b.rox

As previously noted: I sprained my ankle a couple years ago. In December I broke a toe. Also, something seems to be wrong with my heel. This is all on the same foot, the left one.

On Mardi Gras, a pit bull sunk his teeth into my calf. I can still see the marks. It wasn’t a serious injury, but since it was my left calf, it seemed to add to the general drama on that side of my body.

Then, over the last week or two, my knee has been giving occasional flare-ups of severe pain, the kind of sudden pain that make you shout obscenities at the top of your lungs. This seems to happen almost exclusively on stairs. I’m not sure, but I think this is probably the same knee that gave me trouble eleven years ago, just around the time I moved from Bloomington to New Orleans. Which may be the same knee that gave me trouble in high school.

Need I mention that it’s my left knee? It’s as if my lower left limb is under a curse.

Getting back to the foot: I recently bought new shoes in size fifteen. That’s two or three sizes bigger than what I usually wear. Anything smaller just seemed to be uncomfortable. I think it has something to do with the broken toe. I’d have thought it would be healed by now. Maybe it has. Maybe it’s healed funny.

I know of course that wearing a shoe that’s too big might cause other problems, but I really didn’t know what else to do.

The bigger shoe size seemed to help, or so I thought. I took my first long walk yesterday. It became clear that I’ve still got serious issues. I wouldn’t describe it as pain. Rather, I’d say that the front portion of my foot feels swollen and uncomfortable — but only when I walk around wearing a shoe. I haven’t observed any actual swelling.

My orthopedist prescribed an orthotic to help with my heel. It’s like an insole, but it’s custom-made, and it’s supposed to give more support. It’s also expensive, and not covered by my health insurance unless I’m diabetic. I had the mold made a while back; I’m supposed to go get the thing fitted this afternoon. Maybe that will help, but I kind of doubt it. Right now my heel is bothering me less than the front of my foot. I don’t think they’re related, but I suppose it’s possible. Ironically, the orthotic requires me to wear a shoe, and I’d rather not wear shoes right now. Sandals are more comfortable, but incompatible with the orthotic. I’m not even sure what’s wrong with my heel. I’m not sure the doctor told me. I was so distracted with my toe and ankle that I didn’t ask more questions about my heel.

I’m not the world’s most athletic guy, but I do enjoy getting around on my own two feet. I ride my bike to work most days, but I like to walk sometimes as well. So these problems are really bothering me. The confusion is almost as aggravating as the discomfort — perhaps more so. I don’t understand what’s going on or how to fix it. I guess I need to get back to the doctor.

Folds seemed to be doing better immediately after her surgery. But a week or so later she took a turn for the worse. She was lethargic. Then she got more lethargic. She couldn’t make it to the litter box. She didn’t have the strength to eat. She could barely take a drink of water. She was losing weight almost before our eyes.

We took her back to the vet. They gave her fluids intravenously for a couple days but she didn’t really improve much. It seems her kidneys were giving out. I guess this might have been triggered by the surgery. In any event, when I talked to the vet today he made the point that if she was a human being she’d be getting dialysis and would be on the list for a kidney transplant. But since she’s a cat such treatment options don’t exist.

I expressed concern about her suffering and asked if he recommended euthanasia. He said yes.

After I hung up the phone, I thought to myself: This is surely the right thing to do, and I don’t even like this cat, so why am I crying?

So I went there, signed the necessary papers, and then got to hang out with Folds for a while while the doctor treated another patient. She was in a truly pathetic state, skinny as a rail, and unable to stand erect.

I wondered, of course, if I was doing the right thing. I wondered if I should consult with Xy first. She loved Folds more than me. I figured she might appreciate me dealing with this, but then again maybe she’d want to say goodbye? I remembered how she had cradled Folds in her arms for a good hour or more Wednesday night. So I figured she’d said her goodbyes already. Maybe she sensed what was coming.

I stroked Folds’ head. She tried to nuzzle my hand but she hardly had the strength.

When the doctor came in at last he was very apologetic that it had come to this, and he took pains to emphasize that this was the humane course of action, as she wouldn’t have much quality of life going forward.

Then he shaved her foreleg, found her vein which was shrunken due to anemia caused by her kidney failure, and he injected her with a fatal dose of some barbiturate. I thought I might look in her eyes and see if I could tell the moment of her passing, but she turned her head away slightly, and the drug acted so fast she was dead before the doctor withdrew the needle.

So then I gave the doctor a hug, got on my bike, and rode away to pick up my daughter.

Post Script: This makes six cats we’ve lost in nine years. And yet only the third confirmed death. (The other three cats just disappeared. In some ways that’s more difficult.) I believe this is the closest I’ve ever been to any actual death. I mean I’ve swatted bugs but that doesn’t seem the same.

