[This is a continuation of the author's series on New Orleans lessons, to commemorate both her 10th anniversary of living in New Orleans , as well as the 2nd anniversary of Hurricane Katrina.]

U is for Under

When considering the letter "U," this preposition popped into mind first, although after yesterday's weather, I could have easily gone with "umbrella." Yet I feel like "under" says pretty much all you need to know about New Orleans, America's underdog, the steamy underbelly of our Puritan Union. It's also one of the few places - outside of San Francisco - where you can go out wearing your underwear and people don't even blink. Although I prefer a robe.

V is for Vampire

Although tourists flock to New Orleans to tour vampire author Anne Rice's house, hoping to come across a vampire in the evening shadows, they'd find more bloodsuckers out at our construction sites. Ask anyone who's had work done on their home - including our own Kelly Leahy - and you'll get an earful about dishonest contractors who either bled them dry or sucked the life out of them with postponements and switchbacks until the homeowner finally ended up in the fetal position. Now I know there are some good, honest contractors out there - and really, the three of you should form a club.

On the subject of vampires, I could go into detail about some of the gentlemen who have taught me valuable lessons during my time in New Orleans, but this isn't that kind of blog. Besides, you boys know who you are.

[Terra Nola documents the long-distance love affair between a New Yorker and New Orleans.]

Well, if I hadn't read it with my own eyes I would not have believed it (not that we should believe everything we read). Looks like there is to be a second Camellia Grill, this one in Destin, Florida, beloved by teenagers on spring break everywhere.

As I said to Kelly Leahy, co-blogger here at bloggingneworleans, there can be only one. Even if the reopened version in Nola is doing well enough, the new owner is messing with some pretty serious karma to try and duplicate his success outside of the Crescent City. It was a miracle the Camellia Grill reopened at all given the devastation and destruction left in the wake of Hurricane Katrina. Why tempt fate?

But, that said, if you're going to tempt fate, you might as well do it in the pan handle. If a greasy spoon operation is going to make it anywhere, it can make it in Destin. Not that Destin is lacking in diners--to the contrary, they're everywhere.

Recently spotted on the West Bank, this fixer-upper mere blocks from the Mississippi River. Priced to sell; act fast before the termites get in.

Well, it's probably too late for that. Nice holes in the wall, eh?

Well, we're just about at the end of the road for Blogging New Orleans. As you may know, Friday the 14th is our last day as a live website. Into every life a little rain must fall, or so it's said, and this is just another example of that truism.

Speaking of rain, it's also said that it never rains unless it pours. This week, New Orleans is being drenched by wandering downpours that soak parts of the city while other parts stay dry. The photo was taken on Tuesday from the railroad tracks at Burgundy and Press Street in the Bywater, those dark columns are sheets of rain falling over the remoter reaches of the Upper 9th Ward, and as you can see, the rest of the area had sunny skies.

Weather here is pretty chaotic sometimes. Rain can fall on you from a seemingly clear blue sky. It can hit like a fist in some neighborhoods while others nearby don't get so much as a sprinkle. I think it's incredible; the idiosyncratic weather is one of the charms of New Orleans, in my opinion. Hyper-localized micro-cloudbursts, my term for these wandering small scale showers, keep things interesting around here.

Sudden, unexpected, and violent, they offer a handy metaphor for life these days. Lately, things for me personally have been substantially rainy (metaphorically), like some kind of existential storm has taken up a position over my head, sending watery sheets of questionable luck down upon me. I won't dwell overmuch on any of this, but since mid-July, I have dealt with a string of misfortunes that make me rethink my skepticism towards voodoo, particularly hexes.

Just a brief rundown: My computer (upon which I rely to write) had a fatal motherboard crash in late July. (It has since been repaired with a new motherboard, and a big THANK YOU goes to Ted C. at Common Ground tech support for his invaluable assistance in this matter.)

Then my bicycle was stolen in the middle of the day from the main branch of the New Orleans Public Library while I was inside. The "security" dude told me there are bike thefts every day there. My question to him should have been, "So then why the hell are you in here instead of out there?"

My housemates were roughhousing one night in late August and hit a table where my digital camera was. It fell and broke, and only the persistence born of my desperation brought it back to life.

