Such a simple thing. It's almost inconceivable that the City of New Orleans has no written criteria for assigning take-home vehicles. And no established method to monitor or restrict their personal use. And no requirement that employees with take home vehicles document any public purpose for all the expenses the city pays to provide insurance, maintenance and unlimited fuel.
I said, "almost inconceivable," because in fact, we are talking about New Orleans here.
And who ever thought for one second that our city was well managed?
We didn't need proof, but now we have it. The report by the city's own Office of the Inspector General came out yesterday, and it's a scorcher with silk gloves. Again and again, the report makes straightforward, common-sense observations about what should be done and what is not done. In a community that is struggling every day and with every dollar to get back on its feet, the results are chilling.
Waste? That's almost a given. But what would you expect when you give employees a free car with unlimited fuel and nobody watching what they do or where they go with it? How can there not be waste when there's no written criteria or centralized oversight for who gets a city vehicle with take home privileges?
Fraud? There's no way to gauge it since there's no accountability, but I think it's safe to assume the worst. The report notes the curious instances where an employee with a city-owned Ford F-150 equipped with an 18-gallon gas tank pulled into a gas station one day and put 91.2 gallons on the city's credit card. And the employee with the Ford Taurus, a car that holds 18 gallons max, who charged 39.9 gallons on a single visit to the pump.
Abuse? How about take home cars assigned to two employees who live in Baton Rouge. And the tortured story of the city employee who had four city vehicles parked in front of his house for at least a month: the first was old and unreliable and only for local use, the second was borrowed from an employee on sick leave, the third was a brand new truck that was to be assigned to others but was being used by the employee until the full shipment of new vehicles arrived, and the fourth was yet another new vehicle assigned to the employee to replace the old and unreliable first vehicle. Huh?
And here's the kicker: this is just an interim report. There's more to come once the OIG gets to investigate the use of cars by the NOPD, Aviation Board, Civil Sheriff, Criminal Sheriff and Sewerage and Water Board. If those guys are smart, they'll start to get their house in order BEFORE the OIG shows up, especially since now they know what they'll be looking for.
Kudos to Robert Cerasoli, Inspector General for an outstanding job. Give him credit for a report that avoids finger-wagging and haughty accusations of mismanagement. Instead, the overall tone is one of helpful advice. Nowhere is it suggested that anyone knowingly misused or abused privileges, and this makes it much easier for the responsible city officials to take the constructive criticism of the report and make changes.
If there's one person who deserves as much help as we can give him, it's Robert Cerasoli. Let's hope that he--of all the city's employees--truly has unlimited fuel to keep doing what he's doing.
Thanks, Maitri, for hosting the Interim Report on the Management of the Administrative Vehicle Fleet.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Snow in New Orleans
It doesn't happen too often, so when it does it's quite an event. I had already arrived at work today when we started to hear reports of snow.
Baton Rouge, we heard, then Covington.
Suddenly one of my colleagues was putting on her coat. "What's going on?" I asked.
"I'm going outside to see the snow," she said.
I thought she might be kidding or was duped by a rumor until I looked out the window and saw it: large flat flakes floating and blowing by the window. Snow!
Baton Rouge, we heard, then Covington.
Suddenly one of my colleagues was putting on her coat. "What's going on?" I asked.
"I'm going outside to see the snow," she said.
I thought she might be kidding or was duped by a rumor until I looked out the window and saw it: large flat flakes floating and blowing by the window. Snow!
I took some pictures with my cell phone so the quality is limited. Still, you can see the white covering the cars in the parking lot, and the blanket of white all the way up the Mississippi River levee.
The rooftops of the houses nearby were blanketed white. Somehow, it made the aged, beaten buildings all look pretty.
Most of my coworkers made it to the office okay, but a one or two who lived on the North shore phoned in saying they couldn't make the trip. Since the office was open, they will have to use their own leave time for missing work today. I don't think anyone was complaining about that, though. It was probably a good day to take off.
By lunchtime most of the snow had already melted away. New Orleans returned to being just another cold, wet city.
Snow day 2008 in New Orleans lasted about 4 hours.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Where ya been, Tim?
