees (the should-have-been-MVP last year) can't seem to find any receivers except the opponents defensive backs. Sure, Drew Brees is struggling but that's not why we can't stop the run. Do you see the complete failure here?

The national media (who were quick to pick us for the Super Bowl in the pre-season) is running with the angle that LAST YEAR was the anomaly. Really, we still are that team that has only had eight winning seasons in our forty year history. They've already printed the "Ain'ts" signs and started handing out the paper bags. I don't think I'm ready to give into that attitude yet, but it doesn't feel good.

I might be new to New Orleans, but I've been a Saints fan my whole life. I've lamented the fact that other cities, states and regions get to celebrate championships and we celebrated a single (and then a duplicate) playoff win. Two years ago, this city was hit by the worst natural disaster (that phrase always makes me laugh, there was nothing natural about it) in American history. The next year the city (and region) tied its recovery to a football team. Every Sunday we set aside the construction efforts and smiled as a bunch of muscle bound men wearing the symbol of our city surprised the world and represented us well. We loved the Saints before Katrina. We danced in the streets over their wins and cried in our beer over their losses. After Katrina, we ARE the Saints. That's what makes this 0-3 so tough to take. If this team, so talented, so confident, so universally projected as winners can't get up off the mat, maybe we can't either.

But then again, it's just football. Right?

Mrs. Rogue's Day Off

Now that most of you (the constructive, employed members of society) are back at work after your Labor Day holiday, I thought it a good time to fill you in on Mrs. Rogue's Holiday weekend activities. Ella has been in the retail business since we moved to New Orleans. She is responsible for selling lighting fixtures. That may sound like glitz and glamor to you, but let me tell you, it's not nearly as flashy as it seems. She slaves away there, six days a week, ensuring that the Greater New Orleans area is well lit.

Last Friday, she needed a break. She woke up with her alarm at 6:30, poured herself a cup of coffee and called her boss. "Bossman," she said (she wasn't being rude, that's just his last name, Bossman). "I'm not coming in today."

"Are you sick?" he replied, not so much worried about her health as contamination. Mr. Bossman is a bit of hypochondriac. "Nope. I just need a day," Ella replied. "Make it a personal day, vacation day, whatever you need to, but I gotta recharge my batteries. You know what I mean?"

He didn't, but he implied he did. Mr. Bossman is nice that way.

Mrs. Rogue sat on the porch sipping her coffee and patting herself on the back for being brave enough to actually do what most of us want to do everyday. She finished her cup and returned to bed.

I should point out here, that the above conversation may not be word for word. It's my interpretation of what Ella told me about what actually happened. Sure, it's not the best way to record things for history, but it was like 6:30! You think I'm up that early?

Our bed is (approximately) the most comfortable place in the entire world. Its comfortablity peaks from about 6:25am until 10:45am. Scientists have been studying the location for the past three years but have been unable to quantify its magic properties. Suffice it to say that it is rather hard to leave. Mrs. Rogue made the most of her morning off and slept until about 10:30, just as the comfortability was waining. I had just gotten up to take a phone call. My boss (not named Bossman, incidentally) was calling to see if I could turn in my keys and parking card. My office was in the middle of a move and we had to turn in everything to the building management by the end of the day. By 11am, Ella was dressed and ready for the day, so I asked if she wanted to join me on my trip downtown.

The plan was that I would swing by, drop off the items in question and then we'd return home. We might take the dog for a walk, sip cocktails on the back patio, or just laze away the afternoon watching movies. However, as I made my way upstairs to turn in my keys and then returned to the car, an idea had struck me. "Why don't we go to the Aquarium?"

"Do you mean now?" Ella asked. "No, let's just sit outside for two or three hours and then go." I'm fond of sarcasm, what can I say?

"Well, where will we park?" This was something I had not considered. One of the benefits of working downtown the past few months has been always having free parking. "Isn't there parking on Esplanade?" I asked. "We could park down there, walk through the Quarter, and then see the Aquarium."

