b.rox

Toddler Abuses Peyton Manning

The Saints won a decisive victory against a worthy opponent, and people in New Orleans couldn’t be happier. To be perfectly honest I’m still having a hard time believing this is real. I had been anticipating defeat. I’d thought about what I’d say here if New Orleans lost — how it still felt like victory just to be in the game, how we’d still have a bigger party than Indianapolis. I even had a title for today’s entry: “Blue Monday (Not).” But I really didn’t expect… this. I didn’t expect I’d be writing from this perspective. I find I’m at a loss for words. So I will let some other people speak for me:

Text messages from my sister last night:

A win for pitty aint shit. Ur livin a 4 yr old wet dream all the way out.

Let me guess, u orleanians r going to riot n loot over a win? Whodat?

(For the record, no.)

Comments posted on yesterday’s column about me in the Bloomington Herald-Times:

Bart Everson was, is, and will always be a self-styled schmuck whose only claim to fame is his own hot air, seasoned with chronic halitosis.

Plus Bart lied about Timothy McVeigh being from Indiana. McVeigh was from the Niagara Falls area. He was executed in Terre Haute.

Barton P. Everson is a filthy, half-witted varlet, and his clothes are both malodorous and out of fashion! Were he in need of a napkin at a pumpkin-eating contest, and were I in charge of distributing napkins, not only I would not offer him a napkin, I would not give him one if he asked for it! I would pretend not to hear his pleas for napkins! That’s how scurrilous I find him! I am quite serious about this!

I, too, find his pustulent, malodorous nephariousness a preponderance of the ilk known abroad as a not-squeaky-clean person in his attributes and general bearing to be a massive run-on sentence. The injurious intent of his regular diatribitic misuse of community jocularity could only be interpreted as portential to the delusional meanderings of those whose socks could use a good wash…

Joe Flint for the Los Angeles Times:

Move over Hawkeye Pierce, looks like Drew Brees and the New Orleans Saints just took your ratings crown along with the Super Bowl title.

Bill Simmons for ESPN:

On the heels of another third-down throw to Clark, Addai charges in for a 4-yard rushing touchdown (10 plays, 76 yards, 5:26 drive), followed by a shot of the Manning family’s luxury box and Archie sitting sadly before realizing, “Oh, crap, there are cameras on me, I can’t root for the Saints!” and belatedly applauding. That was fun.

Bill Barnwell on ESPN:

May the feeling you had watching Tracy Porter run the victory into the end zone remain on instant recall for generations

Jerry Izenberg for The Star-Ledger:

He is the one who triggered an early Mardi Gras, who wrote the ultimate comeback saga and hurled it directly into the teeth of the depression Katrina wrought. He is the one who gave new life into the age old New Orleans’ call to arms and revelry Sunday night: ‘‘Laissez les bon temps rouler’’ — “Let the good times roll.’’

Ohm Youngmisuk for the New York Daily News:

For Porter, this was incredibly sweet since he was born in Louisiana and played high school football there before attending Indiana University.

Andy Hutchins on The Sporting Blog:

Look, I know that Tracy Porter’s superb film study is what actually enabled him to pick off Peyton Manning’s fourth-quarter pass and return it for the Super Bowl 44-sealing touchdown Sunday night. If you believe that a mix of confidence and style can put karma on your side, though, join me in praising Tracy Porter’s hair.

Bob Kravitz, sports columnist for the Indianapolis Star:

But in the end, the Indianapolis Colts were left with nothing. Just a bitter, hollow feeling that will last well into the offseason.

Michael David Smith on NBC Sports Pro Football Talk:

And so it’s no surprise that Manning and Wayne weren’t in particularly good spirits after the game, and that they went straight to the locker room instead of sticking around on the field afterward to offer post-game handshakes to the Saints.

Maybe it’s time to stick in another pin…

Peter King for MySI:

It’s right, it’s fair, it’s just, it’s good, it’s shocking.

CBS/AP:

He said the Saints are not like a lot of NFL teams. Brees said the Saints “played for so much more than just ourselves. We played for our city … and the entire Who Dat nation that was behind us all the way.”

Simon Evans for Reuters:

The celebrations included the curious sight of Saints’ quarterback coach Joe Lombardi posing alongside the trophy named after his grandfather.

Judy Battista for the New York Times:

“This thing [the Lombardi trophy] laid in my bed next to me last night,” Payton said. “I rolled over; I probably drooled on it. Man, there’s nothing like it.”

Andrew Astelford for ESPN:

For many, [Ward McClendon] said, there remains a hole in lives in this area, where more than 75 percent of the pre-Hurricane Katrina population remains displaced. Here, he said, football has helped heal. Especially after a Super Bowl victory. “It’s doing a lot for our spirit,” McClendon said.

San Francisco Chronicle

Aside from bringing a championship to a hard-luck city, Sunday’s win over the Indianapolis Colts is feeding feelings the city can overcome the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina and solve long-standing problems.

Chris Herring for the Wall Street Journal:

“Even sober people came here for this, and that’s not something you normally see this time of year in New Orleans,” said Tish Welch-Slusher, a Sulphur, La. resident, referring to Mardi Gras. “This is going to be crazy.”

Richard Fausset for the L.A. Times:

At the Crowne Plaza Astor Hotel New Orleans, at Bourbon and Canal streets, numerous wait staff failed to show up for work Monday morning, and management types were conspicuously bussing dirty tables at breakfast time.

Anthony on Facebook:

Who dat say they gonna beat them Saints?!? No one!!!

One last thing…

I’ve had a lot of fun at the expense of my former hometown over the past few days — and the response has truly astonished me. So kick back for a few minutes and listen to this mix while I disclose a few final factoids.

You’re hearing a dozen of my favorite songs from or about the Circle City. Perhaps surprisingly, only a couple of them actually make fun of Indianapolis.

It might be noted that I haven’t mentioned the Indy music scene in my rantings. There’s a reason for that, and it’s because I’m actually a huge fan of Musical Family Tree, which is one of the best music/community sites on the web.

And — oh yes — it is based in Indianapolis. Indie rock (no pun intended) from that city is a sort of touchstone for the site, but it branches out from there. Way out. You’ll find music from diverse genres and from as far away as Japan, but all interconnected in one beautiful web of mutual complicity.

