So, while passing through New York, I hooked up with some friends and we got caught up on one another's lives over a few beers. (3 nights ago now) We chatted and laughed and told stories and what has happened since we saw each other last. Everything was fun, and jovial and bar-loud... and then I got to my time in New Orleans. Before I knew it, the table was damn near silent. People just stared at me. The party vibe was off. People were horrified to hear the state of things in the neighborhoods I had worked in, horrified to hear descriptions of what it was like to work and disheartened to know that that was only 2 months ago... 16 months after the catastrophy.

Never ever did I imagine that "NEW ORLEANS" could ever be a buzz kill.

Yes... I was DESCRIPTIVE, I was GRAPHIC, and I did try to paint a VIVID picture... yes, I did. But I was not untruthful. I just wanted those people to remember, if anything from our conversation, that New Orleans still has a LONG WAY TO GO. I think it is important for people to know that what happened here is REALLY BIG and it is not GOING AWAY ANYTIME SOON. I think that is important.

So, I'm back and I just checked my email and got a forward from my mom who is a realestate agent informing ther was big realator's convention here and while they were here, they decided to chip in some of their time and $ to help out New Orleans... and that IS TOTALLY AWESOME. Below is what I was forwarded, but also a short email I sent to one of the girls at the table that night in New York who, after hearing what I had to say about the state of New Orleans, asked "How can it ever be fixed?" That is a very REASONABLE question to ask. I wonder the same thing, quite often... but bits of news like what is listed below, GIVES ME HOPE.

Dodd

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Hey Becky,

Great to see you the other night and great to hear you're doing so well. It's always nice to see familiar faces when I pass through town.

I'm just fresh back in New Orleans (all of 4 hours ago) and I'm just checking my email and getting this lil email from my mom. She is a realestate agent here and was a part of a big realator confrence heald here in the city. A whole buncha folks showed up and while here, decided to help out some, and well, it made me think of our converstation. At the bar, I did paint a brutal picture of the city... and it is true... but the answer to the question we were left with of "How can it ever be fixed?" I think lies in the work of folks like those listed below. Day by day, volunteer by volunteer, it is happening, some things are getting better.

Also, if you're interested, while I was working here myself I kept a blog of my experiences. If you have time or get bored, please drop by. www.solidhang.com/dodd

All The Best To You and have a wonderful Thanksgiving,

D

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I don't know where the article below ran, but it was sent to us by the Executive Officer of the Saints Board of Realtors. It is a great summary of the impact Realtors had on New Orleans last week.

Margie

Adding up the Difference REALTORS Made in New Orleans

There's no way to measure the full value of the hard work of NARdi Gras attendees who have helped restore New Orleans this week. Nonetheless, a few numbers will give you a sense of what's been accomplished here in just a few days.

8,364: The number of hours NAR members had spent in volunteer activities through Saturday, November 11.

15,000: The number of dollars NAR donated to purchase supplies and equipment to help restore City Park. The equipment used during volunteer projects in the park will remain for future upkeep and maintenance.

4: The number of houses framed by NAR volunteers above and beyond the planned three in a Habitat for Humanity build in a single day -- November 7. This represents only a small portion of members' volunteer work with Habitat for Humanity.

100: the number of dollars worth of nutritious food provided for every NAR volunteer hour with the Second Harvest Food Bank. Volunteers unloaded goods from trucks, readied the food for sorting, and then sorted the donated items into food groups for distribution.

535: The number of students at De La Salle School who will have a better learning environment thanks to volunteers' efforts in painting areas of the school.

3: The number of months ahead of schedule the Friends of the New Orleans Public Library have moved, due to the contributions of NAR volunteers who sorted donated books for distribution to schools and literacy programs as well as the library's weekly book sale to raise funds to rebuild and expand the library.

20: The number of computers hooked up at the St. Joan of Arc School during a day of activities that also included repainting a map of the United States on the blacktop of the school's courtyard, among many painting projects.

Those are some of the measurable results of volunteer efforts during NARdi Gras. But the overall value can't be quantified. How to you put a value on providing a safe, clean, and healthy learning environment for children in the city's schools? Or restoring parks where people can enjoy the peace and beauty of the area? Or putting displaced people back into houses they can call their own?

There's no way to measure all the contributions and generosity of NAR members who helped in so many ways. A big "thank you" to all who volunteered, from NAR and the people of New Orleans.

Here are 2 excellent sites to get a better idea of what really happened.

As you will see, the popular phrase "We dodged a bullet" was only thought by those who were UpTown.

Katrina Flood Map By Depth

Hour By Hour Katrina Flood Map

The crew continued to work, but I held Ms. Patty, standing in a pile of junk, by her car for half an hour. Right then, that was more important than hauling trash. I told her again that she was gonna be fine, that she would make it and all with Gods help. And then I headed back to work.

Twenty minutes later, calf deep in the mush of her basement, I found something hard, round and very heavy. I wiped roaches off with my glove and a few layers of Pontatain filth to reveal a water cooler jug. It was half full of brown water, but was too heavy to be filled with only water. In the musty brown light of the basement, I couldnt quite make out what else it was full of though, so I headed back outside and grabbed a dolly. I headed back down and then loaded the bottle on the dolly and step by step hoisted it up the stairs to street level. As I reached the sun light on the sidewalk, it became quite clear why the bottle was so heavy. I rolled the jug over to Ms. Patty still standing by her car contemplating, got her attention and informed her that it was quite clear that was right on track, just right where God wanted her to be. She looked at me puzzled, then I kicked over the bottle and 10,000 pennies came pouring out.

As she loaded them in her car, she mumbled and moaned and counted and her eyes were redder than ever. And then, without thinking, I put my hand firmly on her shoulder and stared deep in to her eyes. She looked up intensely in to mine. And I said to her, (Ms. Patty, you are a very strong woman.) The words just slipped from my mouth before I knew it. And they sunk in to her bones immediately. Without hesitation she dropped her bundle and burst in to tears. I wrapped my arms tightly around her pudgy body and she melted. She muscles released, her mind gave and pure despair poured through her body overflowing on to her dead lawn. She sobbed on my shirt and heaved for air as I held her strongly and said nothing.

A quarter hour later, she looked up at me with a rudy face and little girl eyes and said, (Im having a very bad day.) I smiled and said (I know you are. I know. And youre doing just fine.) She cried some more and then, with my mouth on the top of her head, her grey hair on my lips, I told her (Youre going to make it Mrs. Patty. Youre going to pull through this. Youre going to be ok.) She looked up at me and said, (I know I will. I know. And ya know why?) (Why?) I asked. (Because everyday since the storm, I have found a penny.) (Really?) (Do you know the message Im being sent?) (Tell me.) Then in a slow strong tone staring deeply in to my eyes she said, (In God We Trust.) And as tears began to roll from her eyes she looked up at heaven and spoke directly to God himself. With snot in her nose and gravel in her voice she belted to God, (I get it Lord. I get it! And good heavens am I trying. Im trying so damn hard! Im here. Im willing. Im able. I want to do it God. I want to! But you just wont tell me what!!!) I held her again and she hugged me tightly as she sobbed quietly.

From the outside, I could see this. From outside her metal hurricaine, I could see that the 70 years of memories that Ms. Patty had saved, accumulated and earned, the treats of her 7 decades well spent on this Earth, that were to gently take her through the Golden Years of her life and peacefully lay her to rest, memories that she WAS here, it WAS special and she did it WELL, WERE GONE and no more. I could see that her lifes plan had been fundamentally changed. I was on the outside. It was quite clear to me.

But to her, stuck on the inside, it was much foggier.

And as I sat there, leaning against a different destroyed home, watching Ms. Pattys delusion in live motion, I got sad. Even more sad and a painful throb developed in my chest and stomach. In that moment, the metal disorder of the city became quite clear to me. This was one woman in Lake View who had lost everything but her life. And now her mind was starting to slip too. She was not prepared to start her life over again. She had saved enough money to take herself to the finish life. And that was it. She had kept the things that made her feel alive. And now they were gone and I witnessed as she fended off the demons in her head that wanted to bring her death. Her mind was becoming as poisoned as her house. And I couldnt take it anymore.

I stood up and headed for her house. I walked through the moldy doorframe and found Mrs. Patty on her knees picking at the corners of a piece of A-4 paper stuck in the floor. I crouched next to her and in a muffled voice through my mask, asked if I could help, upon which she shot a piercing look straight from her swollen red eyeballs and said noting. Her stare said it all. It cursed me viciously. And then I realized Ms. Patty didnt wear a mask. She hadnt all day. No gloves. No protection. In a back brace, gloves, goggles and a particle gas mask, I was a walking insult to her memories. I declared for all to see, that her life WAS CONTAMINATED. The mere sight of me said (Ms. Patty, your life is poisoned. And I dont want any bit of it to even touch my flesh. Thats what I think of the state of your life right now in this moment.) And that was a direct insult to her. Understandably.

