I remember exactly when and where I was the moment I heard the news. This will be the moment I'm sure all of us will reflect upon when the anniversary of Sept. 11, 2001 reminds us of our worst fears.
I was on the third floor of the ULM Administration Building when a friend of mine told me what was happening. And as we watched the news flash across her pager in that math class, I wondered how I could be sitting here and how this teacher could still be going on about statistics.
After class, I found the big screen television in the SUB and watched with a crowd larger than could be found in any classroom, in more silence than in any funeral, we watched as the first tower fell.
I don't believe anyone in that room has ever felt more helpless than they did at that moment. I remember watching the people around me almost as much as I watched the screen. I saw the terror I felt in my heart reflected in their faces. Never in my life had I felt as I did that day. Sadness should never be mixed with helplessness and served with fear.
I went home to find my father there. He is a Vietnam veteran and surely had seen worse things in his life. I wanted to see his face and maybe figure out my own reactions that I didn't know how to deal with at the time. But what I found was my father sitting quietly outside. I sat with him, just as quiet, and realized that he too was unsure of how to react.
A man who saw fear face to face at my age, instead of on live reports, was answering my unspoken question of, "How should I feel, Daddy?" with silence. A man who has seen the worst was silenced by what we all saw. Now, for certain, I was completely unsure of my emotions.
One year later, as we approach the day that has forever changed its place on the calendar, I cannot separate my mixed feelings.
Sometimes I feel, like many others, that I should scream for retribution. Demand justice no matter how violent. Then I realize it would not make us any better than those who gave their lives just to change ours. And in that process, we would lose even more people. We would be changing the lives of our soldiers by forcing them to witness the terrors of war that my father has seen.
So, the task those bombers were trying to accomplish continues-taking away our freedom, and slowly, as we progress even further into war, taking away more American lives. Not only those lives that will be killed in action, but the lives that will be forever haunted with the remembrance of war.
I should be used to not having the answer to everything by now. But usually there is someone who knows or can at least give some comforting explanation. Not this time. Still, no answer satisfies what I want to know.
Sometimes, I still feel like I'm sitting quietly outside with my father. Hoping he understands the emotions better than I do.
8.28.2006
One-Year-Ago
I remember this night in 2005. The anticipation of knowing something bad was about to happen. Seeing the radar screens show us what was impossible to imagine. Less than an hour away, hell was going to break loose in just a few hours and days later it would rage on.
Though I’m 65 miles from where most of the pictures you see of Katrina and the aftermath took place, I can only relay what was here in Baton Rouge ...
The morning the lights went out in this city, a strong breeze passed over us from the open windows. The warm, moist wind couldn't be less cool if you were standing directly under the sun. The damp air gathered in the house like a humidor. I couldn't lie sticky in bed any longer while hurricane force winds were outside gusting the limbs off of pine trees.
I gathered myself into a bright yellow rain jacket and headed out for a stroll. I know the winds weren't quite the same as the one's tearing roofs off of houses just a few miles south, but they were the same ones. Just coming a little slower after the damage done. Over the screaming winds I leaned into were a choir of sirens and explosions. No doubt tree limbs falling across power lines and popping transformers. I knew it was going to be a long time before anyone had power again. And just as long for the streets, which were now dead and lonely, to fill up to a stand-still like they were days before.
I didn't know what was going on in New Orleans then. There were batteries in the radio, but the news was minimal. . .
Though I’m 65 miles from where most of the pictures you see of Katrina and the aftermath took place, I can only relay what was here in Baton Rouge ...
The morning the lights went out in this city, a strong breeze passed over us from the open windows. The warm, moist wind couldn't be less cool if you were standing directly under the sun. The damp air gathered in the house like a humidor. I couldn't lie sticky in bed any longer while hurricane force winds were outside gusting the limbs off of pine trees.
I gathered myself into a bright yellow rain jacket and headed out for a stroll. I know the winds weren't quite the same as the one's tearing roofs off of houses just a few miles south, but they were the same ones. Just coming a little slower after the damage done. Over the screaming winds I leaned into were a choir of sirens and explosions. No doubt tree limbs falling across power lines and popping transformers. I knew it was going to be a long time before anyone had power again. And just as long for the streets, which were now dead and lonely, to fill up to a stand-still like they were days before.
I didn't know what was going on in New Orleans then. There were batteries in the radio, but the news was minimal. . .
