Willie Birch in the Brooklyn Rail

Really fresh interview with Willie Birch in the Brooklyn Rail.

"Birch: The religion we call voodoun has a nature of embracing everything. It pulls it in and when it shoots it back, it’s disguised but it’s still Yoruba. I see New Orleans’ culture the same way. New Orleans culture is a culture that allows everything to come in but when it tweaks it and pushes it back out, you still hear those drum beats coming out of Congo Square. That is the root. This place is so powerful. It’s not like New York. It’s not like L.A. It’s not like Paris. It’s not like London. I’ve never been to Moscow although I’ve studied Pushkin–it’s not like Moscow. It’s not like Africa. It’s not like Nairobi. It’s not like Cairo. It’s like New Orleans. And its culture comes from the bottom. And the bottom begins, as far as Willie Birch is concerned, at Congo Square. And the nature of what came out of that was able to take all of the human condition and put it in its pot and when it shoots it back out it shoots out a whole different idea of what it means to live in this place in this time of our existence. So I don’t worry about the idea of what’s going to happen."

Springfield, USA = New Orleans, LA

A town of loveable misfits trapped in a dome after a long-in-the-making environmental disaster, followed by an arbitrary, disastrous governmental response. The well-known landscape transformed into a devastated El Dorado, smashed windows, the rantings of passing madmen, national guard patrols. Desperation, violence, lawlessness.

Springfield, USA = New Orleans, LA.

Sitting in the AMC theater on the West Bank, we had a hard time deciding what was intentional and what was coincidental in the symbolism of the Simpsons movie. At times, I felt like heads nodded in knowing, rather than shaking in laughter. When the Dome settles down around the city and the citizens of Springfield are trapped with each other, well, that's a No Exit reality that everyone in the theater could imagine, or knew someone who lived through, or lived through themselves. When the Simpsons return to town after their escape and find the onslaught of urban apocalypse, we all saw that. The broken buildings and breakdown in society, there was something so very usual to them from a New Orleans perspective. Even the wild ramblings of bartender Moe, declaring himself in charge, bandanna around his head, he looked and sounded like something out of the parking lot camps or mayoral press conferences that sprouted up after the storm.

Probably a lot will be written (maybe already has, I didn't read the reviews) about the environmentalist lean to the movie's storyline, the way the characters took political shots at a variety of targets for short-sightedness and lack of preemptive action. That was all easy to see and I thought they pulled it off pretty well, though overall the movie was a little too direct in many ways, generally not as weird as the show. Going in, I was looking for that quirky dumbness and the sneaky satire, some comfort in the well-known devolution of family life.

But what crept in over and again was a feeling one sometimes gets when watching fictional accounts in the wake of the storm. What I'm speaking of is different than what we get when watching the sudden collapse of buildings in The Transformers, the helplessness of humans against larger forces that was (intentionally) reminiscent of 9/11. Then it's the thrill of vicarious threat, of "what it was like," perhaps the return, finally, of the attacker who left us waiting for more, a cinematic perversion of Stockholm Syndrome.

Instead, the familiarity with some scenes in the Simpsons movie elicits a response somewhere between a sympathetic shrug and a "whatever" shrug, i.e. nice cartoon, nice ending, check out our neighborhoods. By no means a resentment of representation, or lack of appreciation for the animated protest, but a feeling of permanence in the face of flashing image: in theaters across the country, that landscape appears and disappears; here, it was outside when we entered, and awaits us when we exit.

As stated, the parallels between the movie and real life during and after the storm were easy to see, and I'd hope American audiences take something from that.

But, at least for me, in New Orleans, the parallels drove home what a separate, trapped audience we remain. Not simply that life is stranger that fiction, but that fiction is stranger when seen from this life.

Progress in Condos: Plaza Tower SOLD!

Wow, I can't wait to hear what an off-shore banking operation has planned for this asbestos-filled monument to airports and Brasilia. I bet it's gonna be dope, and by dope, I mean, like the new Trump Tower.

"During the proceedings, a Blackberry to his ear, Walper uttered just one phrase: '583,000.'"

$583,000!

Tonight on WTUL: Summer Soul-stice

Tune in at midnight tonight to 91.5FM, end the longest day of the year with soul.

Freret Street, Bill Jefferson, Hamid Drake & Kidd Jordan, and Sandy Alomar Jr.

From 1998-1999, I lived at the corner of Napoleon Avenue and Freret Street, in a small studio apartment upstairs from a gay couple who owned the large house. Apparently, they panicked after the storm and attempted to raise the building 8 feet, setting off a chain of events that led to the house’s current state of vacant decay. Whenever I drive by that corner and see the empty trailer wedged in the backyard where once a dainty garden bloomed, the foundation of the house splitting, and the doors pried open to the elements, I lament the fate of those poor guys and my former home.

Because that was my apartment when Kim and I started dating, the spot holds an important place in my heart, as does all of Freret Street. That year we attended what must have been the 3rd Freret Street Festival, with Walter “Wolfman” Washington playing from the back of a Ryder truck and the two of us dancing among a modest crowd of neighborhood people. The stretch of Freret above Napoleon has a very Caribbean vibe to it, with old stucco buildings and some tile roofs, and, though it’s a central street uptown, I guess that part always seems like an island to me; sorta romantic, always sun-baked, self-contained.

This year we returned to find a festival with 3 stages, probably the best line-up of any of the free festivals in the city, and thousands of people filling those blocks. More importantly, Kim is now director of the new neighborhood center, so we’ll be up there a lot from now on. A double-wide shotgun, the center is close to finished, but not fully opened. There is a stage in the backyard, though, and a talent show went on most of the afternoon. Mardi Gras Indians, spoken word, and a loose funk band gave way to some R&B, some crunk, and some straight-up N.O. hip-hop.

Game Tight Records
(that's a grown-over satellite dish behind them)

Grand Jury

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Monday brought the news of Rep. Bill Jefferson’s indictment on racketeering, obstruction of justice and money laundering charges, and with it another sad chapter in the story of old sins coming back to cripple the city’s recovery. Caught just before the storm with 90G’s stuffed in his freezer, Jefferson faces ouster from the House after giving up positions on the Trade, Ways & Means, and most recently the Small Business committees.

Think about what that means: instead of a senior representative in the House on three of the committees (hypothetically) most import to New Orleans, we get an impotent soon-to-be felon whose own family is implicated with him in a scheme to bribe Nigerian officials. Just when we could use maximum efforts in Washington, we get a soiled void.