For someone who doesnt even believe her belongings should be thrown away, it is a far reach that everything is TOTALLY CONTAMINATED.

Upon this realization, for the first time in weeks, I removed my goggles and mask inside a flooded house. The air was dense and tasted like mushrooms. The human connection was immediate. I spoke directly to her and repeated my question. (Can I help you Ms. Patty?) She informed me that she had found a term paper she had written in college but it was now set in the floor.

It was painfully obvious that these pieces of paper would never be saved, but I pulled back out my Exact-O blade and tried my best to catch an edge and lift the sticky pages from their molded prison. Like her wedding photo, which I never told her about, they crumbled as my blade sliced here and there. In a weak effort to give her some sort of hope, I told her we may be able to remove them once we took the carpets out and could work on them outside. She nodded. And then asked that I help carry some things to her car. (Absolutely), I said.

We headed outside and as she hobbled through the yard, I noticed her shoulders were considerably more hunched now than they were earlier in the morning. She continued to mumble as she hobbled and it became quite apparent that she was internalizing the pain, loss and separation she was experiencing. Over the course of a day, her body had contorted, balled and cramped in to a crooked knot of angles and flexed unforgiving muscle. She was now in both physical and emotional pain.

Mrs. Patty lead me to a pile of splintered and bloated wood and pointed to some other scraps for me to carry to her car. I picked them up and I shook my head breathing heavy as I watched her load these poisoned and utterly worthless items in to her back seat. They were gone. They were dead. No more. They had been lost. Never to come back again. Never to be resurrected. But Ms. Patty couldnt see that. Her eyes saw something else. Probably what they ONCE WERE. 14 months ago. I just kept thinking, (Do not take these with you. They are gone. LET THEM GO. LET IT ALL GO.) But I couldnt. I just couldnt.

Throughout the day, our group took 4 breaks and a lunch. We sat in the shade, removed our sweaty masks, drank cold water from a jug and occasionally groaned. Some of the folks would say something humorous to lighten the mood, maybe poke fun at a friend volunteering or throw a stinky glove. The group would giggle.

I sat quite. I could not take my eye off of Ms. Patty who was still in the house. She was absolutely unable to stop. Unable to slow down. Unable to quit. She wouldnt. She couldnt. She just kept working. And I use that word lightly. Not judging Ms. Pattys productivity, simply comparing her work to ours. We were there to strip her house bear in a day flat, so that she could move to the next phase of 1) getting a city mold test 2) re-wiring her house and 3) getting new plumbing, SO THAT she could then get new walls and potentially HAVE A NEWLY RENOVATED AND ABOVE ALL, SAFE HOME TO LOVE. But in order for that to happen, everything in the house must first be REMOVED.

And that was the part I watched Ms. Patty have considerable trouble with.

I watched her through the broken windows of her house manically pacing back and forth, picking up contaminated chunks of Katrina mush in her bare hands, setting them down, pacing somewhere else, stopping, talking to herself, walking back, picking it back up the mush, counting on her fingers, wiping her brow with her forearm, talking out loud, making another pile, etc. It went on and on. All day. And Ms. Patty never stopped. Never once. She started in the morning and never stopped picking up chunks of tattered wood, creating piles of wet paper on the lawn, stuffing filthy knickknacks in her pockets and so on.

It made my heart so heavy.

I could see Ms. Pattys delusion. Her pain manifested. Her newly developed disease. Something had snapped. Over the last year and change Ms. Pattys brain had undergone so much strain, perhaps something permanent had happened. Too many new chemicals and trauma induced hormones had set her mind in to an endless downward spiral. Maybe from 14 months of Mississippi Mud like Depression, not enough serotonin remained in her head for her mind to function properly. She was left with a broken record of spinning loss repeatedly skipping in her head. The repetition might have just driven her mad.

Perhaps she had lived in a state of denial since the storm. Perhaps she had convinced herself that her lifes memories were fine, that it would all be ok, but then on this morning, this fateful Tuesday morning that she had marked in her calendar so many weeks ago, when she woke up and was faced with 20 masked strangers standing in her lawn sledgehammers in hand, willing and able to take the necessary step of heartlessly carting the swampy remains of her life to the sidewalk for city pick-up and removal, she snapped. With her last synapse explosions of mental energy, she hopelessly clutched at the idea that it WAS all ok, that it WAS all alright and that it COULD BE SAVED. THAT IT COULD BE LIKE IT WAS BEFORE.

But she was wrong.

It was now, in these unfolding moments, becoming unignoreably clear that IT WILL NEVER BE LIKE IT WAS BEFORE. NEVER. Perhaps I was witnessing her mind buckling under the pressure of the deafening truth exploding in her mind that NEW ORLEANS HAS BEEN FUNDAMENTALLY CHANGED FOREVER AND LIFE WILL NEVER BE THE SAME AGAIN. PERIOD.

The group worked diligently for 8 hours. The only speaking was more like muffled yelling; commands being belted from under the din of smashing hammers and beneath dirty face masks. Wheel barrow after wheel barrow, trash can after filthy trash can, Ms. Patty witnessed her life removed from her home and dumped on to the side of the road in a damp molded pile, sitting dangerous and heavy awaiting a city fork lift and dump truck to take it to its final resting place, the city heap.

She had been putting off this day for over a year, THE ACTUAL DAY WHERE SHE MUST PART WITH EVER TANGIBLE MEMORY IN HER LIFE. For the last year, she would rather have them strewn about her house knotted in wet piles, stewing, rotting, molding, mouse infested, torn to shreds for warm rat nests, the moist cracks of her pile filling with fungus. She would rather have it this way, than out of her reach.

It all may be disgusting, but it was all hers.

Then we showed up.
A group of strangers who listened. And prayed.
And then we tore her house limb from limb.
And she made witness to it.
We were all engaged in her final moments of separation.

Some Home Owners dont do that. They show up, say (Katrina Sucked. Sucks.), then hand over the keys and say (Ill see you in 8 hours). I can understand that reaction, making the choice to not bear witness to the final moments of loss. I can understand removing yourself from any situation that may result in experiencing any more pain than these people already have endured. I can understand lying awake the night before 20 people show up to your home to throw it all away and just thinking to yourself, (Tomorrow will be horrible. I dont need to be a part of tomorrow. I dont need to put myself through that.) I get that.

But I also get Ms. Pattys choice. I understand her desire to be there, to actually witness the THINGS that make up her life being discarded. I understand her need to be watch, to partake in the process of lying to rest her lifes work. Of saying goodbye.

And as she did so, I watched. I watched her, her process. A thousand times over, she would pick something up, identify what it used to be, relive that memory, reliving that bit of her history encapsulated in it, finding a knowing smirk or a twinkle of her eye maybe, a roll of the eyebrows or a sigh perhaps, then I would watch as her composure drastically changed. She was no longer reliving a memory from a life time ago. No, she was embroiled in a personal struggle, deciding if this memory is TOO DEAD or NOT. A thousand times she had to make the decision to keep the infected remains of a lost story, or to finally part with it. To chuck it in the trash. And that decision did not coming easily for her.

As the day went on, it became quite clear that she could not let go. It hurt too much. She was too connected to her belongings, her memories, too connected, she could not LET GO.

To throw them away was to throw away a part of her life, a part of herself. I could see it and I could understand it. But good God was it difficult to watch. I could feel a churning in my own stomach. I developed a sympathy pain deep in my gut that developed with her unfolding mental anguish.

I received the following email from an old pal and thought it was quite lovely.
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Hey Dodd, it is Ashley and I wanted to say hello and let you know I read your blogs everyday and I absolutely love them. I look forward to them..so keep it up. Hope you are having a good day( bet i can guess what u are doing!?) Talk to u later.
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I hit the reply button and started typing and then I got a little carried away and before I knew it, I sent something over a little more than the (thank you) she was probably expecting, so I figured Id my as well pop it up here and call it an ENTRY.

Thanks for your kind words Ashley. Very thoughtful of you.
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Dear Ash,

Well Thank You Very Much.

I knida thought I was doing this to and for myself for a bit there, which is cool too, but apparently, Im not. Good to know someone out there is interested in my little musings. Very cool. Thank you.

Its been tough over here, as Im sure you know better than I. Im sure you can relate to that ever looming questions of, WHERE DO YOU EVEN BEGIN?