Mrs. Rogue, fresh off the high from having stolen a workday responded, "Alright, I'm in."

The Quarter is beautiful in a way that few other places in the world are. It's dingy, smells and is filled with shops that you'd smirk at if they were on main street somewhere else. But here, they fit right in. The head shops, the leather shops, the Hand Grenade (that's alcohol, not weapons) stand, they all go together (with a strong helping of jazz music and beignets) to form the French Quarter.

We strolled through the streets, stopping in to several stores Ella has been meaning to get to, but hasn't had the time. "Bottom of the Barrel Antiques" was one we'd seen fliers for and were not let down. None of it was in our price range (technically, we didn't have a range, just a strong inclination not to buy anything), but we filed it all away for future reference.

It was just after noon now, on a mild Friday afternoon. Most of the world had just gotten back from lunch and were staring at the clock counting the minutes until quitting time. Mrs. Rogue and I were being serenaded by a rousing version of "Hello Dolly" at the French Market Cafe. This is one of the reasons I love New Orleans. It's never off. I know New York is the "City that Never Sleeps" and Las Vegas is as bright as "midday at midnight," but what other city celebrates a mild Friday afternoon just as much as a Holiday? My city, that's who.

We finally did make it to the Aquarium. After hearing some of the horror stories about the losses they incurred during the hurricane and the process of relocating and then retrieving some of the animals (like the penguins), we were surprised to find it largely the same as we remembered. There were some new exhibits (the last time I visited was almost ten years ago), and a food court (I don't remember that), but the awe you feel as you walk through the tunnel in the Caribbean exhibit hasn't changed. Creation is beautiful, and the Aquarium gives you a wonderful place to see it.

One other new addition, since my last visit, is the Imax Movie Theater. Again, we hadn't planned it (aren't we impetuous) but we decided to see the "Hurricane on the Bayou" film. We'd heard over and over from other people how great it was, and we were not disappointed. No matter how much footage of Katrina and her aftermath you may have seen, every new picture still grabs you. The devastation is hard to believe. But it's not hard to believe the desire and the will to rebuild. When you live in a city as wonderful as this one, you can't help but fall in love. And when you love a city as much as the people here do, where else would you go?

Our Aquarium visit over, Mrs. Rogue and I made the trek back to Esplanade. The Quarter was a little duskier and more crowded than when we arrived. The workday was over and the city's residents were headed out to play. Ella and I headed home, smiling as music filled the air.

A day off is a good thing. Good thing she had Monday off too.

The Big Easy Ain't so Easy...

...but it's damn well worth it.

As the two year anniversary of Katrina looms only days away, every major news outlet (and most of the minor ones) will turn their eyes southward, doing stories about the state of New Orleans and the Gulf Coast. Two days ago, a local talk radio show asked the question that will be on the lips of most of those reporters, "How are things going down there?" The consensus answer was, "Slowly."

Infrastructure (already in bad shape before the storm) is not up to snuff. The city is particularly lacking (and always has been) in public transit. Rent is too high for your average family (or your friendly neighborhood blogger), and new Homeowner's insurance policies are just now beginning to be written. Whole neighborhoods remain empty, the owners waiting for basic services to return to that area and the service companies waiting on the people to return before restoring service. The "Road Home" program has been, for many people a godsend, but for others a complete nightmare. Billions have poured into the state and for the "man on the street" it's hard to see where most of it went.

But walk down the streets of the French Quarter and (other than signs and t-shirts with some choice words for a lady named Katrina) you almost wouldn't know that anything had happened. Bourbon is still lively with the perfect mix of hand grenades, strip clubs and the blues for your average tourist looking to have a good time. Cafe du Monde is still serving beignets and cafe au lait and they are still deliciously bad for you. The Lower Garden District is still one of the nicest places for an afternoon stroll in all the world, and the Mississippi River is still flowing, making our country (and the soil at its mouth) rich.