Just when I was recovering from my computer and camera woes, my favorite outlet for my writing -- this very site -- was selected for retirement. I'll keep writing, of course, but will lament the loss of this space for community dialogue.

My car's brakes then started going bad, and now the car sits in a shop with an estimated $440 worth of repairs due.

And last night, my cell phone died with finality, taking the phone numbers of hundreds of friends with it. [Note: if you are a friend of mine and you are reading this, give me a call. Same number for me, but brand new phone-MR]

I begin to wonder if someone put a curse on me. New Orleans is, after all, the birthplace of American Voudoun.

I must note that these misfortunes are only manifesting themselves in the material plane; my relationships with friends, family, co-workers, and neighbors are generally wonderful, and it's a rare day that I don't randomly run into a friend or acquaintance whom I might not have seen in a while. Not to mention meeting new people just about every day, too. I am very lucky in ways that the misfortunes of the material world can not dim.

Speaking of dim, the light bulb in my bedroom just popped. I hope there's still a step ladder in the house, 'cos that bulb is 14 feet off the ground.

Last Saturday, the Common Ground Health Clinic in Algiers Point celebrated its second year of providing free health services to thousands of New Orleanians since its formation in the week after Katrina struck. Clinic supporters organized a block party at the corner of Teche and Socrates where the Clinic is located, serving up a barbecue and music and offering tours of the recently refurbished clinic (see photo below).

In a city with an international reputation for low-quality health care post-Katrina, the two Common Ground-sponsorerd free clinics -- the first in Algiers, the second on St. Claude St. in the Lower 9th Ward -- are much-needed community institutions that have served thousands of people since opening. Ancillary programs like the Latino Health Outreach Program, a spinoff project that serves the needs of non-English speaking residents and workers, also spread the tattered net of social services in New Orleans a little wider.

A staff member at the Algiers Clinic informed me that the Algiers Clinic sees between 20 and 50 people per day of operation; due to limited resources and red tape, the clinic is open on a limited schedule four days out of the week (Monday through Wednesday at various hours, and Saturday 12 - 3 pm). Despite ongoing shortages of medical services in the area, and despite the tremendous need for basic health care in the city, the Common Ground Clinics have had to fight for everything they have.

Judging by the state of medical services here two years after the traumatic events of 2005, it looks like their struggle to provide free, basic health care to neglected or impoverished populations will remain an uphill battle. But the anniversary party demonstrated that the community still needs and supports the services they offer.

This may not look like much, but it's scenes like this that make me adore this town. Here's a humble shotgun, could be almost anywhere in town, reasonably well-kept on the outside, with a sweet motorcycle out front. Homes like this may or may not survive the waves of rebuilding and gentrification that are beginning to sweep our area, but I for one would be happy as a clam in a house like this one.

Put a bicycle out front for me, though.

[This is a continuation of the author's series on New Orleans lessons, to commemorate both the 2nd anniversary of Hurricane Katrina as well as her 10th anniversary of living in New Orleans .]

I propose a toast to New Orleans, where every man is king, and every woman - and some of the men - a queen!

Cheers!

[This is a continuation of the author's series on New Orleans lessons, to commemorate both the 2nd anniversary of Hurricane Katrina as well as her 10th anniversary of living in New Orleans .]

I dare say that all Americans have some experience with parades, from big-city St. Paddy's Day extravaganzas down to small-town kiddies riding their streamer-festooned bikes on country roads to celebrate America's independence. Myself, I'd thought that my participation in a ticker-tape parade celebrating the troops home from Iraq back in '92, in a marching band on the streets of downtown Chicago, was the pinnacle of my parading life.

Oh, how wrong I was. I moved to New Orleans, where parades roll at night. And it makes a difference to see a parade after the sun's gone down, when the floats rise up out of the evening shadows and the flambeaux carriers' faces shine under the light of their torches. We spend a full year crafting our floats by hand, and then light them up with thousands of tiny bulbs. When they finally appear on the streets, against a backdrop of screaming crowds and marching band music, it's no wonder that people fight over beads - they want to bring a tiny bit of this magic home with them.

And if you get sick of the big parades, Fat Tuesday spawns hundreds of tiny ones, troupes of friends where the locals become the floats, painting and feathering themselves into the most amazing creations this side of Rio.

