Ashton Daigle

Terminal Sunset - Chapter 2

admin — Sun, 05 Sep 2010 22:17:47 +0000

The driver doesn’t say much on the ride to the hotel, which, as far as I was concerned, was a good thing. I spent the majority of the time in the back of his Expedition, trying to nod off, to find some semblance of relaxation. But it just wasn’t happening.

The driver had the radio turned on low, Natalie Merchant, singing Carnival, a song I used to like, a song I even danced to when I was…in another life. I feel like tears are going to well up, but the SUV lurches at a stop at a stop light on West Esplanade.

“Sorry bro,” the driver tells me. “I was going to try to make it through the yellow, but I remembered they have all these fucking camera lights up now. My bad dude.”

“No problem,” I mutter, uncapping a bottle of Desani water and drinking it.

Suddenly he reaches over the seat and hands me an envelope, just as we’re about to pull up at my hotel, a Marriot I think, which overlooks Lake Pontchartrain right at the foot of the Causeway bridge.

I take it, open it and see the ounce of coke in a sealed baggie.

“Do I owe you anything?” I ask him.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about man,” he said. “I was just told to give you the envelope. You have any other bags? You need anything else?”

“Yeah, actually I do,” I tell him. “I know it’s late. Well, early actually. But I’m not ready to pack it in. Can you keep driving?”

The driver looks puzzled because, I guess, this wasn’t part of the itinerary.

“Well, I guess so,” he said. “You got anywhere special you want to go?”

“Just cross the Causeway, to Mandeville,” I tell him. “I want to see the sun rise.”

“The sun rise?” he asks dubiously.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “You know, I used to live here.”

“Where?” he asks me, a little too abruptly, a little too friendly for my taste and my hand clenches into a fist, squeezing the seatbelt in my hand.

“North shore,” I say, refusing to elaborate any further. “Besides, I need to find an open pharmacy, the one back there near Esplanade and Severn was closed. I’ll give you extra money if that’s what you need.”

“No,” he said. “There’s no need for that. You’re the boss, I’m just the driver.”

“Which sucks for both of us,” I tell him. “I’m a full grown capable man. I’m able to drive myself. This is just Rita…Fucking pretentious. Tell her first thing in the morning I don’t want you. I don’t want any fucking drivers. I want my own car. I’ll go rent one if I fucking have to.”

“Was it something I said?” the guy asked. “Because if it was, I didn’t mean nothing by it.”

“No it’s not you,” I tell him. “It’s just been a long day, a long night, a long fucking life. Just get me to Mandeville.”

With that, I lean back in my set, close my eyes to slits and power down my iPhone. I then check my pocket to make sure my other cell is there. It is, but I don’t power it up. Not yet.

Through half-closed eyes I look out over the darkened waters of Lake Pontchartrain and dream without really sleeping.

We make it to Mandeville in pretty good time. I tell the driver to go up to U.S. 190 and hang a right. Past the Old Navy store and Barnes and Noble is a Walgreens. He parks and I get out. I ask him if he needs anything and he tells me no, he’s cool and I trudge into the store.

The lighting inside Walgreens is painfully bright for four-forty in the damned morning. I move to slip my shades on but, instead just hang them on the collar of my shirt because…

Well, because I don’t want to look like a coke zombie in the middle of Bedroom Community America.

Shopping is one of the most difficult, but therapeutic things I do. And I don’t mean this to mean that spending money makes me feel good. It usually doesn’t. As a rule, I hate spending money. But there’s something about going through the motions, scanning the aisles, looking for things I need that one – that gives me a certain sense of empowerment because, hey, I’m out. I’m doing it on my own.

There’s also a certain sense of normalcy, maybe that’s it, that I feel I can still cling to when I walk the aisles just like everyone else. It reeks of desperation sometimes. I think I know this. I’m not deluding myself. But sometimes, simply put. It’s all I have.

Somewhere, from high above on very low volumes, the Goo Goo Dolls are belting out Iris. And I wish it were lower because the song seems to only punctuate, accentuate is probably the word I’m looking for….my lonely state.

Drug stores are a little harder than grocery stores to deal with. Not that I didn’t shop in both before everything was broken.

No, we are broken Trevor. You broke us, the voice of accusation. Accusatory or not, it’s usually right.

I ignore it. As I was saying, the pharmacy is harder than the grocery. It was at the pharmacy where I made late night runs to pick up chocolate, or tampons if needed. It was the pharmacy where we’d pick up all of our rolls of film. That is before, everything went digital It was the drugstore, where after school, the kids would beg me to stop so they could check out the comic book aisle.

The grocery is a little less intimate, more neutral.

I make my way back to the pharmacy, reach into my wallet and produce two prescriptions, one for Klonopin, the other for sinus infections. The pharmacist glances at it, and then gives me this quick up and down once-over that’s no doubt given to rattle me somehow.

Fucking prick. It’s enough to make me want to pour a line out on his counter in front of him, snort it and tell him to hurry up with my script. But I don’t, of course.

“When will you be picking this up?” he asks

“Now,” I said, a slight irritated edge in my voice. “And I’m a little pressed for time too, I have a gallery opening in three days. So if you don’t mind speed it up a little there bud.

This takes him aback and he quickly dismounted the pharmaceutical high horse he’d been riding.

“Yes sir,” he says, quickly filling the order.

A few moments later he asks me, “How will you be paying for this tonight?”

I roll my eyes at him and remove a thousand dollar bill.

“It’s the lowest thing I’ve got, or can’t you make change?” I ask.

“I think I can,” he says, stepping out of view. Several minutes later he returns and counts me out my change.

I take my packages and leave. I grab two Arizona blueberry teas, out of habit on the way out. I’m horrified when I look down and see them in my hand. And then I feel guilty for feeling horrified. I ay for them and walk back out to my waiting driver.