7.30.2006
Rectum? It nearly killed 'em
"The things you own, eventually own you," said Tyler Durden in Fight Club. If that's true, then there's a couch in my living room calling me it's little bitch.
Most of a weekend was spent searching out a sofa big enough for Lin and I to lay on together and the right color to match the walls in a future home. After the first few stops, I realized within the confines of beds, lazy boys, and dinning tables, the only thing you need to know to sell furniture is how to be an asshole. An occupation I could have been born into. A busy store usually means there are crowds of people in the aisles and not enough cashiers. For some reason, we weaved through sectional soffas and recliner chairs easily without offering our pardon to any other patrons. I spoke to a few sales reps on the floor as they buzzed by towards somewhere else. I thought maybe if I stripped birth naked and tied the money we wanted to spend into a seductive thong then their attention would be granted. But as my own self-respect told me otherwise, we left to try and find someone who would give a damn.
Where we found a suitable sofa and love seat, we found a man who was friendly in a salesman kind of way. The kind of guy you wouldn't trust with your wife, but was selling something that fit our budget. Of course, the scrapes on his arms and the bloodshot redness in his eyes from the detached retina he was apparently suffering from added to the mystique. After sleeping on it a while we went back to sign the forms and pay for our new couches. Our hand-me-downs lasted a while and I fought buying new couches knowing one day we would move from this townhouse and into a house, but after a spring surrendered its last hope, I knew it was time.
Lin has wanted couches where both of us could lie down and watch tv together for a while. I knew this would cause a problem, but nothing we couldn't overcome with a little precise measuring. The dimensions seemed possible. They lined up the walls nicely and even the extra width would still leave the living room comfortable. But one worry was something a tape measure couldn't answer - getting it through the damn door.
The young man slid his dolly to the tailgate of my truck and we slid the sofa to the front. Only a half inch kept the gate from securing, but I wasn't going far. My worry, other than the door, was now focused on the dark cloud that was settling over our home a few miles away. I braked in front of our door step and hurriedly got Lindsay outside to see about some help. I tried to wrap my arms around our new couch, all wrapped in plastic and card board and once I realized God made them too short to grab the damn thing any which way, I heard the pelts of rain smattering the plastic. Luckily, a neighbor was available to help just as the rain picked up. He was a taller black man whose arms grabbed an end of the couch without a problem I grunted and huffed as I tried to stretch out to get some sort of grip which was harder now that the water on the plastic made it even slicker. We started to move, and I had to stop and re-grip. We took a few more steps and I re-gripped again. Finally, we get to the door and we tilted and slid and pushed and shoved this big green plastic wrapped unholy motherfucker as far in as we could, until the stairs and ceiling denied the last six inches. We picked it up above our heads. Turned it completely over. But six inches, which never seemed like much before, as I have been told, was like jumping the Grand Canyon.
While the door to our home stood wide open and a couch coming back out the door, stripped of it's plastic, cardboard, pillows and virtue, the rain came down in big sweaty angry side swiping summertime drops. "Put it back in," I yelled, and Lin began to freak. I snatched the plastic from the ground and held it over the exposed end while I took the brunt of the moisture. I'm sure this man was looking at me with pure pity in his heart while the last dry part of me no longer existed and I might have even contemplated crying since no one could tell because of the rain. But while I stood there, we gave one last hard push and the same whole which denied entrance before gave way and the couch came falling through. The real tears wanted to come now.
The funny thing is, now that it sits in our living room, I'm not so sure about the color anymore.
Most of a weekend was spent searching out a sofa big enough for Lin and I to lay on together and the right color to match the walls in a future home. After the first few stops, I realized within the confines of beds, lazy boys, and dinning tables, the only thing you need to know to sell furniture is how to be an asshole. An occupation I could have been born into. A busy store usually means there are crowds of people in the aisles and not enough cashiers. For some reason, we weaved through sectional soffas and recliner chairs easily without offering our pardon to any other patrons. I spoke to a few sales reps on the floor as they buzzed by towards somewhere else. I thought maybe if I stripped birth naked and tied the money we wanted to spend into a seductive thong then their attention would be granted. But as my own self-respect told me otherwise, we left to try and find someone who would give a damn.
