Archive for the ‘The Big Easy’ Category

You know you’re having a bad day when someone asks you if you think your life has turned into an episode of Seinfeld.

If I didn’t know better, I’d really think that God did not appreciate my post about religion earlier this week. Yesterday, I got to physical therapy and literally, the nanosecond I opened my door to walk across the parking lot, it started POURING. I’m talking drops of rain the size of those bouncy balls (I feel like they’re called superballs, but like that phase seems inappropriate). I’m pretty sure the sky was actually falling.

When I went to make my appointment to leave physical therapy yesterday, it immediately started pouring, such that I had to walk back to my car in the rain and the grocery trip, also, in the rain.

I arrived at school to go to my open lab to study for my lab practical, I put the car in park and it MOTHER FREAKING STARTED POURING. I actually went into the bathroom and wrug (rung? wrang? rang? wrunged? runged?) out my shorts. It’s not like it rained all day yesterday, it rained in short bursts whenever I walked outside. I literally felt like I was in a Prozac commercial.

Fast forward to today, where it of course starts raining about 2 minutes before I’m ready to leave for the day. And it pours and pours and pours. And I haven’t learned and started carrying an umbrella nor to check the weather to see if it’s a miserably bad idea to wear a white shirt with a not-so-lined bra. Not being able to see your boobs through a shirt is totally overrated.

I had some time to kill, so I went to a coffee shop to get a cookie and something to drink before I went to class, noting that the rain is probably as bad as I’ve ever seen it. The gutters are all overflowing and there’s water everywhere. So I park, next to one of the overflowing gutters, get out and walk in the coffeeshop (I did find a sweater, which helped with the, um, boob issue). I ordered and walked out into the still pouring rain.

I get to my car, go to put my key in to unlock the car door and I dropped. my. keys. In the overflowing gutter, which had an amazingly strong current, leading to a storm drain about 5 feet away. Thankfully, after practically diving head-first into the gutter, I got my keys. But in this process got so wet, you’d have thought I’d showered. And my keys were all covered in gutterness. And I poured out my entire drink because I was so focused on my keys.

The rain did not let up when I got to school, but at that point, what did it even matter? Except that I walked in through the rain and realized I left half my papers in the car and had to walk back through the rain again.

And what’s great is that doesn’t even begin to skim the surface of why the past two days have been pretty sucktacular. That, my friends, is an installment for another time. So in short, yes, I feel like I’m living in an episode of Seinfeld. The one where they all live in a water-filled hell.

Holy shit.

We’re going to rewind to last spring. We had a cockroach problem, well 2. One was that we had an excessive number of them scurrying through the house, the other was that I was/am the only person in this house capable of killing them. At the time, The Fiance insisted that all of New Orleans had roaches, so for months we dealt with the constant onslaught of bugs all on our own. He had a good point, they’re all over the ground outside at night, so how can you possibly begin to make a dent in that kind of population of creatures?

It wasn’t until our landlord, who lives in the other half of our duplex, woke up with a RAT IN HER BED that an exterminator was finally called out this past summer. He said that we were infested with both cockroaches and rats and that major spraying would need to occur. Let us take a moment to contemplate just how big the brick I shat was.

So the exterminator came out and sprayed and low and behold, the cockroaches slowed down. We did suddenly have an almost constant cockroach death theater in our living room where each morning I’d walk out to at least three or four cockroach carcasses, always on their back, looking extremely painfully dead. We had a small resurgence earlier this winter so we were resprayed and besides the dead cockroaches, it’s been better.

Until last night.

It was 10:45 and I had just gotten settled to bed. I closed my eyes and heard a fluttering sound. Being the naive person I am, I expected to see a moth or something, you know, that should have the ability to fly. On the wall above my head/bed was the biggest mother freaking flying cockroach I have ever seen in my life. It was HUGE. I cannot estimate it’s hugeness because in my head it’s like 3 feet long and I think I may be exaggerating a little. Before I had the chance to kill it, the gargantuan roach flew onto the bed. It did meet its maker shortly thereafter, but the damage was already done, that roach desecrated my bedroom.

Two minutes later, dead cockroach’s life partner landed on the wall opposite the bed. I then spent the next, oh, roughly 15 minutes standing on a step-stool throwing a shoe at the wall trying to kill the wall crawler. It should be noted that I was not excessively clothed during this massacre, to put it nicely. As a result, it was pretty awkward when, using an uncoiled wire hanger, I managed to knock the cockroach down and then into the hallway. I ran about 3 paces into the common space holding my clog of death before I realized my state of clothing and retreated, never to find that particular roach again. ’tis both unsettling and very unsatisfying to lose the kill.