What hurts is that the people voted him in last fall knowing full well that he faced just such a fate. Victorious by way of a long-established machine and an appeal to suburban conservatives, Jefferson represents the most needy district in the country as a pariah in his own ruling party. All we can hope for is his forced ouster, if hope is what you want to call it.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

In New Orleans, music’s ubiquity always threatens to make it too accessible, and thus taken for granted. The epiphanies of great performances come too easy at times, and so their magnitude lessens and we miss gigs we should make, sure that we’ll catch the next one. Great musicians who do their thing end up not being enough because, even in the disarray of the current scene, that’s what New Orleans cats do—survive and blare.

At the same time, with the stakes so high today, a show that might’ve been great 10 years ago shifts into transcendence now when certain musicians, in the grip of those stakes, decide to take things further. And for complex reasons, it matters more. Many times in the 1990’s, I had my mind blown. Nowadays, when the sound is right, my mind focuses and tunes into line with my heart; I am reassured and given direction.



On Monday night, we stood in the Dragon’s Den and listened to Kidd Jordan play with the Rob Wagner trio, which features Hamid Drake, the great Chicago drummer. I’ve heard Kidd and Hamid play with different ensembles, mostly in New York, and so I’ve been telling Kim to get ready for weeks now. But Monday night was different.

The gig was the trio’s 2nd night in support of a new CD, which I hear is dope. Kidd Jordan played the Monday gig only. At times it felt like this was the first and last gig he’d ever play, like he had to get it all out on the canvas Hamid wove, and fuck everything else. Really and truly: Hamid Drake must be the greatest drummer alive and perhaps ever, and Kidd just turned and played right back at him and with him and people stood in a trance, sometimes broken by yelps of disbelief.



When free jazz hits me right, I am prone to laughter, which is not the norm in the often museum-like crowd at a lot of those shows. This time I didn’t need to worry about that, as other people got carried away. Kidd Jordan and Hamid Drake proved that sometimes a moment comes and will definitely pass and you make the art you have to in that space. From the get, you could see that Kidd was so glad to play a night with Hamid and that appreciation, that sudden shock and then work—that’s what I keep reminding myself to keep close.

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Is it for the money or the love of the game?

Games played in New Orleans must suffer from more rain delays than almost anywhere else in the country. At this time of year, the skies behave in true tropical fashion, with a strong shower in the early evening that gives a brief respite from the humidity. So far we’ve had a mild spring, but the heat lurks, ready to slow things to a crawl.

Last night, we drove out to “The Shrine on Airline,” aka Zephyr Field, the minor league baseball stadium on Airline Highway, home to the New Orleans Zephyrs. Kim had coupons for $1 tickets for volunteers, courtesy of the United Way. Instead of the usual get-what-you-get cheap ticket, this put us in the first row just to the first base side of home plate.

I was pretty amped about this positioning, as the Zephyrs feature one Sandy Alomar Jr., the former All-Star catcher who, at 42, is on a quest to return to the Majors, this time with the Mets. From our prime seats, we could watch Sandy call the game, and peek into the dugout to check in on, among others, former Yankee Ricky Ledee and hot prospect Lastings Miledge.

Mostly, though, Sandy Alomar Jr. I mean, after a fairly illustrious career, why try to get back to the show one last time, especially when already the Mets sit in 1st place with an all-star catcher? Sandy’s chances are pretty slim, but there he was, doing the Bull Durham in Metairie.

Equipped with two beers, two dogs, and an order of nachos, we sat down for the beginning of the game vs. tonight’s opponent, the Salt Lake City Bees. After the bottom of the 1st began with two hits from the Z’s, the rain started and grew increasingly fierce, soaking the nachos and watering down the beer. We didn’t give up until the grounds crew, which included members of the crowd, announced a rain delay by dashing onto the field.

At the top of the bleachers, we watched the storm and ate our dogs. For some reason, the scoreboard showed an old clip of Sheriff Harry Lee marrying what appeared to be two mascots on the grass of Zephyr Field.

Harry Lee Loves Nutrias

The delay lasted about 40 minutes. When the game resumed, the Z’s stranded the two runners and the long 1st inning was over. In the 5th, though, they could not be denied. Things got nuts when Sandy took one deep for a 3-run homer, followed by one hit after another until Ledee knocked another 3-run homer.

Then two utterly ridiculous things happened: the Salt Lake pitcher attempted to attack the ump and was thrown out, along with the Bees’ manager. Then Kim reminded me that the homer run meant the first 100 people to the beer stand won a Miller Lite "foamer." I raced up there and took my place in the long line. An old feller came up and started telling the guy in front of me that he didn't "drink the stuff, I'm just getting it for Ledee's wife." And sure enough, each of us got a 10oz cup of beer, thanks to Ricky Ledee.



I’m rooting for the Zephyrs from now on.

DJ on the Balcony

Rigged up a turntable, mixer, two discmans, ran it all thru old guitar amp, played the selector for four hours on Saturday.

La Barrera & the Chair Rescue

About a week ago, we made a plan for the barrier’s future. Often we stop there on the way to or from our place, taking in the odd landscape spread out around the block. But now we’d hit upon an easy idea to use the space, or rather, to influence its use.

The barrier cuts across Magazine Street, which runs from Canal Street downtown to Broadway uptown. Consisting of three jersey dividers, a barely standing stretch of cyclone fence, and the sunken ground left behind by a water main break 4 or 5 years ago, the barrier is well known. People come upon it when heading uptown—the direction Magazine runs in this section—and ignoring the meager “Road Closed” sign a block earlier at Erato Street. If you sit there for a few hours, you witness many a frustrated u-turn, along with the usual passing oddball from the neighborhood, the silent thinkers of the Abstract Bookstore, and young couples in search of brunch at Surrey’s.

The two collapsing houses on the block sit across from each other, their fallen corners now patched up and covered in construction tarps. On the riverside uptown sits a parking lot belonging to one of several body shops in the neighborhood; on the lakeside, an empty stretch of weeds runs through to Camp Street.

Pedestrians and cyclists usually travel down the middle of Magazine and pass through the space between the dividers. The asphalt is worn away in around the dividers, and a sand and gravel floor surrounds them. Though there appears to be progress in the renovation of several of the houses, the barrier is a long way from disappearing.