Where we found a suitable sofa and love seat, we found a man who was friendly in a salesman kind of way. The kind of guy you wouldn't trust with your wife, but was selling something that fit our budget. Of course, the scrapes on his arms and the bloodshot redness in his eyes from the detached retina he was apparently suffering from added to the mystique. After sleeping on it a while we went back to sign the forms and pay for our new couches. Our hand-me-downs lasted a while and I fought buying new couches knowing one day we would move from this townhouse and into a house, but after a spring surrendered its last hope, I knew it was time.
Lin has wanted couches where both of us could lie down and watch tv together for a while. I knew this would cause a problem, but nothing we couldn't overcome with a little precise measuring. The dimensions seemed possible. They lined up the walls nicely and even the extra width would still leave the living room comfortable. But one worry was something a tape measure couldn't answer - getting it through the damn door.
The young man slid his dolly to the tailgate of my truck and we slid the sofa to the front. Only a half inch kept the gate from securing, but I wasn't going far. My worry, other than the door, was now focused on the dark cloud that was settling over our home a few miles away. I braked in front of our door step and hurriedly got Lindsay outside to see about some help. I tried to wrap my arms around our new couch, all wrapped in plastic and card board and once I realized God made them too short to grab the damn thing any which way, I heard the pelts of rain smattering the plastic. Luckily, a neighbor was available to help just as the rain picked up. He was a taller black man whose arms grabbed an end of the couch without a problem I grunted and huffed as I tried to stretch out to get some sort of grip which was harder now that the water on the plastic made it even slicker. We started to move, and I had to stop and re-grip. We took a few more steps and I re-gripped again. Finally, we get to the door and we tilted and slid and pushed and shoved this big green plastic wrapped unholy motherfucker as far in as we could, until the stairs and ceiling denied the last six inches. We picked it up above our heads. Turned it completely over. But six inches, which never seemed like much before, as I have been told, was like jumping the Grand Canyon.
While the door to our home stood wide open and a couch coming back out the door, stripped of it's plastic, cardboard, pillows and virtue, the rain came down in big sweaty angry side swiping summertime drops. "Put it back in," I yelled, and Lin began to freak. I snatched the plastic from the ground and held it over the exposed end while I took the brunt of the moisture. I'm sure this man was looking at me with pure pity in his heart while the last dry part of me no longer existed and I might have even contemplated crying since no one could tell because of the rain. But while I stood there, we gave one last hard push and the same whole which denied entrance before gave way and the couch came falling through. The real tears wanted to come now.
The funny thing is, now that it sits in our living room, I'm not so sure about the color anymore.
7.22.2006
Bada Bing
I suppose some of you have been wondering what's with the hold-up on all the insightful stories into my life with the lack of updates to the blog. Well, I've discovered 'the Sopranos' and vicariously I have been taking interest in a Jersey crime family's first few seasons on DVD. Eventually, they will either run out of people to whack or I will just go blind, but there will be updates soon. Peace ...
6.19.2006
Time is not on your side. Mine either.
It occurred to me as we watched the previews in the theater today. There was one for a “teen movie” about some kids going to college. And I remembered great movies in the same vain like “American Pie,” “PCU” and “Animal House.” Those movies were about kids entering new worlds, but played by people old enough to have all ready experienced them. That’s when the thought hit me. I’m too old to be one of the teenagers in the movie, but old enough to be the guy playing them. Shit.
As I reminisce, what strikes me most is the idea of living in the moment. I hate the phrase but, “I used to” never plan things. A favorite example …
“Whatcha doing this weekend?”
“Don’t know, too far ahead.”
“But it’s Friday.”
I haven’t worn a watch since high school. My fiancé even bought me a beautiful timepiece that I can’t bring myself to wear other than special occasions. There’s something about looking down and seeing a clock ticking. It reminds me of a theory about Hell I had once after high school. Hell is a room full of clocks, all perfectly in-sync, except one that’s off by a second and a half. This is also the reason I gave up photojournalism for print. I spent many hours in a dark room watching a clock - so many seconds in developer, then fixer, and a water bath. Once we started developing color and needed two clocks, I knew I would rather it be just a hobby.
Now, not only is a day measured in time, but money. And sometimes the plotting for those things “everyone else has” keeps you thinking so far down the road, you forget about what you had. You had today. And if today wasn’t good enough for you, why would it be better a few tomorrows later? Today, I could afford a cold beer. Hell, it was such a good day, I could have had a cold Guinness if I so choose. I can also leave the Blackberry in the car, turn off my Google Calendar and not answer the house phone, because I want to sit in the heat with sunglasses and a radio cooling off one frosty cold one at a time.