As soon as I got settled for the third time and began to relax, I heard the faint tapping of the 800,000 feet on the floor as well as the cat attack noises, which is never a good sign. The cat is an exceptionally poor hunter, so if she’s hunting, it must be something large. It turned out to be the first cockroach’s identical twin brother running about through my clothes on the floor. I managed to kill it and eventually went to bed, wondering if I would wake up covered in flying roaches, or rather, if I would wake up at all.

I did wake up, about 6 hours later feeling like a big pile of death. I got dressed, walked downstairs for work and saw one cockroach carcass and THREE lives ones scurrying in my kitchen. THREE LIVE ONES.

Needless to say, the exterminator will be here at 4 tomorrow. That is assuming that the next plague hasn’t yet begun.

One of the things I’ve learned since moving to New Orleans is that to celebrate any even slightly important day, like, you know, Thursday, there is a parade. Not a parade like the ones you see on TV or the ones your kids might have marched in at Christmas time- these are floats on a flatbed of a big rig truck and have wooden siding. And people do not ride and wave, they ride, drink a lot and throw shit (sometimes, literally shit, but more on that later) to the people screaming on the streets. It’s fantastic.

Today I went to see the St. Patrick’s Day parade with Nola, her family (not just CS and Sun, also her siblings, grandfather and more) and Pontchartrain Pete, and it was an absolute riot. I had read ahead of time about this particular parade, but even with advance notice I still found myself on side of the road wondering if some of these people were unaware of these magical places called GROCERY STORES. You see, at the St. Patrick’s parade people are literally screaming for food. Prized catches include cabbage, carrots (Nola got 2 moldy ones), Potatoes, Celery, Scallions, Lemons, Bell Peppers and of course, Ramen Noodles. What says Irish more than Ramen Noodles? The music is also quite fitting, I mean, I’m pretty sure Sir Mix-A-Lot was Irish, right?

Seeing as how I still lack the ability to tip my head back and stare up, this parade was particularly frightening because people are throwing full heads of cabbage and potatoes, and hey, did you know it hurts like hell to get beaned in the leg with a potato? because it does. There were also many beads thrown, and myself, Nola and at least two other members of her family caught beads with underwear attached. The man who gave them to us insisted that we put them on (um, no thank you) and I’m pretty sure one of the highlights of the day was when Nola’s sister walked up to her and said, “lift up this leg so I can put these drawers on you.” I died. It was great.

There was also some bartering at this parade, when someone in our group caught fake dog shit instead of the carrot she was yelling for, she made lemons into lemonade and traded the shit for a head of cabbage (ironic since when you cook cabbage they pretty much smell the same!). The only thing missing, and technically it wasn’t missing, I was just too stupid to use it, was sunscreen and subsequently half of my body is sunburned. It’s actually quite an attractive look.

It was really such a fun day, and a nice reprieve from the past two weeks of studying hell. The only things that could’ve made it any better were if The Fiance had been able to come, if this cold would ever die (I sound like a pubescent boy, it’s awesome) and you know, the sunscreen thing. I’m going to go bathe in some aloe vera gel and stalk my wedding registries some more.

In case you needed a visual, here’s what my chest/shoulders look like with the full sunburn having set in. Can you guess what kind of shirt I was wearing today? (and yes, I’m wearing a shirt in the picture, I just cropped it out…)

I heart weekends.

There is a reason that Mardi Gras ends today (besides the fact that tomorrow’s Ash Wednesday), because if this lasted any longer, I think everyone would drop dead from the pure exhaustion of it all. Last year on Mardi Gras afternoon I commented that I had fun, but that I was glad it was over, and my feelings today are literal echoes of that. I had a good time, some days a great time, but I am so glad it’s over. I could not do it again tomorrow if I had to.

Today, we got up at 6:30 to leave for 7 to be at the Zulu parade route (1.5-2 miles away) by 7:30ish. We stopped and got food so we were a little late, but we were still able to get the exact same spot on the route that we had last year which is a barricaded area (less crazies) and in the front. For the first hour we were there we had two groups of super-obnoxious and super-drunk (hi, it’s 8 in the morning, are you kidding me with that?) college students around. One group lingered much longer than the other making everyone’s lives a little less pleasant in begging for the golden coconuts. These golden coconuts (literally painted gold and other colors) are the prized catches in Zulu. It’s not that they’re rare, no, almost every rider has a big bag of them, but you have to work for them. And these girls decided that whining was the way to go. They were unsuccessful and decided eventually to move down to the non-barricaded part of the route so they could accost the float riders with actions and words. We stayed put and worked it out a little differently.