Louisiana has things that no other state has. In fact, few countries can boast the combination of natural resources, culinary delicacies and cultural heritage that our little boot can. In capable hands, this state might be (probably would be) one of the most significant and politically powerful in the nation. Our population would be booming, with Baton Rouge and New Orleans recognized as cities on par with Atlanta, Dallas, etc. Young people born and educated here would be excited about their occupational opportunities here, instead of fleeing for the rest of the "New South". But we haven't had good stewards.

New Orleans in particular and Louisiana in general have had a long line of exciting, charismatic and wholly corrupt politicians running things, pretty much since the beginning. When we have managed to elect an honest one, they generally turn out to be completely incompetent. We're sort of damned if we don't, and damned if we do. This culture of corruption has done so much damage to our image on the national (and international) stage that it is little surprise when the federal government is slow to disperse funds in our direction, but more than willing to foot the bills for Mississippi. In Mississippi, they have some confidence that the money will get spent properly, here it might well build a new deck for the Mayor's cousin.

Louisiana has a problem, and our neighbors are starting to notice. The Dallas Morning News had this to say about the latest scandal involving City Council member, Oliver Thomas:

"New Orleans deserves better than its elected leaders. When will New Orleanians demand it?"

My hope is, starting this October with the Gubernatorial election, but it's not a very strong hope. In a city soaked in sadness, in a state completely mired in corruption, with a populace that is overtaxed, under payed and misrepresented, why do people stay?

This is not the first time that question has been asked. Smarter people than me have asked it, and smarter people still have tried to answer. In 1877 a writer, Lafcadio Hearn, was responding to a friend's inquiry about the state of New Orleans. Hearn had been here for several months researching and writing. He said this:

"Times are not good here. The city is crumbling into ashes. It has been buried under a lava flood of taxes and frauds and maladministrations so that it has become only a study for archaeologists. Its condition is so bad that when I write about it, as I intend to do soon, nobody will believe I am telling the truth. But it is better to live here in sackcloth and ashes than to own the whole state of Ohio."

If it weren't quite so long, I might make that my motto. It's nice to know that even after almost a century and a half of more "frauds and maladministrations" that feeling that in spite of its shortcomings and pitfalls (maybe even partly because of them) this city is still worth living in, perhaps more so than most other cities in the nation.

The general feeling (at least that I get) is that politicians steal and lie everywhere, senseless murders happen on the street of any major city (and some not so major). Taxes, rent, and energy costs are high all across the country. While the heartland may be safe from hurricanes, tornadoes destroy homes and lives there every year and earthquakes, wildfires, and mudslides fill the "natural disaster" card out west. The long and short of it is this: Life is miserable and death imminent (to some degree) anywhere you go, so why not live somewhere you love?

I love New Orleans. I am not alone in my affection for her, and as long as they keep the lights (and air-condition) on, there will always be somebody here in the Crescent City.

An American Rogue in Europe: Chapter Two

I was told yesterday that my first shot at blogging after my significant hiatus was too short, I apologize. Today's entry, I'm sure will be more pleasing.

Chapter Two: The Big Easy, the Hard Way

It was Saturday at noon when we finished moving the furniture out of our house. Our crew, Ella, myself, Mom and Dad, Randy (father-in-law extraordinaire), Jena (Lil sis), Kyle (crazy Austin filmmaker), Bear (cousin and talented artist) and Dee (cousin's girl and ice cream entrepreneur) were enjoying lunch at Jena's house (since there were no chairs at ours) when I decided to check on my passport.

I love the United States. I'm a bit of a flag-waver and have been accused of being a little xenophobic, but I have absolutely no love for the Department of State or the application process is absolutely ridiculous.

Roughly ten weeks before my expected travel date I got my small fortune together and travelled to Grambling's Post Office. Grambling is roughly a quarter of the size of Ruston but apparently the residents of Grambling are much more likely to travel internationally since Ruston's Post Office has no passport service but Grambling's does.