Working. "Like a rented mule," as my Darling Wife likes to say.
Not only that, I'm afraid there's just not been much to write about lately. We're happily settling in to our new home, paying bills and taking in some of the pleasures of living in New Orleans. Nothing wrong with that, but it's just not the sort of stuff I think makes for good blogging.
But here is something: our Precious Daughter recently completed a writing short course at NOCCA. The students each wrote a story based on a life experience. Some were true stories, others fiction. My girl's story is fictional, although it takes place at our pre-K house in Gentilly. Like any parent I'm proud of what she wrote and I asked her if she would let me put it up on my blog.
"Really?" she said.
Yes, really, I replied.
And here it is, my 12-year-old's creative writing. Enjoy!
Caution
When I was seven years old, my father built me a play set in our backyard. It wasn’t fancy, made of wood with swings, a sandbox, a slide, and monkey bars. But to me, it was my castle. I suppose it was 8 or 9 feet tall, and I had just discovered a way to climb on top of it. I would weave myself up the panels and beams until I got to the very top, where there was just one beam left, suspended above the ground. It was exhilarating to be up there, with just a beam between you and the grass. It felt like I was a bird on a telephone wire, or a coyote howling on the very edge of a cliff. I went up there often to tight-rope walk around and smell the woodsy scent of the outdoors. My parents weren’t thrilled about my discovery for no parent likes their child to be in any sort of dangerous situation. They told me to stop, but the exhilaration overwhelmed me and I continued to walk on that beam of wood, held above the world, and look into my neighbor’s yard.
One day, I was walking around on the beam like normal when my foot slipped off the side. I felt my balance falter. All of the exhilaration drained away like some one had pulled the plug in a bathtub. Suddenly, I fell from the beam, face forward, the grass coming closer and closer towards me. Then, just as suddenly as it had started it stopped. I hung upside down, and it was as if someone had paused my life. The next emotions that washed over me were relief and panic. I twisted up, and found by luck, my shoelace had caught on a nail, preventing my fall. I breathed a sigh and then cut it off when I saw that my shoelace would not last long since the nail was splitting it in half slowly. I knew that the next time I fell I would hit the ground. What could I do? I shrieked and cried, twisting farther up to see just how long I would have to wait before my shoelace snapped. Then, my last hope failed me and the final string of my shoelace broke. I felt the air whoosh past me as I fell for the second time.
I hated the feeling of falling, because I couldn’t control it and I was afraid that gravity would suck me in and I would never come back out again. But, to my surprise, the first thing I felt after a small moment of falling was not the hard, sharp feel of our St. Augustine grass, but of my father. I was suddenly very aware of my father’s arms that were wrapped around me, and how he smelled like bacon and cologne, and how he had saved me. I started sobbing again, and he started humming to me a soft lullaby, and when I had cried all of my tears he carried me inside and told me that I should have listened to him in the first place. Even though he was scolding me, it did not seem that way to me, for with every word he held me closer and didn’t let me go for a very long time.
Not only that, I'm afraid there's just not been much to write about lately. We're happily settling in to our new home, paying bills and taking in some of the pleasures of living in New Orleans. Nothing wrong with that, but it's just not the sort of stuff I think makes for good blogging.
But here is something: our Precious Daughter recently completed a writing short course at NOCCA. The students each wrote a story based on a life experience. Some were true stories, others fiction. My girl's story is fictional, although it takes place at our pre-K house in Gentilly. Like any parent I'm proud of what she wrote and I asked her if she would let me put it up on my blog.
"Really?" she said.
Yes, really, I replied.
And here it is, my 12-year-old's creative writing. Enjoy!
Caution
When I was seven years old, my father built me a play set in our backyard. It wasn’t fancy, made of wood with swings, a sandbox, a slide, and monkey bars. But to me, it was my castle. I suppose it was 8 or 9 feet tall, and I had just discovered a way to climb on top of it. I would weave myself up the panels and beams until I got to the very top, where there was just one beam left, suspended above the ground. It was exhilarating to be up there, with just a beam between you and the grass. It felt like I was a bird on a telephone wire, or a coyote howling on the very edge of a cliff. I went up there often to tight-rope walk around and smell the woodsy scent of the outdoors. My parents weren’t thrilled about my discovery for no parent likes their child to be in any sort of dangerous situation. They told me to stop, but the exhilaration overwhelmed me and I continued to walk on that beam of wood, held above the world, and look into my neighbor’s yard.