It seems in our culture we are afraid of silence and emptiness. We fill our days with activities and rush about and chatter a lot, but underneath this superficial noise many of us feel somewhat hollow. If we pause we may get a glimpse of the yawning abyss which frightens us.

I believe that existence is inherently empty — devoid of intrinsic meaning. It’s part of the labor of life to create meaning and purpose. It’s something we have to invent, or let others invent for us.

But I think we should not be scared of the void. We should learn to embrace it when necessary. Perhaps we should even romance it.

I didn’t always feel this way. Here’s the lyrics of a song I wrote over twenty years ago.

It’s the curious nature of curious things
That leads me in the darkness that questioning brings
It seems my whole life I’ve been questioning things

And it takes all my time, it takes all my soul
Sucks it all down in a great big hole
The void of oblivion, the nothingness that I know

This snippet of doggerel is a little embarrassing in its awkwardness, but I think it does a good job of capturing the sentiment of a period in my life, when I was a young man coming through an existential crisis.

I feel differently now. Over the years I have made my peace with “the darkness that questioning brings.” I have come to thoroughly enjoy that “darkness.” And I’m no longer so frightened of the “void of oblivion.” It actually kind of turns me on. From time to time I take a moment to pause, draw breath, quiet myself, and think about nothing in particular. My mind tends to be so hyperactive that it’s actually a bit of a challenge to get to that state where the void presents itself. It can still be scary and disorienting, sometimes, but ultimately it is always refreshing.

The void is full of surprises.

Audio slideshow from Urban Pathways to Livable Communities conference in New Orleans, February 25-26, 2010.

A walk of the Lafitte Corridor hosted by Bart Everson of Friends of Lafitte Corridor and Daniel Samuels of the Lafitte Greenway Steering Advisory Committee.

Yesterday’s front page story really captured our attention. All credit to reporter Sarah Carr. I’d never heard of the school she focused on, but the parallels to Xy’s experience are striking. I’ve quoted the story at length below, interspersing some of my own thoughts where relevant.

Early every morning, Akili Academy’s teachers gather for a daily bonding ritual.

Clutching caffeinated beverages, they offer praise to one another for achievements large and small: calming down an upset student, teaching an outstanding lesson on “realistic fiction” to kindergarteners, sorting out unspecified “bathroom issues.”

For the finale, the charter school’s staff pulls in closer for a quick huddle, like a sports team preparing to take the field. “Who are we proud to be?” one teacher asks. “Akili Academy of New Orleans!” they shout in unison, sending their arms flying. They then head to class before the students arrive.

But this is no casual competition or recreational game. It lasts at least 10 hours every weekday, often spills over into the weekends, and, at times, consumes the lives of the mostly young Akili staff.

“I’m totally tired, and if I’m still working this many hours next year, I maybe wouldn’t work a fourth year,” said Francis Giesler, an Akili teacher. Giesler, 24, a 2008 graduate of Loyola University, grew up in St. Louis.

While Giesler praises Akili for its supportive work environment, she gives voice to a nagging concern of school reformers and charter leaders across the city and the country. How can a movement predicated in part on superhuman exertions of time and effort sustain itself and grow in the long term?

As Giesler puts it: “How good a school are you if you have really strong results, but can’t take that model anywhere else because it was solely reliant on the bodies in the building, and kills people after two years?”

If the model kills people after two years, what do they become after, say, thirteen years? Do they become zombies? Or are they just miserable?

A growing number of schools, particularly charters, embrace a “no excuses” or “whatever it takes” attitude toward closing the achievement gap between poor, minority students and their wealthier peers. Poverty isn’t an excuse for school failure. Neither is bad parenting. Or insufficient school funding.

But to overcome these obstacles, a school’s staff and students must work harder — in the evenings, on weekends and through the summer — and give up some of their personal lives for their jobs.

Arguably nowhere is this trend so pronounced as in New Orleans, where charter schools mushroomed after Hurricane Katrina and hundreds of ambitious young educators like Giesler now live and teach. A looming question facing school leaders is how to maintain momentum as teachers and administrators inevitably grow up, burn out or move on.

Of course not all schools provide such a supportive environment, but the general approach of overloading teachers seems to be ubiquitous. Our schools are currently running on the efforts of the young and idealistic. Of course one has to wonder: What about the not-so-young, the veteran teachers who’ve been around the block, whose idealism may be a bit ragged, but who also have the experience and (dare I say it) the wisdom? Actually I don’t wonder, because I’m married to such a teacher, and I’ve seen what this trend is doing to her first-hand, and it ain’t nice.