Terminal Sunsets Chapter 1

admin — Sun, 05 Sep 2010 04:20:07 +0000

The thing I’ll always remember the most growing up in southern Louisiana is the heat. It is like an entity unto itself, thick and dense, seeping into your every pore until it washes you away like the ebb and flow of the Mississippi River, the smell of piss in Pirate’s Alley on a late Saturday night.

It’s also the first thing I feel when I exit the door of the plane and step onto the metal, closed-off jet-way leading to the gate and terminal.

I’m wearing loose-fitting jeans, a black oversized New Orleans Saints hoodie and sunglasses, lugging my laptop inside a briefcase in one hand and an army green duffel bag in the other. I catch a glimpse of myself in the glass once I reach the terminal, as I lift my shades. My eyes are swollen, sunk in and red, as if those opposing alignments are even possible.

But hey, I figure. It’s New Orleans. Anything’s possible. And this thought makes me want to veer off to the nearest restroom and snort the half gram of blow I successfully hid in an empty Splenda packet back at the layover in Memphis.

But I don’t. Instead I glance at the other wary stragglers filing off my plane and realize I really don’t look much worse for wear than any of them do. Not even the asthmatic power broker who sat behind me on the flight who kept ramming his knees into my back the whole ride here while he bored the lady who sat next to him with Fantasy Football strategies for most of the ride.

I accidentally (or was it really?) smacked him in the head when I retrieved my duffel bag from the overhead compartment when we were debarking. He just looked at me like I was insane.

“I just offered a tired smile at him and muttered, “My bad.” He cursed me under his breath, rolling his eyes in an exaggerated gesture to impress the girl who’d ridden next to him. She, in turn, rolled her eyes at him and realizing he’d been doubly rebuked, called us both assholes as he pushed his way past us.

“Hey,” I called out to him as he tried to storm off, but wasn’t able to because of the narrow aisle.

“What?” he asked, sounding sincerely irritated at this point.

“There’s an ap for that,” I said, chuckling.

“Oh sure,” he said. “Everybody’s a god damned comedian. I can’t wait to leave this shithole Monday.

I plug my headphones into my iPhone and listen to The Plimsouls, singing Oldest Story in the World. And, for whatever reasons, this makes me feel better and I make my way toward the ground level as I check my text messages.

There’s one from Martin, of course: “What up my nigga? Lets do lunch.”

There are also a few frantic texts from Rita, that don’t make a lot of sense. Phone rings and I answer.

It’s my driver. He tells me he’s making the loop outside, driving a black Suburban. He asks me if I have luggage and I tell him, “No, already sent it to my room. Thanks anyway. I’ll see you in a second.”

I also have a voice mail from Jack, back in New York City, who tells me the big check hasn’t cleared yet, but that $5,000 has already been wired to the hotel and that it should be waiting for me.

I see an airport logo somewhere and realize New Orleans International Airport has been re-named to Louis Armstrong National Airport. I try to grin, to shrug it off, but I have a sense of impending apprehension – as if this is some sort of conspiracy personally aimed at me, which is ridiculous, right? But I can’t shake it.

I grip my duffel bag tighter in my hand as I walk outside and spot my ride, Plimsouls end and Mystikal’s Danger comes on, adding a little false swagger to my walk as I climb into the black Suburban into what’s left of this sticky, hot New Orleans night.

Hotel California - Chapter 1

admin — Wed, 23 Jun 2010 03:14:00 +0000

Chapter 1

The decision to leave came suddenly and without great warning or planning. If anything it was more of an afterthought as he stood in a convenience store near the corner of Sepulveda and El Segundo boulevards.

“Just leave,” he’d almost murmured to himself. “No ifs, ans, buts or goodbyes- just leave.”

And, with that, he began collecting a few items he’d need, a few cases of bottled water, an extra gas can, munchies and lots of beer. He’d almost made it through checkout before the cashier, a young stoner named Stan, did a double take.

“Hey man, aren’t you like that guy?” he stammered.

This happened too often, more often than Keith cared to admit. He tried to play dumb, but a slight grin crept across his face.

“What guy?” he asked coyly.

“You know, the guy from Gateway,” Stan exclaimed. “Keith. Keith Vincent.”

“Not any more,” Keith said. “I used to be, but I’m someone else now.”

Stan looked at him, confused at first and then also grinning.

“Oh I get it now,” Stan said. “You’re incognition.”

Keith laughed despite himself, at the kid’s mispronunciation.

“You’re going under ground,” the kid continued. “I can dig that. I don’t blame you man. It’s just like you said at the MTV music awards man, fuck this shit. I wish I could do that. Just say fuck it and disappear. A lot of your fans dig what you did man. Fuck the music industry. You hit the nail on the head.”

Suddenly, Keith had had enough.

“Look man, you really don’t know what the fuck you’re rambling on about, so just drop it,” he said.

Shot down, Stan shut up.

“That’s cool, but you don’t have to be a dick about it man,” Stan said. “You owe me $48.76.”

Keith slid the guy a hundred dollar bill and walked away carrying his supplies.

Now, a day later at the southeastern tip of the California Arizona border, Keith Vincent had another decision to make – would he continue south into Mexico or head east, into the desert, into Arizona.

The kilo of cocaine and half pound of pot he was carrying made that a no-brainer. He wasn’t about to try to cross the border with the drugs. At one of the last border towns he came to before the junction, he gassed the van up, marveling at the purple-pink sunset.

How long had it been since he’d just taken a time out to marvel at a sunset? He couldn’t remember. And this conclusion nearly brought him to tears. He hung the gas nozzle back up, paid and then lit a joint as he pulled out of the small gas station.

He drove slow, deeply inhaling the marijuana smoke, still staring at the sunset. It had to be the most magnificent sunset he had ever seen. Finally as the sun sank over the western horizon, only a small burning dot of red now, he turned onto U.S. 98, heading away from the ending day.