I was alone in the Grambling Post Office and remained alone for the entire 25 minutes it took me to finish the application. That did not hinder the clerk from inquiring as to whether I had scheduled an appointment and implying that he shouldn't take my application since I hadn't made one. He finally did take my paperwork, my money and my picture. He did the last very poorly leaving me with a passport photo that makes me look more than a little like a sex offender. The good news is I'll only be using for the next ten years, so no worries. Finally, my application was done, Grambling's finest mailman wished me a good day, and I went home to await my documentation.

Eight weeks later, still no passport. 10 days before my trip, I called the 1-800 number. This is an exercise in patience and perseverance all on its own. A series of messages alerting me to the current workload of the passport office all but made it impossible for me to ever reach an actual operator. After four full cycles through the phone system, I finally made it on hold. A short thirty minutes later, I was actually speaking to a person. She was polite, apologetic, and foreign. I hate to make a snap judgement, but if I was guessing, I'd say that English wasn't even her third language. She found my passport application record in the computer quickly once I gave her my social security number, passport application number, mother's maiden name, address, three personal references, shoe size, and sexual history.

The good news was, my passport was still being processed. My friendly passport agent told me she would "put a rush" on it, no charge to me, and I should receive it either Friday or Saturday morning with several days to spare. I thanked my new foreign friend and said goodbye. Saturday came and still no passport. Again I waded through the answering service quagmire, and this time my passport agent (again foreign) had sadder news. My passport was not on its way. It was, in fact, not ready for delivery. Worst of all, it would not be ready in time for my trip. No manner of expedition, no amount of money would get it to me in time to leave Wednesday. My one hope was to journey to my regional passport office and apply in person. With proof of my impending journey (and barring any outstanding warrants for my arrest) I'd be able to walk away, passport in hand that afternoon. I questioned a system that couldn't finish my passport in time on its own, but with me nearby, urging them on, would be able to whip together a passport in a matter of hours, but eventually I gave in and set up an appointment.

Now for a geography lesson: The little wife and I have made our home for the past three years (and separately for several before that) in North Louisiana. Ruston to be specific. Our flight to Europe was to leave from Dallas, Texas, some four hours west. New Orleans, and my passport lay some five hours to the south of Ruston. For those that are a little slow on the uptake, that is the exact opposite of convenient.

By Sunday evening Ella and I had completely moved out of our house, cleaned it thoroughly (enough) and headed north to my parent's house. We unloaded a few things, visited for a moment and set out for the Crescent City. Leaving a few minutes before midnight, we knew it would be a long trip. Some five and half hours later, we pulled into our future home. The original plan was that we would visit our friend's house before heading to the passport agency, seeing as we didn't really know where the office was, and as we only had two hours until we had been told to arrive, we decided to head downtown.

New Orleans is a beautiful city. Designed long before it was built, and then rebuilt in the image of a long line of Imperial masters, it is both comfortingly predictable and fascinatingly surprising. For the record, the passport office is located on the thirteenth floor of 365 Canal Street, within spitting distance of the Mississippi River, and just across from the all-new Harrah's Casino. We had found the office (after a slight detour through the Shops at Canal Place Mall) and set up second in line after a couple of college students from Northern Arkansas. The four of us commiserated over our struggles with the State Department and I chided myself for worrying so much about our five hour trip when these guys had driven more than seven (we would later meet a guy who had come all the way from Northern Alabama, more than 10 hours, just to pick up his passport and turn around again).

I've never really been in a disaster or tragedy but I've heard that people that find themselves in such situations often end up with an unnatural familiarity and uncommon courtesy towards one another. The passport office wasn't exactly a disaster area. but we were all put out and could have reacted with anger at the clerks and each other. Overwhelmingly that was not the case. I wouldn't call it pleasant, but my fellow prospective travellers made it immensely bearable.

Coming soon -- Chapter Three: The Amsterdam Hustle

It's All Coming Together: A Week With the Rogues in the Big Easy

My apologies. It's been quite a while since I've left you (my faithful readers) high and dry for such a long time. In my defense, I was researching the next phase of my life, not just goofing off. I'll tell you all about how that went, but first let's take a trip down memory lane.