“You’re going to run out of people willing to work an 80-hour week,” [principal Sean Gallagher] said. “Everyone here is single; no one has a kid. That’s just not (replicable). I want us to look like something any school in New Orleans could do. Right now, we’re not there.”

Gallagher said he tried to recruit a diverse teaching staff: young and old, novice and experienced, natives and transplants.

But the time commitment proved a deal-breaker with most veteran, New Orleans educators.

At one recruitment fair, a job-seeker stopped by Gallagher’s table.

“Longer school day? Longer school year?” the man asked.

When Gallagher nodded, the teacher quickly walked away, saying, “Don’t need to talk to you.”

We’re not sure but we think the job-seeker was our friend James. I remember when he did that.

Educators will probably always debate the importance of experience, some of which boils down to the contrasting philosophies of school leaders. Some emphasize the importance of building a family-like school culture, where children can develop lifelong relationships with teachers who attend their churches, live in the neighborhood and might even have taught their parents. Others say they care about continuity, but will do whatever it takes to build a high-performing school, even if that means higher teacher turnover.

A growing group of educators and policy wonks say they are not particularly concerned about chronic teacher turnover in urban schools, as long as there’s a pipeline of bright workaholics to fill the vacancies.

And with Teach for America, that pipeline looks inexhaustible. These kids are too young and fresh to realize they’re being exploited. Maybe it’s a viable model; maybe our schools are so screwed up that we have to resort to such measures; I really don’t know. But I do know that it sucks to have the terrain shift beneath your feet, so to speak. It sucks to have your chosen career slowly turned into something you can no longer do. We seem to be moving in the opposite direction from the reforms we truly need.

“I don’t think turnover is inherently bad,” said Andrew Rotherham, publisher of Education Sector, an education policy think tank. “Planned turnover or turnover you can deal with without yielding quality is fine.”

Translation: It’s OK to use and abuse people so long as there’s more fresh meat to victimize tomorrow.

Others stress that more value should be placed on making teaching a viable career for those who do not meet the typical Teach For America profile: young, well-educated and unattached.

Andre Perry, CEO of the University of New Orleans’ charter school network, said he worries about relying too heavily on young teachers from out of town. He notes that schools that burn out their teachers after a few years must repeatedly reinvest in replacements. “It just seems inefficient,” he said.

Perry encourages school leaders to foster the notion that “teaching is a way of living” that can coincide with having a life outside work.

“We are not creating that enough here in New Orleans,” he said. “It’s such a brutal lifestyle. We’re so focused on performance in such a specific way that we’ve become robots.”

Perry’s quote brings tears to my eyes. “Such a brutal lifestyle.” It resonates because I’ve seen Xy ground down over the years by the increasingly unreal regimen. It’s like an endless demand for more that can never be filled. It’s never enough.

The kicker came at the very end of the article.

Still, Giesler can’t imagine ever balancing her 31 students at Akili with a child of her own.

“I couldn’t imagine doing this job with a kid,” she says. “I really could not.”

And that is really what clinches the decision for Xy. She feels like she’s missing out on her daughter’s childhood.

And so that’s why Xy has decided to seek a new career after thirteen years in the classroom.

Needless to say, if you’re interested in this topic you really should read the whole story.

PS: It strikes me that this issue is appropriate to contemplate on International Women’s Day as the teaching and rearing of children has been historically deemed as “women’s work” in our culture. That teachers are chronically overworked and undervalued is perhaps not coincidental.

I just wanted to take a quick minute to salute my parents. They just finished another week of volunteer work, helping to rebuild New Orleans. As per usual they stayed at Camp Restore and kept busy, but I did manage to visit with them a couple times. This time they brought some friends with them from Indiana.

Of course we had to get my dad some appropriate attire for the trip back home.

I’ve lost track of how many stints they’ve done, how many hours they’ve logged. The scope of the cataclysm here is such that even as we approach the five year mark there is no lack of work to be done.