When Keith initially began his journey, he thought boredom was going to be a problem. Of course, the blow and pot would help ease the time, but at the core of it all it was companionship he knew he wanted. That was why, the night before, he’d suggested to Sully that the two of them go to Vegas together. However, an hour or two later, when Sully was so loaded he couldn’t speak, Keith knew that wasn’t the sort of companionship he needed.

In fact it was companionship, the primal urge to understand people and to be understood by others, which prompted him to get in his van and start driving. There was no understanding, either way, in the world that he was leaving behind - only pain and misery.

As he drove through the desert night, the idea of boredom arose again, but only as a passing afterthought. His old cheap tape deck had kept him company through most of his voyage down the southern tip of California. But was he headed east on U.S. 98 his head was filled with a different type of music and a different type of freedom.

Shortly after he gassed up and started out on U.S. 98, his cell phone began ringing incessantly. It meant that people back there had realized his absence. It would still be a day or two, he figured, until they realized he had no intention whatsoever of returning. In a final and ceremonial act of departure, Keith muted the ringer on his phone and then heaved it out into the desert, laughing as he did so.

Now he was truly free and he cheered, laughed and reveled in it. There were no rest areas or exits on the highway, but by the same token there were no other cars either. If he wanted to take a piss, he pulled over, got out the van and pissed on the side of the road. If he had to take a dump, he did the same thing. If he wanted to roll a joint or snort a big fat rail, he just pulled over and did so.

There was nothing – no life, no cars, no law – absolutely nothing that could stop him. He was beyond all that now. And the idea that eventually the road would end or return him to civilization of some sort filled him with great sadness.

At around midnight, he got sleepy and decided to pull over for a nap. Surely, he had enough cocaine with him to keep driving for days. However, this departure was also about rest and rejuvenation. He’d been driving for miles but had seen no sign of an exit anywhere. He had some concerns over a stray cop pulling over to check him out. They wouldn’t be too thrilled to find the coke or pot. However, he was still in America. He could deal with American laws and police. It was the idea of facing a Mexican firing squad that bothered him slightly.

On this dark and deserted highway, it halfway seemed like it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that he could drift off, make an absent-minded left turn and, somehow, end up in Mexico. This would not be good. No - far from it. His mind wandered even further and he imagined Mexican police, or military guys (if there was really any difference) tearing his van apart as they trained black market M-16’s and AK-47’s and Uzi’s on him.

However, just as quickly as he conjured those images in his mind, he dismissed them, halfway murmuring to himself, “Just don’t stray from this road dude and everything will be all right.”

Somehow, for some reason, this thought made everything all right. He was incognition. For whatever reasons, he was on this road. It could mean heaven or it could mean hell; but the important thing was that he was on it. Nothing else mattered now.

When he saw the “Rest Area 1 Mile” sign it was close to two in the morning – according to the watch Tara had given him at lunch on the day she broke the news to him that she’d gone to the county courthouse on Wilshire and filed the divorce papers. He never wore the damned thing, a fact, he figured, she knew in advance before buying it for him.

“I bought it for you for your birthday, but somehow it got lost in the shuffle,” she said, ashamed and sheepishly, as if somehow, this offense was worse than going down to the courthouse and filing for divorce.

“Thanks,” he’d answered, playing along just for the sheer sake of playing along.

From that point, after that lunch, the watch was stripped from its box and tossed into the built-in plastic console of his van where it sat, collecting dust, ash and gunk from spilled soft drinks and beers.

In a way, he knew, the damned watch was like a symbol of their whole doomed relationship. Tara had a thing about being on time. Keith, on the other hand, had a severe problem with tardiness.

“It’s genetic, I assure you,” he used to tell her. “It’s something I can’t control. It’s hard-wired into my system.”

It had been funny then, but not so much now, with afterthought. Tardiness, although a contributing factor, wasn’t the reason Tara divorced him. However, time was. As he gently nudged the accelerator of the van, while dipping his forefinger into the coffee can nestled between his legs, with the cocaine in it, he could literally count the number of sentences she’d used during their relationship (the total count: in-fucking-finity) with the word “time” in it.

“There’s not enough time in the day.”

“I need more me time”

“I need more us time”

To which he often wondered, and maybe verbalized a time or two, much to her chagrin, “Make up your mind, do you want us time or you time?”

Of course, much to Tara’s chagrin, Keith had his own favorite time sentences too.

“Time, time, time is on my side,” compliments of the Stones. “Time keeps on slipping, slipping, slipping, into the future,” compliments of the Steve Miller Band. And, his all-time favorite, compliments of Star Trek no less, “time is the fire in which we burn.”

The more he thought about it though, the more it began to bum him out. It wasn’t so much the memories of Tara, though, that bummed him out, as it was the concept of time itself, and it’s many constraints. He wanted to be free of that.

So after he pulled into the rest area to go use the bathroom, when he ran into a lone night guard guarding what (a row of ancient vending machines, he asked the guy, “You want to buy a watch man?”

The guard looked at him almost as if he were a leper, then nodded slightly, unsure and asked, “What you got?”

There was something in the guard’s body language that pricked at Keith’s psyche, though that forced him to re-evaluate the entire situation.

“Did I say buy?” Keith said aloud. “My mistake, my man. Here’s the deal. I want to pay you to take this watch.”

Keith held the watch out for the guard to examine.

“What’s wrong with it?” the guard asked.

“Nothing, it works fine,” Keith said. “It’s nothing fancy. It’s not a Rolex or anything, but it’s been a good watch.”

“And you want to pay me to take it,” the guard asked, still skeptical. “Is it stolen?”

“No,” Keith said. “It was a gift. It was a gift actually. It was given to me by a lady.”

The guard finally nodded and muttered, “Oh, I think I get it now. She done you wrong.”

Keith reflected on this for a moment and then shook his head no.