About eighteen years ago, Lil' Rogue developed a dream. There was a city, far away, where the bright lights and busy streets were simply too exciting for Lil' Rogue to miss out on. He got to visit the city, to smell its...particular odor, to partake in its most famous tradition, even to sample some of the local cuisine (which for those of you that know the Rogue, is quite surprising). The city was New Orleans, and Rogue was in love. A lot of things came and went on the list of Rogue's dreams in the next 18 years. But the city was always there in the back of his mind.

Last week, I took the first step in fulfilling that dream. This June, Mr. and Mrs. Rogue are heading to the Big Easy. We've found jobs, we've started searching for houses, we've learned our way around (sort of) and most of all, I've fallen even more in love than I was before. The week ended up much different than we had planned (we were supposed to spend some time looking for work in Baton Rouge) but it seemed to take on a life of its own. And standing on the other side, I think that was a good thing.

First and foremost I have to say thank you to a few people who made last week a spectacular success: Boyd and Tara, my brother and sister-in-law, who hosted an awesome Crawfish boil and let Ella and I discover the advantages of being close enough to spend time with our adorable niece; Ellie and Ryan, who have just become our new favorite couple friends and who have made the ridiculously long drive to Denham Springs more than worth by having such an adorable daughter, Ava; Nick and Jeff, without who's hospitality (and extra-large house) we might have gotten to experience being homeless in New Orleans, this is one Big Easy experience I think I can live without; Gwen and Cheryl Lynn, our adopted mother and sister who tried desperately (and still might) to give us jobs, took us to an awesome dinner, and gave us first hand lessons in the New Orleans accent; Gran and Gramps, for giving us a base of operations in BR and not minding so much when we only used it a little; Bear and Dee, who are just about the coolest cousins a guy could ask for, and who provide a great reason for finding a house in New Orleans big enough to have a guest room; Tootie and Randy, for completing the family get together on Saturday by making an appearance at the boil; Jena and Chase, for caring for the Rogue menagerie while we were away; and finally Pat and Chuck, the first people we met after moving to the city, that's right we had decided for all of about thirty minutes when we ran into our first natives while talking too loud at dinner.

My entire life, I've felt like the things I am supposed to do are shown to me by the fact that they seem to appear from nowhere. Ella and I each sent dozens of resumes out over the last couple of weeks. The jobs we took (or probably will take, in my case) were nowhere on the list of jobs we had applied for. The job interview that got us to New Orleans early (and the one that kept us in the city for an extra day) were not jobs we had known about or applied for. When we met Chuck and Pat, we were just enjoying our meal a little too much. How were we to know that they were successful people (who back Bobby Jindal, just like me) who happen to own several rent houses? Call it whatever you want, fate, Providence, coincidence, or the overt Hand of God. I'm pretty sure now that we are supposed to be in New Orleans. That is about as comforting a thought as I could have.

Now, with four weeks left until our European excursion, Ella and I are busy packing, selling and just plain getting rid of as much crap as we can stand to lose. We've got to be out of our house by at least the seventh of May, my last day in radio is the fourth, and in between here and there I've got about eight performances of "Zorro". It's a good thing we didn't put too much on our plate, isn't it?

Thanks to everyone who checked in while I was away. The Drunken Rogue is back, with a lot of things to say.

Pleasantly Plump Tuesday

Many people think of Mardi Gras as a day for debauchery and drunkenness. Others look at it as one last day of preparation for Lent. All of those people are wrong. If you're looking for the real reasons we all strip down and beg for beads while imbibing as much alcohol as we possibly can (and sometimes exceeding that limit), then you've come to the write place (do you see what I did there? I made an author joke). Here without further ado:

The Secret Origin of Mardi Gras: A Drunken Rogue Investigative Special Report

And truthfully who better to investigate the origins of "the little festival that could" than the Drunken Rogue himself? I set out to get to the bottom of this story (preferably in time for the best parades), but to do that, I'd have to make my way to the Big Easy. But Britney's bodyguards were uninterested in my attempts to interview her, saying that everybody's favorite bald pop-star-gone-bad didn't know anything about Mardi Gras, so I was on my own. I'm a loner by nature so Mrs. Spears/Federline's rejection didn't derail me.