It's your choice, darlin': you can come to New Orleans to watch the parades, or you can come down to be the parade.

[This is a continuation of the author's series on New Orleans lessons, to commemorate both the 2nd anniversary of Hurricane Katrina as well as her 10th anniversary of living in New Orleans .]

N is for Neutral Ground

Wouldn't it be great if there was a world's neutral ground? People from all nations could go there to catch beads at Mardi Gras parades, have Sunday afternoon cookouts, and park their cars when the rain falls a little too hard. While the world's powers continue their endless warring, us regular folks could gather on the streetcar tracks and make fair-trade deals: one can of High Life for a Popeye's chicken breast. No glass allowed, friends, it's safety first out here.

How great would it be to see kids from all cultures fighting over a plush football tossed from a float? To sing drinking songs in every language? To hang out in a place where traffic's permanently stopped so that people can sit in their lawnchairs and shoot the shit?

This is my dream, dear readers, and it may never come true. Fortunately for us here in New Orleans, there's always a neutral ground, no matter how many battles life throws our way.

O is for Okra

I'd never given much thought to this hardly little vegetable until my neighbors planted it in spades this past spring. From its lowly spot on the table - rarely seen in its pure state, but hidden in gumbo or fried beyond recognition - I never would have imagined that it came from a plant that towers above my head and blooms such exquisite flowers.

If you only knew okra from its restaurant incarnations, you'd never guess that it grows so fast that if you don't pick daily, those stinkers will end up as long as your forearm. Sadly, they're too tough to eat at that length, but their long, tapered shape remind me of witch's fingers. And voila: another Halloween costume is born. This year, keep on the lookout for the lady wearing a dried-okra skirt!

It wasn't too many days ago that I was last on Canal Street and it still looked torn up. I remember when Nagin originally revealed his plan to give a face lift to New Orleans' famous street. His big recovery project has since been overshadowed by another much larger recovery project.

One of the best parts of the the Canal Street Improvement Project was the promise of eradicating all of the bead and t-shirt shops. That part of the plan has yet to be accomplished. However, a celebration of palm trees and fresh sidewalks will be taking place tomorrow starting at 10:30 in front the Ritz. Canal Street shops, restaurants and hotels will be offering freebies to the visiting public. There will of course be plenty of live music.

If you're still looking for something to do tonight, I highly recommend dropping by Flanagan's Pub (625 St. Philip Street in the French Quarter) between 8pm and midnight to join in the fun of the Stinkin' Linkin Send Off Party. Some friends have been working on restoring and revamping this flooded-out Katrina car for months and they're finally headed out to Utah for race week at the Bonneville Salt Flats.

You can read more about the whole thing in Chris Rose's recent column or on their website, but basically they've been rebuilding a 1998 Lincoln Mark VIII car that soaked in floodwaters for weeks after Katrina and they've turned it into a racing machine. They're actually driving this car out to Utah, all 2,000 miles, which is pretty unheard of.... virtually all of the vehicles that participate in these sort of time trials arrive at the salt flats on a trailer pulled by another vehicle. This whole thing has been a labor of love...most of the crew's members are bartenders and they've been using tip money to get this thing built. You can help support them and give them a great send-off this evening (remember to buy lots of drinks and tip well...they need all the gas money they can get!). They'll even have the car there for viewing. Here's a shot of the gang and the car itself:

Last weekend I drove across town to the Latter Library on St. Charles for it's twice-weekly booksale. As an on-going fundraiser, that branch hosts a sale on Wednesday and Saturday, 10 am to 2 pm. I got a bag full of great books for $7, and afterwards I went back to use one of the library computers.

My computer has been down, so I've been relying on public-access computers -- a somewhat frustrating experience, to say the least. Most public access computers are of limited use, as their advanced functions (like allowing photos to upload, or programs to download) are limited to adminstrative access, not "guest" access.

I'm not complaining about public access computers, mind you. Hundreds of people use public computers here every day, myself included. It's just that my personal use of the machine demands more than basic access (so I haven't been posting too many photos lately...).

So, in the upstairs computer cluster of the Latter Library, the computers are located beneath a part of the ceiling where the plaster is flaking off. The dust coats the processors and terminals, and looks to be fresh. I worked for a while without having any more of the ceiling chip off, and I was going to say something to the staff there, but I figured they already know what the problems are. All the same, they could vaccuum their computers once in a while.