“No, not really,” Keith said. “If anything, we did each other wrong. But that’s not why I want to get rid of it.”

“Well, why do you?” the guard asked.

Keith almost couldn’t believe this, and he almost had to resist the urge to scream, “Do you want the fucking watch or what?” But the sensation passed quickly and was replaced, instead, by an intense calm.

“I’m don’t need time where I’m going,” Keith finally said thoughtfully.

“You ain’t going to go out and do something stupid are you?” the guard asked. “You’re not gonna go blow your brains out in the men’s room.”

“No, nothing like that,” Keith said.

“Good, because I’m the janitor here too,” the guard said. “And I sure as shit don’t feel like cleaning up brains tonight.”

With that, Keith handed the guard the watch and a five hundred dollar bill.

The guard looked at the bill incredulously and asked, “You sure this is right mister?”

“Yeah,” said Keith as he turned to walk away, back to the van.

“Hey mister, don’t you have to use the bathroom?” the guard asked.

“Nah, it was just a fart,” Keith said.

He climbed into the van and accelerated gently back out onto the dark and empty highway.

Treme Episode 2 - Musings

admin — Mon, 19 Apr 2010 06:13:22 +0000

In episode 2 we’re definitely more embroiled in things this week…the story lines are starting to gel. Full review of the episode is pending. These are immediate gut reactions.

The street duo talking to the Wisconsonites was one of the dialogues, as brief as it was, that hit home for me tonight…the cynical partner of the Violinist, calling them out on the Lower Nine “attraction” for lack of better words.

I think his point ultimately was that there was devastation all around….but that damned media again, focused on the dome, convention center, Lakeview and the 9th ward whereas a whole lot of other areas were glossed over, or just plain old ignored….One concern I have currently with the show is that viewers will get the impression that New Orleans is still a washed out wasteland. Sure, some areas have come along better than others. But we have made tremendous progress and, truth be told, the Treme crew actually went into some areas to “re-create” the destruction wrought by Katrina

Goodman had a line last week about what happened along the gulf coast was a god-made disaster; whereas the breaching of the New Orelans levee system was a man-made fuckup of epic proportions…and as true as that may be, it leaves a bitter taste in the mouths of those of us who weren’t in NOLA proper, but who still got the shit kicked out of us in other areas…like for example the North Shore, namely east St. Tammany….the negligence there and lack of any true levee system there also, in my opinion, borders on the criminal….I’ve got a link to 2 flood protection stories here that i wrote, ashtondaigle.com, that bring it all home….the more the levees are built up in NOLA, waters gonna have to drain somewhere…..But I’ve digressed…we were talkin Treme….good show…and I hope it continues to open dialogue

Flood Protection 2

admin — Mon, 19 Apr 2010 06:04:39 +0000

Flood gates, levees and improved drainage ways may be part of the solution for flood protection in southeast Louisiana, specifically the northshore. However, more and more experts agree that the topic of flood protection is essentially a moot point, if it does not address coastal erosion and restoration.

Lake Pontchartrain Basin Foundation Executive Director Carlton Dufrechou, for one, said now, more so than ever, there is a heightened awareness of the importance of coastal restoration.

“If there is any good to come out of Hurricane Katrina, which is hard to find no matter how you look at it, it’s that coastal restoration is now at the forefront of everyone’s attention,” Dufrechou said. “I truly think people are a lot more aware now as to what a crucial role coastal restoration has in flood protection. I think everyone, from the state level to the federal government and U.S. army Corps of Engineers, realizes that any flood protection plan now has to go hand in hand. That’s very positive.”

The amount of Louisiana coastline lost during Hurricane Katrina was unprecedented. Over a 30-hour period, which included Katrina’s approach, landfall and immediate aftermath, a 79.2 square miles of coastline was lost. To put it into perspective, Dufrechou said, the typical loss of coastline in a single year averages approximately 20 to 25 square miles annually.

“We lost three times that during Katrina,” Dufrechou said. “That’s an astronomical rate. I don’t know that that’s ever happened in Louisiana’s history. In fact, we’re pretty sure a rate that high has never even documented on this planet. That’s how significant this was.”

While the majority of the land loss was on the southshore, Dufrechou said there was significant land loss during Katrina on the northshore too, both at Goose Point, near Lacombe and along the Pearl River.

Lake Pontchartrain began forming about 5,000 years ago when North American glacier melts caused the Mississippi River to swell and shift to the east. The river began depositing its sediments into the Gulf of Mexico, creating a broad delta that would later become Orleans, St. Bernard, and Plaquemines Parishes. The delta grew slowly eastward over 2,000 years and eventually separated a large body of water from the Gulf.

Dufrechou said the southshore has essentially always been sinking slightly each year as time moves on. However, before the interference of man, dirt, rocks and sediments deposited by the winding Mississippi River used to replenish land loss.

The first major blow to this naturally occurring phenomenon came after the Flood of 1927, according to Dufrechou. Following the 1927 flood, the United States government stepped in and decided to wall in the river.

“Subsidence was always offset by vegetation and the deposit of sediments when the river overflowed,” he said. “But when the river was built up, this completely cut off sediment deposits to surrounding marshes.”

Also at around this time, in 1924, was the opening of the Inner Harbor Navigation Canal, or the Industrial Canal, which linked the Mississippi River with Lake Pontchartrain.

However, the biggest blow to ecology of the Lake Pontchartrain Basin, and to the future of Louisiana’s coastline, according to Dufrechou, was the dredging and opening of the Mississippi River Gulf Outlet. The MRGO, as it has since become known as, opened in 1963, as a way to provide a short cut for shipping from the Gulf of Mexico to New Orleans.

“To give an idea as to how massive an undertaking this was, more sediments were dredged during construction of the MRGO then there were during construction of The Panama Canal,” Dufrechou said. Dredging of the MRGO lasted from around 1956 until 1963.