So on Saturday, Kim and I stopped in a sporting goods store on the West Bank and picked up 6 vinyl strap lawn chairs, 4 pink and 2 blue. That night, we walked down to the barrier to think things over. On the block before the barrier, there sits a house nearly swallowed by the accumulated detritus of its inhabitants, a man and woman who apparently share a serious packrat complex. Refuse of all sizes and shapes sits in a pile in their small front yard and overflows onto their porch. Among the broken furniture and boards, crates and twists of scrap metal, two junkyard dogs bark at passersby.

This time we didn’t see them, but noticed two kittens crossing the street in light of the streetlamps. As we reached the broken down, junk-laden truck in front of the packrat house, we saw several more kittens sticking their heads up from the pile. A skinny mama cat emitted a low growl and we tried to assure her we meant no harm.

At the barrier, we talked about the best way to position the chairs. A strange plane appeared overhead, low and white with propellers on the wings. It swooped in a circle and disappeared, then passed by again three times. On the underside of the wings, we could read the word “mosquito,” as thin lines of spray fell down on us and on the neighborhood. A man walked by at one point. We exchanged “hellos,” then he moved on. While we were standing on either side of the space between the dividers, a woman on a bicycle flew between us like we were unseen ghosts.


This morning, we took the 6 chairs and a pot of coffee down there and set up camp. We placed three chairs each in semicircles on the uptown and downtown sides of the barrier. On each, we wrote “N.O.N.” on the back and “NEWORLEANSNATION” on the seat. Then we sat down across from each other and had our coffee.


The first person to appear was an older black guy on a bike, who said good morning and kept riding. The next was a white guy on a bike, who also continued after saying good morning.


Then a black guy walked up and stopped to talk to us.

“I went to school up here, back in the 70’s. It sure has changed.” He motioned toward the school across from our apartment. I asked if he was from the neighborhood.


“This the first I been back, since the storm. I live in Texas. Master P is from right over there, you know that?” He then told us that Master P lived a block towards the river, Mystikal was raised up a block from the barrier, and Juvenile lived over in Magnolia. He named several projects—St. Thomas, Iberville, Magnolia, and Melpomene Street, seemed to get a little confused, but confirmed to us twice that we were sitting, “in the middle of the world.”

“This the middle of the world,” he said as he walked up the block away from us.


A few minutes later, a white guy rode past on a bike, his dog trotting on a leash at his side.


We left the chairs and went home, stopping to talk when an older black woman asked us in an African or West Indian accent, “What’s going on today?” Her sister owns a house and one of the body shops, as well as the parking lot, and she stays there for now while her house on N. Broad is being rebuilt. We talked a little while then went on our way when she got a call on her cell.

An hour later, we drove to Armstrong Park to meet up with b.rox and a group of 10 others. Along with Daniel Samuels, Bart led us on a grand journey along the Lafitte Corridor, a blighted green space where once a canal and railroad tracks ran from Basin Street to the end of Canal Boulevard in Mid-City. The Friends of Lafitte Corridor aim to create a real trail way along this 3 mile stretch, and after hiking with them, we understand the potential such a path has for revitalizing a long strip of the city.


Look here for a FOLC account of the trip, and click here for a selection of our photos.

After a few drinks at the Bulldog on Canal and an air-conditioned bus-ride, we retrieved the Windstar on Rampart and drove home. We checked on the chairs, and there they all still sat, three on either side of the barrier. This was around 4:00, and we planned to go back down for a drink at dusk.



An hour later, as Kim napped, I went downstairs to fix the new license plate to the van. When I looked down the block, I could see the chairs were gone. I walked to the barrier and confirmed the disappearance, then returned home, scanning every house and truck for the chairs.

We were a little upset, but that’s the nature of this kind of project—it could get jacked. It’d be nice if everyone saw the potential for a meeting space, or appreciated an aesthetic way to call attention to the barrier’s continued devolvement, to the issues facing the streets before the storm, but realistically, people see free chairs. Who knows who took them? Might’ve been the packrats, the Abstracts, or some idiots making a U-turn who decided to grab 6 shiny objects. The only thing we can take from the theft was that scavenging, rather than buying new, is the smartest way to continue our plan. We’ll pick up chairs people throw out and bring them to the barrier.

We’re eating on the balcony when Kim spots a man riding a bicycle up Magazine, one of our pink chairs in hand.

“Hey!” I yell. “Hey! Where’d you get that chair?! Hey!”

Kim starts yelling in Spanish, as the guy looked to be Hispanic. Two women on the corner think she’s yelling at them, and as she explains to them the loss of the chairs, I race downstairs and jump on my bike, recently equipped with a really fresh gel-seat from the sporting goods store.

I catch up to the dude at Race Street, but the chair was gone.

“Where’s that chair?” I ask, riding next to him and smiling. “You seen that chair?”

He mumbles something, shrugs.

“Where’d you find it?” I ask.

“No, man, no comprendo.” He shakes his head slightly, unperturbed.

“Alright.” I race up the block, thinking I’d caught that guy pretty quick and maybe he wasn’t the one we’d seen. As I cross Felicity, though, I see no other bikers ahead of me, and so circle back around.

The street suddenly comes alive. A man argues with someone inside a pick-up truck next to Dat’s Grocery. Two of the Abstracts ride by on bicycles, looking spooky as ever, the one dressed like he wished he had a Harley. A kid, I think from the African’s block, rides towards me, saying something to the Abstracts, and something to me about police. I continue past Race St., and try to peer in a Dumpster as I ride.

At Euterpe, I see it: one pink chair propped against the tall black fence of the half-gutted mansion on our block. I swing over to the curb and pick it up. Two white men walking a dachshund watch me. I explain to them what happened, then ride on down Magazine, chair in one hand. As I get to our place, I hold the chair aloft in one hand, wave it over my head so Kim can see it from the balcony. We start laughing. Our neighbor, Miss Joan, is on the first floor porch and I tell her of the rescue. She starts to say something about the illegals and I take the bike and chair inside.

So now the pink chair sits on our balcony, where Kim and I finished our meal in a celebratory mood. We’ll continue this barrier project, but right now it’s funny to think that somewhere, someone is selling stolen lawn chairs with “NEWORLEANSNATION” written on them.

Photo Essay: the Lafitte Corridor

We began the trip at Louis Armstrong Park, but the entrance was blocked. We made our way to Lafitte Street, and passed by the empty projects.

The Sojourner Truth Community Center

Fred from a junkyard, told us story of Moses and the burning bush, doubted whether New Orleans knew the one god.

The trail opens up.

The group.