Using only 4 beers to barter we managed to procure 5 coconuts, one which we gave to a guy next to us, one which we gave to a family next to us and one which we will be obligated to give to the MIL, even though she wasn’t there. A girl a few people down from us got probably 15 coconuts by wearing a bikini top and it took everything within me not to yell, “put a freaking shirt on” each time. Okay, that’s a lie. I did yell it just about every time, but not loud enough for her to hear. There were only a few other remarkable catches at this parade, though it was really fun to watch. Everyone riding and most of the spectators are there to have a good time and we did.

After that we walked over to watch Rex, which, with Proteus is probably my least favorite parade. They all throw the same 2 beads and it’s not that cool to watch. Yes, it’s awesome I just caught a bag of beads, however, since I’ve already gotten 3000 of the same ones, it’s um, well, not cool. We skipped most of it and went to McDonalds because they had port-o-lets we could use and I was dying.

After that began the “truck” parades. The parades we’ve been going to have been “floats” in that they are constructed with walls that are decorated with elaborate fronts and all kinds of craziness and are pulled by tractors (which often break down and delay the hell out of the parades). These truck floats are basically just 18 wheeler trucks with open top/sides (like long windows). There were 80 something trucks in the first parade and 40 something in the second (the average float parade is about 25 floats, though Zulu had into the 40s). These are the ones The Fiance likes because people tend to throw good beads indiscriminately, so we stayed out and watched and had a good time, though, the exhaustion set in much before they even turned their engines on.

In other news, it appears that the Fiance has the death because he’s too stubborn to not share food and drinks with me when I’m sick. I’m pretty sure mine has settled into a sinus infection because I feel like someone is boring holes into my face and bending over or lying down is equivalent to what I imagine the Apocalypse will feel like. But, probably due to the very little time spent so far with The MIL, I’m in fairly good spirits. It helps that I don’t have to be at work all week, that takes a little of the sting out of feeling like ass, though I’m pretty sure that work would actually feel like a vacation right now.

3 days, 22 minutes left.

(Friday afternoon addendum: Since I finished typing this entry I have also gotten one large Tetanus shot and a parking ticket. I’m off to start drinking.)

Today has been one of those days. Or as my mother put it, “a Katie day.” Ah ha. Ah ha.

Work was vastly uneventful aside from the twenty minute conversation I had with The Fiance trying to guide him through Whole Foods to the ingredients I needed but forgot to tell him about. Apparently that twenty minutes was like a teeny tiny fraction of the amount of time they spent there, and also, the entire refrigerator is filled to beyond capacity. Seriously, we’re eating dinner out every single night, who is going to eat all of this? And more importantly, who is going to clean out the refrigerator when we don’t? Oh yes, that would be me.

About one this afternoon I was informed that all 3 parades tonight were cancelled on account of the weather. Little did I realize at the time that it was because of a Tornado Watch (still in effect, as I type this) and the Severe Thunderstorm Warning. I think the National Weather Service captured the mood well with it’s description:

“THIS IS A DANGEROUS STORM. IF YOU ARE IN ITS PATH…PREPARE IMMEDIATELY FOR DAMAGING WINDS…DESTRUCTIVE HAIL… AND DEADLY CLOUD TO GROUND LIGHTNING. PEOPLE OUTSIDE SHOULD MOVE TO A SHELTER… PREFERABLY INSIDE A STRONG BUILDING BUT AWAY FROM WINDOWS.”

Not dramatic at all.

Anyway, after work but before the deadly lightning storm I had an eye appointment, which is always fun because my eyes do not focus properly and as such it always takes three years of, “1 or 2? 3 or 4?” before we agree to just let me see at 20/40. We took the MIL because she wanted to walk down the street where the eye doctor was located, but of course, as soon as we got there it started to rain (her next suggestion was that since the parades were cancelled that we just go hang out in French Quarter. Excuse me whilst I start tightening this noose around my neck). So since we had to pay to park I opened my umbrella to keep us dry while we did the pay/ticket thing. Only, my umbrella, which is spring loaded, wouldn’t open, so I grabbed it at the precise moment it spring opened and a small metal hook got stuck in my finger. Which caused it to bleed A LOT. I actually walked into the eye doctor holding my hand and a puddle of blood. Thankfully after a few minutes it stopped, but nothing like a little drama to set the tone for the appointment.