“It completely bisected the coast from New Orleans East all the way down to Breton Sound,” Dufrechou said. “This completely changed the hydrology of the entire Louisiana coast. The salty waters of the Gulf of Mexico continued to encroach. Fresh water swamps turned to brackish waters. And the result was that they lost more vegetation. The coast simply couldn’t regenerate.”

Another result of the man-made interference, leading to coastal loss, has been increased vulnerability to tropical storms and hurricanes. According to Dufrechou, the Louisiana coast is more vulnerable today than it has ever been.

“Just take a look at the differences between hurricanes Katrina and Betsy,” Dufrechou said. “Katrina was a much larger storm, but Betsy was a stronger wind storm. The major difference between then and now, is that we had a much stronger coastline in place then. Now, some 50 years later, that coastline has disintegrated. The coast, including the barrier islands, is the first line of defense.”

In recent years, even before Katrina, Dufrechou said he has noticed that Lake Pontchartrain had been more impacted by smaller storms.

“It was Georges, around 1998, that really caused me to raise my eyebrows,” he said. “The surge impacts with that storm were more than I ever imagined they could have been.”\

Dufrechou said he has seen models for similar, and even smaller, less powerful hurricanes than Katrina, and that those models have projected tidal surges could possibly increase by 25 to 50 percent.

Former Slidell Mayor Sam Caruso agreed, and shared his concerns. “I really don’t understand why we’re still talking about this,” Caruso said. “Here we are, almost two years out from Hurricane Katrina and there still isn’t an ounce of additional protection now for the northshore.”

According to Caruso, a plan that was very similar to one now proposed by The Corps of Engineers, which would create a system of flood gates at the Rigolets and Chef Pass, that Parish President Kevin Davis is still attempting to secure federal funding for, was proposed once before, in the early 1970’s.

“That wasn’t a bad plan,” Caruso said. “To my recollection, we were all signed off on it. The Corps design was completed. Funds were in place and they were basically ready to put the thing out to bid.”

According to Caruso, a group of residents opposed to the project, filed a lawsuit that claimed the project would, in a nutshell, cause flooding in other areas and create a “dead lake” out of Pontchartrain and its surrounding basin.

“The residents eventually won the lawsuit, and the project was shelved,” Caruso said. “Now, according to my contacts at the Corps, they’ve re-designed this thing, but funding has become an issue. Absent this project, you’re never going to have flood protection for this area.”

Meanwhile, Davis said he is optimistic that plans for a system of levees that would stretch from the Rigolets to the Pearl River, which would include a gate system at the Rigolets and at the Chef Pass, could begin within the next few years.

Davis said he and the parish engineering department has shared existing watershed studies with the Corps and that they have taken part in meetings with the Corps to develop and design plans for flood protection for the northshore.

Davis stated funding for the project was an issue, but noted he will continue to lobby for support at the federal level.

Dufrechou, however, said he is not sure that a flood gate system at the Rigolets and Chef Pass was an end-all, cure-all solution to flooding on the northshore.

Dufrechou said the new proposed Corps project, definitely has more merit than its litigated, 1970’s predecessor.

“There were gates proposed at the two passes, but in reality, the design was really more like a walling up of the lake,” Dufrechou said. “Aside from possibly not stopping flooding in certain areas, this project too, not unlike the MRGO, would have completely altered the ecology of the lake and its basin.”

The newly proposed project, Dufrechou said, is a worthy one.

“But because of the lake’s tendency to “tilt”, depending on the direction of the winds, I still don’t know that it will completely solve the problem,” Dufrechou said. “I guess I’d need to see more information to make me think otherwise.”

While that project is still several years in the future, both Dufrechou and Caruso said there are steps that can be taken today that would help.

Caruso, for one, said he is glad to see the concepts of flood protection and coastal restoration being treated as a single, inseparable topic.

“That in itself, to me, is a sign that we’re headed in the right direction,” Caruso said. “I’m glad we’ve finally opened our eyes and decided the two are one in the same.”

“Specifically, Dufrechou said there are a number of things that could be done that could make an immediate difference.

“The first is to plug the MRGO at Bayou LaLoutre,” Dufrechou said. “That would have an immediate impact, for the better, for the coast.”

Another project, he said, would be to re-introduce river water in the waterways near Violet. This, he said, would help push salinity levels back, thus giving vegetation a chance to make a needed comeback. Also, enhancing oyster reefs and creating more artificial reefs could also help.

“The thing about all this, whether you’re talking man-made flood gates or natural restoration of waterways, is that it’s all going to take a little time,” Dufrechou concluded. “They say these hurricanes we’re seeing now run in cycles. We might have five or ten more years of this. If that ends up being the case, time is an asset we don’t really have a lot of.”

Flood Protection 1

admin — Mon, 19 Apr 2010 05:48:06 +0000

When Hurricane Katrina blew ashore in August 2005, new shorelines were made in many of the low-lying coastal areas of St. Tammany Parish. In old Mandeville, flood waters reached as far back off the lakefront as Monroe Street. Meanwhile, on the eastern side of the parish, Slidell was inundated by unprecedented floodwaters that rose well into the Olde Town area.

While St. Tammany ducked the bullet in 2006, largely due to a quiet hurricane season, another hurricane season will be upon us in a month. And while St. Tammany’s recovery efforts have shined, it may be a while before any true flood protection is ever put into place, according to Parish President Kevin Davis.

Davis said he and members of the Parish Engineering Department began, over a year ago, holding a series of meetings with the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers to develop the concept for levee protection for St. Tammany Parish.

“It was important that we meet with the Corps on this issue early in their conceptual design process,” said Davis. “Any levee system for St. Tammany Parish must include moveable components at key locations. Storm water must drain freely from St. Tammany except in the case of tidal surges.”