Sniders'

Where the city keeps the traffic lights.

Pump station on Broad Street

Lindy Boggs Medical Center, recently purchased on the sly by out-of-state Victory Developers, who plan a great retail channel.

Old car just past N. Carrollton Ave.

Hot box behind the Home Depot.

Liked this one.

Dead dinosaur

This was on the homestretch, not far from Canal Blvd.

Dug this rogue painting.

Nowadays, we have plastic rails.

How could I move the crowd? First of all, ain't no mistakes allowed

Tonight begins a summer of sleeping through Thursday evening, waking up around 11pm, making some, uh, preparations, then heading up to WTUL to commandeer the hip-hop show from midnight to 3am. I guess we'll go home and sleep a few hours after that, but Friday afternoons at work won't be pretty.

A funny turn of events, really, cause I've been pretty ambivalent about hip-hop for about a year, not really buying much of anything and content to take what I get from commercial radio down here, which is basically a rotation of 5 or 6 songs from the Dirty South's increasingly uniform offerings. Back at East Village Radio, I had the team from NHB to feed me the new shit and in-studio freestyles to keep me thinking. This staved off what seems to be a general malaise about the music's present and future, about the wasted opportunities and over-stylization, the phoney beefs, and pandering to the suburban mall audience.

As far as the new show's content, we're gonna see what we can find in the TUL vaults, and bring with us selections from our own collection, with a few focal points:

-the early-mid 1990's
-the current underground
-old school New Orleans

And if anyone out there wants to send tapes, CD's, or come in for an interview, get at us.

As far as tastes, I'll let the show speak for itself, and hopefully we'll be able to post setlists and mp3 archives here. For a discussion of taste, check out the list put together at Straight Bangin' and the conversation that resulted from it. I'm a little wary of all the reflection, as it's often the sign of a dying, decadent artform, but argument must be a sign of life. People still care about hip-hop, people still identify with it, people still live it. For a few months, at least, we'll give it our best shot. If you're in the city, we're at 91.5FM midnight-3am.

And a few final words from the god....

Houma-cide

We took my ma down to "Cajun Country" on Saturday and found some mean streets along the bayou. This was in Klondyke, near Houma.

After some typical round-about driving, we found our intended destination, a Cajun/Swamp Pop festival in Grand Bois park. The first song we heard: She Thinks I Still Care, by George Jones, one of Ma's favorites. Happy Mother's Day.

War Games

Last night, the president vetoed the "emergency" spending bill for Iraq, in essence refusing the Democrats' demand for a withdrawal date. While the two sides battle over the future of US troops and the Iraqi people, we in the Gulf Coast recieve another political pistol-whipping. Less discussed in the national media is the inclusion of a spending package for the region that includes levee reconstruction and wetlands protection, the two most vital issues for recovery. After the veto, the governor and Senator Landrieu, both Democrats, blasted Louisiana Republicans for voting against the bill, decrying their opponents' loyalty to the president over the state.

Which is a valid complaint. It's simply criminal for any legislator to vote against more money for the region, especially for such urgent matters. Yet, isn't it equally criminal to vote WITH a party that ties the future of the Gulf Coast to the war in Iraq? Isn't it as appalling that Democrats would write such legislation and play a patently political game with levees and wetlands? If this is an appeal to the "anti-war" movement, can that movement call itself some new, dumb "Left" if it cheers that game?

Most damning is the failure of Louisiana's Democrats and Republicans to introduce a true Katrina bill, untethered to the vacuum of the war. For either side to claim a moral high ground is ridiculous, yet another example of politicians playing "business-as-usual," continuing the farce that nearly killed this city when the status quo was intact.

Where we been at?

A few things that happened over the last week…

Driving on I-10 a little after 11pm, on the way to pick up a friend at the airport, I tune into Q-93, the local hip-hop and R&B station. The DJ—either Wild Wayne or AD Berry--opened the phone lines to callers with thoughts on a recent news story: in a New York Times profile, Recovery Czar Edward Blakely gave a bruising account of his tenure in New Orleans, including money lines on the racial divide:

'It's a culture of domination rather than participation. So whatever group gets something they try to dominate the whole turf”

and the one that caught most people’s un-fancy:

‘(People who move to the city from elsewhere are) going to come here without the same attitudes of the locals.
'I think, if we create the right signals, they're going to come here, and they're going to say 'Who are these buffoons?'

One woman who calls into Q93 said her message to Blakely is:

'If you’re not a part of the solution, you’re part of a problem.'

Hey, that’s just it: Blakely’s the recovery czar: he is THE part of the solution. If he’s bent like this, it’s not because things are better than he’s saying or because he's out to condescend all of us. Things are fucked.

My question for the many citizens who shook their heads with the gasface: had you read his plan? Can we talk about that? Would seem worthy of radio and watercooler chats, no? More important than what he told the Times, right?

Look, I wrote about meeting Blakely a few months ago. He was pissed then, so I can only imagine how pissed he is now. That night, the entire crowd of the mayor’s fur-cloaked supporters lived it up on 3 floors. Blakely struck me as highly disgusted. His latests comments sound no different.

I’m supposed to say, “What buffoons? Are you talking about me?” Really? I think we all know which ones he’s talking about. We see a city government in a shambled caricature of its past self. We hear the clicking from the continued death of street lights, the early-1990’s murder rate, the fumbled posturing of the leadership when out-of-town congressional delegations arrive.

We know who is selling us short. Have we become so sensitive that we’ll even defend our saboteurs?

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Brought to her beloved knees by brake failure, the LTD is, as they say down here, about to go home. We’re going to miss that car. Since the wheels must continue to turn, Kim and I decided to purchase a new used car immediately to forestall emergency. Just a few blocks down Camp Street, I checked around in Bridge House car lot. Bridge House is a rehabilitation home for men that sells donated used-vehicles.

The first time through, I spoke with two dudes who had shopped there before. The lot was closed for the evening, but these guys said
the deals were real good,
you could beat ‘em down,
and that the one guy had picked up like 5 cars there over the years, never had a problem.

The 2nd time, Mr. Millions and I stopped in on a Saturday morning and spoke with a salesman, Billy, who is originally from North Carolina. He lives in Bridge House now after living the last 5 years in Key West. Millions and I took a Chevy Lumina out for a test drive with Billy in the back, up to Dat’s Grocery and back, the long way, with Billy complaining that I drove too wildy. I was test-driving, though, you know?