One day, I was walking around on the beam like normal when my foot slipped off the side. I felt my balance falter. All of the exhilaration drained away like some one had pulled the plug in a bathtub. Suddenly, I fell from the beam, face forward, the grass coming closer and closer towards me. Then, just as suddenly as it had started it stopped. I hung upside down, and it was as if someone had paused my life. The next emotions that washed over me were relief and panic. I twisted up, and found by luck, my shoelace had caught on a nail, preventing my fall. I breathed a sigh and then cut it off when I saw that my shoelace would not last long since the nail was splitting it in half slowly. I knew that the next time I fell I would hit the ground. What could I do? I shrieked and cried, twisting farther up to see just how long I would have to wait before my shoelace snapped. Then, my last hope failed me and the final string of my shoelace broke. I felt the air whoosh past me as I fell for the second time.
I hated the feeling of falling, because I couldn’t control it and I was afraid that gravity would suck me in and I would never come back out again. But, to my surprise, the first thing I felt after a small moment of falling was not the hard, sharp feel of our St. Augustine grass, but of my father. I was suddenly very aware of my father’s arms that were wrapped around me, and how he smelled like bacon and cologne, and how he had saved me. I started sobbing again, and he started humming to me a soft lullaby, and when I had cried all of my tears he carried me inside and told me that I should have listened to him in the first place. Even though he was scolding me, it did not seem that way to me, for with every word he held me closer and didn’t let me go for a very long time.
Monday, October 20, 2008
The 4,900-year gap
A neighbor from Vista Park had another letter in The Times Picayune today.
KC is one of the few people in New Orleans who truly understands the risk of living here. As he rebuilds his home just a few hundred feet from the London Avenue Canal breach, KC has been tireless in his efforts to get the word out: We Are Not OK.
Just one small point I need to make about KC's letter: the Dutch design goal is to provide for a MINIMUM 1,250-year event, mostly in farm or less-developed areas of the county. Highly populated urban or industrial regions get 10,000-year protection (0.01 percent chance of exceedence per year).
But KC is cold correct when he points out who is responsible to manage the residual risks: individual citizens.
KC is one of the few people in New Orleans who truly understands the risk of living here. As he rebuilds his home just a few hundred feet from the London Avenue Canal breach, KC has been tireless in his efforts to get the word out: We Are Not OK.
Just one small point I need to make about KC's letter: the Dutch design goal is to provide for a MINIMUM 1,250-year event, mostly in farm or less-developed areas of the county. Highly populated urban or industrial regions get 10,000-year protection (0.01 percent chance of exceedence per year).
But KC is cold correct when he points out who is responsible to manage the residual risks: individual citizens.
Friday, October 17, 2008
From the seat of my pants
Driving in Orange County, California turned out to be quite an amazing experience for someone from New Orleans.
Bumps, potholes and anything that would add vibration to travel on the city streets simply do not exist in Orange County. Specifically, I was driving in Santa Ana this week, the city where John Wayne Airport (yes, it’s named after the Duke) is located.
It took a few moments for me to comprehend the beauty of the silky smooth roads there. I was driving a rental car, so my first thought was that the car had a really nice ride and excellent seats. But as I looked down the pristine roadway of perfectly manicured black asphalt, it dawned on me: these are really nice streets.
Perhaps you have to be a civil engineer to fully appreciate what a well built and impeccably maintained road is all about. But perhaps the experience is not so cerebral and requires nothing more than buttocks accustomed to the constant rumble of unraveling asphalt and cracked concrete of an aging, neglected city like New Orleans.
As I drove along, I began to look for potholes or any sign of distress that would tell me I was driving in a real city, a city like my own sweet Crescent City that struggles to keep up with street maintenance. It was a fruitless search.