I'm not trying to advocate being a loser, but I can’t shove a day planner any further up my ass. And every once and a while, you’ve got to take a match to a few pages in it so you can splurge on an imported beer, grill your own steak, walk barefoot in the grass and piss in the yard. If you die tomorrow, what did all of your planning get you? All those plans left unfinished won’t mean much to you then will they? And if God, or Satan, asks you what you did today and the only answer you have is, “made plans for tomorrow,” then that would look pretty foolish wouldn’t it? And if any of you reading this plan on going to my funeral, make sure they don't burry me with a watch ... or underwear. I won't be needing either of them where I'm going.
I’m reminded of some words from a couple of wise men …
“Time is now and now is all you have,” said Neal.
“I didn’t even have to use my A.K., I gotta say it was a good day,” said Cube.
Those guys new what a moment was worth.
As I reminisce, what strikes me most is the idea of living in the moment. I hate the phrase but, “I used to” never plan things. A favorite example …
“Whatcha doing this weekend?”
“Don’t know, too far ahead.”
“But it’s Friday.”
I haven’t worn a watch since high school. My fiancé even bought me a beautiful timepiece that I can’t bring myself to wear other than special occasions. There’s something about looking down and seeing a clock ticking. It reminds me of a theory about Hell I had once after high school. Hell is a room full of clocks, all perfectly in-sync, except one that’s off by a second and a half. This is also the reason I gave up photojournalism for print. I spent many hours in a dark room watching a clock - so many seconds in developer, then fixer, and a water bath. Once we started developing color and needed two clocks, I knew I would rather it be just a hobby.
Now, not only is a day measured in time, but money. And sometimes the plotting for those things “everyone else has” keeps you thinking so far down the road, you forget about what you had. You had today. And if today wasn’t good enough for you, why would it be better a few tomorrows later? Today, I could afford a cold beer. Hell, it was such a good day, I could have had a cold Guinness if I so choose. I can also leave the Blackberry in the car, turn off my Google Calendar and not answer the house phone, because I want to sit in the heat with sunglasses and a radio cooling off one frosty cold one at a time.
I'm not trying to advocate being a loser, but I can’t shove a day planner any further up my ass. And every once and a while, you’ve got to take a match to a few pages in it so you can splurge on an imported beer, grill your own steak, walk barefoot in the grass and piss in the yard. If you die tomorrow, what did all of your planning get you? All those plans left unfinished won’t mean much to you then will they? And if God, or Satan, asks you what you did today and the only answer you have is, “made plans for tomorrow,” then that would look pretty foolish wouldn’t it? And if any of you reading this plan on going to my funeral, make sure they don't burry me with a watch ... or underwear. I won't be needing either of them where I'm going.
I’m reminded of some words from a couple of wise men …
“Time is now and now is all you have,” said Neal.
“I didn’t even have to use my A.K., I gotta say it was a good day,” said Cube.
Those guys new what a moment was worth.
6.15.2006
Waiting on “Dick” ---- all names have been changed to further throw daggers at an inconsiderate bastard.
A few weeks ago, our hero’s Blackberry rang and a familiar voice from the past not too long ago was on the other end - Dick.
“Just wanted to let you know that I would be in town for a wedding June 9th and just let me know where you will be ‘cause I’m coming to see you. I’ll rent a car if I have to.”
“No problem, man. I think I can make it to New Orleans and I will meet up with you there.”
A plan was made and as weeks went by the day came closer. Arrangements were made on our hero’s behalf and previous plans were broken, all in the name of Dick.
“You’re not going to the shower?” Hero’s future-wife said of her brother’s baby’s momma’s baby shower she was throwing. “She wants you to be there.”
“No, I’ve made plans to meet my old friend in New Orleans.”
“You know we have our last meeting with the church before we get married at 8:30 Sunday morning. How are you going to meet with Dick and make it to Thibodaux from New Orleans?”
“I’ll be there, I promise.”
“You have to be. We paid $70 to go to this and it’s non-refundable. I know you’re gonna drink when you’re with Dick in New Orleans and I don’t know how you think you are going to make it.”
