We Know You Love The Devil...
Homo's
Goverment Recipient's
Druggie's
Fornicator's
Gangster's
Loud Mouth Women
Catholic's
Scientologist's
Wifebeater's
Emo's
Democrat's
High Fullentent's
Enviormentalist's
Sophisticated Swine
Effeminate Men
Sports Nut's
Repent and Believe in Jesus...
I learned the do's and dont's of heaven and hell from a 6 foot high red poster on Bourbon St. It was my first weekend in New Orleans, and the man holding it was fat with lines shaved into the back of his head. Apparently when they were 'born-again', Jesus forgot to tell them how to use apostrophes.
I was curious. I approached the man with the mega phone and rat stash.
Me: Excuse me sir, what exactly is a high fullentent?
Repent or Perish: Someone who thinks they are better than you.
Me: Oh. Like you?
Repent or Perish: No. I am righteous. You're not.
So Bourbon St. is completly ridic. (See: 'Abbrevs'). One can drink in the street, listen to jazz, see two girls rip each others hair out and watch moms throw up - all for the small asking price of their eternal soul. And yet, after all that, even on Bourbon one can be saved.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Meet the Carters
Hello Cretins. Let me first give you a brief personal history of the word cretin and its importance for me. About 13 years ago my brother Ryan and I were fortunate enough to be bumped up to first class on a TWA flight because of my mom’s former career. Upon situating himself in his posh seat, Ryan realized that the curtain separating first-class and business class was drawn. He turned to me, and with his unnaturally large and unruly eyebrows furled said, “Uh, excuse me flight attendant. Could you please close the curtains? The Cretins can see us”.
So I live in Nawlins' now. The big easy. I have absolutely fallen in love with the city. Our lime green apartment building stands above a royal purple fence adorned with barb wire in the upper ninth ward (a wee bit sketch). The French Quarter is only 2 miles away, and yes, we have already walked to Bourbon Street. A sub cultural experience all in itself. The architecture of the French quarter is awesome. You could probably walk the whole city when it’s raining and never feel a drop as your body is protected by all of the cast iron balconies and galleries (recently learned that a ‘gallery’ is a balcony with support beams attached to the street). And the culture is so unique because the city was once divided by the French Creole and the Puritan Americans. There is also a heavy Voodoo influence brought about by the slaves. The French Quarter is still littered with Voodoo shops ornamented with hanging chicken feet and sacred alters that are only to be touched by those that seek bad luck. Or drunks.
On our first day we drove through the lower ninth ward and saw where the levee had broken. I had heard it be described as a third world. For my Chicagoans - imagine North Beverly utterly wiped off the map. Nonexistent. A field of cement stoops that lead to nothing. A third world.
My quest now is to learn as much about Hurricane Katrina and its effects. On Friday I got one step closer.
We painted the interior of Henry and Verlena Carters house in the lower ninth ward. 5319 North Rampart Street. Interior painting is far more difficult than exterior, especially in New Orleans. We worked in humid weather with a Mississippi house captain who demanded perfection. Adding to the challenge, my team was a little ‘painted out’, as we had spent the last 7 weeks in Florida painting homes. When all was finished the house looked great, and Henry Carter agreed.
He walked around the inside of his freshly painted home in a giant blue Hawaiian shirt with a cane and a grin.
“My oh my, it looks great. You did a great job. We gonna throw a party here!” he said.
As Henry was taking a stroll through the house Verlena was on the porch explaining her and Henry’s evacuation from their home. They were lucky enough to have been apart of the bunch that was emergency evacuated 4 days before the storm hit. Others were not so lucky. Because the city transportation operators and drivers were evacuated early from the city, and most residents in the ninth ward don’t own cars – exiting the city was literally impossible for many. The water in the ninth ward rose to roof level, and would sit at that level for days. People sought safety on their roofs, waving white bed sheets to alert rescue helicopters. The home next to the Carters was totally destroyed. We met the owner, a jolly robust black man named Darrell, who seemed happy we were there. When conversing with Darell I nodded my head often, as his thick Louisiana accent made it impossible to understand.
The Carters thanked us with a card and some Pralines (a New Orleans sweet) and invited us back sometime next week. I hope we arrive in time to party…Henry looks like he rages.
So I live in Nawlins' now. The big easy. I have absolutely fallen in love with the city. Our lime green apartment building stands above a royal purple fence adorned with barb wire in the upper ninth ward (a wee bit sketch). The French Quarter is only 2 miles away, and yes, we have already walked to Bourbon Street. A sub cultural experience all in itself. The architecture of the French quarter is awesome. You could probably walk the whole city when it’s raining and never feel a drop as your body is protected by all of the cast iron balconies and galleries (recently learned that a ‘gallery’ is a balcony with support beams attached to the street). And the culture is so unique because the city was once divided by the French Creole and the Puritan Americans. There is also a heavy Voodoo influence brought about by the slaves. The French Quarter is still littered with Voodoo shops ornamented with hanging chicken feet and sacred alters that are only to be touched by those that seek bad luck. Or drunks.
On our first day we drove through the lower ninth ward and saw where the levee had broken. I had heard it be described as a third world. For my Chicagoans - imagine North Beverly utterly wiped off the map. Nonexistent. A field of cement stoops that lead to nothing. A third world.