At the main branch of the NOPL, staff there seem pinched all the time. Workers in the archives are understaffed, and even when they have enough people, there are plenty of impediments to researchers and the librarians who support them. Some items are misplaced, some confusingly labeled, and the limits on staff keep them from being able to sort out these difficulties.

I'm a big supporter of the public library system, so I encourage readers who haven't checked out the libraries lately to do so. Use the free wireless available in every NOPL branch (except Alvar Street and the Algiers location, for some reason). And drop by the Latter Branch this weekend and check out the books for sale. The books are mighty inexpensive, and you'll be supporting the library in a continued time of need.

The post title is probably obvious, but I think it bears repeating in this post Katrina New Orleans. At Rising Tide 2 this weekend I was struck by the keynote speaker's mentioning of a lack of after school and summer sports programs in major cities. But what about NORD, I wondered. Aren't they a major well-established city run after school and summer sports program for kids? Apparently NORD has been going strong all summer with arts programs, sports programs and a whole lot more. Anyone can sign their kids up. All ages are welcome. No kid should have to be on the street this summer or after school. And yes I'm sure these programs aren't easy to get into, but nothing is stopping you from helping out. We need to show are support for NORD and to encourage its development so this program that has been around since I was a kid will be around for the foreseeable future.

What's going on here? Why am I posting so much? Today, in honor of Katrina I am attempting another 24 hour 24 post blogathon.

[This is a continuation of the author's series on New Orleans lessons, to commemorate both the 2nd anniversary of Hurricane Katrina as well as her 10th anniversary of living in New Orleans .]

"New Orleans: Third World And Proud Of It!" states the popular bumper sticker. And it doesn't take long for the new resident to realize that this statement declares two uncomfortable truths. The first: New Orleans is Third Word in so many ways, not the least of which is the amount of litter that tosses about our streets, parks, and vacant lots. Chris Rose, Times-Picayune columnist, loves bitching about our litter, to the point where I expect he'll eventually suffer from a litter-related gunshot wound.

And the second truth: people here are proud of being slobs. Really! In truth, we're not a third-world country, because we actually have regular sanitation services. Granted, right after the storm, we had to fight to get these services back, but they're here to stay (knock wood.) Because we have regular trash pickup, there's no excuse to throw your bullshit on the street. Put it in a can, or -gasp!- carry it with you. Keep it in your damn car. But people don't do that because they're too proud. The city looks like hell, but their hands are sparkly clean and you can eat off their car seats.

Does anyone else remember the absurd variant on the sign at right? Last summer, when they posted signs with a $1000 fine for littering? Now, the city can't deal with its murderers - how are they going to keep on the litterers? And if someone's low-class enough to litter, you really think they're going to pony up $1000 for a littering fine?

[Recovery Pen started as a response to the post-Katrina wreckage: physical, emotional, and societal. Unfortunately, its author still finds plenty to write about, two years later.]

Let's face it: we're all sick of Katrina. Maybe the news media is excited to have a pre-made story as August 29 roars down upon us, but the rest of us would rather be rid of the whole damned mess. Still, it's impossible not to think about, as impossible to ignore as the elephant standing on your foot.

This week, my fellow bloggers will be posting Katrina remembrances and photos, and I will continue on with my NOLA Alphabet as a way to commemorate what I've learned from this great city, before and after the storm. Yet I wanted to dedicate today's column to Katrina's children, who've had to survive the powerlessness of this trauma with the added powerlessness of being a child Adults can decide whether or not to leave the city as a killer storm approaches. But what about the children without a choice, the ones whose parents or guardians didn't have the sense or the money to evacuate? What would it be like living through such a storm as a child? Or as an infant, so sensitive and completely unable to make sense of the experience, likened to having a freight train running over the house, for hours on end.

And then, what about the aftermath? What would it be like to wade through filthy flood water, which goes a lot higher on a small body? And having your home - the center of your tiny universe - swallowed by water, your few toys ruined? What would it be like to leave all your friends, and maybe even lose your very best friend, your pet? To watch your relatives drown while you wait for rescue?