Who Dat ABC by Editor B

Our cat Folds is going under the knife today. I feel ambivalent about this. The idea of cat surgery seems sort of ridiculous to me. How did we get to this point? Folds was living in the shed behind our previous house when we purchased it in 2002. She moved into our house in 2003. I evicted her in 2004 but she wormed her way back into the house later that year. We took her with us when we evacuated for Katrina; she disappeared for a month, hiding underneath my in-laws’ house. Her health has never been the same since. The vet says she has a hyperactive thyroid, so we started giving her methimazole in larger and larger doses. It seemed to help somewhat, but she’s hardly the picture of health and happiness. The vet eventually suggested surgery to remove one of her thyroid glands. I was surprised to calculate the cost of surgery to be equal to just about half a year’s worth of medication. From a strictly financial perspective, then, it would seem to make sense, assuming she lives another year. She must be at least ten years old. She looks about one hundred. (The photo above was taken before her health declined.) Of course there is always the possibility she might not survive the procedure. That would be a great relief to me, actually. I don’t particularly like Folds. She gets in the way around the house, constantly sneaking underfoot, and she tracks litter everywhere, especially into our bed. She’s got a nasty disposition and doesn’t seem to particularly enjoy being alive. Yet she seems so pathetic we can’t bring our selves to turn her out.

Indeed, our situation with all three of our cats raises ethical questions I have difficulty in resolving. What exactly is our obligation to Folds, and our two other cats? I don’t feel that we adopted any of them, exactly. It seems more like they adopted us. They were all volunteers. Archer, for example, was abandoned by her owners down the street back when we were living uptown. We started feeding her, and took her with us when we moved, and she’s been with us ever since. I don’t feel an obligation to care for every stray cat that comes down the street; that would be a full-time job. But at some point Folds and Archer and Crybaby crossed the line and became part of our household. At some point we felt obligated to care for them. It’s not a matter of personal attachment. I don’t care much for Archer, and I actively dislike Folds. Crybaby is OK, but to tell the truth I haven’t been able to love a cat since Lucy disappeared. Archer and Folds have not adapted well to life in our new house. Archer might be happier as an outdoor cat, but that raises other problems. Because these cats are old and have issues, I can’t imagine we’d find anyone who wants to adopt them. I couldn’t turn them out on the street. Euthanasia seems wrong. So in a sense I am waiting for them to die. It’s not really a good feeling.

If there is, as you believe, a benevolent Creator who is all-knowing and all-powerful, then surely He wants me to be the best person I can be. Surely he wants me to be true to my heart and my reason. After all, if He exists, then He is Author of my cognitive faculties. It’s inconceivable that He would want me to go against the best and only lights I have. It’s beyond imagining that He would give me a rational intellect but wish me to go against it. It’s absolutely incomprehensible that He would create in me a sense of moral purpose and integrity and then demand that I ignore these on pain of death, indeed, under threat of eternal damnation. Preposterous!

And yet, I worry that you worry about me.

I was talking with a Theology prof here at the University. He said one thing he always respected about Martin Luther was his call for us to trust in God’s goodness. Perhaps that thought provides some solace, if indeed you fret over the ultimate disposition of my immortal soul. If God is good, then perhaps this is all a part of His plan.

This sculpture mysteriously appeared on the Lafitte Corridor last week, just in time for the Urban Pathways conference tour. I was surprised and touched. It’s worth nothing that Friends of Lafitte Corridor did not solicit or commission this sculpture, though in retrospect I’m pretty sure I know who made it. It is, quite simply, yet another indication of the community’s desire for the greenway project to move forward.

[Photos by Joseph Brock]

It’s not quite official. Xy made the first cut and has been going to practice sessions. The rules are strict and harsh — you have to pass through many circles of hell before you can be considered a Big Easy Roller Girl. And it will be even longer before she sees any action in a bout, I think. For now she is aching all over from her last practice but the bruises so far are minimal. As busy as she is with teaching and mothering, she really doesn’t have time for this. Yet I’ve encouraged her every step of the way (including decorating her helmet last night) because I think it’s important for everyone to have some fun, and some “me” time. This might be the perfect activity for Xy. She’s got a lot of aggression that needs an outlet.

A friend of mine made a joke last week in an online discussion, and it really rubbed me the wrong way. It was a Katrina joke. I tried to play it off and make some jokes of my own, but ultimately I found, even after a couple days, that I was still ticked off. Finally I came clean with my feelings of frustration. He promptly apologized. I actually respect him more then ever for that; we kissed and made up, and as far as I can tell we’re buddies again.

But it has given me pause for reflection. Was this a simple case of misunderstanding by e-mail? It’s a famously “flat” medium where irony and nuance are lost. However, I don’t think that’s the case here.

Rather, I think that Katrina remains a sensitive topic for me, and probably lots of other people. Given the fact that it’s been four and half years, I don’t anticipate this changing any time soon. It’s beginning to look like a permanent condition.

The very word “Katrina” conjures up images of death and destruction in my mind. It conjures up the smell of mold. It reminds me of friends and neighbors who are no longer with us. It puts me back in an emotional roller coaster ride that is still not over.

As such, I’m not inclined to laugh at certain jokes.