Making my way toward my hotel, I turned off the major thoroughfare onto a more local street, again hoping—yes, hoping—that I would find the urban decay that was so much a part of home. Again, nothing but smooth, disturbance-free travel.
A few blocks on, I came upon a small traffic jam. A-Ha, I thought, they may have beautiful streets, but they still can’t efficiently convey the full flow of weekday traffic. As we merged over into a single line of cars, I saw up ahead the common trappings of roadway work: large orange warning signs and the ubiquitous traffic cones. Drawing closer, I saw a pair of paving machines and men in bright safety vests moving hot asphalt about with shovels.
And painted in block letters on the equipment were the letters “SAPW,” Santa Ana Public Works.
The city actually had their own in-house crew resurfacing streets. Even though the street for a mile in either direction was, to my best judgment, in excellent serviceable condition, here they were fixing whatever minor imperfections they had found with all haste.
I pulled up to the hotel a few blocks later and parked the car. After settling into my room, I opened the curtains to look over the vista. Down the hill was an unbroken quilt of urbanized terrain. Hotels, gas stations, shops, banks and houses blended into an unbroken cityscape down the slope to the Pacific Ocean in the distance. Weaving them all together were the streets, those vital threads of commerce and communication, the very lifelines of the modern city.
It is no accident that we talk about our roads in biological terminology. No organic community will grow or thrive or be healthy without adequately functional arteries. Living as I have for most of my life in New Orleans, I guess I had developed low expectations for what high quality streets looked like or even how maintaining excellent streets could even be possible.
But what my mind had lazily never considered or dreamed possible, my buttocks discovered and exclaimed: it is not simply a fantasy to have streets in good repair.
Various professional and trade organizations as well as government highway officials have warned us for years that poorly maintained roads cost the public a lot of money—more even than the money our politicians might think they are “saving” by permanently deferring maintenance. Every mile we drive over pocked and damaged roadway takes a toll on our cars in maintenance, lost travel time and reduced fuel efficiency.
And I will add that every mile we drive on the pitiful streets of New Orleans dulls what should be our collective community outrage over the sad condition of this most basic city service. It lulls us into the dangerous mindset that, “That’s just how things are here. There’s no point in trying to fix this or any other of our city’s problems.”
As defeating and destructive and that thinking is, I realized perhaps an even greater damage done to us by our pathetic streets comes in the reverse situation to my recent trip to Orange County.
As awed as I was by the quality of their streets, what must the visitor to New Orleans think of OUR roadways? And what must they conclude about the viability of OUR city? Who wants to live in a city or invest in a city that can’t even fill the potholes?
It’s a jarring thought, even more jarring than driving down a local street here.
Bumps, potholes and anything that would add vibration to travel on the city streets simply do not exist in Orange County. Specifically, I was driving in Santa Ana this week, the city where John Wayne Airport (yes, it’s named after the Duke) is located.
It took a few moments for me to comprehend the beauty of the silky smooth roads there. I was driving a rental car, so my first thought was that the car had a really nice ride and excellent seats. But as I looked down the pristine roadway of perfectly manicured black asphalt, it dawned on me: these are really nice streets.
Perhaps you have to be a civil engineer to fully appreciate what a well built and impeccably maintained road is all about. But perhaps the experience is not so cerebral and requires nothing more than buttocks accustomed to the constant rumble of unraveling asphalt and cracked concrete of an aging, neglected city like New Orleans.
As I drove along, I began to look for potholes or any sign of distress that would tell me I was driving in a real city, a city like my own sweet Crescent City that struggles to keep up with street maintenance. It was a fruitless search.
Making my way toward my hotel, I turned off the major thoroughfare onto a more local street, again hoping—yes, hoping—that I would find the urban decay that was so much a part of home. Again, nothing but smooth, disturbance-free travel.
A few blocks on, I came upon a small traffic jam. A-Ha, I thought, they may have beautiful streets, but they still can’t efficiently convey the full flow of weekday traffic. As we merged over into a single line of cars, I saw up ahead the common trappings of roadway work: large orange warning signs and the ubiquitous traffic cones. Drawing closer, I saw a pair of paving machines and men in bright safety vests moving hot asphalt about with shovels.