If all this seems unexpected in light of what I’ve been putting out recently, consider this photo (and caption) which I posted way back in July of 2005.

It’s like Indianapolis has turned into the Venice of the Midwest!

Yes, I’ve been dogging on Indy pretty hard over the last few days. Hopefully by spiraling into absurdity I made my intentions clear to even the most irony-impaired Hoosiers. What I said earlier this week is true: I love Indianapolis. Not because it’s a paragon of, well, anything, but because I haven’t got room for hate in this old heart of mine. Indianapolis is where I grew up, and I will always have a soft spot for it.

But it definitely helps to have an 800-mile buffer zone.

New Orleans is in many ways the polar opposite of Indy. I knew nothing of New Orleans as I grew up in Indiana, and it remained a complete cultural blind spot until I moved here ten years ago. The strange thing was that I felt at home here immediately. I’ve come to love New Orleans, not unreservedly, but in spite of her flaws — “warts and all,” one might say.

Which, by the way, is also how I love Indianapolis. Warts and all, and at a distance.

When I returned for that visit in 2005 I was mighty impressed by how much downtown Indy had changed. It really is not what I remembered growing up there in the 80s.

I just thought it would be a good idea to say this now, in advance of the big game. If I’d waited until after the Saints victory, people might have thought I was saying these things out of pity for the Colts fans. Not at all. I speak not out of pity, but because I love the truth. It’s the same love of truth which motivated me to compile all those very factual facts about Indianapolis.

Speaking of which, did you know Indianapolis recently made number eight on a list of top cities to visit in the state of Indiana? (Hat tip to Howie for that one.)

This just in: It appears I’m the subject of an article in the Sunday Herald-Times. That’s the daily rag in Bloomington, Indiana. Feature columnist Mike Leonard was apparently pushed over the edge by my goodhearted razzing. The full column is behind a paywall, but my sources have supplied me with the text. Leonard tries to explain away my invective based on the fact that I grew up in a suburb on the south side of Indy:

And when you grow up in a place like Greenwood, it’s easy to see the worst in Indy-A-No-Place. Of all of the cities and towns in Indiana that begin with “Green,” Greenwood clearly offers the bleakest, strip-mall-and-vinyl-village perspective of all.

This just in from my father:

With all the fun you’re having pre-game, I want to share a little game I played with my cousins, Allen and Francie when I was in my early teens in Wisconsin. One of us would enter the Grainary where another would be in the attic making noise.

The downstairs person would say: “who dat up dere?”
The attic person would say “Who dat down dere?”
Then the downstairs person would say (the punch line): “Who dat dat say dat last who dat?”

I think we were vaguely aware of a song that was kind of popular then, like now, incorporating part or all of our lyrics. Anyway, we got a big kick out of it, circa 1948.

Which just serves to further demonstrate how ridiculous the NFL’s recent attempt to claim ownership of the phrase was. Good thing they backed down.

Thanks for sharing Dad! Too bad you’re rooting for the wrong team tomorrow…

Yes, that’s right, New Orleans is having an election tomorrow, right in the midst of Superbowl mania and Carnival madness.

I’m a little shy this time around about voicing my own opinion, but others are not so afflicted. Here’s a roundup of what some other bloggers think.

• Adrastos
• The Huck Upchuck
• NOLA-Dishu on the assessor race (tres important)

Anyone else?

My research continues to pay dividends. I’ve discovered things about Indianapolis that even I didn’t know, things that will make your hair stand on end. I started this list to help Saints fans, but when my friends and family up in Indianapolis read this, they will probably want to pack up the car and evacuate while the getting is good.

21. Even though Jimmy Kimmel calls the score wrong, you gotta respect his take:
    

    Colts 31-21. I know New Orleans is the sentimental favorite, but I still think people who live in Indianapolis are worse off.

    Kimmel may have the score wrong but a gorilla and some cats pick the Saints. These animals are never wrong. Who’s laughing now?

22. The benighted denizens of Indianapolis love to brag about how theirs is the only capital city located at the exact geographic center of their state — as if that was something to brag about in the first place. But as a matter of fact, like so many other pro-Indy talking points, this is a flat-out lie. Indianapolis is not at the exact center of Indiana. Not even close! It’s skewed a good 35 feet to the northeast. The founding fathers figured this was close enough — such is Hoosier laxity where matters of precision are concerned.
23. And that leads us to another little-known but extremely relevant fact. Indianapolis was not the only name considered for the city. Because of the imprecise reckoning used to fix its location, the original name of the city was proposed to be Purtnearpolis because it’s “purt near” the center of the state. James Whitcomb Riley advocated strongly for this choice, but he was so drunk when he spoke before the legislature that no one could understand what he was actually saying.
24. As an unfortunate consequence of the name finally chosen for the city, no one really knows what to call those who have the misfortune to live there. The official terms is Indianapolitan, which has more syllables than most Hoosiers can count. The problem is that no one can actually pronounce that word. Is that any way to conduct business in the 21st century?
25. Hoosiers like to consider themselves well educated, but a recent poll indicates that 85% of Indiana residents can’t spell “Who Dat.” 63% weren’t even certain if it’s one word or two.
26. Indianapolis is known as a breeding ground for terrorists and criminals. Jimmy Hoffa, Jim Jones, half of the original Symbionese Liberation Army, Timothy McVeigh, Lee Harvey Oswald, and Osama bin Laden are all from Indianapolis.
27. There is a school on the west side of Indy that serves nothing but bacon in its cafeteria. Hard to believe but true! No veggies, no fresh fruit, no beverages even. Only bacon.
28. Bourbon Street, probably the most famous street in America, is known across the nation for tawdry images of female Mardi Gras revelers baring their breasts in public. Here in New Orleans we know such behavior is the exclusive domain of tourists from out of town. What’s less well known is that 92% of those Bourbon Street flashers are from Indianapolis. It’s a statistical fact.
29. The somniferous qualities of Naptown cannot be overstated. In 1992, the city council considered installing “wake up sirens” in the downtown area to prevent workers and tourists from nodding off due to sheer boredom. The project proved cost-prohibitive so today rampant snoozing continues unabated in the streets. Indeed it is not unusual to stumble over people sleeping on the sidewalk in downtown in Indianapolis, from which derives the customary Hoosier warning, “Mind you don’t stub your toe on that guy’s teeth!”
30. The city of Indianapolis is so depressing, and its citizenry so lacking in moral character, that a Constitutional amendment was recently introduced to engineer a “reverse secession” which would effectively turn Indianapolis into an independent nation of its own. The amendment was narrowly defeated on humanitarian grounds.