In subsequent conversations with Kim (Mr. Millions of course contributing his testimony), a consensus arose: Bridge House has good deals, is a legit and charitable enterprise; we have to get something, the LTD is a mess; we need to be sure the price is right.

Well, on the 3rd trip, we ended up with a 1998 Ford Windstar Van. It resided in Slidell for the last 8 years, seats 7, is a deep aqua blue. Make what you will of this decision.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The French Quarter festival sure is crowded nowadays, alright. I remember my first one as a surprise—I didn’t even know it was happening, but had taken my mother on a tour of the Quarter and there it was, people playing all over the street. A few times this year, we had to force our way through crowds along the river. At least for a moment, though, it was worth it.

On the second day of the festival, Saturday, Kim and I witnessed the wedding of Kermit Ruffins. Along with thousands of others, we celebrated the vows and matrimony of the best-dude-you-know and his blushing fine lady. We truly felt honored, and stood awestruck yet again in a fragile epiphany of New Orleans. There’s the enternal twist: if visions are what you need, our city has them in abundance.

Kermit played his bride onto the stage, trumpet pointed to the stage stairs as the wedding party entered. All took their places and waved, and in one video, you can hear the riverboat Natchez blow its whistle.



As the vows rang in the microphone, Kermit held his trumpet in hand.



When the bride had received her kiss and the applause began in full throat, Kermit resumed blowing. The world on a string…

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

After the purchase of the Windstar, I drop Kim off at a T-Mobile building in Metairie, where she does work for the Red Cross. On the way back to the house, I screw up a little bit when I get off the Earhart Expressway. Then, trying to cut around to hit Claiborne Avenue, I drive through Gert Town.

Gert Town is in between Uptown and Mid City, near to Xavier University, by the entrance to a major highway. I remember it as a depressed area, but populated, a place people would tell you they were from, though back then I think I got it confused with Pigeon town.

At a planning meeting a few months ago, I heard an enraged man demand the recognition and protection of Gert Town. By all sights completely mad, an African-American man in his fifties, he lambasted the committee and all who forgot about Gert Town. He proclaimed Gert Town the true birthplace of jazz, a bastion against (and target of) Anglo-Saxonism, a proud fortress, the primary concern of any righteous council. He spoke of the ancient days and conspiracy, and we watched him in the monitors of the chamber. The committee members slumped and the public muttered laughs, looked at their watches or the ceiling.

To punctuate his speech, the man warned angrily,

I’m not gonna let you forget about Gert Town, I’m gonna be here everyday. SO CHECK ME!

With that, he surrendered the podium.

As I slowly maneuver the van through the rutted streets of Gert Town, I survey that man’s Valhalla. There are people rebuilding there, but there are also abandoned blocks. Squat grocery stores wear shells of board and are swallowed slowly by weeds. There are people rebuilding there, but a whole lot of Gert Town is ghostly at 3 in the afternoon.

I go slower, gazing once again at all the people not there, at the non-handshakes and absent blown receipts, the missing very old and very young. I feel why that man went mad, then I silently tell the van that we need to get around more.

Super Sunday 2007: We Won't Bow Down

“Yeah, lemme get a Corona, man.”

I straddle my bike in front of a cooler chest. One of two salesmen digs into the ice and water and pulls out a bottle.

“That cold enough for you?”

“I hope so. I’m gonna need it today.”

I give him $3 but he can’t open the bottle with his lighter, so his partner does it, and then scoffs at the other’s ineptitude. I thank them both and pedal slowly into the intersection of Washington and LaSalle. The block is full of people, with a large crowd at one end gathered in front of a line of cops on horses. Feathered headdresses are visible above the fray, the sky is bright, and the air is warm but dry, perfect March weather in New Orleans.

Today is Super Sunday, the traditional parading day for the Mardi Gras Indian tribes held the Sunday before St. Joseph’s Day. Back when the Indians were violent and illegal, this was the day of the year when they could come out and show their colors. Now we’re standing in one of the most violent neighborhoods in the city and the tail of the parade is beginning to move.

I ride down LaSalle to check out the spy boys, braves, and chiefs preparing. The street has a neutral ground in the middle and various pieces of costumes rest in the grass. At a break in the neutral ground, I u-turn and ride back up the street towards Washington Avenue. Lone Indians stand stone-faced in full “mask,” clusters of onlookers surrounding them.

The crowd: young men with the practiced thousand-yard stare; older guys who get in the face of the Indians, alternately trying to crack them up or boost their egos into full whoop as the maskers stay intense and serious; the wives and mothers of the Indians, who help them put on their costumes and straighten their headdresses; children in and out of costume; white hipsters young and old, cameras at the ready.

What I notice immediately (and start to record with my own camera) is the prevalence of cameras. Any immobile Indian has a phalanx of cameras around him, held in white and black hands, snapping away. Some are huge video cameras with long lenses, others just the camera phone. The Indians are such wildly vivid figures, it’s hard to stop snapping, and indeed there are dudes who walk backwards in front of the marchers as they begin to move down LaSalle.

It’s weird to watch people squint and focus so intently on capturing the exotic, like we’re all on a safari rather than in a neighborhood. I don’t know if that’s always been the case on Super Sunday, but it’s safe to say that more people own cameras these days, and have them always on-hand in phones or in handy digital models. What do we get from photographing something? What do we lose by pausing to record, rather than allowing the experience to unfold? Can you have any sort of epiphany with one eye in on a screen?

Aside from these questions, I wonder about the younger white kids like me. Are we simply voyeur witnesses to the last embers of a culture, or will we help lay the groundwork for a more equitable city, one where the Indians and their neighbors survive and prosper, every day of the year? Obviously, we have some interest; some love of this side of New Orleans, but how many of us ever walk these blocks the other 364 days of the year?

That’s what struck me over and over again today—how rare it was for any white person to be in this neighborhood. That’s an old fact, but, again, what do we do in this new landscape? What does it mean that one race simply doesn’t cross into a certain space? How does that affect all of us?

I stand with my bike in front of me as the crowd grows thick and begins to follow the last tribe and brass band. When a space opens up, I join in behind another beer salesman. He tows his cooler on a battered hand-truck, wears a gray-black-white camouflaged suit, and seems nervous, not stopping as people place orders. Instead, he’ll pull out the beers, then the customer takes over and drives the hand-truck while the beer man makes change.

It’s not a fluid operation, but it works, and I keep wondering what’s the rush. Then I hear a snort, and turn to see that the line of police horses is only 5 paces behind us. I pick up the pace, order a Budweiser. Another white dude is doing the same, and he ends up just buying my bottle for me, saying, “Happy Sunday,” so that all of us can keep moving.