And painted in block letters on the equipment were the letters “SAPW,” Santa Ana Public Works.
The city actually had their own in-house crew resurfacing streets. Even though the street for a mile in either direction was, to my best judgment, in excellent serviceable condition, here they were fixing whatever minor imperfections they had found with all haste.
I pulled up to the hotel a few blocks later and parked the car. After settling into my room, I opened the curtains to look over the vista. Down the hill was an unbroken quilt of urbanized terrain. Hotels, gas stations, shops, banks and houses blended into an unbroken cityscape down the slope to the Pacific Ocean in the distance. Weaving them all together were the streets, those vital threads of commerce and communication, the very lifelines of the modern city.
It is no accident that we talk about our roads in biological terminology. No organic community will grow or thrive or be healthy without adequately functional arteries. Living as I have for most of my life in New Orleans, I guess I had developed low expectations for what high quality streets looked like or even how maintaining excellent streets could even be possible.
But what my mind had lazily never considered or dreamed possible, my buttocks discovered and exclaimed: it is not simply a fantasy to have streets in good repair.
Various professional and trade organizations as well as government highway officials have warned us for years that poorly maintained roads cost the public a lot of money—more even than the money our politicians might think they are “saving” by permanently deferring maintenance. Every mile we drive over pocked and damaged roadway takes a toll on our cars in maintenance, lost travel time and reduced fuel efficiency.
And I will add that every mile we drive on the pitiful streets of New Orleans dulls what should be our collective community outrage over the sad condition of this most basic city service. It lulls us into the dangerous mindset that, “That’s just how things are here. There’s no point in trying to fix this or any other of our city’s problems.”
As defeating and destructive and that thinking is, I realized perhaps an even greater damage done to us by our pathetic streets comes in the reverse situation to my recent trip to Orange County.
As awed as I was by the quality of their streets, what must the visitor to New Orleans think of OUR roadways? And what must they conclude about the viability of OUR city? Who wants to live in a city or invest in a city that can’t even fill the potholes?
It’s a jarring thought, even more jarring than driving down a local street here.
Monday, September 29, 2008
My biker friend
In those dark days following Hurricane Katrina few things were certain. Among them, I knew I must return to the city as soon as possible. I also knew I had no place to live when I did.
In an incredible turn of luck, a friend introduced me to a UNO professor named David. Luck, seemingly in short supply in September 2005, became suddenly plentiful. Not only did David have a house that probably had not flooded, he was not planning to return with his family for a few months. David told me I could have free use his house for as long as I needed. And luckier still, he had evacuated to within a 45-minute drive of where we were in Virginia. I picked up the keys as I headed back to the city in late September.
I lived in David's house for about a month and he has never asked for anything in return.
Next week, David will once again be pedaling his generosity as he participates in this year's National Multiple Sclerosis Society Bike Tour. It's a 150-mile ride to raise money for those who cannot ride for themselves. David will join with a thousand or more cyclists in a mass demonstration of care. When I heard he was looking for sponsors, I did not hesitate to toss a few dollars into his hat.
If you'd like to make a donation or join the team, please visit the National MS Society Bike Event page. Let David know we all support his efforts and his dedication.
In an incredible turn of luck, a friend introduced me to a UNO professor named David. Luck, seemingly in short supply in September 2005, became suddenly plentiful. Not only did David have a house that probably had not flooded, he was not planning to return with his family for a few months. David told me I could have free use his house for as long as I needed. And luckier still, he had evacuated to within a 45-minute drive of where we were in Virginia. I picked up the keys as I headed back to the city in late September.
I lived in David's house for about a month and he has never asked for anything in return.
Next week, David will once again be pedaling his generosity as he participates in this year's National Multiple Sclerosis Society Bike Tour. It's a 150-mile ride to raise money for those who cannot ride for themselves. David will join with a thousand or more cyclists in a mass demonstration of care. When I heard he was looking for sponsors, I did not hesitate to toss a few dollars into his hat.
If you'd like to make a donation or join the team, please visit the National MS Society Bike Event page. Let David know we all support his efforts and his dedication.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
'Tis the Season
Hurricane season continues, at least according to scientists, until November 30.