I have to admit that its getting harder and harder to wake up in the mornings. My single effort has begun to feel futile. There is just TOO MUCH to be done. I fear getting to a place where I forget why this town IS WORTH SAVING. You know? You deal with sadness and loss and misery everyday and then it gets to a point where you just want to say fuck it, sink the city and let's all move to Atlanta.

But then, when I get to that place, when I find myself stading on the edge of oblivioun, I have been kind enough to myself and give myself a day off of volunteering and instead take a long shower, and then head out with a smile on my face and a hankering for mischief. I look strangers in the eye and 9 times outta 10, I meet someone and we chat and laugh and have a great time, usually end up knowing at least one person in common and then, it all comes back to me. It becomes quite clear WHY this place IS worth saving.

Because this place is special. Really special. It is different. And majestic. And mysterious. And historic. And dirty. And taboo. And decedent. And foul. And nasty. And raunchy. And funny. And wild. And charming. All at the same time.

This place is not new construction off of I-85.

This place is the legacy of a 300 year old cultural gumbo fermenting in a Southern sun and coutched in a wooly swamp.

Its down and dirty, And it is worth saving.

Thank you for reading my Thursday morning ramblings.

Big Love,

D

11) GUTTING ACTUALLY IS (UNSKILLED LABOR)
Wow, anybody can do this stuff. 10 minutes of dos and donts and yer ready to break some shit. I mean, dont get me wrong, its incredibly tiring and completely exhausting, but wow, just breaking stuff for 9 hours, pretty much anybody can do. Not to mention, occasionally it feels great.

12) IM A PRETTY DEXTEROUS DUDE
My newest claim to fame is that at the Musicians Village the other day, I made the (Skilled Labor Truck) Hollla!!! I probably couldnt install cabinetry or lay the foundation of a house, but I can frame out a sidewalk, build a window frame a door frame and I can pound the crap out of a nail. And now, I can install a sprinkler system. Can we say, Fall Back Job?

13) MOST NEW ORLEANIANS KNOW AS LITTLE ABOUT GEOGRAPHIC NEW ORLEANS AS I DO
I was shocked to learn over the last month and change that none of the people that I knew and my mom knew growing up here had been to any of the neighborhoods that Im working in. I have to show THEM on the map where I am. I had guilt tripped myself for ages about not knowing the city. Little did I know, that no one else did either.

14) I LIKE AMERICANS A LOT MORE THAN I THOUGHT
Wow, after living in New York for 8 years, I was convinced that all Republicans burned children for recreation and had Satan on speed dial. I also thought that the majority of Americans were kinda miserable, unless they were from Chicago, San Francisco, Philly, Boston, New Orleans, Austin, Albuquerque, etc. Well, I could not have been more wrong. I have been working side by side with folks from towns Ive never heard of in States Ive never wanted to visit. And they are, on the whole, excellent people. They are kind and generous and clever and just good people. It has been very refreshing to meet so many wonderful Americans.

15) VOLUNTEERING IS COOL
I thought the only reason anyone every volunteered was to make their college application more impressive. I mean, why the hell else would you ever do it? Miserable work. For people you dont know. For free? I mean, could it get any worse than that? Apparently. I have had a blast meeting, helping and living with strangers. The work has been hugely rewarding and I would certainly do it again. I mean why not? I have so much. The least I could do is pitch back in.

16) I REALLY DONT LIKE BEING IDOL, UNLESS IM RECUPERATING FROM A BITCHIN PARTY
I get in to a place and I need to shake a leg. Doesnt really matter what it is, as long as Im engaged and can do it fully. Theatre? Sure. Demo? Sure. The time sitting really still works for me is times like this Sunday when I was recuperating from one of the most epic weddings ever. (Can you say Moshing Brides?) Shades drawn, flat Coke and a fist full of Advil. That works for me.

17) EVERYONE IN NEW ORLEANS KNOWS ONE ANOTHER
Its freaking unbelievable! First I get sighted because I look like my Mom and then we start chatting and we know everyone of the same people. We went to camp together, or school or something, and just when it gets too weird, someone else chimes in and it happens all over again. That happens minimum once a day to me.

18) I LOVE THE SAINTS
I guess I have always know this, ever since I was born in Jefferson Parish with a head of hair that resembled a Saints helmet (not really, but that would be amazing) its just all been reinvigorated over the last 5 weeks. Each game, I where Saints pajamas, my Hollywood Joe horn jersey and a fake LSU helmet. Its tha bees knees.

19) CHURCH IS COOL
In New York, to put it lightly, is an anti-religious vibe. Everyone that comes to mind that I have gotten to know there over the last 8 years, not only does not go to church, but has very strong very negative feelings about it. And truth be told, I have agreed with them for the last 8 years even though I was raised as a church goer from day one. I was baptized, confirmed and was even an alter boy for 2 years, yet they turned me on to all the fanatical sides of religion that just makes me want to scrap the whole lot. Yet, down here. I feel completely different. I have been to church every Sunday since here and its been great. I think Ill keep going.

20) SUNSCREEN IS COOLER
Im not sure why kids go through a phase where sun block blows so hard, but thankfully I have grown out of that. I put it on each morning and it saves my little Irish ass everyday. It is mad hot here and the sun dont give a monkeys ass if you think your cool for going bare skin to (work yo tan).

1) OLD PEOPLE ARE AWESOME
I have never worked so closely with old people. And damn, they can kick some serious ass. They swing sledge hammers, and they cuss, and they're funny, and they're thoughtful and they're awesome. I mean, I guess I kinda knew this... but not really.

2) I KNOW NEW ORLEANS BETTER THAN I THOUGHT
I have been basically confined to a bicycle for the last 5 weeks and that hasn't really stopped me at all from cruising around town... or limping... 9 times outta 10 both my tires are flat, which makes for a very different biking experience. But anyway, I know where I'm going and I know how to get there. I work with folks from out of town all the time, and once they hear I'm from here, the questions start flyin' and I'm surprised how many of them I know the answers to. I'ma lil navigator too.

3) I KNOW MORE NEW ORLEANIANS THAT I THOUGHT I DID
Well... they kinda know me. I was blessed to be, as one of my mom's friends put it "My mother in drag." We look just alike, is the idea. And my mom and her family have lived in New Orleans for 3 generations, so no matter where I go, someone spots me and we get chatting and then we end up having 101 excellent crossovers in out life, from friends, to camps, to relatives. Needless to say, I feel rather at home here.

4) PB&J JUST MIGHT BE THE REAL BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS
I have eaten more PB&J in the last 5 weeks than in my entire childhood combined and I feel pretty damn good. I do manual labor just about everyday, and just about everyday, I eat PB&J and that seems to be workin just fine.

5) THE NORTH SHORE IS AS CLOSE OR AS FAR AWAY AS YOU LIKE IT BE
My folks, and most others who I grew up with are on the North Shore, and I never see them. Unless they want to come see me. I mean, they're 30 miles away, across this big ass lake and there is just some sort of psychological thing where it can go either way. It is either totally IN the question to come across the Causeway Bridge and chill or it is NOT EVEN UP FOR DISCUSSION. Its funny. Either one works. Theyre is never any contest. Both choices are totally understood.

6) HABITAT FOR HUMANITY ACTUALLY IS A FAITH BASED ORGANIZATION
I had heard that before, but actually didnt believe it. Then I headed out to the Musicians Village and had Bible passages read to me from the back of a truck at 6:45am before I headed out to install a floor system. Apparently, Habitat IS a faith based organization.

7) NEW ORLEANIANS ARE BOTH TOTALLY OBSESSED AND TOTALLY OVER KATRINA
People dont want to talk about, but EVERY SINGLE TIME, the conversation turns back to Katrina. Whether they want it to or not, they do. 90% of all conversations in this entire city end up at one point talking about the storm, and when they finally break out of it and move on, they make their way back 7 minutes later.

8) NEW ORLEANS IS BOTH THE MOST INTEGRATED AND SEGREGATEDPLACE I KNOW
Well, kind of untrue, I mean Israel was pretty wild, but this place is WAY UP THERE. Black people live here and white people live here and they each have their little stereotypes and their bigotries and their racisms, BUT I have lived in New York for 8 years and that place prides itself on being so multi-cultural, yet I have had more interaction and totally positive interaction at that with black people over the last 5 weeks than I have in 8 years in New York. This place is totally segregated, yet totally integrated. There certainly is a palpable racism in the air here, yet a totally visible mutual respect and love for one another.