“Don’t worry, I will.”
As the day got closer, he noticed there had been no word or communication from Dick. The Wednesday before Dick’s arrival in Louisiana, our hero called to make sure the plans were still a go.
“You still coming?”
“Yeah. I’m still going to be there.”
“Cool, well I’m going to the city on Friday and will probably go to a Zephyr’s game with Dan and Esther.”
“Oh, you’re going to be there Friday night? Well, I don’t think I have anything planned that night, I might meet up with you then.”
“That would be great if you could. I have this thing in Thibodaux Sunday and if we could meet up Friday night, I can be there for it and get some rest since it is going to last all day.”
“OK I will see if I can get there. I’m flying in, so I don’t have a car. But I’ll try and get there.”
“Cool, let me know if you find one and when we can meet up. We won’t go to the game if you’re gonna be able to make it to the city by then.”
As a loaded truck with our hero and some road smokes cranked into life a call was made to Dick.
“You here?”
“Yeah, been in town since last night.”
“Cool. Any thoughts on what you are doing tonight?”
“Not going to make it there. No way I can borrow a car.”
“That’s fine. Just let me know what time I can meet up with you Saturday. I’m heading in to the city anyway for the game so I will be around.”
Our hero spent his night at a minor league baseball game, drank three 24 oz. beers, started to hangover by the 7th inning, threw tennis balls onto the field at a bucket and saw the most fireworks he had seen since Disney World. Afterwards, hero and friends walked through the sweaty summer of the French Quarter and settled inside the air conditioning of Harrah’s near the newly installed dancing ladies. 2:30 a.m. came quickly and I crashed on a futon only to be awakened five hours later by a leaf blower.
I lay there with a tiny headache left over from the night before and thought about what would keep us busy today. I knew it would be late before Dick showed up and his schedule depended on a wedding, but a time frame would be useful. I text messaged the question to the other side of the pond since he was in Mandeville and got a response of “7 no later than 8.” The hero’s trio spent lunch at Lager’s, a tour of Ansel Adams prints at the New Orleans Museum of Art, snowballs at Sal’s and even had time to watch a movie. At 7:45 that night, I shot another text message, since of course, there was yet again no word from Dick to ask if he had made it there yet. A short response followed that simply said, “no.” The trio decided to have dinner. At 10 that night, our hero made a decision. If Dick can’t call and estimate how much longer Hero would be waiting, Hero wouldn’t wait any more. The truck loaded up again, his lovely hosts were thanked for their hospitality and headlights pointed south to Thibodaux. An hour after his arrival, pretty close to midnight, the Blackberry rang. It was the Dick.
“Hey man, I’m here. Where are you?”
“In Thibodaux.”
“What? You left?
“Yeah, couldn’t sit and wait any longer. I got shit to do tomorrow.”
“You just left?? You didn’t even call me and say you were leaving!!”
“That’s right, I didn’t call. Just like you motherfucker! You said no later than 8. It’s fucking midnight.” Our hero will never forget Dick’s retort to this.”
“I was getting drunk at the reception! You can’t expect me to be responsible!”
“And you can’t expect me to wait until you decide to show up without enough courtesy to say when it might be. Hell, you haven’t had enough courtesy to call me and tell me anything.”
“Well that’s just great.” whined Dick as he started to spew his self-pity. “None of my Louisiana friends showed up.”
“None of your friends showed up? Don’t you lump me into that group! I was fucking there. I fucking waited all I could. I’m just not dumb enough to waste any more of my time on someone so shitty they can’t even call say it’s gonna be later than originally thought. I would still be there if you could have done that.”
Hero left the conversation, happy he said what he did and was glad he was not going without sleep for this Dick. He was also happy none of the time spent in New Orleans was anything but good. With or without his reason for going.
“Just wanted to let you know that I would be in town for a wedding June 9th and just let me know where you will be ‘cause I’m coming to see you. I’ll rent a car if I have to.”
“No problem, man. I think I can make it to New Orleans and I will meet up with you there.”
A plan was made and as weeks went by the day came closer. Arrangements were made on our hero’s behalf and previous plans were broken, all in the name of Dick.
“You’re not going to the shower?” Hero’s future-wife said of her brother’s baby’s momma’s baby shower she was throwing. “She wants you to be there.”
“No, I’ve made plans to meet my old friend in New Orleans.”
