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February 13, 2014

To DVR.
nprfreshair:

David Bianculli directs your attention to a CBS documentary airing this Saturday  called The Whole Gritty City, and it follows young student marching bands as they prepare for coveted spots in the Mardi Gras parade in New Orleans: 

48 Hours Presents: The Whole Gritty City is a documentary in the Fred Wiseman mold. The film, by Richard Barber and Andre Lambertson, has no narration — it just focuses on a specific subject for a lengthy amount of time, and lets the cameras record whatever happens. And then, all that raw footage is edited. The only scene-setting comes courtesy of Wynton Marsalis, who appears at the beginning, and a few more spots during the program, to explain the concept, the context — and the stakes.
"New Orleans buries too many of its young," says Marsalis, who was born and raised in New Orleans.
The opening scene of The Whole Gritty City turns out to be a flash-forward. We see, and hear, a very large group of young people playing band instruments outdoors, as part of a funeral service. They’re playing, sometimes, with more volume and emotion than precision, a few of them wiping tears away as they blow their horns.

photo courtesy of CBS 48 Hours Presents: The Whole Gritty City 

To DVR.

nprfreshair:

David Bianculli directs your attention to a CBS documentary airing this Saturday called The Whole Gritty City, and it follows young student marching bands as they prepare for coveted spots in the Mardi Gras parade in New Orleans:

48 Hours Presents: The Whole Gritty City is a documentary in the Fred Wiseman mold. The film, by Richard Barber and Andre Lambertson, has no narration — it just focuses on a specific subject for a lengthy amount of time, and lets the cameras record whatever happens. And then, all that raw footage is edited. The only scene-setting comes courtesy of Wynton Marsalis, who appears at the beginning, and a few more spots during the program, to explain the concept, the context — and the stakes.

"New Orleans buries too many of its young," says Marsalis, who was born and raised in New Orleans.

The opening scene of The Whole Gritty City turns out to be a flash-forward. We see, and hear, a very large group of young people playing band instruments outdoors, as part of a funeral service. They’re playing, sometimes, with more volume and emotion than precision, a few of them wiping tears away as they blow their horns.

photo courtesy of CBS 48 Hours Presents: The Whole Gritty City 

Comments (View)  |  247 notes


January 9, 2014

petitchou:

The Whann-Bohn House, 807 Esplanade St., New Orleans (b. 1859)
pterodactyls asked: What structure from the past do you wish was still standing? What would it be like today?
In The Poetics of Space, Gaston Bachelard wrote, “The questions abound: how can secret rooms, rooms that have disappeared, become abodes for an unforgettable past?’
I lived in this house from 2002-2004. I still stalk this house as though it were a person. I know its history as if it were a person, I’ve spent years trying to figure it out, to know what it was thinking in its forgotten corners, its sinister stairways, its sloping floors. Technically, it’s still standing, though it has been completed gutted, renovated, and turned into a movie-editing studio. When I lived there, it was caving in, half-uninhabited. It was the bohemian dream, it was the Grey Gardens of the South.
This house undid me, in the best way possible. I pretty much eloped to New Orleans with a fellow I had only known for a few weeks, and his dog. I had never been to New Orleans, had never lived outside of California at all. This was Living, at full speed, this was jumping off a diving board in the dark, holding hands, eyes closed. This house was a marker, in which before and after are two wholly different chapters, two utterly different people.
We drove from Santa Cruz to New Orleans in five days. For some reason, I had never given actual thought as to what would happen when we arrived. I thought we would drive forever, I guess. I’ll never forget driving through the desolate French Quarter for the first time in the dead 3am heat of August, gasping air like hot wet cotton in your mouth.
I don’t think I slept for the first three months I lived here. Every creak, every gaping darkness startled me, terrified me. I would come home at 3am after bartending to find all the lights had gone out, I would grope blindly up that curved stairway in the pitch black and not dare to look down the hall which opened up to the abandoned slave quarters in the back.
But something slowly fused between me and that house, in a way I’ve never been able to articulate. I felt so…safe there, despite the fact that it was crumbling down around me, despite rats and cockroaches and inexplicable flickering lights. I lived for the summer afternoons I would be all alone, and the sky would go black with thunder, and I would turn off all the lights and throw the windows wide open. And most nights you could lie there in the dark, and hear the riverboat calliope and the horse hooves on cobblestones and think about the fact that maybe this was what the world sounded like when this house was built before the Civil War. There aren’t many places left like this, in this country.
I left New Orleans as abruptly as I arrived, centered around some teenage proclamation like, “this city isn’t big enough for the both of us!” and flounced out of town. We broke up over the proper way to carry laundry to the laundromat, this fellow and I. Well, not really, but you know. It was a symbolic fight. Still, not the kind of breakup this house was owed. I mourned that house far more than the relationship. I have no pictures from this period in my life, but I dreamed about that house almost every night for years afterward. Of suicidally possessed stairwells, of secret rooms. I finally went back to New Orleans in 2006, and noticed that the house was now for sale. And I was a woman obsessed: I needed to get back in. It would be like being able to re-enter a dream I had dreamed and exhuming the landscape for clues: had it all ever really happened? Three hours before I was to fly back to San Francisco, I rode my bicycle by a last time and noticed the doors were flung wide open. A curmudgeonly caretaker came out and shooed me away, a German paranormal investigation show was filming inside. I lingered. The minute he rounded the corner, I bolted up the stairs. The light was just the way I had remembered it, had tried to memorize it after I left. I sat down on the floor and cried. I don’t know what I cried for. Maybe for a time that I had lived so fiercely, and blindly, and how hard and good it was.

