Pictures of Awesomeness.

In a break from Gustav ruminations, here are photos of our apartment. Did I mention it is awesome?








View from front door













Bedroom









Kitchen (note the tower of Charles Shaw. Six cases, my friends.)









Weird-ass kitchen ceiling. Pepto pink crowning absolutely unreachable shelves. Love it.










Hall of Bikes. Future dining room, perhaps.







Okay, Blogger makes picture posting pretty difficult, and it's late, so I'll have to continue tomorrow.

Gustav

12:30 a.m.
The wind is gradually increasing, and the dark night air is filling up with moisture, as Gustav approaches land. We are all suspended in a strange sort of anticipation – Ari and I and our friends have been stocking up on water, food, pet supplies, candles – nearly everything on hurricane preparedness lists. For the past three days, we’ve gone out to the grocery store and bought a few items, then decided that there are a few more things we need, and gone out again. It seems everyone has been approaching things this way, unsure of just how concerned to be, not wanting to get hysterical, but deciding to take precautions just in case. The weather forecasts prove that it is nearly impossible to provide accurate data on when the hurricane will hit and how strong it will be, as the predicted timing and intensity seems to change every half hour.
Governor Bobby Jindal and New Orleans Mayor Ray Nagin are busy doing what they can to whip up a frenzy. " ‘This is the real deal, this is not a test,’ Nagin said as he issued the [mandatory evacuation] order, warning residents that staying would be ‘one of the biggest mistakes you could make in your life.’ He emphasized that the city will not offer emergency services to anyone who chooses to stay behind.”
Nagin has, in other news coverage, claimed that the storm has a 900 mile footprint of hurricane-force winds – a claim the apparently utterly confused those at the National Weather Center. I figure some intern of his measured the clouds on a doppler map, or something. It may be that Nagin and Jindal are acting hysterical in order to scare people from the city, to keep them safe in case something happens, but I’m cynical, so I think they are both undergoing calculated efforts to make the storm bigger than it actually is, so that later they can illustrate how well they handled the emergency.
After Jindal made a particularly frenzied speech this afternoon, our friend and neighbor Brianne called us and the rest of our group of friends together to meet at her house and discuss what we were all going to do. It was really touching, and I felt fortunate to already be part of a caring knot of people who were going to help each other in any way necessary. There were six or so of us there, and we made plans for some to sleep in others’ houses – those who were likely to lose power for a while, and those who live alone and just wanted some company to ride it out. We made plans to grill any meat that would spoil, should we lose power for a significant period of time. Ari and I offered our house to anyone who needed a space, since we’re lucky enough to have a lot of room and mattresses, and our landlady Laura told us that we are on the same power grid as the Governor’s Mansion, and therefore should only be out a day or two, if at all. We called newcomers to the department who live alone and might like to join in, and, of course, we calculated how much beer and wine we all had, should we be looking at a serious respite from civilization. Hurricanes are a bit of an excuse to party, and the general idea is to be prepared and then assume a jaunty air. Brianne has a lovely pair of stylin’ “hurricane pants,” and I’m mulling over what pair I’d select.
Everyone is concerned but only a few are nervous, it seems, and only two are evacuating Baton Rouge, and they were (sort of) planning a trip anyway. As I said, there is a weird sort of anticipation, especially today, since it was so hot and still and pretty out (not overcast, not horribly humid). But the wind is moving in, and the predicted storm track certainly does indicate that we’re in for something. Meanwhile, the waiting is irritating because we’re all unsure what we’re waiting for – lots of wind and rain? A couple days without power? Or a few hours of sitting in the closet, listening to wind like a freightrain batter the house? I admit I started becoming concerned when Laura pointed out that the aforementioned closet is our safe place, should we need one.
The safe place, though, would have to be our bathroom, which is quite protected, despite the one window. The closet would be insufficient because our friends Andy and Starr have evacuated New Orleans and are staying with us, bringing three cats in tow. Starr also has a pet spider, whose name I can’t remember, which must be freaking Ari out a little, arachnaphobe he is.
It seems very strange to be designating safe spaces in the house, as well as to be planning to pack bags with emergency supplies tomorrow, should there be a need to evacuate even from here. I don’t think that is likely, but want to be ready if necessary. I do admit that if after all this preparation, the storm doesn’t do much at all, I will be kind of disappointed. Of course, I don’t want anyone hurt, but I’m ready for a serious event here.