St. Tammany Parish shared existing watershed studies with the Corps of Engineers to develop plans for a system of levees that would stretch from the Rigolets to the Pearl River. That system, Davis said, would include a gate system at the Rigolets and at the Chef Pass.

“What the gates would do, is allow some water to be let in prior to the storm, before closing them,” Davis said. “This would essentially protect the entire Lake Pontchartrain Basin.”

Meanwhile, Davis said these plans also coincide with a project he has been working on with the Southeast Louisiana Flood Control Program, which would end up creating several large pumping station that would be placed at strategic locations on the eastern side of St. Tammany Parish.

“We need to work closely with the Corps to see that our key needs are addressed. Levees without gating structures, such as those that are used in Europe, will not allow storm water to flow freely to the Gulf,” continued Davis. “I am optimistic.”

Davis said he is awaiting the outcome of a bill that stands before congress now that would allocate $163 million for SELA programs. Davis noted President George W. Bush has stated he intended to veto the bill, however, Davis did note the bill is still alive in conference committee, after being approved by the House and the Senate.

Davis noted that he has taken a two-prong approach to flood protection in St. Tammany, the first part, which consists of a flood protection system of levees and gate. But Davis also said the continued cleanup of area waterways is also part of that mission.

“We’re pretty much over the hump in terms of waterway cleanup,” said Davis. “We’re about 65 percent complete.”

In February, Davis signed an agreement between St. Tammany Parish and the Natural Resource Conservation Service for an additional $2.6 million to clean forty-six sections of natural waterways in St. Tammany Parish. This brings the total contract amount between the NRCS and the parish to over $34 million.

Some of the sections identified for cleaning included the Bayou Lacombe Lateral, Abita River Lateral, Bel Air Outfall canal, Little Creek, Hickory Creek, Indian Creek, Double Branch, Flowers Branch, Bush Creek, and Horse Branch.

Davis estimates that the cleanup of parish waterways will probably linger well into August.

“It’s a little too close for comfort, but I’d really like to see that part of the recovery completed before we reach the height of hurricane season 2007,” Davis said. “Considering the hundreds of waterways we have in St. Tammany, not to mention the amount of debris we had, I think the process is going extremely well. We have to stay focused, work with the Corps and NRCS, and get all these waterways cleaned out so we can drain adequately.”

In the city of Mandeville, the clearing of waterways is about 90 percent complete according to Mayor Eddie Price. The NRCS has helped the city clean a number of waterways including Bayou Chinchuba, from the U.S. 190 bridge to West Causeway Approach; Ravina Coquille, Big Bayou Castine and Little Bayou Castine.

“For all intents and purposes, we’re almost done with waterway cleanup,” said Price. “Right now, NRCS crews are in the Sanctuary, cleaning out the arms of the Sanctuary’s streams which lead out to the lake. The important thing is that it’s almost done. It’s been a concern for us.”

As far as plans for flood protection are concerned, though, Price said there is not much on the horizon. Price recalled that flood protection plans, touted by the Corps approximately 10 years ago, were met with strong opposition.

“They essentially proposed a 14-foot rock wall that would have run from the Lacombe area, crossing over, to the mouth of the Tchefuncte,” Price said. “But there were several problems with that plan. One is that it would have created a dead zone between the shoreline and where they planned to build the wall. Secondly, that sort of protection would have only really been effective in a closed system where water couldn’t get in. That’s just not the type of situation we have with the lake.”

Price said he was not opposed to using a gate system.

“In fact, I think that sort of system would work really well and would go a long way towards providing flood protection for the northshore,” Price said.

The only problems with that sort system, Price noted, would be the astronomical cost involved for an undertaking of that magnitude and the time involved.

“I think it would definitely be a good thing, in the long run, but it just wouldn’t happen over night,” Price concluded.

Slidell Mayor Ben Morris was not even that optimistic.

Morris said he has unsuccessfully tried to persuade FEMA and the Corps, to construct a small levee system just west of the railroad tracks that would run parallel to U.S. highway 11 and Pontchartrain Drive, on the south side of the city.

“The idea being to create some sort of buffer, to slow down tidal surges in the event of another major hurricane,” Morris said. “It would help the south side of town a little bit. I haven’t been able to get FEMA or the Corps to even entertain the idea.”

Morris said he thought the levee and flood gate system at the Rigolets and Chef Pass would help, but like Price, said time and costs involved make the idea seem more like a pipe dream than a definite reality.

“I really think the big picture to all this is way above my power and jurisdiction,” Morris admitted. “I can’t even get FEMA or the Corps to consider building a small levee right here in our back yard behind First Baptist Church. My ability is diminished.”

When asked what he would do if the area were to face another major hurricane this year, Morris paused.

“That’s not even a place I want to go right now,” Morris said. “Mainly, all we really can do is hope and pray. We hope and pray that we never see another storm here of that magnitude.”

Meanwhile, Davis said he is still optimistic.

“I’m always optimistic, which I think is a good trait,” Davis said. “Now granted, if we don’t stay on it, the levee and gates won’t be built. In all actuality though, we could start using some of the state’s oil revenues, and actually begin this project within the next several years. I think there would be some comfort for our residents, knowing that protection was coming.”

Davis said he is dismayed by the negativity of some officials.

“A lot of people think ‘oh, this will never happen.’ We just can’t take that attitude,” Davis said. “In the last year, we’ve accomplished about five years worth of work, working with FEMA and the Corps of Engineers. I’ve been lobbying hard, our legislators at the federal level are all in support of this. This is something that I think we all know needs to happen.”

One City, One Love

admin — Sat, 06 Feb 2010 19:57:00 +0000

One city. One love. One team.

Thousands of people from all walks of life; from the dock workers to the lawyers and the chefs and musicians; all sharing in one dream. It’s been 40-plus years in the making, but as the old adage goes; the older the berry, the sweeter the juice.