These facts are backed up by a thorough research of the historical and scientific literature and are guaranteed to be pretty goshdarn accurate.

It’s almost heartening to see the Indianapolis folk awaken from their torpor and struggle to mount a defense against the mountains of factual evidence I’ve been compiling over the last couple days.

Of course, in typical Hoosier fashion, their counterattacks fall somewhat short of the mark, to say the least. Unfortunately ineptitude is sort of a tradition up there in Indy.

First we have some guy name Chris who’s all in a huff, man. He’s formulated a list of “5 Reasons New Orleans (and Louisiana in general) SUX” (typical Hoosier spelling) which he posted on this blog — twice.

He says we’re violent, ignorant, fat, corrupt, and racist. I fervently wish I could deny those allegations, but I can’t. I’m nothing if not a stickler for the truth, and I’m not one to gloss over serious problems.

However — and this applies to all who hate on NOLA — you really need to think twice about that strategy. It won’t work, and it might even backfire.

See, after our city was flooded in 2005, we got help from people all over the country. Along with that help, we also saw an outpouring of internet-hatred which I don’t think those elsewhere in the country can really imagine.

In other words, we’ve heard it all before. We’ve read it all before. We’ve chosen to make a stand, and we’re battle-hardened. As we’ve struggled to rebuild we’ve had to re-examine every aspect of life here, and we are more aware of our flaws than you — painfully so. Some of us are fighting to make it better.

Meanwhile, beyond the Crescent City, everybody’s rooting for us. We’re the underdog, and America loves an underdog. So disparaging NOLA just makes you look like a poor sport.

Hey, I warned you at the outset this wasn’t going to be fair.

Furthermore, Chris, I have to point out that your list stops at a scant five items. I’ve compiled twenty facts about Indy, and I’m only just warming up. You’ve got your work cut out for you. Despite what your Hoosier math skills might tell you, posting the same list twice doesn’t make it ten.

OK, next up: This blog also got a comment from the Marketing Director for the Indianapolis Convention and Visitors Association. Her remarks were so sincere and so heartfelt they almost made me cry. Almost. It does occur to me that this poor woman has one tough job. She has to try to get people to come to Indianapolis. Who wouldn’t feel sorry for her? You’d have to be a hardhearted curmudgeon indeed.

The real shitstorm (sorry Mom) has been on Facebook. There has been a group formed called Bart Everson is not welcome in Indianapolis. Unfortunately for poor Nate, the founder, it was quickly flooded (oops, bad choice of words) by New Orleans residents and Who Dats from around the country. On last review, I see Nate is considering signing ownership of the group over to me. “Maybe I should just surrender… I’m a stranger in my own group!”

Ya gotta feel sorry for these Hoosiers. You really do.

Meanwhile, that Chris Huff Man has been huffing and puffing on Facebook as well. He commented on my status — again and again and again and again — on every status update I’ve posted over the past couple days.

And it was the same comment each time. Not much content actually. Just a link. A link to a picture…

What’s that? It appears to be a Colts logo superimposed on Hurricane Katrina as it bore down on the Gulf Coast five years ago.

Classy.

However, this is yet another example of Hoosier strategy gone terribly wrong. You see, the game isn’t in New Orleans. It’s actually in Miami. Y’all are welcome to send “Hurricane Coltrina” our way to join the party, of course.

This graphic is much superior.

I’m sure all will agree that “Hurricane Whodat” shows greater creativity and subtlety. But that’s the kind of quality — the passion — the attention to detail — I’ve come to expect from Saints fans.

I can only hope the Colts bring a stronger game on Sunday. Really, I mean that. I want the Saints to win, of course. But if the Colts come as weak as their fans, it won’t be much of game.

Footnote: I don’t even have the heart to ridicule these guys:

• In Defense of Indianapolis
• Living in a Sea of Blue

Stay tuned — more important and incontrovertible Indy Facts are coming soon.

Persona non grata!

Apparently I am no longer welcome in the place where I was raised. My parents have written me out of the will; my sister says she never wants to see me again, and I don’t even want to tell you what her husband says; fortunately my in-laws are still on speaking terms but have stipulated they’ll only meet me at specified locations outside the Hoosier State.

I love Indianapolis, really I do. It’s just so easy to mock. And so much fun. I didn’t mean to offend anyone with my fact-finding yesterday. But I miscalculated. I forgot many Hoosiers can actually read. And they have internets. Who knew?

Things have gotten ugly, and I blame myself. There’s only one thing uglier than a Hoosier, and that’s a mad Hoosier who’s just been reminded that their capital city is known in the rest of the country as “a cornfield with lights.” I shouldn’t have said anything.

Amongst the numerous angry and incoherent cries from my benighted Hoosier brethren, the following remark from one JB of Indianapolis is all too typical:

I know you love your adopted hometown dearly, B, and your misgivings about The Crossroads of America are well-documented (literally!), but I guess I’m just not quite able to accept that the same Bart Everson who has spent the better part of the last two decades overtly or by implication cataloging and deconstructing that particularly American brand of lowest-common-denominator jingoism has truly devolved into that polarized paradigm that The Onion so succinctly summed up on their timeless “The Sports Team From My Area Is Superior to the Sports Team from Your Area” t-shirts, but I guess it could be that the march toward middle age has caused you to (hopefully temporarily) leave behind the Reason of your youth and supplant it with a clumsier and more hackneyed polarity normally not seen this side of Mike Royko, but I’m holding out hope that maybe you were just having some semi-satirical fun whilst stoking some cred fires in your new homeland.

See what I mean? Rile them up a little and they fall to pieces. That’s a run-on sentence. Clearly, he’s rattled.

I should know better than to continue along this vein, but I just can’t help myself. It’s like eating potato chips. Or smashing windows. Once you smash one, you gotta smash ‘em all.

11. Let’s start off with a little history, going back to 1897. That’s when the Indiana legislature tried to round Pi off to 3.2.

    You might think this is a joke. You might think it happened in Kansas or Oklahoma. But alas, it happened in Indianapolis.