And unlike the previous 15 years of eye doctor appointments, today the doctor was not satisfied with the 20/40 solution, no today we found a solution that allows me to see at 20/30. The only draw back is that it’s bifocals and I’m not 60 years old yet. BIFOCALS. And did you know that bifocals are the mack-daddy expensive-est glasses that one could possibly need or buy? Because they are. And it’s super helpful that my insurance gives me a 20% discount on my glasses because now it’s only like 400 dollars instead of 450. Just wait until I tell The Fiance that we won’t be honeymooning because Grandma needs her glasses instead.

Again, not dramatic (or offensive I’m sure) at all.

And the day’s not even over yet. I’m afraid to go to dinner. I just know I’m going to end up with food poisoning or an allergic reaction, or I’ll punch the MIL in the face. You know, those things beyond my scope of control.

Well, it was a successful day of parades. I have so much to share that I’m going to have to break it down by parade, otherwise I’m libel to ramble uncontrollably and indefinitely.

Parade 1: Pontchartrain

We arrived just a few minutes early for the 1pm start and were able to snag a spot in front of one of the thousands of puddles lining the parade route after yesterdays downpour. I only stepped in said puddle a couple hundred times, so it wasn’t too bad. The people next to us were superbly obnoxious thirty-something drunkards who were, well, obnoxious. And what I’ve learned is that the people you stand by at Mardi Gras make a huge difference in your level of enjoyment. But anyway, the parade itself was pretty good. We didn’t get a whole lot of beads or anything particularly special, but it was entertaining. Oh, and two women began scrounging through the streets for beads. Literally picking them up out of the puddles (one of them actually rinsed a set off in a puddle, I gagged). They informed us (not that we asked) that they were collecting them to throw at the parade Hermes, which rolls next weekend. And I made a quick note to self that I would not be catching anything that came off that parade.

Here’s an example of the beads that were being collected by the crazies:

Parade 2: Shangri La

This one rolled right after Pontchartrain and it was also pretty good. There was a great moment when it stopped right in front of us and we got showered with beads. Also when the women next to us almost got run over by a tractor when they decided to go to the bathrooms across the street. Or I guess I should say that it was almost a great moment. Also, I learned that yellow fishnet tights make you look like you have hepatitis and that while wearing a green bra beneath a white leotard is a bad idea, not wearing a bra at all is worse.

Oh and someone dropped a really phalic looking balloon animal and I felt compelled to take a picture.

Parade 3: Sparta

This was a night parade, so we’d had a few hours off. Usually the night parades bring a bigger crowd, but considering that it was ass cold again, I think that the turn out wasn’t as good. Also, my whole evening was clouded by the fact that I had a terrible mervin the entire time and since I was wearing two pairs of pants and gloves, there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.

We ended up standing next to an older Jewish couple (I only know they were Jewish because they kept talking about how that was “their” synagogue across the street) and they were spectacularly in the way. The husband was an easy 6 inches taller than me and stood directly in front of me, but instead of putting his hands up to catch beads he mostly just got hit in the face a lot.

No great pictures from this parade, and no spectacular catches either.

Parade 4: Pegasus

This one followed right after Sparta because a trailer shut down during Sparta and everything was stopped for like 20 minutes. Thankfully we had met up with some friends and passed the time talking with them. We again got to see the way that yellow fishnets cause jaundice, and got more examples of how cheerleading is actually torture both by the skimpy and never flattering outfits and the rather miserable faces that walked past us.

However, something amazing happened at this parade. Last year we caught all manner of things, beads, doubloons, underwear (yea, you’re reading that right), but nothing like this. The closest I can get to this would be the Confederate Flag beads we got at Zulu (which is a little odd to me since it’s an all black parade). Note that we’ve never worn these beads, but we keep them because frankly I don’t think anyone would believe me without proof.

(Also, there is possibly the greatest picture of The Fiance with these beads which he will not let me post. In fact, he so doesn’t trust me with it that he won’t send it to me, for fairly good reason. He looks like a crazy homeless person with beads, it’s amazing.)