I’m not sure whether or not you heard the news, but the New Orleans Saints are going to the Super Bowl.

I believe. Faith. Hope.

These aren’t just words we throw around loosely; not cutesy little catch phrases marketed and packaged for the tourist dollar. They are words that are spoken from the truest, deepest recesses of our hearts. They are words that sing from our souls like a steel blues guitar or a rustic, yet shiny saxophone.

Ours is an indomitable, resilient spirit. We may be the city that care forgot, but we’ll never be the city that forgot how to care. It shows in everything we do, in everything that we are.

It’s as timeless as our traditions, as the majestic live oaks that line our avenues and boulevards. It’s as real and as strong in its resolve as the wrought iron fences that adorn St. Charles, listless and still. It’s the pulse of a people, vibrant and electric. It’s who we are and what we do.

One city. One love. One team.

One Dream - Geaux Saints.

Paw Paw

admin — Sat, 06 Feb 2010 14:30:36 +0000

It’s impossible for me to write about the Saints, without talking about my late grandfather, Paw Paw. I don’t think I’m alone in this. With the exception of the Saints fans who were born before 1967, I’m sure that most of the “Who Dats” of today got “it” (and by “it” I mean their love for the Saints) from somebody, whether it be a mother, father, grandparent or aunt or uncle.

In many ways – no, in every way, Paw Paw was the ultimate Saints fan. Whether it was via television, the radio or the few seasons when he had Saints season tickets, I don’t think he ever missed a Saints game.

Paw Paw was a gruff old dude; definitely old school – imagine a mixture of Lawrence Tierney and Marvel Comics, Ben “The Thing” Grimm; only wearing khaki pants, a wife-beater undershirt and his New Orleans Saints cap on game day; usually sipping a Dixie or Schlitz beer.

Paw Paw normally wasn’t a man of many words. He was a second generation immigrant from Germany and a retired bus driver for Public Service – the former identity of the New Orleans’ Regional Transit Authority. He retired, I think, some time before I was born. Throughout most of my life, he worked the 4 p.m. to 10 p.m. shift as a guard at a local ship yard. In hindsight, I think he took the second job more to escape my grandmother’s nagging than he did for money or because he was bored with retirement.

He was good with his hands. He built stuff, like boathouses, piers and railings around my grandparents’ house; which (prior to Hurricane Katrina – their house, along with just about every other single dwelling on the street, was swept away into the murky waters of Lake Pontchartrain) was located on what the locals affectionately referred to as Rat’s Nest Road; in honor of one of the areas primary denizens, besides humans - the nutria. He also painted, both house painting and water colors; and he used to hand-weave castanets – a craft, or a art depending how you look at it, which is virtually dead in this day and age.

But that was only when he wasn’t watching the Saints. Sundays were devoted to one thing and one thing only – watching the Saints; or at least listening to them on the radio during blacked out home games.

To say he actually underwent a complete psychological and physical transformation during game time is probably a stretch; but not by much. He did become more animated and definitely more vocal.

The man has been dead now for close to 20 years; but it’s his voice I hear the clearest, to this day when I watch the Saints play on Sundays.

“God dammit Archie!” he’d scream, and on Sundays no less.

Indeed, Sundays were sacred at Maw Maw and Paw Paw’s house, but it had little to do with religion.

“Archie are you even watching where you’re throwing the damned ball? The other guy was wide open in the end zone!”

“Hit him! Hit him! Hit that son of a bitch. Dammit defense, do something. You just let him walk into the God damned end zone!”

“Holding my ass, he wasn’t holding. That damned referee needs to have his head examined. Where do they get these bums?”

Each outburst would be punctuated by Paw Paw slamming his hand down furiously on the arm of his Lazy Boy (but never the arm where his cold beer sat). His eyes would glaze over and the veins would bulge furiously from his mostly bald head. His face would redden and on more than one occasion his glasses fogged up.

It was an endless litany; that scared most of the family out of the TV room and back into the kitchen. But not me. Oh no. There was something so wild and frenzied, and somewhat frightening to watch my grandfather hover near the brink of insanity each weekend. I loved it. We both did. It didn’t take me long to start hollering along with him, whether I understood what was actually happening or not.

The non-televised games were even better; because Paw Paw would set up shop right at the kitchen table with his old AM radio. There was something odd, alien and slightly militaristic about his old AM radio. It had flip-top of sorts which was emblazoned with a map of the world. On a good night you could pick up radio stations as far away as Cuba and Jamaica.

But to hunker down at the kitchen table with Paw Paw while he nursed a cold beer or a high ball while the Saints played was something special. With each good, or boneheaded play, the Saints made, Paw Paw would slap the kitchen table, forcing the glasses, beer cans and old-time nut holder to shudder and jump.

There were rules too, if you were watching the game with Paw Paw. One of the rules was no chitchatting while the game was in play. It was okay to cheer if the Saints scored. It was okay to scream if the refs made a bad call or if the other team intercepted the ball or recovered a fumble. But idle cross talk was not tolerated.

“Dammit Elsie, if you wanna chat go in the damn kitchen,” he’d tell my grandmother, or my mom if she was there.

However, my grandmother, who was obstinacy personified, would seldom budge. Instead, she’d usually ignore him and start right in with the questions. I think she did it just to irritate him sometimes.

“Who has the ball now?” she’d ask, goading him.

“Can’t you look at the line of scrimmage and see for yourself,” he’d retort.

“I don’t see why they have differentiate between a punt and a kick,” she’d say. “It’s all kicking. I don’t really even see why they call it football. They use their hands 90 percent of the time.”

In hindsight, this is probably where I got the running back-slash-rushing question from.

“SSSHH Elsie, I’m trying to hear,” he’d hiss at her.

He’d actually wait until commercial break to actually correct her, or attempt to answer her questions.

“That’s why you interrupted me, to ask me that?” he’d usually end up eventually saying. “That’s the stupidest damned question I’ve ever heard.”