    (Thanks to my former dorm-mate Bartlett M. for reminding me of this gem.)

12. Every other major city in the country requires dogs be licensed, but in Indianapolis they just let them run wild in the street.

    The city has truly “gone to the dogs.”

13. Indianapolis is such a cesspool of corruption they’ve got, like, thirteen property tax assessors. That’s an obvious absurdity, and I would never want to live in a city with — what?

    Oh, never mind. Ahem. Scratch that remark about the assessors.

    But continuing on the topic of real estate…

    Indianapolis was in the news quite a bit a year or so ago because they had the cheapest housing market in the country.

    Why is housing so cheap? Because no one wants to live there. It’s simple supply and demand. Detroit has now surpassed Indy in this category though. Way to go!

14. Did you know half the nation’s population is within a day’s drive of Indianapolis? And yet the overwhelming majority of drivers refuse to stop when driving through Indy.

    I wonder why that is.

15. Never mind the rest of the county. The sad fact is that Indy is embarrassed of itself. As a subjective phenomenon, such an allegation might seem difficult to prove. Therefore I quote no less an authority than the respected Aaron M. Renn:
    

    let’s face it, Indy is carrying around a chip on its shoulder about being a “cow town” sort of place. It is desperate to prove its big city bona fides and have people see it as a real big city. That’s why there is so much focus on things like swanky restaurants, shops, pro sports, light rail, etc. Indy is desperate to be perceived as having the trappings of a “real” big city and be taken seriously

    Please note these are the words of an advocate, not a detractor. But with friends like these…

16. The so-called “Hoosier Poet,” James Whitcomb Riley, has not one but three works featured in Very Bad Poetry by Ross Petras. The titles are evocative indeed: “The Smitten Purist,” “Us-folks Is Purty Pore,” and “I’m Thist a Little Cripple Boy, an’ Never Goin’ to Grow.”

    I’d quote from this last but I’m afraid it might induce my readers to barf.

    It is worth noting that Riley was the most cultured man the Hoosier State has yet produced.

    Until I came along of course.

17. David Letterman got his start on TV as a weatherman on an Indianapolis station. He once predicted hail stones “the size of canned hams.”

    For this little joke, he was summarily fired, and the citizens of this dour and humorless city rode him out of town on a rail. Of course they were doing him a favor by forcing him to seek his fortune elsewhere, which he did with considerable success.

18. I’m sorry to return to the subject of food, but I can’t ignore the fact that Indianapolis Mayor Greg Ballard is betting “shrimp cocktail with plenty of horseradish” against New Orleans in the Super Bowl.

    As a former Hoosier I actually do understand this. As I grew up, I truly thought that “shrimp cocktail with plenty of horseradish” was the pinnacle of good eating and the high life. In fact, on my honeymoon in French Lick I ordered two servings of it.

    But let’s be honest. The Saints may actually have to throw the game to avoid this “prize.”

19. I can’t put it any better than this: Super Bowl Cities Summarized Though Individual YouTube Clips. Watch the videos, read the commentary. The ribbing on New Orleans is pretty good, but on Indianapolis it’s even better.
    

    It has a good football team, which is celebrated by the local populace by appropriating another region’s signature icons and culture because Indianapolis lacks one of its own. Wave those Terrific Towels, everybody! You’re the 12th Man! A chain restaurant of your choice wants to host your Super Bowl party! They got sliders!

    Each comment is funnier than the last.

20. Dan Quayle.
    Nuff said.

My sides are hurting. I haven’t had this much fun since, well, since Saturday night. And we all know how that turned out.

But don’t get me wrong. I’m not joking. I’m not. This is very, very serious stuff. Very. Very. Serious. To suggest otherwise would be downright un-American.

Now that I’ve sobered up sufficiently, I thought I’d write about something serious for a change.

Some people suffer a persistent delusion that the Super Bowl is won by whichever team plays better on that day.

Not so. Wise folks know the big game will be won by whichever teams’ fans are rooting with the most passion. The psychic vibrations from this passionate rooting will boost one team to victory and leave the other in the throes of defeat.

It is a complicated business, to be sure. Just as important as the positive aspects of pride and enthusiasm is the dark side — a healthy disdain for the opponent, and moreover for the fans of the opposing team.

In other words, Saints fans, it’s time to get your hate on.

I realize this puts Indy at a disadvantage, because no one decent wants to hate on New Orleans, and folks in Indianapolis fancy themselves decent if nothing else. But no one said we were playing fair here. Viking fans are still whining that the Saints were “too rough” on their quarterback. Hey, life isn’t fair.

Having grown up on the south side of Indianapolis, I have the inside track on some truly embarrassing facts that every Saints fan should keep in mind as we head toward the confrontation in Miami. Of course, coming from Indianapolis I also suffer from the above mentioned illusion of decency which prevents me from actually saying anything insulting myself. Therefore I will resort to the tried and trusted technique of quoting other sources.

1. You thought Louisiana lawmakers had cornered the market on dumb legislation? Not hardly. Republican Senator Jim Merritt of Indianapolis is hard at work on a bill to criminalize “sexting.”
   

   “We do not have this in the code whatsoever. Texting, sexting, is a new phenomenon, it’s a national phenomenon. What we’re trying to do is say to the child, do not sext,” Merritt said. “It would be a juvenile violation if a minor would send another minor a sext message, and if that person forwards it on, that would also be a juvenile act.”

   Do I even need to spell out how stupid this is?

   In Louisiana we prefer our idiot legislators to come from the sticks or at least suburban Jefferson Parish, but this guy represents the state capital, which is also the most populous city in the state. How can this be? How can sophisticated urbanites elect such an obvious doofus? Read on and it will all start to make perfect sense…

2. Like all great cities, Indianapolis has been immortalized in the lyrics of popular song. One quick sample should suffice…
   

   Can’t go west,
   Can’t go east,
   I’m stuck in Indianapolis,
   With a fuel pump that’s deceased.

   Ten days on the road
   Now I’m four hours from my hometown
   Is this Hell or Indianapolis,
   With no way to get around.

   In case you missed the point, the Bottle Rockets are equating Indianapolis with the netherworld. The city inspires many such comparisons.