While I'm sure they put a lot of thought into selecting that date, it remains rather arbitrary. There's no reason why hurricanes can't develop and strike after that date (and they certainly have). Nature has relentlessly resisted all our attempts to fit the seasons into neat little boxes on our calendars since long before Roy Rogers sang, "Don't Fence Me In."
The good news for the people of coastal Texas and Louisiana recently whacked by Gustav and Ike is that statistically at least they are in the clear. Scientists say there's two more months of hurricane season, but the worst part of hurricane season is over. Those on the wet and battered coast have reason to be optimistic as they continue to clean up, repair and rebuild what they can.
My Darling Wife forwarded this little bit of hurricane season levity via an infinite string of forwarded emails. I don't know how long it's been making the rounds, but I think it's the first time I've seen it and I think it's a clever contrast.
So here now are the Top Ten Reasons Hurricane Season Is Like Christmas:
Number Ten: Decorating the house (with plywood).
Number Nine: Dragging out boxes that haven't been used since last season.
Number Eight: Last minute shopping in crowded stores.
Number Seven: Regular TV shows preempted for "Specials."
Number Six: Family coming to stay with you.
Number Five: Family and friends from out of state calling you.
Number Four: Buying food you don't normally buy . . . and in large quantities.
Number Three: Days off from work.
Number Two: Candles.
And the Number One reason Hurricane Season is like Christmas:
At some point you're probably going to have a tree in your house!
While I'm sure they put a lot of thought into selecting that date, it remains rather arbitrary. There's no reason why hurricanes can't develop and strike after that date (and they certainly have). Nature has relentlessly resisted all our attempts to fit the seasons into neat little boxes on our calendars since long before Roy Rogers sang, "Don't Fence Me In."
The good news for the people of coastal Texas and Louisiana recently whacked by Gustav and Ike is that statistically at least they are in the clear. Scientists say there's two more months of hurricane season, but the worst part of hurricane season is over. Those on the wet and battered coast have reason to be optimistic as they continue to clean up, repair and rebuild what they can.
My Darling Wife forwarded this little bit of hurricane season levity via an infinite string of forwarded emails. I don't know how long it's been making the rounds, but I think it's the first time I've seen it and I think it's a clever contrast.
So here now are the Top Ten Reasons Hurricane Season Is Like Christmas:
Number Ten: Decorating the house (with plywood).
Number Nine: Dragging out boxes that haven't been used since last season.
Number Eight: Last minute shopping in crowded stores.
Number Seven: Regular TV shows preempted for "Specials."
Number Six: Family coming to stay with you.
Number Five: Family and friends from out of state calling you.
Number Four: Buying food you don't normally buy . . . and in large quantities.
Number Three: Days off from work.
Number Two: Candles.
And the Number One reason Hurricane Season is like Christmas:
At some point you're probably going to have a tree in your house!
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Evacuation is the wise choice
There's been some ongoing discussion around town about whether or not people would evacuate should another hurricane turn toward New Orleans. The one thing everyone agrees about is that evacuating is unpleasant and costly.
But that's not the point. Evacuation is a matter of safety. That is, it could be the difference between life and death.
To help the more stubborn arrive at a fully informed decision, I've created an Evacuation Decision Matrix. Please click on it for a closer view.
Feel free to print it out for easy reference if you need to. For those wanting a more detailed comparison, check out this story from The Galveston County Daily News. They say experience is the best teacher. In the case of hurricanes, it's even better if you can learn from the experience of others.
But that's not the point. Evacuation is a matter of safety. That is, it could be the difference between life and death.
To help the more stubborn arrive at a fully informed decision, I've created an Evacuation Decision Matrix. Please click on it for a closer view.
Feel free to print it out for easy reference if you need to. For those wanting a more detailed comparison, check out this story from The Galveston County Daily News. They say experience is the best teacher. In the case of hurricanes, it's even better if you can learn from the experience of others.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Outlook grim as Ike approaches
That's the title of reporter's blog entry from The Galveston County Daily News at 8:00 pm Friday night:
"I hope that the staff at the National Hurricane Center and the local National Weather Service are wrong...