Who hasn’t lived that way in New Orleans?
(via emilygould)

petitchou:

The Whann-Bohn House, 807 Esplanade St., New Orleans (b. 1859)

pterodactyls asked: What structure from the past do you wish was still standing? What would it be like today?

In The Poetics of Space, Gaston Bachelard wrote, “The questions abound: how can secret rooms, rooms that have disappeared, become abodes for an unforgettable past?’

I lived in this house from 2002-2004. I still stalk this house as though it were a person. I know its history as if it were a person, I’ve spent years trying to figure it out, to know what it was thinking in its forgotten corners, its sinister stairways, its sloping floors. Technically, it’s still standing, though it has been completed gutted, renovated, and turned into a movie-editing studio. When I lived there, it was caving in, half-uninhabited. It was the bohemian dream, it was the Grey Gardens of the South.

This house undid me, in the best way possible. I pretty much eloped to New Orleans with a fellow I had only known for a few weeks, and his dog. I had never been to New Orleans, had never lived outside of California at all. This was Living, at full speed, this was jumping off a diving board in the dark, holding hands, eyes closed. This house was a marker, in which before and after are two wholly different chapters, two utterly different people.

We drove from Santa Cruz to New Orleans in five days. For some reason, I had never given actual thought as to what would happen when we arrived. I thought we would drive forever, I guess. I’ll never forget driving through the desolate French Quarter for the first time in the dead 3am heat of August, gasping air like hot wet cotton in your mouth.

I don’t think I slept for the first three months I lived here. Every creak, every gaping darkness startled me, terrified me. I would come home at 3am after bartending to find all the lights had gone out, I would grope blindly up that curved stairway in the pitch black and not dare to look down the hall which opened up to the abandoned slave quarters in the back.

But something slowly fused between me and that house, in a way I’ve never been able to articulate. I felt so…safe there, despite the fact that it was crumbling down around me, despite rats and cockroaches and inexplicable flickering lights. I lived for the summer afternoons I would be all alone, and the sky would go black with thunder, and I would turn off all the lights and throw the windows wide open. And most nights you could lie there in the dark, and hear the riverboat calliope and the horse hooves on cobblestones and think about the fact that maybe this was what the world sounded like when this house was built before the Civil War. There aren’t many places left like this, in this country.

I left New Orleans as abruptly as I arrived, centered around some teenage proclamation like, “this city isn’t big enough for the both of us!” and flounced out of town. We broke up over the proper way to carry laundry to the laundromat, this fellow and I. Well, not really, but you know. It was a symbolic fight. Still, not the kind of breakup this house was owed. I mourned that house far more than the relationship. I have no pictures from this period in my life, but I dreamed about that house almost every night for years afterward. Of suicidally possessed stairwells, of secret rooms. I finally went back to New Orleans in 2006, and noticed that the house was now for sale. And I was a woman obsessed: I needed to get back in. It would be like being able to re-enter a dream I had dreamed and exhuming the landscape for clues: had it all ever really happened? Three hours before I was to fly back to San Francisco, I rode my bicycle by a last time and noticed the doors were flung wide open. A curmudgeonly caretaker came out and shooed me away, a German paranormal investigation show was filming inside. I lingered. The minute he rounded the corner, I bolted up the stairs. The light was just the way I had remembered it, had tried to memorize it after I left. I sat down on the floor and cried. I don’t know what I cried for. Maybe for a time that I had lived so fiercely, and blindly, and how hard and good it was.

Who hasn’t lived that way in New Orleans?

(via emilygould)

Comments (View)  |  133 notes


October 29, 2013

Takes a certain kind of person to go to college in New Orleans….
Hell, takes a certain kind of person to survive college in New Orleans.
Always and forever, the Tulane krewe.

Takes a certain kind of person to go to college in New Orleans….

Hell, takes a certain kind of person to survive college in New Orleans.

Always and forever, the Tulane krewe.

Comments (View)  |  20 notes


October 20, 2013

reina:

The best 10 minute documentary you’ll ever watch.

coketalk:

I gotta get back to New Orleans.

Always.