3. Like all great cities, Indianapolis has its share of nicknames. For example, the always popular Indianoplace:
   

   Although it’s a comfortable, Midwest city with a steadily-growing economy, a growing population and an increase in amenities, it is perceived as being Dullsville when compared to the Coastal cities. It is easy to see why. It lies in the middle of nowhere — in the flat Corn Belt with no mountains, no rivers (navigable ones), no culture, no nightlife, no high-density development, no green space, no opportunities to get out and enjoy nature, not a huge number of suburbs, no high-tech jobs and abysmal public transportation. Rumor has it that Indy is talking of creating light-rail in the future, but don’t count on it. Too many people in the area are too antiquated and narrow-minded to accept changing anything.

   Ouch, kind of harsh. But again, these are not my words, ladies and gentlemen. I’m merely reporting what I find on authoritative sources such as the always-reliable Urban Dictionary.

   Comes from the evident lack of anything to do other than get drunk and watch sports and the appearant resistance of many of its inhabitants to allow culture, change, or diversity into the mix.

   Another popular nickname is Naptown. The term evidently derives from the notion that it’s a sleepy place with very little excitement. Another interpretation is this was a racially derogatory term promulgated by the KKK which, by the way, ruled the Hoosier state for a good long chunk of the 20th century. However, the term Naptown has now been embraced as a term of pride, or at least endearment, by the current generation of rappers, so I guess it’s come full circle.

   Other nicknames for Indianapolis include “Neon Cornfield” or “Where Fun Goes to Die.” I think you get the idea.

4. Let’s consider the true meaning of the word Hoosier. Growing up in Indiana myself I was never aware of the insidious meaning of this term. I thought it was a value-neutral label for anyone born or bred in Indiana. Only when I grew up and struck out on my own did I discover the truth. In the rest of the country, and in St. Louis in particular, Hoosier has a very particular meaning and it’s not a compliment! This was first driven home to me when watching an old black-and-white gangster flick from the 30s. After one hood gunned down another for no good reason, his companion castigated him thusly:
   

   What’d you do that for? That was stupid — real Hoosier stuff!

   Let’s return to the Urban Dictionary for a more contemporary definition:

   Usually overweight, trailer-inhabiting, junk-food-eating, quasi-inbred folks whose idea of luxury is shopping at Wal-Mart and when in the mood for gourmet dining, go to Ponderosa. For the ultimate in entertainment, it’s the Jerry Springer Show or pro wrestling. Of course, NASCAR is big also. But the mecca of the true Hoosier is Six Flags Over Mid-America in Eureka, MO. A disproportionate number of Hoosiers can be found at hospitals, as both patients and visitors, a result of a lifetime of artery clogging, blood pressure raising diet and smoking cigarettes.

   I wish I could say that was hyperbole.

5. Why is Indianapolis located where it is, anyway? It’s a historical fact:
   

   The city was founded on the White River under the incorrect assumption that the river would serve as a major transportation artery; however, the waterway was too sandy for trade. [Wikipedia]

   One steamer did make it to Indianapolis but it got hung up on a sand bar. Yes, indeed, the entire city is founded on the basis of a mistake, an error, a botched decision made on erroneous information — and a costly one at that.

6. It’s sad but it’s true. Indy fans don’t have the passion New Orleans fans bring. When I mentioned the celebratory atmosphere here in the Crescent City, a friend of mine in Indy put it this way:
   

   Enjoy the party. In Indianapolis we don’t even celebrate until Miami. That’s how we do it.

   Sad, ain’t it? I guess that’s the danger of success. In Indy people are so used to victory they’re yawning at the prospect. Another Super Bowl? Ho hum. I guess they might start calling it Naptown again. Prediction: No matter the outcome of the game, there will be more fans welcoming the Saints back to New Orleans than welcoming the Colts back to Indy. That’s just how insane the fans are here.

7. Just to show what an open-minded guy I am, I’ll entertain the opposing view. A Hoosier friend of mine wrote the following defense of Colts fandom, and I think he does a fine job of damning with faint praise.
   

   The Colts and the Super Bowl mean more to Indiana and Indianapolis than the Saints mean to New Orleans.

   Hang on.

   New Orleans has survived the greatest national tragedy since the Civil War. They have done so with the overwhelming support of the rest of the nation and perseverance and tenacity that is truly awe inspiring. There is still much work to be done, of course, and I do realize what a Super Bowl victory would mean to the city, especially given the Saints have never been this far.

   However.

   New Orleans has incredible music, art, FOOD, and history. Probably the most impressive of any city in the country. Jazz Fest. Mardi Gras. LSU football, the ocean, the Mississippi River, etc etc etc.

   Indianapolis has the Colts.
   And a decent Children’s Museum.
   Maybe the 500, but ick.

   There are many reasons for citizens of New Orleans to be proud, and besides the Colts, we here in Danielsland have next to nothing.

   Rooting for the Colts is the ethically correct thing to do on Super Bowl Sunday.

   I rest my case. Well… almost. Several points remain to be made.

8. Since our hex on Favre seemed to work so well, we’ve been wanting to do something similar for Manning, but it’s complicated. We can’t just steal soil from his boyhood home; since the Saints come from the same turf it might have unintentional consequences.

   I think we need something more personal. I’ve asked one of my loose, free and single friends up in Indy to try for a lock of his hair. She thought she might volunteer to clean the shower room and gets some pubes. I told her she needs to lure him pack to her place with her feminine wiles, get him drunk and do a Samson-and-Delilah number on him.

   Still waiting to hear back from her.

   Which brings me to point number whatever:

   It’s practically an open secret that the Colts quarterback is a man of low moral character whose womanizing ways will soon bring disgrace on himself, his family, his team, and his adopted city. Open marriage? Yeah, right. Just wait until this blows up in his face Tiger-style and then remember you heard it from me first.

   (I could post citations because this stuff is all over the interwebs, which as we all know is an unimpeachable source, but it’s just too sleazy even for me.)

9. Nothing symbolizes local culture quite like food. I feel bad bringing this up, I really do. It’s just such a mismatch. Because when folks in Indy really want to live it up in the kitchen, they imitate New Orleans. I’ll quote another Hoosier friend.
   

   I always go up to Indy for a Super Bowl party with some homies and other friends. Often it’s just for the party but sometimes we actually care about the Super Bowl. Like THIS YEAR, for example.

   One guy always makes gumbo. Last year someone added muffeleta sandwiches.

