June, 2009

When a musician dies in this town, he or she is sent off with a brass band and a parade. New Orleans knows how to put the fun in funeral.

Michael Jackson had no direct ties to the city, but as the King of Pop, deserved his own parade. (And this is New Orleans, where it seems the argument in favor of parading is “why not?”)

A band leads the parade and is followed by the “second line:” friends, neighbors, curious passersby who join the end of the parade and dance with parasols and handkerchiefs. In his recent book Nine Lives, Dan Baum calls the second line “the quintessential New Orleans art form — a jazz funeral without a body.”

The parade began at St. Bernard and Rampart and marched a mile north. The second line announcement was the most popular story for comments on NOLA.com. Most were negative, warning people they would be shot walking in that area. Rachel and I went anyway and we survived. In fact we didn’t see or hear of any violence. We did see a lot of people. Some grieved, their sadness printed on a t-shirt dedicated to Jackson. Others passed out beers, mingled within the crowd and made friends.

There were glittery gloves and fedoras. Cars blared Jackson hits as they drove by. The bands played “Billie Jean” and “Don’t Stop Till You Get Enough.” It didn’t even feel hot with the breeze.

Before the parade, a car drove by blasting MJ. This guy stopped traffic to break it down. Further down he climbed a building and danced on a pole. (Video on NOLA.com)

For this woman, a glove replaced the traditional handkerchief.

Signs, shirts and gloves were the acessories of choice.

RIP, May God bless! (The other side said RIP Isaac Hayes. These are tough economic times…)

New Orleans set a new record for hottest day last Wednesday. A 104 degree temperature was recorded at Audubon Park. That afternoon my car’s thermostat read 109. After driving for 10 minutes, it only went down to 102.

Even in this heat, there are things to do, places to go. At yesterday’s Palmer Park artists market, I spotted an older lady who was showing signs of heat exhaustion (thank you, 6 years of First Aid/CPR certification!) and got her to a cooler place with cool water and air. I only stayed about 30 minutes.

Like I said last week, air conditioning is a necessity. Another is the snowball. A snowball is not a snow cone; it is better. Finely shaved ice is drenched in flavored syrup and best when topped with condensed milk. There are dozens and dozens of flavors, but plain strawberry is my favorite.

I had a pink lemonade snowball at the market and it was so hot we went for seconds in the afternoon. However, the line outside Hansen’s Sno-Bliz was too long, so we went to the supermarket down the street instead, bought a watermelon and ate half of it. It did the trick, but it will be a few days before I eat watermelon again.

The average high temperature forecast for this week is 97. The humidity won’t dip below 70%. The UV index is “10+ Extreme,” which I don’t think I’ve ever experienced before. The ice in my glass melts in a few minutes. And that’s inside the house, which is cooled by two central air conditioning units.

I realized if I want to be comfortable on my jogs I either need to wake up at 5 a.m. or wait until 10 p.m. when it cools down to about 80. The third solution, which I chose during my days of funemployment, was to wake up at 5, skip the jog and go back to sleep until 9. Now that I found a summer job, it looks like I’ll be up at 5 and stay up.

Air conditioning is a strange addition to New Orleans. I’ve concluded that southerners aren’t used to the heat; they’re used to the air conditioning. Every home and store is freezing cold — or at least it feels that way after leaving the 100 degree heat. After living in a house with poor insulation for 18 months, I don’t know what to do with myself in constant coldness. It doesn’t feel right to sit in a 79 degree room on a sunny summer day. But I’m definitely not going outside.

I finally got out and had a real weekend. My college friend Monica who was in town for a bachelorette party. She invited me to tag along for lunch at John Besh’s Restaurant August. The service was solid and the meal was fabulous: to start, a salad with crawfish and citrus fruits and for the entree, braised lamb with eggplant ravioli and heirloom tomatoes. We also tasted five desserts: chocolate doberge cake with blood orange sorbet, peach upside down cake with blueberry ice cream, fruit ambrosia with lemongrass sorbet (which was excellent), chocolate napoleon with dark and milk chocolate layers and a blackberry flan-like custard blackberries — my fave. Chef Michael even came out to thank us.

There were three festivals going on at the same time, which is no unusual feat for Louisiana. However, this weekend all three were lined up in a row along Decatur Street in the French Quarter. Treats from the Louisisana Seafood Festival and Creole Tomato Festival were supported by the sounds of the Louisiana Cajun-Zydeco Festival. Louisiana wins for best festival/fair food. No corn dogs, but instead Creole tomatoes stuffed with shrimp remoulade, crawfish, blue cheese, whatever you want. In between volunteering and finishing my bike, I stopped at the festivals. They were a good stop for lunch and time with Monica.

On Saturday night, the band I wrote about, the New Orleans Moonshiners were playing at dba on Frenchmen, followed by the Zydepunks. Alex and I went, watched, unwound from the week — he worked and I looked for work — with summer brews and a giant burrito from the taco truck. The bachelorette party met us there on their way to forgetting the upcoming wedding. Sunday was lazy, with the Sunday Times, coffee and brunch, capped off with a cookout with my roommate’s college friends.

A full, varied weekend — another example of the neverending options in this city. Bourbon Street is easily accessible but so is everything else, if you can just remember when and where it is.

My fingernails are still dirty and the grease probably won’t come out of my t-shirt, but it was worth it for putting together my very own bicycle from scraps.

After looking at several used bikes around the city, I decided to check out the Plan B bike co-op. The shop is intended to be a public place for people to work on their bikes. Tools are available for use and spare parts can be bought for cheap. I walked in with no idea how to fix more than a flat tire. I found a red Schwinn body that looked just like the last bike I looked at buying.

The racks were all taken, but luckily one guy was finishing up with his bike and offered to help me get started. His name was Mike and he’s a street performer. If you’re in the French Quarter, look for the golden cowboy nearby the silver robot (that’s his friend.) Very chivalric, the way he offered to do everything on the bike. But soon he left and I was on my own, with the amazing help of the two overworked guys on duty.

For the next two hours, I fumbled with wrenches and bolts and ended up with something that looks like a bike. (New wheels, tubes, tires, chain, cleaning)

I still have to find a good seat and tighten the brakes. Hopefully I can fix those things Saturday afternoon and ride my new bike home.