But this catch, oh this catch. The Fiance got it and triumphantly proclaimed that he had his one great catch for the year. And I have to say, I can’t imagine getting anything a whole lot rarer than this.

(For whatever reason, this picture was replaced by a little video of a smiley face doing something wildly inappropriate. Well done, tiny pic…)

(the picture’s a little blurry, but I think you’ll get the gist). In case you were wondering about the texture, and I know you were, it’s like a stress ball. Only with a nipple. Happy Carnival.

I got tagged by Kim to “think differently” and I am going to do that tomorrow, but I think that it’s important that I share the Mardi Gras memories while they’re fresh.

Tonight was the first big parade of the Mardi Gras season. Up until tonight I’d always told people that Mardi Gras was exceptionally family friendly because most of the parades really are. I’ve to date never seen anyone’s breasts and besides the fight we were in with a crazy woman last year, there’s hardly even any violence (that’s another story for another time). Krewe du Vieux, is not one of those parades. It is satirical, donkey-pulled, with many large fake penii and well, a lot of grown up fun. People were rip roaring drunk by 5:30 (we actually saw one woman and I swear she was walking horizontally, it was amazing) and the parade walkers were hysterical.

First, there are a few things you should know about New Orleans and Mardi Gras if you’re not from here or haven’t ever been. The French Quarter is generally disgusting, I’m sorry, it is. You know the instant you step foot in its boundaries because the stench of vomit reaches up and slaps you in the face. I will admit that the vomit slapping was somewhat missing tonight, but that might have something to do with the fact that it was ass cold the whole time verses the last time we were down there it was a balmy 98 degrees. You can see how that enhances the vomit.

Next, anything that touches the ground in the French Quarter is to be immediately abandoned. If you drop your credit card, you call and cancel it. If you drop your shoe, you leave it and saw your foot off later. Really. One guy picked up a set of beads from the ground and threw them at me and I subtly moved away. I do not want vomit beads. Other than that, the only thing you really need to know is that generally speaking, the more you shout and dance and yell, the more stuff you get. And even though I wasn’t feeling fabulous, I did some white girl dancing and some minor yelling. And it worked.

Usually our Mardi Gras booty consists of billions of beads and doubloons and a few other nick-nacks, not this time. The first thing I got was a bagel. A mini-bagel to be precise. We had been told that “golden bagels” were the prized toss at this parade (a mockery of the golden coconuts of Zulu, of which we got 3 last year, again, another story for another time), though this was just a good old fashioned cinnamon raisin. I did not eat it. In the chaos of the next 30 minutes of the parade we snagged beads, doubloons, cups, a stuffed green whale, two squirt guns, two fake flowers, temporary tattoos, a bumper sticker, condoms, a small package of surgical lubricant, a ring, a jello shot (which I also did not eat, but gave to a friend because hello, never drink something you didn’t see made in front of you…) and two cat shaped suckers. I’m sure I’m leaving out many prized catches, but you get the gist.

But what I’m really excited about is THREE sets of glass beads. To me, glass beads are the shit. They are rare and I love them. I even got a set of black ones, which are even more rare and special. I’m stoked.

Stay tuned, the next installment of Mardi Gras Mania might include description of the Confederate Flag beads we came into possession of last year and the horrible picture that The Fiance won’t let me post.

Okay, I have been thinking about this most of the day and then I figured with as many Southerners or Pseudo-southerners that visit, I should be able to ask here and find out if I’m totally nuts.

There is a well known street in the French Quarter here in New Orleans called Chartres Street. I have lived in this city for a year and half and have been operating under the assumption that this word is pronounced like Shar-Tres. Seems logical right? I mean, it’s the french quarter, things should be, I don’t know, french-y.

Then today someone at work was going on and on about this new place on “Charters” street and I could not for the life of me figure out what she was saying until I asked and then they all laughed at me. I mean, I get that french words are mispronounced (the one I live on is pronounced pretty oddly), but they can’t really be serious, can they? My linguistics professor in college called me “the laziest speaker [she'd] ever met,” but even I didn’t jump straight to Charters. Sometimes I feel like everyone is speaking an entirely different language.

So here’s the question (I’m not willing to find one of those actual poll inserts and deal with that, so you’ll have to leave a message in the comment section): How would YOU pronounce the world Chartres?

a) Shar-tres

b) Char-ters

c) Other (specify please)

I realized today just how different California is than New Orleans. See, in California, it’s not that teenagers don’t drink, because they do (I didn’t, I was literally the picture of a perfect teenager and I’m not even being sarcastic), but they don’t do it publicly or noticeably. Parties happen, beer is consumed, however, almost never is it something that people talk about and in California, you can’t go in a bar unless you’re 21 and if you show a fake ID, they keep it.