It’s not that I have no sense of humor on the subject. To the contrary, I joke about Katrina all the time. Once, it was a coping mechanism. I laugh at such jokes when they come from certain quarters, from fellow travelers who have also had to cope with the bizarre circumstances of post-disaster reality. But when the jokes come from other quarters, my reaction may be very different. I’m liable to lose respect for the joker. I might even get a little angry.

To understand where I’m coming from, ask yourself the following:

What’s the worst thing that’s happened in your life? How do you feel when other people make jokes about it?

I’m guessing that, for most people, “the worst thing” is something private. Thus you might never hear anyone making jokes about it. So maybe it’s not such a good comparison.

But Katrina and its aftermath was a media phenomenon. Everybody saw it on TV. Everybody’s got an opinion. Everybody thinks they know what happened — especially those who don’t. Therefore it’s fair game for everyone to offer their opinions and crack their jokes.

For example, there were some Bears fans a few years ago threatening that their team would “finish what Katrina started.” There was some deranged Colts fan who thought it would be funny to superimpose the team logo on an image of Katrina.

Or a more personal example: I recently shared an article about how “New Orleans ranks eighth among the nation’s largest cities for the percentage of residents who walk and bike to work.” A friend on Facebook quipped, “Well all your cars washed away.”

A harmless comment, a little throwaway line, right? Sure. But I didn’t laugh. If anything, I find myself making excuses on his behalf — “He probably didn’t think much before tossing that off,” and so on. If the remark had come from someone who lived here — if “your cars” became “our cars” — it would read very differently to me.

But as it stands, that comment just evokes a lot of bad memories.

I’m sure he didn’t intend that.

This is not a case of post-traumatic stress disorder. It’s not a case of unresolved issues. Sure, my mental health took a hit from the stress of Katrina, but I think I’ve made a (pretty much) complete recovery. I know plenty of people who haven’t. I know a guy who gets choked up every time he speaks about Katrina. It’s sad to see a grown person cry in public, but I understand where that comes from. Still and all, that’s not where I’m at. I’ve been extraordinarily fortunate to be able to rebound so fully.

It’s just that there are some thing which remain, for lack of a better word, serious. I’m not down with the mindset that everything’s fair game to be mocked and satirized. I don’t cotton to the perspective that we have to be cutting up all the time. To me that’s a form of mental totalitarianism.

All of this is a very long-winded way of saying, pardon me for not laughing at your joke. Only, really, I’m not sorry. Would you make a joke about my friend who was murdered? Would you make fun of my baby being lead-poisoned? Damn, I hope not; that would be in poor taste. To me Katrina is very much the same territory. So I’d advise steering away from such jokes unless 1) you really don’t care about what I think, or 2) you are really, really good at it. Comedy can be an art form. I can respect that. But for most people, you’re just making an ass of yourself.

Here I am just hanging out with my favorite college president, Dr. Norman Francis.

Actually this photo was taken by Irving Johnson at a banquet where I was recognized for ten years of service here at the University.

I first realized Dr. Francis would be an inspirational figure to work for back in 1999, when I tuned into a national NPR story and he was quoted as an authority on the struggle for racial equality in America.

We don’t really interact much on campus, since he has much bigger fish to fry. I was honored to have my photo taken with him, and excited to receive it today. Definitely a keeper. Thanks Irving!

Dear Persephone,

So much has gone on in the past month.

Let’s see — the Saints won the Super Bowl. You’re too young to appreciate the significance of that, but you sure enjoyed beating the hell out of that Peyton Manning voodoo doll.

Also, you had your first real Mardi Gras. I can’t imagine what you thought of all those people in those crazy colorful costumes. I’m pretty sure you loved it, though. You smiled and laughed a lot, and for an extended period your mouth was quite literally agape with amazement.

You also enjoyed a mini-evacuation when we had the house fumigated. I think you really did have fun staying at the house of my boss and her husband. For your mother and for me the whole thing was rather stressful and a big pain. But you were blissfully unaware.

It seems to me you’ve started to become more abstract in your thinking. You can identify emotional states as depicted in your books. You point to a face and say “happy” or “sad.” You recognize shapes and can name them. For example, you spotted a shape on our front door, pointed to it, and said, “circle.” I asked you about another shape on the door and you correctly identified it as “diamond.”

But what’s most impressed me is your recognition of similitude. You will often spontaneously point back and forth between two objects or pictures and say “same.” Sometimes these will be identical things, but often you are recognizing some similar aspect. Last week as we were looking at one of your picture books, you noticed that a snail’s spiral path matched the spiral on its shell. “Same!” I had never noticed that myself.

Things like that amaze me.