9) WHEN IN DOUBT IN NEW ORLEANS, SAY (ALRIIIGHT)
This is the standard New Orleans greeting. Not (Hello) or (Whats Up) or (Howdy), but (Alriiight). It means that its all good. Whatever youre talkin about over there, or whatever youre sayin, or whatever it is, its (Alriiight). Its almost Jamaican that way. Its ALRIIIIGHT.

10) HONDURAS IS ABOUT TO HAVE AN EMOTIONAL ATTACHMENT TO NEW ORLEANS
Dude, there are a lot of Hondurans here right now, and I have the feeling, not many of them are going back. I mean, New Orleans is pretty screwed up right now, but I have also been to Honduras and we make that place look like the Windsor Court. They have come in to fill the GAPING HOLE in manual labor and they are filling it well. They are kind and very good workers. Next in line of folks I meet are Mexican. But I would guess I meet 6 Hondurans to every 1 Mexican while out in the sketchy neighborhoods gutting. Can you say Papoosa Gumbo?

Its Tuesday night. Im at a New Orleans local coffee shop (Rue de la Course, or tha Rou). And Im wearing clean slacks, new flip flops and a pink shirt. And it feels really good.

Each morning I wake up and I put on thick work pants, heavy boots, leather gloves and a sweaty gas mask. By 9am, I have sweat through my shirt, socks, underwear and half way down my pants. By 11am, you could ring out my belt and fill a tea cup. Not only is it cumbersome and heavy to haul around soaking clothes all day, but the added factor of working in incredibly dusty conditions (speaking of, new photos from today have been uploaded to the ShutterFly sight) quickly turns wet clothes, in to muddy clothes.

By the time I get home, I CANT WAIT to be as MetroSexual as they all say I am; hair trimming, nail clipping, flossing, expholiating scrub and moisturizing! GET. IT. ON. I am the girliest sledgehammer swingin, saw zaw wieldin, pick axe slammin, and smelly trash haulin dude ya ever done met! I am also one of the cleanest fools ya ever done met.

And I leave the bathroom extra steamy. Juss tha way I like it. OOOOOOHHH, YEEEEEAAH

Post clean up and a few short hours away from signing off from the world, it feels oh so nice to chill in the balmy night and peruse the strolling crowd as I dig the NYT Online and a Chai Tea.

It's the little nightly bourgeois thingies that make the day a breath of fresh air too boot.

I dont really want to write this, but I feel inclined, compelled, yeah, compelled to be honest. I am doubting what I am doing here. I am not enjoying it like I was at the beginging and I question if I am doing any good at all. And if I am, then for whom?

Before I started down here, as proven by this very blog (dang!) I was A FLUTTER with optimism and naivity. I was going to tackle the world and make change and be wonderful and New Orleans was going to be saved and everything was going to be alright, and all because of me. Well, not quite THAT naive. And hopefully not that obnoxious. But, we can at least say that I was excited. Well, I am not as excited anymore. Or at least right now.

In short, gutting houses gets old. Again, locals are rolling their eyes at Sherlock Jackass who rolled in to their town a year later to learn what they already know. But Im starting to get it. My eyes hurt. They are puffy and swollen from all the funk that has gotten in them over the passed 3 weeks. My body is tuckered out, achey (sp). My feet freaking kill. I have cuts (and infected ones at that) all over my body (but to be fair, most of those are from wrecking Poppy Tooker's Vespa in the middle of Magazine Street last week, never blogged about that one, did I?) Im sun burned and my diet BLOWS! PB&J on white bread is NOT the ideal diet for sustained manual labor.

I might just be crabby because I know I have to wake up at 5:45am tomorrow morning to do it all over again, but I also am discuraged by ALL THE OTHER HOUSES that surround the one I am working on THAT ARE WORSE and TOTALLY NEGLECTED. There are SO MANY MORE.

I question if this town can ever come back.

But the weird thing is yesterday I took the day off cuz I felt like I needed it, umm kinda felt like I do right now, and over the day I had this bizarre growing feeling building in gut. It went through a couple stages. For about 4 hours there, I thought I was going to burst in to tears. Then I thought I needed to run 5 miles. I was all wacked out. But then, around 7pm, it cemented itself in to an unflinching desire to go gut a house. I was actually contemplating if it would be too dangerous to gut, in the projects, in the middle of the night. I finally convinced myself, around 11pm, that it was in my best interest to try to get to bed instead, so that I could wake up fresh and be a manimal all day long today, which, if I must say so myself, is what I was all day today. Pscho With A SledgHammer.

Im seeing strange parrells to returning war veterans (not to be dramatic). But, Ive always heard all they want to do is get the hell out of there. And then they do. And then all they want is to get back. Yeah. Im kinda seeing that. Eye to Eye like. Is that weird? Do the locals who have been doing this for a year know what Im talking about?

I have had some requests for photographs of the work I've been doing, so I have posted some pictures at,

SHUTTERFLY.COM

Just click on the link and then "View Pictures" and they should pop up.

All the Best,
Dodd

Five hours in to the demolition process, we finally make it deep enough in to the house to reach the kitchen. It looks like a deranged crime seen. The drawers and cabinets are smeared with dark delta funk, the wood is bloated and swollen, the entire contents of the kitchen lie in a mud caked mess on the floor, and a massive ancient refrigerator sits bridged on top of the counter and stove.

After a half an hour of cleaning around the bridged fridge, someone attempts to clean under it. They underestimate just how fragile the counters are and therefore how delicately balanced the fridge is. They reach under it with a rake and pull out, among other things, what was a toaster. As it tumbles around, pulled by its cord, the tin box catches the corner of the counter and peels off a bottom panel, upon which the fridge crashes straight through the countertop and the underlying cabinets and smashes to the ground. This not only sends the five volunteers in the room flying back, but also shoots the once was toaster across the kitchen floor and in to the pantry door across the room. The door breaks in half on impact. The contents of the pantry are then dumped on to the floor; 100 pounds of rotted dog food and 10,000 squirming maggots. The contents of the freezer also come pouring out, year old seafood which is now black liquid. Within a second, viscous fluid and white larvae pool at my feet. Within another second everyone in the room vomits in to their masks.

The odor is so foul my vision becomes impaired, but I follow the light and dash for the front door (AGAIN). I hurdle over the balcony, rip my soiled mask from my face and land on my hands and knees in the lawn. I then enter an unstoppable gagging fit for the next 5 minutes.

The four others hang from windows in the house.

Once my fit relents, I roll on to my back and stare up at the beating sun. I release my synched back brace from around my waist and draw deep breathes. With my hands at my sides and legs spread, I relax my bodys tensed muscles, breathe deeply through my mouth, and then, begin to laugh. Just hysterically laugh. And it feels great. With puffy eyes and flushed face, lying next to a pile of poisoned garbage and my own yak, I laugh out loud and wonder how the hell I ever got here in the first place.

I clean my mask, wipe my eyes and head back inside.

Sometime after the break, back in the house, sweaty and covered in dust, I am on my hands and knees trying to pry a dirty black chunk of something loose from the floor. I have been chipping away at this particular mound of garbage for a while now, but it seems one section of the mound has somehow become chemically welded to the floor boards. I twist the ossified chunk back and forth and it finally breaks loose. Underneath, a warped and bleeding wedding photo of a 24 year old Ms. Patty is revealed. She looks radiant. I set down the chunk, pull a box cutter from my cargo pant pocket and try to free the decaying paper memory from its toxic casing in the floor. But even with the blades microscopic edge, I cant catch a corner. The paper is decayed and crumbling as I slice at its edges. Small chunks of the photograph break apart as I try to save it. Im destroying it even more than it already is. This particular momento is lost forever and as this becomes abundantly clear to me, I burst in to tears.

The pain of New Orleans is too massive for me to comprehend, to epic to fully understand, but the preciousness of this certain memory, this personal time capsule, this 60 year old reminder of the happiest day of Ms. Pattys life, I CAN stare face to face. I CAN understand that loss, or at least let THAT specific sadness in to my heart. And when I do, when I crack open the gates of my heart to that particular loss, the rest of the unrecognized, dejected, rejected and ghostly lost sadnessess of New Orleans come flooding behind. They smash down my doors and flow in to my heart like the Mississippi herself.

I gasp for air and quickly learned that gas masks are not meant for crying. Like Darth Vader, I heave in and out for air as the filters on either side of my mouth strain to bring in enough oxygen. I drop the knife and dash outside trying to prevent anyone from seeing me.

(Stop this now!) I think to myself. (This is NOT ABOUT YOU! This isnt even YOUR stuff! YOUR life!) But I cant. I tuck around the back of the house, crouch by a tree and fall apart. Tears roll out of my eyes mixing to mud on my cheeks. I try to breath and let the citys loss pass through me.