LaSalle turns into Simon Bolivar and an Indian runs by whooping, feathered tomahawks slicing the air. Another group of Indians in white skull faces menaces the crowd. Down here people loll in the shade on the neutral ground, drinking and lighting blunts. I stand between some cars to watch the parade pass. A beat-up old lady comes to talk to me, and we walk together for a minute.

“Enjoying yourself today mmm, hmmm, mmm,” she says with a vacant smile. Her voice is low and she seems lost.

“Oh, yeah, it’s a fine day,” I tell her.

“Hmmmm. Since Katrina, my head still ain't right….” She says it like a question, like she’s in disbelief. “Hmmmm…..19 feet of water…..walk on water…..”

I tell her to take her time, then cross to a boarded up seafood store and lock up my bike. It’s getting hard to hold a bottle in one hand and walk the bike with the other. The parade turns onto Jackson Avenue and I let it pass me so I can buy another beer. The guys I ask aren’t selling, but they point me across the street to another pick-up truck.

When I get there, a couple stands in the bed of the truck with a full bar’s worth of liquor sitting on the roof of the cab. They have gin, whiskey, schnapps, vodka, everything. I try to order a 7 and 7, but the woman asks me to explain what that is. As I do, a cop walks up.

“I got no problem with your operation,” he says, “but can you move it to the side a little, you’re blocking the street.”

So the truck backs up as the lady makes my 7 and 7, which turns out to be just gin and some flat seltzer water, no ice, in a small plastic cup. And as I hand up the money, it turns out she’s not a lady, but a man in some very basic drag, with long sideburns and a mustache and trucker’s cap.

“Thanks, baby,” I say.

I’ll admit, the last thing I need is gin, but I dug that operation, too. Anyway, things get a little hazy for the remainder of the day. The Indians and I move at about the same pace, so I see the same few tribes and band again and again, followed by the line of police horses. We walk in the street, the Indians vibrant and pulsating, many of the buildings windowless and weather-beaten. Chants rise up and braves dash about, regroup, strut, squat in wait.

At one point, I’m watching an Indian in all red feathers approach, and can hear only a tambourine. As he passes me, I hear a burst of sound from an un-costumed brass band; they look like one family, mother and 4 children, almost hidden behind the Indian’s headdress. Everywhere along the street, people whoop and call out, take photos and drink and smoke, take it easy in the holiday afternoon. Along with Mardi Gray Day, and maybe New Year’s Eve, this hour of walking feels as close as it can get to the pre-Katrina city I knew.

The funny thing is, it’s only in the extraordinary moments that things feel normal, like nothing happened.

On one stretch of Martin Luther King Drive, I stop to take in a very strange sight on the neutral ground. Someone has tricked out a convertible Mercedes coupe in ridiculous fashion. Not only is the light gray interior done up in what appears to be fake alligator, including the cup holder, but the gearshift is a fake pistol.

Yep, what looks to be a glock is mounted nose-down on the console. The doors of the coupe are vertical, ala the DeLorean, and in a true stroke of genius, three Chucky dolls stand in the back seat. The top is down and kids take turns jumping in the front seat for pictures. I start taking close-range self-portraits in various ill poses, arms crossed or cup of gin held up to my lips. I guess I’m causing a scene, because a few white kids come up and remark to me on how crazy the car is, alright.

“It’s the dumbest car ever,” I tell one.

“I love it!” he says. I move on.

At the corner of South Claiborne and MLK, a very ingenious person opened a large convenience store and gas station, with hip-hop clothing for sale on one side of the building. Most days, this is where day laborers, Latino and black, gather to wait for work. Today, the parking lot is full of speed bikes and their riders. Maybe 60 bikes are out there, taking up one whole corner of the parking lot.

I stand under the shade of the island and take them all in, then give Kim a call and give her my coordinates. I walk into the store to get more beer and water, and she meets me in there a few minutes later. Once again, I’m sure glad to see my woman. She can see I’m a little loopy and hands me the water, takes the beer.

We continue down MLK. The parade is thinning out as we go, the space between groups of Indians growing. Occasionally, we sit down and watch it pass, then get up and catch the tail. At one point we’re right next to the horses when we notice two white chicks wearing identical fluorescent green hats and armbands. The armbands read “ACLU,” and the girls carry clipboards.

“Say, what are y’all up to?” I ask.

“We’re here to monitor the police,” one tells me.

Apparently they accompany the cops at many parades, noting when they get out of line.

“What kind of stuff do you write down?”

“Well, like this right here.” She points to another line of horse cops who cross in front of a group of parade goers, almost running them over. I wish them luck and move on.

When we get to Jackson Avenue, I see a group of cops handcuffing a guy. It’s the beer man in the camouflage from before. A burned nub of blunt sits on his cooler. He isn’t resisting. That man probably made 700 bucks today, all right in front of that line of horse cops. If he hit that blunt, it must’ve been more than once. But now that we’re near the end of the parade, he’s under arrest. Seems like a convenient time for someone to pick up an easy $700, right?

“Fuck,” I say. I walk up fast and slip my card in his pocket, which is a stupid, futile thing to do. Kim gets the attention of the ACLU. We stand on the corner and swear. What a bunch of bullshit.

Across the street, a group of Indians in pink and brown feathers attempts to join the parade. A meeting of sorts ensues between what looks to be several chiefs of different tribes. There’s some posturing, the ritual plays out, and the new tribe joins the march.

If this was the beginning of the 20th century, this is the kind of run-in that could result in violence. Today, the argument is probably about the proper show of respect and order. Indians are serious about this and the disputes they have concern precedence and honoring past “maskers” and their teachings. The fierce defense of heritage might just save this whole place, and that’s why I follow the Indians. Of course, this stops the parade and causes the police cruisers to honk.

*CHECK OUT THE VIDEO*

We reach Marcus Garvey Park at Washington and S. Claiborne and push our way through one small gate in the fence. Inside, the whole parade—Indians and followers—fills in the lawn, drinking, inspecting costumes, lounging in the sun. On a stage at one edge of the park, a speaker informs us of a march on City Hall. I think about Ed Blakely, how he might have the right idea but how he should be here today if he’s really going to solve things.