   That’s “other team” food now. What to do? We can’t celebrate their cuisine!

   Breaded tenderloin, green bean casserole? Nooooo! No Hoosier food!

   See? Even in Indiana people can’t get excited about “Hoosier food.”

   Not coincidentally, at the top of one persons’ list of best food in Indy is a place called Yats. Hmmm…. wonder what style food they serve there?

   In the spirit of full disclosure I must report I just came across an article on this subject that claims “Indianapolis holds its own thanks to a serious understanding of all things pork.” But I’m not having it.

10. I’d be remiss if I didn’t remind everyone that Indianapolis is the city that changed the Hoosier Dome to the RCA Dome. Yes, I know, this is ancient history because the RCA Dome is no more. But it still says volumes about priorities in Indy. They’d sell their grandmother out for a quick buck. And of course it’s the subject of one of my favorite episodes in the ROX canon, namely ROX #82: The RCA State, which is must viewing before the Super Bowl. Check it out.

So there you have it. I had to stop somewhere and ten seemed like a nice round number. I didn’t even have to bring up the truly egregious events that took place in the wee hours of the morning on March 29, 1984.

I’ve often heard it said that sweet juicy rum drinks can be very dangerous, but that’s really no excuse since I was mixing them myself. The simple fact is that I didn’t pay careful attention to how much I was drinking, and thus I drank too much — way too much — and made myself sick.

Let’s see: Two Painkillers, two Cube Libres, and then a couple Painkilleresque juicy concoctions. If I had to guess I’d say about twelve or thirteen ounces of dark rum. In other words, about half a fifth. Maybe a little more.

(I mixed the Painkillers to take in a flask to Krewe du Vieux but parking was so difficult and the parade was moving so fast, we only caught the last two subkrewes. That was a major disappointment, because KdV is my favorite parade of the season, and P. was definitely enchanted by what little she saw, and she’s still too young to ask those embarrassing questions that KdV floats are prone to inspire. Next year we’ll do better.)

The result was that when P. got me up Sunday morning I wasn’t feeling too well. I took a dump of historic proportions — that always seems to be a bad sign with regard to hangovers. After about an hour I realized I wasn’t able to be an effective parent. Fortunately for me Xy was able to take over and I was allowed to go back to bed. She didn’t even scold me. Actually she took it in the spirit of “turnabout is fair play” because she’s been incapacitated quite often recently, leaving me to do the solo parent thing.

But the difference is that my sickness was entirely self-inflicted. I felt (and continue to feel) quite ashamed about the whole episode. Not being able to function as a parent? Not able to take care of my baby? That’s tough enough if I was just down with a virus or some bacterial infection or food poisoning. Those things happen. But this was avoidable and foolish. I’m old enough to know better. Yes, there’s a stomach virus going around Xy’s school, so it’s possible I had that, but I suspect it was alcohol poisoning.

I passed through four waves of nausea. It started with puking my guts out, then devolved to bile and finally dry heaves. I’d forgotten how many muscles are deployed for good gut heave. It’s quite a workout.

I spent most of the day lying in bed while Xy took P. to a parade with a friend.

I thought at the time this was my worst hangover since the Subhumans played New Orleans back in 2003, but I’d forgotten about the New Year’s Eve hangover of 2007. I do believe that was worse.

I able to put our daughter to sleep that evening, but that was about the only thing I accomplished. I lost an entire day. What a waste.

Greenwood, circa 1983: After I moved downstairs into what was previously my father’s study, I set up this bulletin board over my bed.

A content analysis will reveal something of my interests as a high school student: Tolkien, D&D, science, religion, theater.

And here’s the same bulletin board with another couple years’ accretions. Increased emphasis on music and friends.

I’ve made a few changes to radio.rox. It’s no longer 24/7 as a rule. Too much hassle to program overnight when no one’s listening anyway. Instead the broadcast schedule will more closely reflect the rhythm of our lives. The typical weekday schedule looks like this for now:

• Broadcast day begins 5:45 AM (Central Time, natch). Music starts mellow and gradually works its way up from there.
• From approximately 8:00 AM – 4:30 PM it’s an eclectic mix of all genres and variable quality. The mix may lose coherence as the day goes on, if it ever has any coherence to lose. Longer pieces of questionable listenability may creep in occasionally, like the odd sermon or extended power electronics exploration. Sorry about that.
• Around dinner time you are likely to hear some mellow jazz.
• After dinner you may hear some mellow laid-back tracks. This may eventually devolve into Gothic Darkness or hours of ambient or something else entirely. If I were to play an album in its entirety it would probably be in the evening.
• Broadcast day usually ends sometime between 8:00 PM and midnight.

Weekends are a whole ‘nother story. See if you can figure it out.

It’s rare for me to have more than one listener at any given time (and mostly that’s me listening from work) but there has been a fairly steady trickle of listeners. Mostly I see hits coming from Indiana (Indianapolis and Bloomington) and New Orleans, but what’s most intriguing are the repeated hits from Beijing and other places where I have no idea who might be on the other end of the wire. Two nights ago we had a listener in Manchester UK for a couple hours.

I’ve been trying to figure our some sorta channel for communication about what’s playing in the mix, though I’m not sure anyone really wants to talk about that. I’ve added a simple chat box to the side of the radio.rox page and I’ve created a twitter account @roxradio, but I haven’t posted anything to it yet. I don’t really have anything to say but I’d like to at least be able to answer questions. I really need something that would push to me via e-mail otherwise I just won’t see them, but creating a full-fledged discussion group seems like overkill. I’m not really sure what’s best, so I’m open to suggestions. Basically I’d like all listeners to be able to textually chat with one another and me, with a push to my e-mail. Seems like it should be simple.

I recently got our energy bill for the period covering the recent cold snap: $500! Granted that was some record-setting weather but still… $500! Ouch. I’m still in shock. Or perhaps I should say I’m floored.

Some of my friends assumed this high bill was indicative of high energy costs here in Southeast Louisiana. I don’t know how we compare to other parts of the country, but I don’t think that’s the culprit.

Rather, it’s the amount of electricity used. We clocked almost 6,000 killowatt hours over the course of that month. That’s 174.9 kwh per day. I suppose it’s possible Entergy misread the meter, but let’s assume it’s accurate for now.