I forgot to mention last month that we finally weaned you from your mother’s breast milk. You were down to one feeding, in the early morning, and your mother wasn’t even sure you were getting much milk then. There were a couple rough nights, but I think you were ready. It may have been tougher on your mother than you, but it’s meant better sleep for all of us. Also some time in the past month we finally stowed away your last remaining baby bottles. You are drinking from sippy cups only now. You were just a little upset about that, but only for a few minutes, and now I think you’ve forgotten about the bottle entirely.

So much has gone on in the past month; it’s hard to think about the past year. But you are two years old now. In the past year you’ve learned to walk and talk. You’re big enough that I no longer carry you around strapped to my chest. I take you to daycare on a bike seat now. You still love to have books read to you, but you no longer want to repeat the same book a dozen times in a row — you’d rather read a dozen different books.

It was also in the past year that we got scared about the level of lead in your blood. I’ve been giving you extract of chlorella and cilantro pretty much every day for half a year now. This is supposed to detoxify the body, and you like the taste of it. Your last test indicated a drastically reduced blood lead level, and now that you’re two you are getting another screening, the results of which we will await anxiously. It remains my sincere hope that this is nothing but a footnote in your personal history.

It seems longer, but it’s really only over the last five months that we’ve taken a more disciplined approach to your sleep habits. You are sleeping better than ever, and so are we. There have definitely been some more and less difficult phases along the way, but recently I changed something in your bedtime routine that seemed to make a huge difference. After reading some stories and rhymes, I used to hold you and sing to you and then put you in your crib. Now I’ve changed the sequence slightly. I put you in your crib and then sing you a lullaby. You seem much happier with this arrangement.

For your birthday I got you an octopus made from a recycled sweater. You seem to like it.

Oh, one last thing: Now you really can make a stack of blocks as tall as yourself. Four months ago, nine blocks was your limit. Now you can do sixteen and not even blink.

Tomorrow at my book club we are discussing our hundredth book.

We have been reading together since the summer of 2001, when we got started with Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card.

Since then we’ve been through an awful lot, including the flooding of our city as well as the death of our founder. But we’re still going, stronger than ever in fact.

We select our books by a simple method: Each person takes a turn selecting three books on a theme. Given the current size of our group, two years or more may elapse between turns.

This club is perhaps the single most enjoyable and completely stress-free activity I’ve had over the past decade. That’s why I’ve stuck with it, I suppose.

Actually it’s no longer as stress-free as it once was. It is more difficult to carve out that monthly time-slot since becoming a father; I feel a little guilty sometimes; and despite my repeated pleadings Xy doesn’t seem to respect my desire to have this one little bit of “me” time held sacred and inviolate. As a result, I’ve had to bring my daughter along to a couple recent club meetings, with varying degrees of success.

Yet still I persist. I’ll extract my revenge on Xy some day.

Here’s a spreadsheet listing all the books we’ve read, in order.

I see I’ve failed to mention one defining fact: We are a science fiction club. We read science fiction almost exclusively. I say almost exclusively because we have veered into fantasy occasionally, and we have read some books which many people, including our club members, would not consider science fiction. We have had many interesting conversations — I almost said “debates” — on the definition of the genre. In fact our very first meeting started with that question and it still comes up almost every month. I’m happy to report that we don’t appear to be in any danger of discovering a definitive answer.

If you’re interested in science fiction you should join us. We meet on the second Saturday of every month at 10:30 AM. (Except, obviously, this time; we’re meeting on a Sunday because of Carnival.) Location: Octavia Books. (Speaking of Octavia, our most-frequently read author to date is Octavia Butler.) You don’t have to be some kind of hardcore science fiction fan to attend. You don’t even have to know what science fiction is. Just bring an open mind.

Oh — our hundredth title? The Transmigration of Timothy Archer by Philip K. Dick.

It was OK. But I wouldn’t call it science fiction.

David and Nicole came over for dinner a couple nights ago before heading back to Canada. I whipped up a batch of my famous chili, and Nicole asked for the recipe, so here it is. This is a vegan recipe but could easily be carnalized.

• 1 large can of pineapple chunks in juice (not syrup)
• 1 package Melissa’s Soyrizo or similar
• 1 lb firm tofu, cubed
• some olive oil
• 1 large onion, chopped
• 1 bell pepper, chopped
• several cloves garlic, crushed
• 28 oz can whole tomatoes
• 15 oz can kidney beans (or your favorite bean), undrained
• 12 oz jar mild salsa / picante sauce
• chili powder to taste — 1 TB for mild, 2 for TB moderate, 3 TB for hot
• 1 TB whole cumin seeds
• 1 tsp salt

In a large pan, brown tofu in oil, then add soyrizo, then add onion and bell pepper, then add garlic, stirring all the while. When the onion is transparent and the garlic smells good, transfer to large pot, add remaining ingredients, including juice from pineapple, but reserve the pineapple chunks themselves. I like to break the tomatoes up with a spoon while stirring. Simmer for an hour and a half, covered, stirring occasionally. Add pineapple and heat through. Serve with beer and bread.