After awhile, Kim and I agree we’re hungry and ought to be getting out of there. It takes long waits at two different, over-matched food trucks, but I get us an order of some pretty damn good fries. We walk down Claiborne to Jackson and head towards the river. In the middle of Jackson, a single Indian in royal blue and orange feathers marches in the early dusk.

“He’s like the King of Jackson Avenue,” I say.

A car with its flashers on follows him slowly and soon a line of cars trails lazily down the avenue behind them. Kim and I are talking, not paying attention, then we see the line of traffic has stopped. Some dude with short dreads and a bright orange shirt has stopped his Saturn behind the Indian, gotten out of the car, and challenged the driver of the car guarding the Indian. The driver keeps telling the dude to chill as the Indian looks on.

“Are you ready? Are you ready, bitch?” the dude in orange asks, fists now held up. The two of them are 10 feet from us. On the corner behind us, a group of men and children watches as the fight starts. Some punches are thrown, they lock up in a bear hug, the Indian’s driver down lower around the dude’s torso. Eventually they work their way to a telephone pole where the Indian comes up behind the dude and tries to pry him off.

“We oughta steal his car,” I joke, nodding at the idling Saturn.

The people on the corner continue to tell the dude to step away, as it’s now a stalemate. Kim and I start to walk away, but I turn once more to look back and see the dude’s head banging over and over against a parked car. The Indian’s driver really whips the dude’s ass, leaving him lying on the curb, struggling to get up. The Indian sits down on the hood of his friend’s car and they pull away, charioteer and chariot, disappearing down Jackson Avenue.

On the next block, a group of old ladies sits on a porch. They ask us what happened and we tell them. We all shake our heads.

“He should’ve known not to mess with that Indian,” I say to general assent.

“He does now,” Kim says.

Resurrecting the Golf

Where is Dr. Love?

I hurry past the French Market, scanning the crowd. Tourists drift by in healthy number, a good sign two weeks after Mardi Gras on a cool, overcast Sunday. Kim waits in the car outside Café Du Monde and when I reach her, she is still alone. Dr. Love is a no-show.

Which isn’t much of a surprise. The first time we told him of our plan, he protested the dangers involved.

“You know what an anaconda can do to you?”

Our second meeting took place Friday night, but Kim had to remind me on Saturday morning that we’d made a promise; I did remember Dr. Love and I talking in drunk-sincere tones. Now it’s Sunday, and Dr. Love hasn’t held up his end. Oh, well, he only had one club, anyway, and his fear of snakes seemed quite real.

Our plan: play a few holes at the golf course in City Park. We figured no one had swung a club there since the storm, so we’d likely be the first hackers to walk what now resembles the African Savannah. Dr. Love entered the picture when we met him at the Apple Barrel on Frenchman Street a few months ago and noticed him using two golf clubs as crutches. He was a slender black guy, looked to be around 65, and said he’d fought in Vietnam, the origin of his anaconda phobia. We were mostly interested in the clubs, though by Friday we’d already enlisted my friend, Tom, who had his own set, so now Dr. Love was the last member of our prospective foursome. But since he’d missed the meeting time, we continued on to Tom’s house in Lakeview.

(Click here for more photos)

Lakeview, as its name suggests, abuts Lake Ponchatrain. One of the city’s most exclusive neighborhoods, it was also among the hardest hit by the storm. And though Lakeview’s relative affluence means it’s recovering faster than similarly devastated areas, it’s still a mess, with blocks of gutted homes, restored homes, and muddy front yards. A decorated Vietnam veteran himself, and a lifelong pal of my father, Tom suffered heavy losses from the storm, with ten feet of floodwater completely destroying the first floor of his home. After being rescued from the second floor and spending time in Pittsburgh and in a friend’s house on the Riverbend, he moved back into his place about a month ago.

When we arrived, the golf clubs rested on the front porch. The set of Ping Zings had sat in the floodwater for 2 weeks and the bag still had some mildew on it, the heads and shafts of the clubs muddy and slightly rusted. A couple dozen Titleist balls were still in the pocket where Tom had stashed them prior to the storm, the head covers still sheathed the woods, and the grips were surprisingly intact. For this return to City Park, these were just the clubs we needed.

Before we left, Tom walked us down the block to show us “Desolation Row,” as he called it. Several identical shotgun houses stood in a line along an overgrown alleyway, all gutted, or so it appeared. We walked into the third house. It wasn’t gutted; in fact, it was barely touched.

Two playpens sat in the front room, along with a couch and coffee table, everything covered in mud and mold. A collection of men’s shirts still hung in the closet in the bedroom, and the bed still had sheets on it. In the next room, a wall of shelves heaved with warped books and dusty CD cases. A stereo, a desk, a bed, more CD’s, a poster of Charlie Parker, a map of Spain---all untouched. The kitchen was full of stacked dishes and all the markings of a busy life. We guessed that a young couple with two children had lived there.

The things they left behind, particularly the volumes of history and selection of jazz recordings, especially chilled me. This looks like my shit, I thought. I have that book; I own that CD. Whoever they were, these people never came back to get a thing; everything was as it was left before the storm. I’ve walked through a lot of freaky shit in the last few months, but this house of petrified life felt particularly creepy, like a nightmare where you recognize things you’ve never seen before in real life.

We left and walked back to Tom’s, put the clubs in the trunk of the LTD, and followed Tom’s directions to City Park.

The park’s driving range is open now, and when we pulled into the parking lot, we could see men hitting balls along the concrete porch. I took a towel from the car to wear under the bag strap to protect my sweater from the mildew, but soon found the strap’s velour more than clean enough.

As we walked to the first tee, Tom reminded me that this was the first hole I ever played in New Orleans, back in the late summer of 1995 when he and I and my father came out for nine. Now the tee markers were gone and the first fairway spread out before us in ruin. The grass looked burned, hay-colored with pockets of green weeds and mud hills. The oaks on either side of the fairway stood leafless and weathered, almost frazzled.

Tom unsheathed his driver for the first time since the storm, I pulled out a dusty three iron, and we handed Kim a sand wedge, as it was the shortest club in the bag. I dropped three balls onto the wiry grass and proceeded to stretch out a little and take practice swings. A non-golfer, Kim struck the first ball of the afternoon, and won a bet with Tom that she’d make contact on her first try, though the ball traveled only a few yards.

As Tom stepped up to make his first swing, a National Guard Humvee appeared at the end of the cart path. It proceeded slowly towards us, its tan body a perfect camouflage against the devastated landscape. Undeterred by the approaching patrol, Tom hit two balls in a row in the Humvee’s direction and we laughed about our “journalists” alibi. It was my turn and as I took a practice swing, the Humvee reached us.