How could we possibly have consumed that much energy?

I suspect the problem is lack of insulation. We thought we were in pretty good shape because the house was insulated as part of the renovation. As the seller informed us:

The exterior walls of the house have R13 fiberglass insulation throughout the house. The second floor attic has R30. The lower attic (over the kitchen area) has R19, which was the heaviest insulation that would fit between the joists over that area….

All of the [vinyl] replacement windows (which includes most of the windows in the house) are double-glazed Low E, and Energy Star rated.

However, there’s no insulation underneath the house. Since it’s raised a few feet off the ground, that means plenty of air gets underneath there and when it’s cold you can definitely feel it.

It seems that insulating beneath raised houses in New Orleans presents special challenges. I found an interesting article about this, which outlines the four basic choices: fiberglass, rigid foam board, open-cell spray foam or closed-cell spray foam.

But the more I read the more daunting it looks. I was heartened to learn that a scientific study has been mounted right here in New Orleans, using the different methods to insulate underneath twelve houses in Musicians’ Village for twelve months. But after scouring the web I couldn’t find the final report, so I contacted the principal investigator (Sam Glass at the USDA FPS) and am waiting for a reply.

It’s all further complicated by the fact that our floor could use some repairs in a few places. I assume it would be best to address these repairs before adding insulation.

I don’t think this is something I’m going to tackle myself. There are just too many variables, too many things to screw up, and more work than I have time to accomplish, what with being a public school widower and a daddy.

Oh, the joys of home ownership.

Yesterday everyone on campus was wearing black and gold — except for our administrative assistant. A Colts fan from way back, she was defiant in a blue and white dress which she’d been saving for the occasion. She’ll be rooting for the Colts in the Superbowl. But even she was happy the Saints will be there too.

This is the match-up I was hoping to see. Months ago when both the Colts and the Saints were racking up consecutive wins, it occurred to me that it could happen. And since I grew up in Indianapolis and still have friends and family there, I decided I really wanted it to happen, and have fervently wished for it ever since. I only wish I’d been bolder and predicted that it would happen. Then I could brag.

It should be a fun game. Think about it: the Hoosier team with the New Orleans quarterback versus the New Orleans team with the (sorta) Hoosier quarterback. I say “sorta” because Drew Brees went to Purdue, and we all know the Hoosiers are Indiana University. But I guess if we accept Boilermakers in my family I can forgive Drew too.

Diehard Saints fans are blissful at the mere prospect of seeing their team in the big game for the first time in the 43 year history of the franchise. There’s a sense of victory in the air already. No matter what happens in Miami, New Orleans still wins.

People might suspect me of having divided loyalties, but that’s not the case. Sure, I grew up in Indy, but I was never a Colts fan. I’ve only come to appreciate football (insofar as I do) recently. I haven’t followed the Saints long enough or studied the league hard enough to appreciate the Manning dynasty. Although it’s an interesting backstory, I don’t personally care about the fact that Peyton Manning is from New Orleans. I’m for the Saints all the way. They are the only team I’ve ever known.

In fact, it’s kind of amazing to me that I’m actually excited about the Superbowl this year. For most of my life this has been a “dead” day, a time when everyone in the country seems to be preoccupied with a strange event that is absolutely meaningless to me.

This one’s different.

Just when I thought the whole sequence of events couldn’t get any stranger, in the midst of unpacking I was summoned via text message to Ashley’s grave where I partook in a bizarre quasi-religious sports ritual.

It was funny but also deadly serious. And it struck me:

It’s not just a game.

Meanwhile, up north, Aunt Karen & Aunt Ron say they will be wearing their “Helga Viking helmets” all weekend, so “beware of the power of the old Norwegians!”

Yes, I’ve got Viking blood in my veins. Yet these Saints have turned me against the old Nordic ways.

Serious stuff. Not just a game.

Aunt Karen wants to know: “Ya’ll doing that vodoo stuff down there??”

Oh yeah, Auntie K. We doing #whodat voodoo down here.

Michael and Howie ventured to Kiln, Mississippi, yesterday. On my advice they took some soil from Brett Favre’s boyhood home, mixed it with salt and wrapped in foil. Michael will be taking this little hex package to the Dome tonight for maximum proximity.

It’s not just a game.

They say this is the biggest contest the Saints have ever played in the history of the franchise — which, coincidentally, is the same age as me.

I can find no better words for today than what Ashley wrote three years ago upon getting the biggest damn fleur de lis tattoo you’ve ever seen:

Pride in a city, pride in a team.

Where does the team end and the city begin? These days, who knows.

It’s not just a game.

Who-dat nation is everywhere, thanks to the flood.

Our “leaders” have abandoned us.

People think we’re idiots…but we fight back. Hard.

We know what’s important, and they’re trying to rip it away from us.

But nothing is more important to us than our city, and our team. We will carry it with us always.

We are New Orleans.

We are the New Orleans Saints.

Geaux Saints. Win this one for Ashley. Who dat!

The fumigation we’d originally planned for early December has finally been accomplished, and I must say despite the hassle that it’s better to complete than to abort.

All living things have to be removed from the house prior to fumigation, and relocated elsewhere for approximately 48 hours. (Actually that’s not true; indeed, the whole point of fumigation is to kill off some living things. I did not relocate the termites.) Also, all food has to be remove from the house, except stuff that is canned or otherwise “factory sealed.”

This is similar to evacuation and just as fun. In some ways it’s even more fun.

It’s spooky being inside a house all wrapped up — tarps filtering red light thru windows.

I feel like I’m in a Christo installation.

You’ve been clamoring for a photo of our new house. So, here it is. It was pumped full of poison gas when this was taken.

We spent two nights uptown with my boss. She and her husband were incredibly accommodating and gracious hosts.

After they took off the tarp they put this sign on the house while we waited for the poison gas to disperse:

An unanticipated side benefit to this whole ordeal — our daughter has finally been weaned.

Did I mention we have three cats and a rabbit? They handled the dislocation better than we did.

So we’re back in our home now, but the termites presumably are not.

A few more photos in this set.

Yesterday afternoon I stopped by the playground on the Jeff Davis neutral ground with my daughter. We approached Serpent Mound at the same time as a trio of kids in elementary school uniforms.

I noticed the youngest child, a girl with a withered arm, was crying. I asked if she was OK. One of the other children, a boy just a few years older, said, “I slapped her.”