Our first plan was to reprise last year’s costumes which we didn’t really get to employ last year. But then it became clear that this Mardi Gras would be unseasonably cool, and perhaps downright cold. Costuming as Olympian deities seemed like it would be uncomfortable, and so I scrambled at the last possible minute to come up with an alternative.

What could we wear and still be warm? Robes, I thought, big robes, big enough so that we can wear anything we want underneath. Since the Saints won the Super Bowl, I could make gold robes for all three of us, and we could wear black beads, and we’d be set. (Black robes with gold beads just seemed too easy somehow.)

I found instructions that looked simple enough. Most of the gold fabric had flown off the shelves of the local fabric store, but I managed to find some drapery-type stuff in back. Couldn’t settle for yellow, mind you — it had to be gold. I also got some gold rope to use for belts.

I borrowed the use of a friend’s sewing machine and soon enough we had our costumes. We added black caps for good measure. We borrowed a wagon from another friend.

Mardi Gras is primarily an early morning holiday, at least to me. It’s kind of like Christmas in that way. This is contrary to the image many casual tourists might have in mind, due to the common association linking revelry with late nights. But I rarely stay out late on Mardi Gras, and for me the best part of the day is generally before noon.

We some friends in the Marigny for a breakfast party. We donned our costumes and around 10:00 AM we joined up with the Societé de Sainte Anne which seemed to be passing by. I say “seemed to” because the Societé de Sainte Anne is so secretive, so mysterious, so surreal and chaotic, that it’s really kind of hard to tell exactly where the parade is, even when you’re in it. It is a collective hallucination.

Soon Persephone was dancing with a beautiful stranger.

Isn’t that what Mardi Gras is all about?

Persephone has a great time. She had a fever last year, so this was her first real Mardi Gras. At one point she was literally agape, mouth hanging open is amazement, to see so many wild and colorful characters.

I did not take many good photos. I was juggling a toddler and a wagon and of course Xy’s always a handful.

Xy pulled the wagon at times, but most of the way I found myself carrying Persephone in one arm and pulling the wagon with the other.

We saw a guy in an egg costume. He told Persephone he was Humpty Dumpty, then thought better of it, saying, “You probably don’t even know who that is.” Persephone whipped out her Mother Goose book and immediately turned to this rhyme.

While wearing mittens no less!

Later we saw another Humpty Dumpty, a guy with his head made up like an egg, with tiny articulated arms on either cheek which he manipulated by a clever arrangement of rods, complete with a brick wall under his chin. I didn’t get a photo but it was pretty amazing. I saw so many amazing costumes. A Kachina doll. A bicycle hidden inside a giant shoe. A fully functional sound system sheathed in metal shaped like a bull and bellowing steam. Hindu deities with multiple arms. A mobile drum set with stripper pole. Saints-themed costumes were of course ubiquitous. I didn’t even get a picture of my friends as the three big quarterbacks the Saints took down. Imagine Brett Favre with a walker and you get the idea. Everyone wanted to take his picture but somehow I failed.

Perhaps the most mind-blowing costume of all was this tree house.

How tall is that thing? They are looking down on people in second story balconies. And somehow it’s moving around. It’s a riff on a recent local news story about an artsy tree house that ran afoul of city inspectors.

I wish I’d had the presence of mind to get a portrait of all three of us together in our matching costumes. Some random stranger took a photo of us that looked pretty good — he showed it to me on the viewfinder — but I’m sure I’ll never see that again. Here’s a photo Howie took showing my daughter and me on Royal Street.

Probably the best photo I took was this portrait of an older man in a wheelchair, wearing a pink boa, smoking a cigarette and taking it all in.

It was a great day but not without incident. At one point I crossed Royal Street a little too hastily. I was trying to dodge what appeared to be a large ocean-going vessel when a king’s ermine cape got snagged on the wheel of our wagon. For this act of carelessness, I incurred his royal displeasure.

The other near-disaster came when we stopped at a friend’s condo. Persephone was playing with a toy that belonged to the resident canine, and they got into a fight. I got in between them right quick and the girl emerged with only a tiny scratch under her left eye, but she was quite frightened. The dog bit me on the leg, and I shudder to think what might have happened.