"...[W]e are facing the highest tidal surge since at least the 1900 Storm and possibly even exceeding that if the highest projected tidal surge materializes...
"If the surge threat is not enough, the National Weather Service is calling for 80-95 mph sustained winds with gusts to 105-mph. Hurricane force winds are expected to last for an incredible 8-10 hours on Galveston Island..."
When hurricanes lurk in the Gulf, everyone hopes it doesn't come his or her way and everyone is relieved when a hurricane misses their community.
But no matter where these monsters make landfall, no one is really happy. No one can feel glad knowing what is happening to Galveston tonight.
Our hearts are with Texas tonight.
"I hope that the staff at the National Hurricane Center and the local National Weather Service are wrong...
"...[W]e are facing the highest tidal surge since at least the 1900 Storm and possibly even exceeding that if the highest projected tidal surge materializes...
"If the surge threat is not enough, the National Weather Service is calling for 80-95 mph sustained winds with gusts to 105-mph. Hurricane force winds are expected to last for an incredible 8-10 hours on Galveston Island..."
When hurricanes lurk in the Gulf, everyone hopes it doesn't come his or her way and everyone is relieved when a hurricane misses their community.
But no matter where these monsters make landfall, no one is really happy. No one can feel glad knowing what is happening to Galveston tonight.
Our hearts are with Texas tonight.
Saturday, September 06, 2008
Running a long race
Back home, power on, minor damage to the house and yard. We didn't have Internet, so I haven't been able to post an update for a few days.
In New Orleans, Hurricane Gustav will not be remembered for doing billions in physical damage. The majority of my friends and neighbors will remember Gustav for leaving everyone's nerves frayed. Indeed, some have already proclaimed they will not evacuate again.
I've collected a few of the reactions from friends which I think paint the picture well.
"House is a wreck, but I'm comfy and wired now, and oddly exhausted. I think my airplane rubber band unwound. Pent up survival adrenaline all left me in a rush."
"[Road Home] gave all us employees an emergency number on a laminated card to put in with our ID badges. Yer supposed to call it to find out about work. They said they'd have it going, no matter what. Of course, it doesn't work."
"After cleaning up shards, branches and debris off the gallery just now, I started crying. When [my husband] asked me why, I said I feel like I just got done running a long race and don't know if I have to run another one."
"I am soooo tired. I too just wander around the house and don't see any point in doing anything. Depression I guess but in reality, there really is no point in cleaning the house if I have to leave again in 4 days."
Goodbye, Gustav. Hello, Ike.
In New Orleans, Hurricane Gustav will not be remembered for doing billions in physical damage. The majority of my friends and neighbors will remember Gustav for leaving everyone's nerves frayed. Indeed, some have already proclaimed they will not evacuate again.
I've collected a few of the reactions from friends which I think paint the picture well.
"House is a wreck, but I'm comfy and wired now, and oddly exhausted. I think my airplane rubber band unwound. Pent up survival adrenaline all left me in a rush."
"[Road Home] gave all us employees an emergency number on a laminated card to put in with our ID badges. Yer supposed to call it to find out about work. They said they'd have it going, no matter what. Of course, it doesn't work."
"After cleaning up shards, branches and debris off the gallery just now, I started crying. When [my husband] asked me why, I said I feel like I just got done running a long race and don't know if I have to run another one."
"I am soooo tired. I too just wander around the house and don't see any point in doing anything. Depression I guess but in reality, there really is no point in cleaning the house if I have to leave again in 4 days."
Goodbye, Gustav. Hello, Ike.
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
Notes from the road
Evacuated to Greenville, Mississippi, waiting and hoping for the best for us and all our friends and family.
Yesterday we ventured out into this little town to get lunch at a local restaurant called Tabb's Barbecue. My Darling Wife had seen an advertisement describing it as, "The best dang barbecue in the whole dang delta." We found it tucked in the middle of a typical strip shopping mall.
And as you could have guessed, it was filled with red checked tablecloths spread over wooden furniture. Each table was outfitted with a roll of paper towels and squirt bottles of barbecue sauce. There was also the obligatory vintage farm tools and product logos nailed up on the walls.