“Why did you do that?”

“I’m her brother,” he said, as if that explained everything. Maybe it did.

The third child, who appeared to be the older sister, was picked up the younger girl and gave her some advice: “Grandma says if someone slaps you, you gotta slap them right back.” And she pushed her sister toward her brother, but she wouldn’t engage him.

Is this indicative of the deadly violence so deeply ingrained in our culture? Or is it just harmless playground fun?

Today is the Strike Against Crime organized by SilenceIsViolence. Please take a moment to “find some way to step outside your normal daily routine, to express the toll violence takes” on all of us.

Dear Persephone,

You are twenty-three months old today.

Recently your have begun formulating simple sentences, and in the last month I’ve noticed you have begun to issue commands. When you’re seated at the breakfast table, waiting for me to join you, you’ll point to my seat and say “Sit, Dada!” You’ll hand me a book and say “Read it, Dada!” And of course my favorite is when you want me to get out of bed in the morning: “Uppie uppie, Dada!”

A couple weeks ago when I was tucking you in I wished you sweet dreams, and I swear you said, “Sweet dreams, Dada!”

Speaking for dreams, you were having a nightmare a few nights ago and you practically shouted: “Brown shoes! Brown shoes!” I can only imagine what that dream was about. You do have two sets of brown shoes which you love to wear.

And speaking of shoes, just when I thought you couldn’t get any cuter, yesterday my shoe came untied, and you rushed over and said, “Help you, Dada!” Of course you can’t tie a shoelace just yet, but you stuck your finger in there and gave me some moral support. It’s the thought that counts.

Most of all, I continue to be amazed at your sheer joyfulness. Everything is new to you. You take delight in the simplest things, like going for a walk or holding a balloon. And if I take you to the playground you’re practically beside yourself.

It’s infectious.

It’s shaping up as something of a tradition in its own right. My birthday has an overt tendency to suck. A quick recap may be in order.

• 42: “Guess who forgot? That’s right. Xy.”
• 41: “I’ve got no festivity in my life whatsoever. Xy didn’t even say ‘Happy Birthday’ this morning, and she has report card conferences this evening! No one at the office knows it’s my birthday, because I’ve kept it under wraps.”
• 40: “Please be gentle with me. I’m making 40 today. I’d rather be thinking about other things, but life doesn’t seem to be working out that way, and this is what I’m stuck with. Like it or not.”

That 40th birthday was really the worst. Not only was I reeling from the brutal murder of a friend, I was also feeling a pressure to be some sort of spokesman on the subject of violent crime, a role for which I found myself remarkably unsuited. Still I recall Xy managed to spend an evening sucking down oysters and booze in the Quarter. There was still a flicker of festive spirit there, however dark the backdrop. In terms of actual celebration it’s been strictly downhill since.

Prior to that I’m not sure, but I’d pretty much lost interest in my birthday after making 30.

Come to think of it, my 30th birthday pretty much sucked ass too, though I tried to put a good face on it: “Everyone was laughing and smoking and drinking and having a good time. Except for me. Well, I laughed and had a good time, but I didn’t drink or smoke. I never thought I’d be stone cold sober on my 30th birthday! Life is strange.”

Now back to the present. Our girl woke up around 4:00 AM and landed in our bed for a little nursing session, after which Xy fled to the couch downstairs. P let me sleep in until 9:00 AM. She woke up happy, I asked her whose birthday it was, and she said “Dada!” The day seemed to be getting off to an auspicious start.

Then Xy came up and informed me that she’d been barfing since 5:00 AM. And that pretty much set the tone for the rest of the day. It was very much a repeat of yesterday. Xy was sick yesterday with a migraine. This morning’s sickness may have been food poisoning. So I played “single dad” while Xy rested (when not puking) and tried to feel better.

Oh, yes, there are worse things — I know. I had fun taking the girl to the park in the morning. She was beside herself with joy at the prospect of sliding down the slide.

For lunch we went to Huevos, which is spitting distance from our new house. I got to meet the chef who has the same first name as me. I presume we don’t share the same birthday. But I didn’t check.

Xy’s feeling better now. We’re chugging on with our lives. Her birthday sucked too, for what it’s worth.

A number of people have suggested that Xy’s sicknesses, coming in the morning as they have, could be an indication of pregnancy. I have to respond: Not unless you know something I don’t. I know how babies get made and I can assure you I haven’t impregnated anyone lately.

If I haven’t written here as much lately, perhaps it’s because I feel constrained from public discussion of many of the topics which are currently preoccupying me.

• There’s an election coming up, and I’ve got opinions, but I’m afraid to express them. Whoever wins, FOLC will have to work with them. It won’t help FOLC’s cause if the president (me) makes public pronouncements on one side or the other. Whoever gets elected can wield considerable influence for (or against) the greenway project. Therefore it seems most wise to keep my mouth shut.
• Speaking of the greenway, we’ve been having some frustrations there as well. It’s related to the mess outlined by the American Zombie. FOLC has sent a letter to the administration and continues to try to get a meeting. There’s plenty more to say, but discretion seems advisable at this juncture.
• On a more personal level, there’s been some unfortunate infighting amongst my co-workers. Not in my unit, happily, but close enough to impinge on me. It’s actually been fascinating, in a sad way, to see all this unfold, but I’ll be damned if I write about it. That could only serve to embarrass those persons involved, and possibly my employer. I resolved long ago not to embarrass my employer in my writings here. That’s in fact why I never mention my employer by name, and just refer to “the University.” I like my job too much to play it any other way.
• By the same token, I’m not going to write about Xy’s discontent with her work environment, except to say it’s bad. Real bad. Leaving the interpersonal differences and administrative challenges aside, she’s sick of the hours. So am I. She’s tired of working a ten hour day and then having a couple hours of homework per night. She feels she’s missing out on her daughter growing up. So she may well be looking for another line of work come fall.

If no one read this blog, I could sound off on any topic with impunity. If I had a huge readership, I could perhaps wield some influence through my writings. As it stands, I’m in that broad middle zone where I get just enough attention to constrain but not enough to liberate.

And of course what’s going on in Haiti right now makes all this seem rather trivial, but I don’t have anything insightful to add about that either.

So I just don’t have anything to say right now. Sorry.