Dare.

I was writing about adolescence today and I came out with this: Hormones are chemicals and chemicals are drugs and there's no opportunity to just say no.
I thought it pithy.

tuning back in

Okay, time to haul this thing off the procrastination pile before it dies a swift death. Were all those initial postings in the same day? Probably. I figure the first blog-remission is most often the fatal one, so I have high hopes that this particular post means I'm ready to get into the habit.
(Yes, I understand that the very nature of a remission, as it is usually conceived, means that said disease is not, at that time, fatal. I'm mixing metaphors or something. It's a late morning on a work day, though, so you can't expect much.)
I've leapt back on here because I just HAD to share this. Yes, sir: it's a breakfast manifesto about cereal. I found it while eating Cheerios with Ari and opining about the merits of Fiber One.
But seriously, people, it's pretty funny.
Cereal ruminations aside, Baton Rouge is being pretty welcoming this week. Yesterday I had my first banjo lesson, and it was really fun and not at all discouraging. I found my teacher, Garrett "Doc" McCutchan (described here as a "Cajun Santa Claus") while browsing at Circa 1857, a sprawling conglomeration of six shops arranged in a sort of courtyard, covering antiques, jewelry, cheaper junk furniture, a great cafe, and, perhaps best of all, fabulous architectural pieces salvaged from stately Southern homes, theatres, etc. There are all these huge windows, doors, fireplace mantels, and all kinds of weird random stuff just piled up outside (concrete alligators and flamingos by the dozen). It's crazy to think of all those amazing buildings torn down to make way for, probably, concrete Days Inns and such. Then again, there were probably homeless people peeing in a lot of them.
Anyway, 1857 is, on the whole, like a Cajun 305 South. We didn't find anything, but had fun exploring, and as we wound through one building a banjo started up. We found this older man playing at the speed of craziness, and perfectly looking the part of the banjo teacher I'd imagined. I waited behind the couple he was wowing, and then introduced myself and have now landed weekly appointments. He's $40/hour, which isn't bad. Yesterday's lesson lasted nearly two hours, in fact, and he still charged for only one. I'm hoping he maintains the habit of running over, as the trainer I shared with Mindy often did.
The lesson itself was actually held in the 1857 cafe (after closing). Doc told me some crazy stories and gave me some tips about music festivals both in town and outside of it (including a Celtic music weekend I'm seriously considering, in Jackson. Yes, Mississippi.). He also gave me a decent foundation in beginning banjo - I know four chords and can almost play a song.
I left 1857 really excited and happy, and must have been distracted because I missed the first turn-off for downtown and home, resulting in my having to loop around downtown (a good way of exploring, since I haven't been driving enough). I ran into a few runners (I mean, I saw them running as I drove by). The column became thicker and was clearly a club, so I followed the line of them up to where I found a few walkers. They were Happy's Running Club (they have an awesome logo), and are based out of a Irish bar. I'll be meeting up with them next Tuesday. Wish me luck, because I have been one lazy individual for the past month or so. One of them also suggested I run with the club from Varsity Sports (check out how cute their shop looks), which is apparently super-intense and meets four times per week. But she was clearly in the throes of some crazy running high, so I don't know if I really want to hang with them. I think Club South Runners, "The drinking club with a running problem" might be my best secondary option.
(Maybe that last link was one too many. But honestly, providing all these is helping me organize things, too. And it makes up for my current lack of photos - to be alleviated soon.)
In other news, we saw Chapel Hill band The Hold Steady last week, on the insistence of our landlady, Laura Mullen, whom we'd invited down for dinner that night. Needless to say, she is really awesome. The show was great, and packed, and the space was decent (Chelsea's Cafe), and I felt quite at home. I'd never managed to see The Hold Steady in Chapel Hill, in fact.
This started with a link to a cereal tasting and is on its way to novella status. Off to practice some chords, then schedule some meetings.