Ten minutes later, I am quiet, still and quite relaxed. I hide my red swollen eyes behind protective goggles and head back inside. I pick back up where I left off, chucking bricks of debris in to garbage cans.

The alarm goes off at 5:50am. My entire body aches as I drag it out of bed. I pull on my cargo pants, back brace, and work boots then throw my leather gloves and particle/gas mask in my backpack. I hop on my moms bicycle and head out before the sun rises. Im one of the few on the road, and the only one not in a car. The morning is heavy, humid and totally quiet. I arrive sweaty to the R.H.I.N.O. Headquarters (Rebuilding Hope in New Orleans), a fulltime volunteer program started by the Saint Charles Presbyterian Church. Its 6:40am, the truck leaves at 6:45am, I have enough time to dash inside, shoot a cup of coffee and slop peanut butter and jam on two pieces of white bread. I hop shotgun next to Volunteer Supervisor and Excellent Human, Will Duncan, in the cab of the RHINO Mobile Tool Shed, a converted Penske moving truck. Behind us follows a van with 20 or so volunteers from any and every American city, although the majority seem to be from Pennsylvania and Kentucky.

We leave the functioning cafes, street lights, public schools, plumbing, and police departments known as the (Sliver on the River) and head in to the Ghost Town that is THE OTHER 85% OF New Orleans. I navigate our way through miles of abandon neighborhoods and wasted homes with a map of New Orleans in my lap. We circle around empty streets and pass overgrown yards and the occasional pile of rubble, unable to find our destination. Our maps help is contingent on the streets we drive actually having signs that label them. Will spots a lone character standing in the street 15 or so blocks away. We drive closer revealing an old pudgy woman standing in front of what appears to be an abandon home. She thumbs the bottom of the LSU t-shirt she wears and slightly chews her bottom lip. We have found our (work order).

Me and the other volunteers wait on the sidewalk while Will and the woman walk through the home. We begin unloading the truck (wheel barrows, crow bars, dollies, shovels, trash cans, chisels, hammers, axes, mallets, sledge hammers, push brooms, pick axes, pliers, you name it) and then set the gear in to attack formation, two lines facing the house.

While people stretch, I look down the street in both directions.

I see no cars. No lights. No people. No movement.

I DO see wasted yards, dead trees, wily overgrown lawns, boarded windows, piles of trash, spray painted doors (FEMA codes for if any dead people were found inside the home) and a black line 8 feet up on the side of every single house as far as I can see; a disgusting black line marking the top of the water level left by the toxic slush that filled these homes and stood for 5 days.

I shake my head and exhale remembering how only a few months ago I thought people where lazy for not scrubbing that damn line off their houses. I mean, its been a half a year, I thought. Just scrub it off and lets get on.

How naive of me.

I do not think that anymore.

Will and the old woman emerge. We crowd around. Will introduces Ms. Patty, an 80 year old painter born and bred in New Orleans. Will asks if she would be willing to tell us a little about her home, its story and also, if she will, a bit about her Katrina experience. Ten minutes later 20 people are crying in her yard, hands on one anothers shoulders as Ms. Patty tells the most horrible story weve heard all week, full of overwhelming descriptions of trying to get her mentally disabled 42 year old daughter out of the city, finding her front door smashed in and 10 years worth of paintings slashed to pieces, scooping up the bodies of 9 of her crippled cats who drown in the rising water in her living room and hearing that Rita finished what Katrina started by caving in her attic destroying the memorabilia of her late husband.

The tears streaming from her eyes abruptly stop and she tells us she cant go on any further. We stand in silence for a moment. Will thanks her for sharing her story, then asks if we may enter. She nods her head.

The orange morning sun begins to crest over the horizons abandon houses.

We wipe our eyes, pull on our gas masks and push open the front door.

Even through my top of the line protective mask, the smell hits me first, a pungent cocktail of rotted food, dead animals, raw sewage and the bottom of Lake Pontatrain. The house is dark and musty, but my eyes adjust and reveal destruction that is hard to describe. The difference from the outside of her house to the inside is striking.

It seems as though her home is simply a wooden box to hold polluted mud.

Before I entered my first Katrina flooded home, I had forgotten to take in to account that most items found in a home float. Couches, refrigerators, dressers, etc. The damage I expected was based on the idea that the homes filled with water, then the water went away and everything inside was then wet, but essentially had been left how it originally was, give or take a thorough cleaning job.

I could not have been more wrong.

After an entire home is submerged in liquid poison for five days, NOTHING IS SALVIGABLE. EVERYTHING IS DANGEROUS. AND THE HOME LOOKS LIKE THE BOTTOM OF THE SWAMP. The walls are bloated and moments from collapse. The windows are either broken or stained dark yellow tinting eerie orange beams of seemingly poisonous sunlight and the floors are several feet thick with congealed chunks of rotted debris and personal belongings. A year is also more than adequate time for anything living; bacteria, insect, rodent, to make itself quite at home.

The volunteers shuffle in, climb over damp piles of personal belongings and hold on to one another for balance. No one just jumps right in to work. They instead stand in silence just staring, unable to take it all in. 70 years of memories completely lost.

Worse.

Destroyed. And Poisoned too boot.

And then the thought enters, the realization, the truth, that this is only 1 room, in 1 house, on 1 block, in 1 neighborhood, in 1 city, in 1 state that was totally wasted by 1 storm.

The thought is almost too much to bear. If I spend too much time on the shear size of the devastation Katrina caused, I fear I may become despondent, unable to engage, lost in an overwhelming feeling of hopelessness. I feel it come over me. A slow drowse like a warm heroine overdose.

Then I snap to, clap my hands and begin ripping up a congealed chunk of clothing, electronics and mud from the floor. Roaches scurry in every direction. Someone else joins me. And before I know it, twenty masked strangers are buzzing in and out hauling mounds of contaminated effects.

1 person does make a difference, I think. Committing to 1 house does make change. Giving 1 woman a shot at a new beginning IS WORTH DOING. Contributing to 1 neighborhood CAN have an effect. Spending the time and chipping in for 1 city does have a palpable impact.

No one talks and we work without a break for the next two hours.

Just a moment to type.

In short, Im totally exhasuted, working very hard and having the time of my life.

I volunteer as much as I can each week, usually about 3 days a week, gutting homes around New Orleans (2 in Gentilly, 1 in Lakeview, 3 in Mid City and 2 in Broadmoor so far) and I do 1 or 2 shifts a week with a local landscaping company (3 seemed silly, Im here to volunteer, not prune hedges). And Im actually installing lawn sprinkler systems for them and not doing the garden maintenence stuff. (No, I didnt know I knew how to do that either, but its actualy pretty interesting, totally backbreaking digging holes and laying pipes all day in the beating sun, but interesting)

For each of these jobs, Im up at the crack of dawn and work my lil buns off till 4 or so. It feels good to be outside though. The tough part is riding my moms bicycle the 10 miles to get to work and the sights each morning by 6:45. The sweaty dusty rides home, ocassionally catching the evening rain, are interesting too. Needless to say, I sleep soundly through the night. (Understatement of the year. New Orleans locals are rolling there eyes right now thinking, Top Notch Detective Work, Jackass. Only Took You A Year To Figure That One Out.)

The volunteering work is emotionally draining too. I find that (IT) is getting in. I cry about every other day. Usually when Im not expecting it. There is a lot of pain and sadness in this city right now.

But, at the same time, I love it. The home owners are grateful and kind and the locals are blown away by how many of us there are here 24-7 working for free for people weve never met, probably never will again, and in a city most of these folks have never been to before. I mean, the idea of that blows ME away. I mean, I kinda know why Im doing it, but them? Its incredible really.

If Ive learned anything, its that there are A LOT of folks out there in America with REALLY BIG HEARTS. Its a beautiful thing. And these people are sowing their love, faith and generosity in to this city on a daily basis. Its really something else.

I feel honored to work with them.

The gig with Poppys night cooking classes have been cool too. I just do all the grunt work and pretend like I know what Im doing. It is an excellent way to finally learn how to make all the best Southern dishes. But, admittedly, it is a bit draining/difficult to leave some devistated home, clean up, slap on a smile and laugh for tourists after 10 hours of swinging a sledghammer.

But what the hell, I guess locals have been doing that for a year.

I have not done as much work around Brian and Ellies as I meant to so far. And by (not as much) I mean absolutely none. I HAVE made it to the hardware store twice to buy the stuff Im GOING to need! That does count for something, no?