I decided the best place to start my investigation was with the name of the festival itself. What's with the silent "s"? I wasn't sure, but that sounded like the kind of thing Canadians are very fond of doing so I called my contact in the Canadian Government, Doug McKenzie. Through the "ey's" and "aboot's" I was able to discern that Doug's position as driver for Niagara Falls tour buses, while making him eligible for Canada's splendid health-care plan, didn't clue him into the secrets of Mardi Gras or the importance of the silent "s". I called him a useless Canadian and he called me a "hoser" (which I think is Canadian for great American) and we said goodbye.

Doug had intimated that since I lived in Louisiana, it might be easier to find out about Mardi Gras and its mysterious origin by speaking to those around me, so I asked my neighbor, Abdulla, the Ugandan exchange student currently pursuing a degree in Biomedical Engineering. He told me that in Uganda they celebrate "Garunda Bicknalla" (that's spelled phoenetically) or "The Festival of Grasses." The villagers all collect their favorite weeds and non-flowering plants, throw them in a big pot together, burn them and inhale the smoke of them all until they pass out. This is generally followed by "Barova Cumbillis" which roughly translates to "rebuild your hut after the massive fire day." That's sort of like Ash Wednesday, but it didn't seem to be connected to our own Gras(s) festival.

That's when it hit me. I had been stumbling around deep in thought and I didn't even notice that the "Do not Walk" sign was flashing. Lucky for me, the Dodge Neon is just not made for pedestrian homicide. I left a much bigger dent in it than it did in me. While lying on the asphalt recovering from my brush with death and mediocre automobile construction, I heard the voice of an angel...well not really. I heard the voice of a coonass. But since I was looking for the origin of a Cajun festival, that was a good thing.

His name was Boudreaux (though I probably left out some vowels in the spelling), and he was a recent New Orleans transplant. After losing his home and job in Hurricane Katrina, Boudreaux fled to the higher ground of North Louisiana. He didn't have an excuse for bringing the Dodge Neon with him, but he did give me a few tidbits about the origin of Mardi Gras. Apparently all the talk of a connection to Catholicism was in fact true. Boudreaux told me that it began as an informal party for parishioners to indulge (and overindulge) in whatever they were giving up for Lent. While not exactly in the spirit of denial and sacrifice that the Church would prefer, the idea of storing up a month's worth of chocolate/beer/sex etc. in one night (now more like a month's) worth of partying had become very popular. Imagine that, overindulgence is popular, maybe that's why we are the most obese nation in the world.

While I had expected to find some deep dark secret about pagan rituals and a history crossing cover-up (I'd already sold the idea to a publisher as a "Davinci Code" meets "A Streetcar Named Desire" type novel), instead I'd found a new friend (and some nifty Ugandan Grass Festival T-shirts). Boudreaux and I decided to celebrate Mardi Gras (that silent "s" still bothers me) together. Me swinging cheap plastic beads over my head, and him flashing the cars that passed my front porch screaming "Trow me sumpthin' mister!". At least that's what it sounded like he was saying, the combination of accent and alcohol made it rather difficult to decipher his words. We even urinated on someone else's driveway before passing out in our lawn chairs. Boudreaux said it felt almost like home.

So my investigative research might have been a little bit of overkill since the answer turned out to be the one I already knew (I should have known better than to question the Catholics), but because of my investigation I got to live through a real live New Orleans' Mardi Gras...but you know, not in New Orleans...and without the floats. Now Boudreaux and I are looking forward to sharing our next cultural holiday, St. Patrick's Day. I fully intend to intend to share all of my extensive knowledge of Irish culture with him. We're going to eat French Fries, drink beer, burn the snakes out of the backyard (just like St. Patrick) and curse the Italians for taking all of our jobs. It's gonna be a great St. Patty's Day!

Happy Mardi Grass, everybody! And Buenamios Garunda Bicknalla, Abdullah!