“How y’all doing?” I called over my shoulder to the two soldiers. I heard no response and took my swing. The ball cut a bit to the right but the distance wasn’t bad at all. After watching the ball land, I turned to see the Humvee continuing down the cart path and into the parking lot. I felt like a phantom, like the soldiers didn’t even see us out there, like we were just ghosts of golfers past. Kim whacked her ball a few more yards, I picked up the bag, and the three of us made our way down the fairway.

The first thing we noticed was that this hole had been mowed at least once since the storm. Neighboring holes appeared more unkempt, but the grass on No. 1 was relatively low, though pocked with anthills. Every few yards we came upon another anthill, and though they looked dormant, a whack with a 3 iron revealed each to be populated by a swarm of fire ants. Those bastards are having a field day out at City Park and I was careful to avoid them for the rest of the afternoon.

Tire tracks ran down the middle of No. 1, though they appeared too narrow for a Humvee. Clusters of weeds and musk thistle hugged the edges of the fairway and sprouted here and there in the middle. The swamp is coming back. The centuries-old trees looked ghoulish and untamed. All over the fairway, insidiously and aimless, the spiky dandelions and soft clovers will take back this entire course in another year or two. The dead grass felt spongy and sprayed up each time one of us took a swing. We knew where the green was supposed to be and marched steadily towards it, knocking our Titleists as we went.

I hadn’t golfed in probably 4 years, but when I was a teenager I played semi-regularly for a few summers, mostly with my father. The game always struck me as too frustrating to enjoy, though I liked walking the freshly combed fairways and the feeling of striking the ball with the sweet spot of my club. My swing is decent enough, and I have a fair understanding of iron play and the proper velocity for certain shots.

Today, of course, this was all fairly pointless, and I took few practice swings, instead walking up to the ball, lining myself up, and hacking away. On No. 1, this worked fine, because the dead grass propped the ball up a bit off the ground, in effect teeing it up for each shot. Tom reached the green first, and when the three of us made it there, I pulled out the putter. The green was just as rough as the fairway, but the originally finer grass there had matted in different fashion, making it bumpy but fast enough to putt on. Tom selected a cropping of weeds in the center of the green as the hole, and we knocked our balls towards it. On the first hole, I’m guessing we took a total of 30-40 shots between us, and lost maybe 3 balls out of bounds. There was no pin to replace, and we made our way over to the ninth tee.

The ninth appeared completely untouched since the storm. The tee was thick with weeds separated by dried mud. We gave Kim the 3-iron and I took the sand wedge, skying up my first shot. As we began to walk, it quickly became evident that No. 9 was a total ball trap. The dried grass was a few inches thick, and walking was akin to trudging through fresh snow.

In the first 40 yards, we lost countless balls, as the grass swallowed them up. Several times, one of us would barely hit the ball, sending it two or three yards, then spend another 2 minutes trying to dig the ball out of the grass, into which it had settled like an egg in a nest. Large clumps of hay came up each time I swung, and several times I banged my club on the ground in faux-golfer fury, cutting a swath in the earth. No greenskeeper was there to catch me.

“Hey,” Tom reminded me. “A bad day on the golf course is better than a good day at the office.” Throughout the afternoon we made comments like that, complaining of slick greens, absent rangers, and thick rough, and citing “winter rules” when we made friendly drops or dug balls out of the grass. We joked a lot during the “round.”

On a deserted stretch of a park that 18 months ago sat under a few feet of water, I felt at times like we were at the bottom of the ocean, or on the surface of another planet. I’m almost certain that ours were the first clubs swung through that grass since the storm, and likely ours were the first feet to tread some stretches of that land. Yet our footsteps were light, we laughed at our location, the pace of play was dreamlike and unburdened by time or score.

The course may never come back, but we played on it this afternoon. To employ golf terms, we live in a city of hazards, of gaping wounds in the landscape and destruction that trivializes idyllic games and the idea of “par.” With so much of the city’s space crumbled and disfigured, it’s very hard to tell what’s off limits or out of bounds. At City Park, I felt like a humble pilgrim, ambling through a routine ritual that bore no resemblance to my soiled surroundings.

This happens now and again in New Orleans these days, a sensation that you’re uncovering a secret that sits in public view, or that you’re sneaking around in someone else’s house. More and more people return, but still there are vast expanses like City Park where nothing’s happened, and no one is around. The great thing about the golf course is that it’s public—anyone can go there, it belongs to all of us, it isn’t dangerous or up for grabs. So to swing a golf club there felt comforting, or rather, it felt like we were comforting the course, forgotten by a public with too much to worry about right now. And in a city where the rules are a source of frustration these days, we reveled in the freedom to make up the rules as we went along, to make believe we were out for a quick round of 3.

Eventually we reached a stretch of fairway that was slightly mowed and finished out No. 9. We decided to walk back to the car, stopping at the ranger’s station to inspect the empty hut. There was no door and Kim went in and looked out at us through the dirty glass like she was working a summer job. Inside, we found everything gone save for a lone plaque dedicated to the winner of some tournament’s “Flight D.”

IDEA FOR A TOURNAMENT: Nike or Titleist or some company should sponsor an “Extreme Golf Challenge,” bringing Tiger Woods and other golfers to play a few holes on the City Park course. The proceeds could go to restoring the park and the course and golf lessons for children. And I wonder how the pros would fare in conditions like this, which make Scotland look like a country club in Florida. Who wouldn’t pay to see that?

We drove to another section of the course, closer to the art museum, and teed off in front of a grove of immense oaks. As we set up for our second shots, a Siberian Husky or possibly a Malamute came running onto the fairway. It circled Kim and me, then crossed the road that runs through the course, and disappeared into the wilds.

“Look out for that wolf!’ I yelled at Tom, who was searching in vain for his ball under a tree. A minute later, the dog’s owner appeared, smoking a cigar and wearing all black. We directed him up the road, and after awhile he sauntered back across, wolf in tow.

On the green, we made our final shots into a cluster of clover and shook hands. “Good game.” Later at lunch, we promised to play on the first Sunday of every month, and I’m pretty sure we’re going to stick to that. As I said, golf never was my game, but this afternoon was different, something between golf and hiking, trespassing and reclamation. And I’m sure we’ll play better next round, knowing the lay of the land and all. Like a lot of things lately, we’ll just have to bring a lot of balls.