Here in New Orleans I get to hear from students about the bars they go to (of which I wrote down the names of so that I would never ever go to them) and the fact that they’re making jello shots at home right now as we’re speaking. And it’s not like I was snooping on a conversation, one stopped to tell me about the molds she had for the jello shots.

A big part of me wants to be appalled and the other just kinda wishes that I’d grown up here.

It’s been a million minutes since New Orleans was devastated. One million minutes have passed since the storm that killed 1800 people passed over the Gulf of Mexico and hit land in the Gulf coast along Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama. One million minutes since families lost everything, since the people here lost their sense of normalcy.

I wrote about the anniversary of Katrina last year with a feeling of hope, of excitement for change, of dreams to do something big and make change happen. I did hope that this update would be filled with rainbows and butterflies, telling the story of the recovery of this city, it’s not, but that’s okay. It’s not that there haven’t been improvements in a year or that the recovery effort isn’t well underway, because it is. Thanks to organizations and donations and the hard work of people here and all over the world, things have changed. Homes have been built, families have been reunited, businesses have been reopened. But what Katrina destroyed over the course of one or two days will take years, maybe even decades to repair, and that’s a hard reality to come face to face with.

Homes still lie in ruin here, businesses still unopened, many lack rooves, walls and doors. Families are still living in FEMA trailers, waiting for contracters to come and do what needs to be done. People are still waiting in emergency rooms for hours on end without seeing doctors, and offices are horribly overcrowded. The tragedy of Katrina was not a one day affair, for some it will be a lifetime experience. For most a life-altering one. Things might not ever be the same here before. And I suppose it’s ironic that I never got to see the city pre-Katrina, because I don’t have a standard of comparison, but I do see the fire in the eyes of those trying to restore this city. I see the passion in the parents trying to get back into their homes. I see the love in the hearts of the children who are back at their normal schools. In that, there is great hope.

There are many people who say that this city shouldn’t be rebuilt, that the fact that we’re below sea level is enough to warrant throwing in the towel and walking away. Do not become one of those people. This is a home. This city takes in the lost, the homeless, the ragged, the rough, the loners, the groups- anyone and everyone. This city is all things to all people. Not necessarily all good things all the time, but you won’t find that anywhere. It is a culture unto itself and to give up on it would be a tragic tragic mistake. We will rebuild this city, we will work until it is fixed and the bottom line is that you can be with us or against us, but either way, it’s going to be done. Every house that is erected here is a new ray of hope. Every family with a moving van heading back to their home is a new start. Every day that we wake up and go to our jobs, whether they are blue collar, white collar, construction gloved or anything, getting up everyday and living life is proof that this city is alive and will survive.

And it has to. It has to for it’s history and for it’s future. For all people who have ever and will ever call this city home. For the people who’ve never been here but dream about it in brilliant shades of purple and yellow and green. For all those who have had faith and who have worked to get to where we are, here, one million minutes later. New Orleans is not gone. It is here and it will remain here as long as the people have faith, love and perseverance. Those three elements have preserved the city when it was nothing. When it fell apart at the seams they sewed it back together. When it literally burned to the ground, they built it up again. And when hope fell far below the city’s altitude, people held strong and they believed.

Like last year, I want to leave you with a question. Last year I asked what you were going to do for this city, what you were going to do to save New Orleans. New Orleans is saved. It’s not perfect and no one here will pretend it is. But today, 1 million minutes after Katrina, I ask each of you to look inside yourselves and ask, do you believe in this city? Do you believe in it’s ability to rebuild? Do you believe in the ability of the people? Do you have faith in us and in our home? If you do, then spread the word. People have let New Orleans fall off the radar. We’ve become an afterthought. A news story. An annual update. But we are so much more and we still need so much more. Do not let the nay-sayers win, do not let your friends or family or co-workers give up on us. We’re not done, we will not quit.

One million minutes have passed by, and we’re still here, fighting, building, working and waiting. I have absolute faith that this city will be standing for millions and millions of minutes to come, probably much farther into the future than I can even imagine. I believe in my heart of hearts that New Orleans will someday rise above this tragedy to be what it was and more. Do you?