My quest now is to learn as much about Hurricane Katrina and its effects. On Friday I got one step closer.
We painted the interior of Henry and Verlena Carters house in the lower ninth ward. 5319 North Rampart Street. Interior painting is far more difficult than exterior, especially in New Orleans. We worked in humid weather with a Mississippi house captain who demanded perfection. Adding to the challenge, my team was a little ‘painted out’, as we had spent the last 7 weeks in Florida painting homes. When all was finished the house looked great, and Henry Carter agreed.
He walked around the inside of his freshly painted home in a giant blue Hawaiian shirt with a cane and a grin.
“My oh my, it looks great. You did a great job. We gonna throw a party here!” he said.
As Henry was taking a stroll through the house Verlena was on the porch explaining her and Henry’s evacuation from their home. They were lucky enough to have been apart of the bunch that was emergency evacuated 4 days before the storm hit. Others were not so lucky. Because the city transportation operators and drivers were evacuated early from the city, and most residents in the ninth ward don’t own cars – exiting the city was literally impossible for many. The water in the ninth ward rose to roof level, and would sit at that level for days. People sought safety on their roofs, waving white bed sheets to alert rescue helicopters. The home next to the Carters was totally destroyed. We met the owner, a jolly robust black man named Darrell, who seemed happy we were there. When conversing with Darell I nodded my head often, as his thick Louisiana accent made it impossible to understand.
The Carters thanked us with a card and some Pralines (a New Orleans sweet) and invited us back sometime next week. I hope we arrive in time to party…Henry looks like he rages.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Math Bingo breeds school bullies
Announcement: The date for cutting all of you out of my life has been pushed back once again. So…welcome to my blog minions!
I currently reside in Ft. Myers, Florida - home of spring breakers, old people, Thomas Edison's summer home, pick-up trucks, and rat stashes. My dreams are manifested on a military cot in an apartment complex recently inhabitated by victims of Hurricane Charlie. Eleven of us occupy five rooms. I am a member of Team Eagle Six.
(See Also: Badger Unit)
(See Also: Wolf Unit)
( See Also: Griffindor, Slytherin, and Huffelpuff)
We only have two neighbors, one of which drives a white pick-up truck mounted on 4 ft. high wheels, whom I hate. The other is our gracious apartment manager, who totes around her yippee french poodle - which I hate. We rage fairly often. (See: 604 S. Clinton, my old house at the University of Iowa).
Our project is with the City of Ft. Myers. Three days a week we repair and paint homes for elderly and disabled people with the City Code Enforcement division. The other two days are spent tutoring children at Franklin Elementary School. Unfortunately, tourism and aesthetic appeal of downtown Ft. Myers masks the poverty a few miles across the tracks. Literally. 93% of Franklin’s enrollment is in poverty and eligible for state provided lunches. The project became even more important for me when I learned that most students have little or no adult male influence in their lives.
Playing Mr. Dan has been one of my most challenging roles yet. I now often hate myself as a tyke who never exercised self-control. Aside from reflective self-animosity, teaching has been quite rewarding. Highlights include: Helping students comprehend what they read, getting kids excited about otherwise lame lessons (subtraction can be fun when kids are pinned against each other in do-or-die competition...Bingo), learning the 'Soldier Boy' dance from my 2nd graders and listening to teacher gossip.
I have stumbled upon the realization that it's indeed possible to be more mature than 40 year old woman.
I currently reside in Ft. Myers, Florida - home of spring breakers, old people, Thomas Edison's summer home, pick-up trucks, and rat stashes. My dreams are manifested on a military cot in an apartment complex recently inhabitated by victims of Hurricane Charlie. Eleven of us occupy five rooms. I am a member of Team Eagle Six.
(See Also: Badger Unit)
(See Also: Wolf Unit)
( See Also: Griffindor, Slytherin, and Huffelpuff)
We only have two neighbors, one of which drives a white pick-up truck mounted on 4 ft. high wheels, whom I hate. The other is our gracious apartment manager, who totes around her yippee french poodle - which I hate. We rage fairly often. (See: 604 S. Clinton, my old house at the University of Iowa).
Our project is with the City of Ft. Myers. Three days a week we repair and paint homes for elderly and disabled people with the City Code Enforcement division. The other two days are spent tutoring children at Franklin Elementary School. Unfortunately, tourism and aesthetic appeal of downtown Ft. Myers masks the poverty a few miles across the tracks. Literally. 93% of Franklin’s enrollment is in poverty and eligible for state provided lunches. The project became even more important for me when I learned that most students have little or no adult male influence in their lives.
Playing Mr. Dan has been one of my most challenging roles yet. I now often hate myself as a tyke who never exercised self-control. Aside from reflective self-animosity, teaching has been quite rewarding. Highlights include: Helping students comprehend what they read, getting kids excited about otherwise lame lessons (subtraction can be fun when kids are pinned against each other in do-or-die competition...Bingo), learning the 'Soldier Boy' dance from my 2nd graders and listening to teacher gossip.
I have stumbled upon the realization that it's indeed possible to be more mature than 40 year old woman.
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