Comments (View)  |  1,619 notes


August 29, 2013

inothernews:

Hurricane Katrina, eight years ago today. (Photograph of a flooded New Orleans by Vincent Laforet / Reuters via The Guardian)

I was in Dublin in this tiny rowhouse apartment on the North Side, a place where you still got glimpses of the dirty old town it used to be. It was a Sunday, I think, and I was Skypeing with my parents and my grandma Su, who was visiting from Sarasota. 
"Have you heard about this hurricane Katrina?"
Being from Florida she was more attuned than the rest of us to the nightly hurricane watch. I hadn’t heard of it and I didn’t think much of it. I was more preoccupied with the fact that in the same conversation I asked my great-aunt how her husband was doing — and she had to remind me he had recently passed away.
What can I say? I was 23 and across the ocean.
(Good god, was I really 23?)
It wasn’t ‘til the next evening, Dublin-time, that Katrina warranted a spot on the Irish 24-hour news. I remember seeing it on a gas station TV set and feeling like I was the only one who cared.
To be fair, it wasn’t bad yet.
But over the next few days, Katrina became Katrina.
My whole life changed because of it.
…which just goes to show.
You can count the dead bodies in the attic.
You can count the missings and the founds and the pets and the jobs and the schools lost.
You can count the moves and the start-overs and the Mayor Nagins and the Common Grounds.
You can count ‘til there’s nothing left to count.
You still won’t have the measure of that storm.
PS: Just realized that my great-uncle passed away much later; it would he years before I’d put my foot in my mouth like that. But trust me, I did.

inothernews:

Hurricane Katrina, eight years ago today. (Photograph of a flooded New Orleans by Vincent Laforet / Reuters via The Guardian)

I was in Dublin in this tiny rowhouse apartment on the North Side, a place where you still got glimpses of the dirty old town it used to be. It was a Sunday, I think, and I was Skypeing with my parents and my grandma Su, who was visiting from Sarasota. 

"Have you heard about this hurricane Katrina?"

Being from Florida she was more attuned than the rest of us to the nightly hurricane watch. I hadn’t heard of it and I didn’t think much of it. I was more preoccupied with the fact that in the same conversation I asked my great-aunt how her husband was doing — and she had to remind me he had recently passed away.

What can I say? I was 23 and across the ocean.

(Good god, was I really 23?)

It wasn’t ‘til the next evening, Dublin-time, that Katrina warranted a spot on the Irish 24-hour news. I remember seeing it on a gas station TV set and feeling like I was the only one who cared.

To be fair, it wasn’t bad yet.

But over the next few days, Katrina became Katrina.

My whole life changed because of it.

…which just goes to show.

You can count the dead bodies in the attic.

You can count the missings and the founds and the pets and the jobs and the schools lost.

You can count the moves and the start-overs and the Mayor Nagins and the Common Grounds.

You can count ‘til there’s nothing left to count.

You still won’t have the measure of that storm.

PS: Just realized that my great-uncle passed away much later; it would he years before I’d put my foot in my mouth like that. But trust me, I did.

(via thisisfusion)

Comments (View)  |  276 notes


July 22, 2013

Tales ‘13: Cripple Creek pop-up, creepy animal masks, and our honorary middle sister, Katarina. Altogether, as debauched as ever.

PS: You can never see them in photos but the lace-up cutouts make that dress.

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July 19, 2013

While everyone at home withers in the heat, I’m wandering down Royal, a $3 margarita in hand and a nice breeze ruffling my dress. Listening to snippets of friendly conversation, basking in being called baby, and seriously wondering why I left/if I can ever convince my Manhattan boy that This Is It.
PS: Third year in a row that weather is better here than NYC for Tales. What I used to say about going to Nola in late July — I take it all back.
PPS: That’s the house Jane was convinced belonged to Brad and Angelina. Turns out it doesn’t, so we’re still on the hunt….

While everyone at home withers in the heat, I’m wandering down Royal, a $3 margarita in hand and a nice breeze ruffling my dress. Listening to snippets of friendly conversation, basking in being called baby, and seriously wondering why I left/if I can ever convince my Manhattan boy that This Is It.

PS: Third year in a row that weather is better here than NYC for Tales. What I used to say about going to Nola in late July — I take it all back.

PPS: That’s the house Jane was convinced belonged to Brad and Angelina. Turns out it doesn’t, so we’re still on the hunt….

Comments (View)  |  13 notes


July 19, 2013

The Big Easy (via nevver)
I am here.

The Big Easy (via nevver)

I am here.

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July 8, 2013

'Cause the whole family* is going down to New Orleans next week!
* Me + Gena + M. Wheeeeee!!

'Cause the whole family* is going down to New Orleans next week!

* Me + Gena + M. Wheeeeee!!

(Source: beyonce)

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June 14, 2013

nolafoodporn:

Fried Pickles with a house made Remoulade sauce from Bayou Hot Wings

Yum.

nolafoodporn:

Fried Pickles with a house made Remoulade sauce from Bayou Hot Wings

Yum.

Comments (View)  |  1,076 notes