OK, must sleep. A fist full of Advil first, then sleep.

Mmmm sleeeeeep

It took two and a half days of phone calls, emails, appointments, organizing, rearranging and bicycling (please picture just how soaked with sweat I am by the time I arrive at my destination, 30 minutes, 40 minutes, 50 minutes away. It is hotter than a monkeys crack around these parts), but I have put together a killer schedule for myself and gotten my hands stirring a few different pots.

The Overview. 3 days a week I will be (beautifying) the Uptown and Garden District areas with a local landscaping company. Eight hours a day, Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, I will be planting, replanting, trimming, tilling, seeding and pruning private and public spaces. Then Thursday and Friday I will be joining the task force, Rhino Group (Rebuilding Hope In New Orleans), established by a local Presbyterian church, helping to gut houses in neglected areas. And then Saturday and Sundays, I will alternate between joining Habitat for Humanity in their effort to build new homes for the displaced, and working (painting, sanding, etc.) around Brian and Ellies home. I also have an occasional floating gig at night, by invite, to su-chef for local culinary celebrity, Poppy Tooker, at her cooking classes at popular Magazine Street restaurant Savvy Gourmet.

It took a week of sleeping, celebrating, hanging out and lolly gagging on the North Shore, but I now have a stocked fridge, a local cafe, and a bitchin plan.

Im feelin ready to eat this city whole.

Two nights ago I left my moms on the North Shore and moved in to Brian and Ellies digs in town. And what do I have to say thus far? That I am bursting at the seems with life, love and this here pursuit of happiness. What can I say other than this city makes me gitty with goodness. My mom was kind enough to lone me her bike, recovered from the Paleolithic Era, so I have been able to cruise this town day and night till Im gross n sweat.

Last night, I ducked out for a midnight cruise in the cool humid night. A massive yellow moon sat low on the horizon, just above the citys rooftops, covered oh so lightly by the nights misty fog. I cut through back streets, zipped across dark alleys and punched through chilly patches of fog sitting low on the fairways of the Audubon Park Golf Course. The high guilds of the Catholic Church at Loyola University made for a dramatic silhouette against that moody moon. It felt great to be in New Orleans. Back home.

Its September 11th and I feel compelled to write. I spent the morning crying on the couch, remembering the scariest day of my life (I was trapped in the subway underground on the World Trade express train that day, and late that night, once out, a crack head stole my bag with everything I had, including several hundred dollars, I had prepared for the Stone Age, and I caught him and almost killed him) So today, I spoke with some friends from New York and got to touch base, remember that it did happen, it was scary and that we did it together. We shared how we had spent our days, not then (not again) but today. One friend went with 3 other pals to the same cafe they all sat at 5 years ago today. And just sat there. Thats what they needed to do. My mom was kind enough to listen to me tell my entire 911 story tonight. It felt really good to tell everything. Im not sure if Ive ever really done that. Full out, begining to end. It took a full hour.

And now its midnight and I feel slow and pensive.

Im thinking about how Ive been in Louisiana for 12 days and I havent done a goddamn thing to help anybody on the South Shore, in the city proper. Or at least in any way that I had expected to, or planned to, or really wanted to. To be honest, I feel kinda terrible.

I re-read what Ive written so far in this blog and I just felt silly after reading it. I mean, one minute Im talking about how scary it is for me to come home and try to reintroduce myself to my long lost city and how excited I was to try and get back to my roots and then 2 days later Im waxing philosophically about what this city is going through and how the government is screwing up and how mad I am, and blah blah blah.

What the hell do I know?! Im the same guy who cant find my own relatives houses. Im the same guy who hasnt been to a Saints game in 10 years. Im the same guy who was having a gay ole time doing theatre in France when Katrina struck! Who am I to assess the citys problems? Just because Ive read some Chris Rose articles Im a freaking New Orleans specialist?!

OK. Deep Breath.

If Im honest, I came down here full of piss and vinegar 12 days ago, ready to swallow the city whole and do what I could to help, but ive had to take care of some legistical things like housing, etc. before I could start, so now, Im chomping at the bit. I feel like Im talking a big game but not packin much of a punch these days.

And to that point, after reading my first 4 entries, my brother criticized me for being (so lofty) in my goals to help the city. It struck me odd that it came off that way. Thats not how I meant it at all. I completely understand that I am just one guy. I get that. My brother asked me (Do you actually think you are going to make a difference? Do you really think New Orleans or anybody else is going to be able to tell any difference because YOUVE been here? Because YOU showed up to New Orleans?) And my answer was and still is (Yes.) If I dig a hole, than THAT is my contribution. If I do far more, than the same. Im not sure WHAT or HOW MUCH my contribution to this city WILL be, but I WILL have one. I will try and what happens happens. I do NOT expect to contribute more than a single soul can. Because I cant. I simply believe that a single soul CAN in fact make a difference. However small it may be. I HAVE to believe that. Cuz, if not, then what the hell am I doing here? What the hell is ANYONE doing here? What the hell HAS anyone been doing for the passed 12 months busting their asses?

I have to believe that one persons contribution IS worth SOMETHING. I mean, 1 afternoon from 1 person is a few more hours of help and work that this city would not have gotten otherwise. And the truth is, this city needs all the damn help it can get.

So, like I was saying, I was chomping at the bit on the plane down here and for the month before that too, and then, all of a sudden, it was so easy, once I got here to just slip back in to Down Home Mode - Lazy days and crawfish etouffee, back yard bocce ball and grits griod, jogs in the summers humid heat and Abita Amber on tap.

I admit, with a guilty heart, that since Ive been back, which is been about 12 days now, I have not volunteered a single goddamn day. Ugh, that kills me. The closest thing was a couple hours work in my moms garden and scrubbing the mold from the side of her house with bleach and a toilet brush. Nothing to write home about, as it were.

Now, to my own credit, my schedule has been quite full with special occasions since I arrived and my housing in New Orleans didnt open up till September 6th, 5 days ago. My brother flew in from Honduras with his girlfriend (he has lived in Central America the last 6 years) and my Dad had his 60th Birthday yesterday, etc. etc. So I havent just been wasting away on the porch. Its actually been wonderful to hook up with relatives and be present for such special occasions as my Dads 60th. (Ive missed lots of family events over the lat 10 years.) BUT, now that I am about to explode with anxiety and guilt, I am FINALLY moving in to my digs in the city tomorrow. I CANNOT WAIT.

And to spend a moment on that word I realize I just used, (Guilt).

I feel that I came back down here to help the victims of Katrina and since I have arrived I have not done so. For this, I feel selfish and lame. But, if I open up my spectrum a bit and give myself some credit and think outside the box a bit, I think I can say that I have actually helped New Orleans in ways that perhaps I had not thought of or expected originally.

I hope Im not giving myself a get out of jail free card with this one, but for example, my completely insane God Father, Tim Trapolin, invited myself and 5 of his friends for a New Orleans tradition, Friday lunch at Galatoires. Well, it was Labor Day Weekend and I figured it was my last opportunity of the year to bust out my white bucks, purple socks, 1950s horn rims and my 5 Button Bazooka Joe Pink Zoot Suit. (I had just bought it at a Pimp Outfittery in Brisbane, Australia and was just itchin to rock it in style, as much style as you can wring out of a Pepto Bismol 2 piece) Well, I did. At Galatoires - one of New Orleans oldest, most famous and stodgiest original haunts.

Let me just say there is no better way to silence a room of 380 half drunk New Orleanians than to strut yo stuff, Pepto Bismol Polyester a flowin, straight through the main dinning hall. Michelle Galatoire, the 4th generation owner of Galaoires, stopped by our table as did John Fontenot, Senior Waiter of 35 years, to pay homage to Tim Trapolin and his deceivingly flaming God Son. We had a hoot. And the spirit of New Orleans felt oh so much alive.

It was then kicked in to overdrive as soon as we stepped out in to the French Quarters wooly bully streets, which just so happen to be brimming with the celebrants of that weekends biggest festival, Decadence Weekend, New Orleans 2nd largest gay pride carnival, 2nd only to Mardi Gras. Slow to get the subtle hints of handle bar mustaches and buttless chaps all around, I said when in Rome and I tossed my big hair back, waved to the excited strangers and wore a devilish grin. The fine people of New Orleans were more than ok to include the Pink Panthers taylor. Cars stopped, people honked, women asked to dance, photos were snapped, introductions were made (to complete strangers with the opening lines such as (I want you to meet Dodd. He is totally amazing! I love him! I dont know him at all, but he has to be fabulous! I mean, look at his friggin suit! You guys are gonna get along so well.") And one guy even gave me his tickets to the theatre that night. (He said "Come One! Yer wearing pink fer God Sakes, youve gotta love the theatre!) The city was so willing to accept festivity, to have fun, to make friends, and to be fabulous. And I was more than willing to help everybody play the part. It felt great to not have the spot light, but instead to share it with each person willing to script a scene together. The city felt so playful that night. (A personal fav memory from the night is quite short. It goes like this, a car stops sharp in the middle of traffic, a tinted window slowly rolls down electronically and then a husky voice from inside the car simply says (Get in.) Brilliant.) We ended up at Cafe Amile that night and danced to John Boutte singin sassy Looozian tunes till we were all sweaty. What a fabulous Nawinz Night.