Paris, J'taime

I know you've all seen this, but still...

See more funny videos at Funny or Die

scooter jerky

Woke up this morning, stumbled out to the driveway to move my scooter for the first time since I arrived. Poor, lonely scooter you say? Indeed. But I need to get a handle on directions and such before venturing out and, really, I haven’t had the need. The fun stuff is downtown (biking distance), the practical stuff is down the highway. We took Ari’s car to our closest grocery store the other day – the place must be 10 miles away, at least. We also rented a movie on the same trip – from Blockbuster, our only option. Netflix will be our friend.
But about the scooter. I release the cable lock, hand it to Ari, and put the key in the ignition, only to find it strangely yielding. I wriggle the key a bit, but can’t turn it. I yank it out and inspect it, and find something that I identify, out loud, as “salt or something.” Of course, I figure this to be a moving casualty – lord knows tons of stuff got covered in spilled detergent, and salt could have leaked, too. I keep fiddling with the key, and I manage to get the scooter going, but not before I notice a pile of salt on my neighbor’s lawn, which begins just at the edge of our cement driveway. I saw said elderly neighbor's daughter out there the other day, presumably weeding and...scaring off slugs? And punks with motorcycles, who chain their machine to her mother's fence? (I did ask, for the record.) I’m feeling all Nancy Drew about this, but have no real evidence that my neighbor salted my scooter, nor do I have a motive. I do, however, have a hell of a time getting the key in or out now, and most likely will have to visit a mechanic (and really, I hate having to put my child in foreign hands).

catching up

(Tuesday, August 5, 2008)

After eleven days of hauling boxes and nesting bikes and placating cats, I’m starting to feel like I live here, in Baton Rouge. I biked to work this morning through the damp haze left by Edouard (how many vowels in that, again?) – whose lashing rain was probably the reason neither of us slept last night. It has cooled things off, although the air is still thick, and condensation clings to my AC-cooled bike as soon as I take it outside (as Alex S. said yesterday, “It’s not the heat that will get you, it’s everyone reminding you how humid it is.” Word.). My work location is Buzz Café, for the moment, until the fine people at Cocks Cable deem us worthy of internet installation – we ordered service just before leaving Carrboro – at least ten days ago. My route from home to here takes me through six blocks of our awesome neighborhood, Spanish Town (more later), and five or so blocks of staid, linear state buildings and banks, in different shades of grey, surrounded by neat green plots of grass. Downtown, this morning I saw exactly one person– an overweight woman hauling herself up the steps to a bank entrance, dressed for a desk job, holding a burlap-looking shoulder bag that says, “Jesus,” in big purple letters. In Spanishtown, I saw: mardi gras beads hanging from tree branches and power lines, three people lounging on porches (they all waved), Spanish moss, parrots hanging in cages on porches (two). And kudzu, of course. The road itself is asphalt in Spanish town and cement downtown – as I roll along, the swish, thump, swish, thump of passing from one section to another reminds me of college roadtrips to Myrtle Beach – I-85 into South Carolina is paved the same way (cement is cooler, I guess).
Time to break for work, and preserve this sweet deal that is my job.

blog the first

Here begins my chronicle of what are sure to be strange and lovely times in Baton Rouge, Louisiana - my new home, as of last Monday (July 28, 2008). I need an excuse to write something (nearly) every day, I'm lazy about emailing, and I want to capture the inevitable bizarro moments of living here. (On a side note, I'd support this lady, were she in my precinct. A babe, no?)
I'm new to the blog thing, so bear with me (pretend it's 2002 or something). It'll take me a few posts (or all of them) to settle on a tone.