Ruffled, especially if I were in the room, she straighten up briskly and retort, “Earl Hageni, you should be ashamed of yourself. You should set a better example for your grandson. There is no such thing as a stupid question,” she’d say indignantly.

Paw Paw’s reply?

“In football there is.”

Deep in the recesses of my heart, I knew he was right.

What it means to be a Saints Fan

admin — Tue, 02 Feb 2010 22:37:10 +0000

Chapter 1 - The Long Journey

They say the measure of man, or woman for that matter, is how one prevails in the face of adversity. If nothing else, New Orleans Saints fans have an intimate understanding of adversity.

Born on All Saints Day in 1966, the sixteenth franchise in the National Football League, the Saints began its first home game at Tulane Stadium with a bang when running back John Gilliam opened the game by returning the kickoff for a 94-yard touchdown run. As fate would have it, though, the game ended in a 27- 13 defeat to the Los Angeles Rams; which would eerily set the tone for the next several decades.

From Tom Dempsey’s 63-yard field goal in 1970 which gave the Saints a 19-17 win over the Detroit Lions, a record which still stands today as the longest field goal in the league; to Garrett Hartley’s 40-yard kick in overtime, which clenched the team’s first NFC Championship title, and earned them their first trip to the Super Bowl; it’s been a long, hard, roller-coaster of a ride for fans.

We’ve been 40 plus years in the making, and over that span of time there have been many, many highs and lows, with perhaps more valleys than peaks.

We remember our champions, both old and new: Elam and Dempsey; Billy Kilmer; Danny Abramowicz; Derland Moore; Thunder and Lightning also known as Chuck Muncie and Tony Galbreath; Archie Manning; Stan Brock; Wes Chandler; Bobby Hebert; Morten Andersen. And now, Drew Brees; Jeremy Shockey; Mike Bell; Jonathan Vilma; Will Smith; Mike Bell; Devery Henderson; Reggie Bush; Marques Colston; Pierre Thomas just to name a few.

And coaches, we’ve had more than a few; some good; some not so good; come clearly past their prime; Hank Stram, Jim Hazlett, Bum Phillips; Jim Mora; Mike Ditka; and now Sean Payton.

Indeed, we’ve truly known the agonies of defeat; in all their various and sundry shapes and sizes; from one-point squeakers to 30-point blowouts. We remember those defeats; Russell Erxleben’s blocked point against the Atlanta Falcons; our elimination from the first wildcard playoff spot we ever clenched in 1987- Irony of ironies, it was the Minnesota Vikings that knocked us out during our first trip. It felt like poetic justice; as if the circle was somehow complete; when we put Favre on the ground and rose victorious to the Super Bowl march.

We remember our defeat against Chicago during our first trip to the NFC Championship game just a few short years ago; right on the heels one of the greatest man and nature made disasters our great city has ever known – Hurricane Katrina. The loss was bittersweet; but perhaps just a little more than usual to have come so close, only to have it snatched away.

We remember the “Aint’s” and times when it was practically impossible to even give away a ticket to a game in the Dome. We remember donning brown paper bags over our heads; at the loving goading of the late, great but often ostentatious sportscaster Buddy Diliberto. We remember going for years at a stretch with no appearances on Monday Night Football; as we were a joke to the sports-casting world and national NFL commentators; a stigma we fight still to this day; even though we’ve made it to the Super Bowl.

But we’ve never given up. We’ve always persevered. We’ve never given up on our team. We’ve never given up on the dream. We’ve prayed to all the saints (not just the ones at the line of scrimmage); and we’ve hoped against hope even in our darkest moments. We’ve clapped each other on the backs uttering words of encouragement and comfort, “We’ll have better luck next season.”

But the time has come. This is the next season. And now, miracle of all miracles, we finally have an answer to the decades-old question.

Who Dat?

We Dat.

This work is the sole property of the author. No portion of this article may be copied, retransmitted, reposted, duplicated or otherwise used without the express written approval of the author.

The Christmas Massacre in Tennessee: Disaster averted

admin — Sun, 27 Dec 2009 18:01:01 +0000

Well my quarterback dilemma has been resolved after a close call. I let Roethlesberger stay with Karin; a move I’m sure I’ll regret by 3 p.m. today. And, like a fool, I put my hope into Tennessee Titans duo Vince Young at QB and Kenny Britt.

If nothing else Fantasy Football is a good weekly reminder of why I should never become a professional gambler. I’ve got junkie genes and I’m always willing to throw caution to the wind on a wing and a prayer.

Santa might have been to all the children of the world. But the Titans only got coal; well along with certain elimination from the AFC playoffs; after the San Diego Chargers handed their asses to them in a 42-17 good, ole fashion ass-whuppin.

It’s a shame too, because although the Titans started out this season at like 0-6; they stepped up, placed Young in as QB and were beginning to look like serious contenders (the Ross Perot Syndrome..Ho, ho, ho). America does, after all, like an underdog; but ultimately failed to deliver. But just like that squirmy, little ferret Perot, the Titans pulled the wool over our eyes. They sold us on their comeback dream – and then left us busted, flat and cheerless, not unlike common whores.

Collectively, I scored 8 fantasy points between Young and Britt before begging our Commish for a re-start. The eight points were wiped from the slate, and now, instead, I’ll be starting Alex Smith and Michael Crabtree, of the 49ers, as QB and wide receiver

In the grand scheme of things, Tennessee’s elimination from the playoffs will be the first of around four crucial AFC games that will be going down today; where wild card teams are struggling upstream like salmon, to try to make it to the promised land. These match-ups include the Steelers and Ravens; the Jets against the still undefeated Colts; Houston Texans against the Miami Dolphins and the New England Patriots against the Jacsonville Jaguars.

Let the chips fall where they may. Heads are gonna roll in the AFC today….more later….