Perhaps, For Now, thats my simple contribution to this city. Just to bring a good spirit and an inviting-dancin attitude to the Quarter. The other folks there were obviously down and more than willing to make a happy friend.

Im very much looking forward to getting my hands dirty though. I guess I should just ease up on the pre-conceived notions of what exactly that means.

So I have been looking for excuses to get back to the Crescent City for the last few years, but there has been nothing that has motivated me to return home for more than a 10 day span of time; a Christmas here, a big Birthday there, but nothing that has hooked me. Life just keeps moving. Ive been pursuing my career in theatre pretty hard since I graduated and there always seems to be another place to go or exciting project to get involved with (thats not in NO) and before you know it, you havent been home in a year or lived there in 15.

Katrina didnt even do it.

It came and went, scared the living hell out of me, I thought my uncle was dead for a week, I had a nervous break down in front of 2 of my guy GUY friends (and freaked them right out), headed to Paris for a job in the aftermath of the storm, and over there had no one to relate to or relay my pains from the images of my trashed city (I showed the famous cover of the New York Times with roof tops poking out of murky water for as far as the eye could see and people laughed. Literally.) From there, I got another gig and kept moving, and so on. And before you know it, its been 9 months since the storm.

The closest I came to finding THE something that would force me to rearrange my life (a bit) and dedicate more than a week to my birth city was last Mardi Gras when I received a phone call from both my mom and uncle telling me that THIS Mardi Gras, more than all other Mardi Gras, was important to come home for. It was THE first since the storm and the city needed its residents to come home and support her. I had never gotten such a call from either of them, so I knew I needed to figure it out. I just so happen to have scored a 2 month teaching position at Harvard (The American Repertory Theatre Graduate Program) a week before, but ya do whatya gotta do. I grabbed my beaded umbrella, face paint and my dancin shoes and then hopped the next flight home to Sin City. I had the time of my life that Mardi Gras. Then, the festivities ended and I hopped on a plane and was suddenly back in Cambridge. Life just moves on it seems.

THEN, 3 months ago, 9 months after the storm, IT finally did click. It became very clear that I DID need to return home and DO MY PART. It was not a vague growing feeling that finaly breeched the surface, or a welling guilt that finally popped. Nope. It was a silver bullet. Something very specific that made me DEFINATIVELY say (Dodd, you are going home as soon as you can figure it out.) And IT came in the form of a forwarded email.

Who woulda thunk?

My mother, along with every other citizen of Earth with roots in New Orleans, received a transcript of a speech that Times Picayune Columnist, Chris Rose, gave at the graduation ceremony of Ursuline Academy, an all girls Catholic school in Uptown NO. She then forwarded it to me, I read it, and his words clicked for me.

And now here I am 3 months later.

I still forward it to everyone who asks me about New Orleans and whats going on these days. I think that maybe it will have the same effect on them that it has on me. So go on and give it a read, why dontcha?

Brian and Ellie Lawlor are fine souls. Thats what Im thinking about as I sit here and I just needed to put it in print is all.

I briefly mentioned this fact in my first post, but its worth expanding on a bit.

Brian and Ellie offered to be my (Sponsors), again MY terminology, not theirs. Theyre too modest for such language. They are sponsoring me by putting me up for free in their wonderful Uptown shotgun for my entire time here in New Orleans. They would not accept any money from me, and I offered a few times. This housing is in exchange for my time volunteering here in the city. They were less interested in money and more interested in providing a platform from which I could dive in to city projects and be as helpful as possible. It was a match made in heaven. I wanted to volunteer my time. They wanted to help the city in some other way than sending another check. We all wanted to give back to New Orleans. And we found a great way to do that together.

My Uncle, Tim Trapolin, introduced me to Brian and Ellie when I came down for Mardi Gras last March. We hit it off immediately and had a blast dressing up, drinking too much and yelling for more beads. They were in from New York where they live an hour outside of Albany. Over the last few years, Brain & Ellie have developed a serious crush on New Orleans. Each year they have made it a priority to visit when they can and party when they must; Mardi Gras, Jazz Fest, ect. But last year their crush grew to the point where they had to bite the bullet and just go ahead and buy a second home, 2000 miles from their permanent address. The deal was sealed on their new home, a block off St. Charles, a few months before Katrina. It put some serious bumps in the road for their renovation project, but they were lucky enough to sustain only minimal damage. And there it sits. Every now and then, someone showing up to fix this or fix that. Well, when I finally decided to head home and work, I shot them an email and asked if I could rent their house while they were away and I was there. I explained what I wanted to do, volunteering for 6 weeks ect, and outlined what my time might look like for those weeks. They got back to me and right off the bat said they would not accept any money and instead were more interested in providing a place, (apparently both physically and monetarily) from where I could access the city and be able to help out in town. I then (countered) and offered to pay their note and utilities. They shot that down too. And it was only after wrangling that they finally conceded to letting me work around their house a bit too. Even as just a thank you. Were talkin serious generosity here.

Brian and Ellie Lawlor are good souls. I know Ive said it a few times now, but its worth repeating again. Its folks like them that are bringing New Orleans back to life.

LONG LIVE B&E!!!

ALSO today, the day I fly back home to begin my time there as a Relief Worker, just so happens to be August 29th, THE ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARYOF HURRICAINE KATRINA.

Hmmm A little weird no?

One year later, one year to the day, that the storm hit and the levees broke loose. And so did all hell. And thats the day I am flying home to my busted city to pitch in my 2 cents in the relief effort that has been unfolding ever since that fateful day.

I would have liked to have returned home earlier, to help out earlier. Maybe it took a year for it to soak in how much help that place really needs. How much New Orleans needs me, anybody, everybody. Perhaps. But perhaps its a small blessing that its taken me a year to get there? Maybe its better to wait out the original flood of attention and then go down. Show up when people feel they may just may have been forgotten, which to a certain degree is what has happened.

BUT THEN AGAIN, ANYTIME IS A GOOD TIME TO VOLUNTEER. NO?

Well, what tha hell? Im on a plane now. So I guess, NOW is my time.

So, I am actually on my flight, as I type, right here and now, heading home. Back to the place of my birth. Approximately 30,000 feet up, somewhere over the Virginias, and Im headin home to tha Mother Land. I have been back several times this year (I believe this will be my 4th visit since Christmas) but this time, Im stayin fo awhile! WoW, till October 18th. This is a first, since I was 15 years old, that my stay will last so long. 7 weeks all told.

Im a little nervous I admit, but above all, super duper excited to get back to my roots, eat some soul food and spend a lil time with my relatives. (All I usually get is a dinner and a party at Christmas time) Maybe I can stretch it out this go and squeeze in a tee time or two and maybe a (Howzya Momandem?) conversation at Cafe du Monde. Getting to know my relatives better would be wonderful.

So, a few hours ago, when I was on my bus through the Bronx heading to La Guardia Airport to catch the plane Im currently on, I chatted the whole way with the driver. He was excited, no I believe it was (happituh see deah wuz peoble like yo sef, headin down tuh do sum woik fuh dat place.) He told me he had been planning to go down to New Orleans himself, perhaps with his son, to work. He wanted to help courier supplies, as a bus driver. Very cool dude. And there are so many like him I see. Its wild how many people Ive met in the last 2 weeks who have expressed interest in making their way to New Orleans to help out (as soon as (they) can figguh it out). Amazing.

I might have been too young, but I just dont remember this type of help when San Francisco got rocked by an earthquake, or when the North East flooded, or when the MidWest got wasted by tornadoes. I mean, Im sure they were there, those Americans with huge hearts who pledged their time, money and might to help out in any way they could, there always are, but right now in New Orleans seems like a special case, a rare display of passion. Most folks havent even been there, but they still have a crush on the place. And then there are those who have been, however long ago, and fell in love hard and just never fell out. New Orleans is infectious in that way it seems. All these years later, all those folks who slurped crawfish UpTown and barfed in the gutters of Bourbon are returning to give a little back to the city that gave them so much. God its a beautiful thing.