“You know we have our last meeting with the church before we get married at 8:30 Sunday morning. How are you going to meet with Dick and make it to Thibodaux from New Orleans?”
“I’ll be there, I promise.”
“You have to be. We paid $70 to go to this and it’s non-refundable. I know you’re gonna drink when you’re with Dick in New Orleans and I don’t know how you think you are going to make it.”
“Don’t worry, I will.”
As the day got closer, he noticed there had been no word or communication from Dick. The Wednesday before Dick’s arrival in Louisiana, our hero called to make sure the plans were still a go.
“You still coming?”
“Yeah. I’m still going to be there.”
“Cool, well I’m going to the city on Friday and will probably go to a Zephyr’s game with Dan and Esther.”
“Oh, you’re going to be there Friday night? Well, I don’t think I have anything planned that night, I might meet up with you then.”
“That would be great if you could. I have this thing in Thibodaux Sunday and if we could meet up Friday night, I can be there for it and get some rest since it is going to last all day.”
“OK I will see if I can get there. I’m flying in, so I don’t have a car. But I’ll try and get there.”
“Cool, let me know if you find one and when we can meet up. We won’t go to the game if you’re gonna be able to make it to the city by then.”
As a loaded truck with our hero and some road smokes cranked into life a call was made to Dick.
“You here?”
“Yeah, been in town since last night.”
“Cool. Any thoughts on what you are doing tonight?”
“Not going to make it there. No way I can borrow a car.”
“That’s fine. Just let me know what time I can meet up with you Saturday. I’m heading in to the city anyway for the game so I will be around.”
Our hero spent his night at a minor league baseball game, drank three 24 oz. beers, started to hangover by the 7th inning, threw tennis balls onto the field at a bucket and saw the most fireworks he had seen since Disney World. Afterwards, hero and friends walked through the sweaty summer of the French Quarter and settled inside the air conditioning of Harrah’s near the newly installed dancing ladies. 2:30 a.m. came quickly and I crashed on a futon only to be awakened five hours later by a leaf blower.
I lay there with a tiny headache left over from the night before and thought about what would keep us busy today. I knew it would be late before Dick showed up and his schedule depended on a wedding, but a time frame would be useful. I text messaged the question to the other side of the pond since he was in Mandeville and got a response of “7 no later than 8.” The hero’s trio spent lunch at Lager’s, a tour of Ansel Adams prints at the New Orleans Museum of Art, snowballs at Sal’s and even had time to watch a movie. At 7:45 that night, I shot another text message, since of course, there was yet again no word from Dick to ask if he had made it there yet. A short response followed that simply said, “no.” The trio decided to have dinner. At 10 that night, our hero made a decision. If Dick can’t call and estimate how much longer Hero would be waiting, Hero wouldn’t wait any more. The truck loaded up again, his lovely hosts were thanked for their hospitality and headlights pointed south to Thibodaux. An hour after his arrival, pretty close to midnight, the Blackberry rang. It was the Dick.
“Hey man, I’m here. Where are you?”
“In Thibodaux.”
“What? You left?
“Yeah, couldn’t sit and wait any longer. I got shit to do tomorrow.”
“You just left?? You didn’t even call me and say you were leaving!!”
“That’s right, I didn’t call. Just like you motherfucker! You said no later than 8. It’s fucking midnight.” Our hero will never forget Dick’s retort to this.”
“I was getting drunk at the reception! You can’t expect me to be responsible!”
“And you can’t expect me to wait until you decide to show up without enough courtesy to say when it might be. Hell, you haven’t had enough courtesy to call me and tell me anything.”
“Well that’s just great.” whined Dick as he started to spew his self-pity. “None of my Louisiana friends showed up.”
“None of your friends showed up? Don’t you lump me into that group! I was fucking there. I fucking waited all I could. I’m just not dumb enough to waste any more of my time on someone so shitty they can’t even call say it’s gonna be later than originally thought. I would still be there if you could have done that.”
Hero left the conversation, happy he said what he did and was glad he was not going without sleep for this Dick. He was also happy none of the time spent in New Orleans was anything but good. With or without his reason for going.
5.16.2006
5.08.2006
Jazz Funeral
The link hidden in this title was written by Chris Rose, a columnist who's been writing for the Times-Picayune for years and who I had the pleasure of meeting a few weeks ago.
5.02.2006
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