We were back home shortly after five. The girl was utterly exhausted.

If this Mardi Gras could be said to have had a theme, deeper than the Saints mania, it was perhaps a renewed snese of optimism and confidence, the hope that we’ve turned a corner in our recovery, that, as Adma Karlin puts it, “deep down the 2010 carnival season marks when, at long last, post-Katrina New Orleans became, again, just New Orleans.”

Here’s hoping.

Carnival and preparations for Mardi Gras are keeping me too busy to write, so instead I thought I’d highlight some comments I received a few days ago.

Cast your memory back. Long-time readers will remember my letter to Paul Curcuru which I posted in 2006, regarding a certain abandoned grocery and the rodent population therein.

So the other night an anonymous person left the following note on that post:

I was a friend of the curcuru’s for many years; the store was owned by Joe Cucuru but was sold by his sons after he died. I believe they sold the property to a Vietnamese family.

[For the record: No. Paul Curcuru was the property owner, and may still be for all I know. The store was being rented to a Vietnamese proprietor before the flood put them out of business.]

Twenty minutes later, the same person left a comment on my follow-up post from 2008:

people living in new orleans are ignorant filthy rats anyway. you should feel right at home.

A couple minutes later, he left a second comment on the same post:

people who live in New Orleans are filthy rats anyway,whats the problem?

Apparently he tired of anonymity at that point, because this third comment bore the name Phillip Weiman.

Thank you, Mr. Weiman, for demonstrating exactly what I meant when I mentioned the “outpouring of internet-hatred” against New Orleans a couple weeks ago. Like I said then, we’ve heard it all before. We’ve read it all before. It doesn’t even faze us any more.

Happy Mardi Gras!

Looking back, I realize we had only four Samedi Gras parties at our old house. It seems like more, because we lived there for seven years. Plus, we always did it up big. A keg of beer. Serious home-cooked food — usually jambalaya, though I think I made gumbo one year. And live music.

We bought that house in 2002, but Endymion was relocated Uptown in 2003 because of the (re)construction of the streetcar line on Canal. So, no party that year.

So we had our first party in 2004. As far as I know this was the first and last live performance by Phantasmagore.

Then we had one in 2005. Our special musical guest was Rabbit Hatch.

Skip a couple years, as Endymion was relocated Uptown again.

We were back on in 2008. I had a sprained ankle and Xy was just as pregnant as could be. Killowatt Rising played, a full-on electric rock band, and the party was showcased on the front cover of the Times-Picayune’s Inside Out.

I didn’t think anything could top that, but then we had our final party in 2009. We didn’t know it was the final party at the time. Still, it was very special. Herbie Jo Johnson provided the musical entertainment. My parents came down for their first Carnival ever. Best of all, our girl’s first birthday fell on the same date.

So at least we finished strong.

Now we’ve moved. We’re still in Mid-City, but everything is different. We’re no longer so close to the parade route. And we aren’t having a party this year.

What to do? I’m not really a fan of Endymion per se. I love the festive atmosphere the parade generates. It feels like the only time that Carnival comes to our neighborhood. but I’m not really into the parade itself. It is the biggest and gaudiest of the Carnival parades, but I don’t find its aesthetic compelling, and frankly if you’ve seen it once you’ve seen it a thousand times. That’s why I enjoyed having htat party every year. It gave me something to do instead of watching the parade.

I guess maybe we’ll make it to a couple of other people’s parties. And maybe my daughter will be excited by the parade.

The whole prospect has got me feeling sort of blue. The day seems to have a different character in different parts of Mid-City. Some of my neighbors have been discussing problems on Orleans Avenue that are positively hair-raising:

Now, I’m as eager as the next guy to celebrate the roll of Endymion, but this has escalated into a problem of mass proportions. The practice of parking cube vans in the area, filled with kegs and ice, has increased exponentially. These vans are often used as makeshift port-a-potties once empty. You don’t even want to know what that’s like. There are fights, there is property damage, there is urination on houses and in alleys. In a surprising twist last year, this element added a new level of public indecency: couples having sex both on the neutral ground on the night before and in the surrounding blocks the day of. I kid you not. This has not just gotten out of control. It’s a plague. If it’s not enough to just be pushed out of sitting on the parade route, this litany of offenses has mounted to unprecedented levels. Imagine Bourbon St without all the pesky laws and controls.

Back at our old place we didn’t have those issues. The crowds would be thinner but still substantial.

I am missing our old ‘hood a bit today.

Finally created a ROX page on Facebook.

Not sure exactly what to do with it, but if you like the show become a fan and we’ll figure something out together.

Maybe.