And while Im commending the countless Americans (and others) who have returned to selflessly give back to this unique city, I will juxtapose their acts of generosity with New Orleans politicians SELFISH and quite frankly PATHETIC LACK OF ACTION to do, much of anything. To that end, it is faith based groups, volunteer organizations and basically everyone who is NOT the N.O. Government who are SAVING NEW ORLEANS. Countless articles have been published lately by the Times Picayunne and others that say exactly that. In short, the huge majority of the citys progress over the last year; clean-up, rebuilding, water distribultion, electric distribultion, etc. has been done by the Everyday Joe who is TIRED OF WAITING FOR RED TAPE GOVERNMENT BULL and INEFFECTIVE POLITICAL MAONING and so has taken matters in to their own hands. They have rebuilt their houses with their own two hands (learning masonry, sheet-rocking and plumbing as they go), unsure if in a years time a government funded bulldozer wont knock it back down. They have gutted their own restaurants and hauled their own waste. They have funded their own schools and taught their own children. They have given more of themselves, more than any politician has given ANYBODY this past year, to just keep life moving, keep things afloat, TO KEEP NEW ORLEANS ON THE MAP. These are the real heroes of the storm. The everyday New Orleanian who has returned and defied a WEAK and AIMLESS GOVERNMENT in order to build, rebuild something for themselves, something for their children and something for their fellow New Orleanian.

On the eve of my departure (Im still in New York) these are a few of the things going through my mind:

Im trying to contextualize myself, and my decision to return to my long lost city. I was born there, in the Garden District, 27 years ago. Before too many childhood memories were made, my family, Mother, Father and Older Brother, moved 20 miles away (across Lake Pontatrain) to the North Shore. I was 5. My moms side of the family continued to live, and still does, in the city proper and my Dad commuted to work, back and forth across the Lake, for the next 22 years. (My Dads family are born and bread Yankees)

I remember, after the last box was packed, lying my head in my mothers lap as we drove across the Causeway Toll Bridge, which connects the city to the North Shore, and crying the whole way because I didnt want to move. I loved New Orleans and didnt want to leave. Well, I got over that real quick. For the next eight years I was happy as a clam rolling in grass, chasing dogs, riding my bike, attempting, but never actually succeeding in TIPPING a cow, rolling neighborhood houses, going to private school with the same 100 kids for all 8 years and eating family dinner each night a half hour after my father returned from work. We went to church in the city, had family dinners in the city and spent most holidays there as well. New Orleans was always on my radar, part of my life in the peripheral, but I didnt spend much time physically there.

When I was 15, I went away to boarding school in the North East (yeah, the coat and tie variety my fathers family attended) and from there headed to Los Angeles for a year when I was 19 and then New York City for the last eight. Im now 27.

So, since I headed off for Prep School I have really only returned to Louisiana for holidays and special events averaging about 3 visits a year. And that is all to say, I have spent less than a 1/5th of my life actually in New Orleans.

YET I HAVE ALWAYS CONSIDERED MYSELF A NEW ORLEANIAN.

Admittedly, the byproduct of this proclamation has been guilt. I cant help but ask myself (What kind of New Orleanian cant find I-10?) (What kind of New Orleanian has only drank at The Boot twice?) (What kind of New Orleanian hasnt been to Jazz Fest in 10 years?) And I suppose the answer is,

A Bad One.

When I sit down and think about it, I first wonder if I have lost touch, lost connection with my birth city. Then I ask a tougher question. What if I never had a connection with the city in the first place? I cant bear to think that the answer might be NO, No in fact, I never did have a connection with the city. I understand that I left at a young age, but I believe that New Orleans is in the heart. Its something that flows in your blood from day one. I mean, theres a reason that I walk in to a room of strangers, hit it off with a random selection of 5 or 6 of them, and find out later that theyre all Southern. Birds of the feather, I guess. 15 years out of the Southern Womb, and in Yankee Land to boot, and my Dirty Cajun Radar hasnt been scrambled yet. I mean, after 15 years I still havent adopted You Guys. YALL just rolls off the tongue so natural like. Its gotta stand for something.

So why am I going down to New Orleans, back to my birth place, to work reconstruction? (Im not yet there. My flight leaves in 2 days. Im actually writing this entry from a cafe on 82nd and Madison Avenue, a block from The Metropolitan Museum of Art on Manhattans Upper East Side. Yikes. How Bourgeois of me.) I just woke up on this Saturday morning and my gears were turning, anxious about my next adventure, so I grabbed my computer and plopped down with a cup of jo and here I type, curious about the very reason I will be boarding a Nawlinz bound plane in 48 hours. Is it for selfish reasons? Easing my own guilt? Doing the right thing? Thumbing my nose at The Man? Proving something to myself? Proving something to someone else? Maybe. Maybe some of that. Maybe a part of my humanitarian side is rearing its head.

MAYBE I WANT TO GIVE BACK TO A PLACE THAT I FEEL HAS GIVEN SO MUCH TO ME.

For the simple fact that I was born there, born in New Orleans, rushed to a hospital in Jefferson Parish with my mom squealing in the back seat of a cab, I am given free bills of Social Currency for the length of my life. For all of my days, if ever Im stuck in a rut, flailing in an interview, dying at a painful dinner party, trying to meet the girl, wanting to impress, spark conversation, keep things moving, effectively change the topic, or spice things up a bit, I simply have to mention or make the subtle transition to the fact that I was born in the city of New Orleans. It is the master social lubricant. It perks peoples eyebrows. It elicits intrigue. It evokes curiosity. And lord knows I have used these things to my benefit; transitioned out of a tricky spot, slipped the resume on the sly, saved a terrible eve, even gotten the girl.

NEW ORLEANS, YER THA BEST WING MAN I EVER HAD.

Even if just for these simple things, 7 weeks of blood sweat and tears is not enough.

I wish I could roll in to town on my own back-hoe, and start laying foundations for the homeless slick talkin Southerner, the harmonica jammin bad boys, street buskers, Mardi Gras Indians, Story weavin Cajuns, crawfish boilin Chalmations, Red Dragon Break Dancers, Clairvoyant street gypsies, Cafe Ole sippin UpTowner, tuba packin funeral celebrants, Hurricane servin sassy bar wenches, beautiful gender bending tranies, and the table top booty shakin Bourbon Street personalities! Oh I wish. I would build them the home of their dreams. I would give them what they needed to keep the dream alive. To keep New Orleans cookin by day and drinkin by night. I would give them all, all the citys beautiful souls and personalities, what they needed, what they wanted, what theyre hearts desired to help put, KEEP, New Orleans on the map, churning out stories and tales that keep the rest of America and the World shocked, horrified and gossiping around their water coolers. I would give it all to keep that Disney Land for Heathens up and running.

But I am a mere single soul. And a back-hoeless soul at that. So, I pack a single sack and head out with a pair of work boots instead. Ill be in the Crescent City in 48 hours from now, trigger finger ichin to roll up my sleeves, powder up my beignets , get back to my roots and help out my lost city when she needs me most.

HELLO AND THANK YOU FOR PERUSING MY BLOG.

This is my first entry, so Ill try to summarize a bit.

MY NAME IS DODD AND I WILL BE IN NEW ORLEANS OVER THE NEXT 7 WEEKS HELPING WITH THE CITY'S RECONSTRUCTION EFFORT. (August 29th till October 18th). I am currently in New York City and will be leaving in a few days to make my way down to begin.

In my very first phone call looking in to potential housing situations (I was planning on renting a room), I was offered free lodging by two excellent souls Brian & Ellie Lawlor, in exchange for my good deeds in the city. Brian and Ellie live in UpState New York and because of a long crush on the city, also have a wonderful little shotgun in Uptown New Orleans. They have wanted to come down and help out in the Crescent City, but do to Big People Jobs in Yankee Land, have been unable to make the trek. SO, they were actually thrilled to have the opportunity to SPONSOR (my terminology, not theirs. They are too humble for that) someone like myself. And I could not be more grateful. Because of their generosity I will be more free to get my hands dirty and hopefully help out some folks who really need it.

Now WHAT I will actually be doing Im not quite sure. Or WHERE for that matter. But I think it will be along the lines of mucking houses, sheet rocking, hauling trash, white goods (taking away flooded refrigerators, stoves, etc.) and basic manual labor.

I'll hang out with my family a bit when I arrive and also figure out what kinds of projects are going on in the city. Then, my housing opens up on September 6th and I'll make the move in to the city and then hopefully jump right in.

We shall see and more to come.