I ordered the pulled pork platter and split it with our Precious Daughter. All-in-all a nice meal, but it was hard to forget the current crisis besieging South Louisiana. Especially because the decor included framed photographs of The Great Flood of 1927. Yes, Greenville is situated on the same river as New Orleans and so they have their history of misery by flooding, too.
Today I saw a story from the AP with this line from hizzoner: "I would not do a thing differently," Nagin said. "I'd probably call Gustav, instead of the mother of all storms, maybe the mother-in-law or the ugly sister of all storms."
Except of course, Gustav is a MAN'S NAME, so HE would not be the mother, mother-in-law nor sister of anything or anyone. Try again, Ray.
News from the neighborhood is almost all good: branches and a tree or two but otherwise all in tact. No power as of this afternoon according to some who remain there.
I've been using Twitter to keep in touch with the NOLA Bloggers and credit them with helping maintain my sanity through this. As I noted in another post, the mainstream media made a total mess of this one. Had it not been for the fact-checking and on-the-scene "tweets" from the hearty NOLA Bloggers I'm sure I would be an emotional wreck right now.
Yesterday we ventured out into this little town to get lunch at a local restaurant called Tabb's Barbecue. My Darling Wife had seen an advertisement describing it as, "The best dang barbecue in the whole dang delta." We found it tucked in the middle of a typical strip shopping mall.
And as you could have guessed, it was filled with red checked tablecloths spread over wooden furniture. Each table was outfitted with a roll of paper towels and squirt bottles of barbecue sauce. There was also the obligatory vintage farm tools and product logos nailed up on the walls.
I ordered the pulled pork platter and split it with our Precious Daughter. All-in-all a nice meal, but it was hard to forget the current crisis besieging South Louisiana. Especially because the decor included framed photographs of The Great Flood of 1927. Yes, Greenville is situated on the same river as New Orleans and so they have their history of misery by flooding, too.
Today I saw a story from the AP with this line from hizzoner: "I would not do a thing differently," Nagin said. "I'd probably call Gustav, instead of the mother of all storms, maybe the mother-in-law or the ugly sister of all storms."
Except of course, Gustav is a MAN'S NAME, so HE would not be the mother, mother-in-law nor sister of anything or anyone. Try again, Ray.
News from the neighborhood is almost all good: branches and a tree or two but otherwise all in tact. No power as of this afternoon according to some who remain there.
I've been using Twitter to keep in touch with the NOLA Bloggers and credit them with helping maintain my sanity through this. As I noted in another post, the mainstream media made a total mess of this one. Had it not been for the fact-checking and on-the-scene "tweets" from the hearty NOLA Bloggers I'm sure I would be an emotional wreck right now.
Monday, September 01, 2008
MSM = BS
If you're like me, you've suspected it for quite some time. The main stream media (msm) often don't have a clue.
But does that stop them from broadcasting?
Absolutely not.
Last night I saw a weatherman from Anywhere-but-Louisiana standing in front of a beautiful satellite montage photo of greater New Orleans. As he spoke and gestured dramatically about the likely path and power of Hurricane Gustav, the photo rotated and zoomed in that fancy Google Earth way that makes you wonder how the heck we got along without this stuff before. As the graphics were doing their thing, the weatherguy continued to talk about the potential storm surge and the threat to St. Bernard. And right smack in the middle of the graphic was "St. Bernard" with its levees all highlighted and easy to see.
Except it wasn't St. Bernard he was showing us--it was New Orleans East.
Doubtless the dramatically gesticulating dude did not know 7th Ward from 9th Ward, either, but who cares? It's just news for goodness sake.
Today, CNN was reporting breaches in the Industrial Canal. Except there were no breaches.
And later, there was a phoned-in interview with someone from the Corps' public affairs office to explain why the London Avenue Canal gates were being closed. There was discussion of the safe water elevation and the need to coordinate pumping with S&WB. During the interview CNN decided to show footage of the Industrial Canal with water to the top of the wall and waves and wind splashing and spraying over the wall. So I'd bet most of America looking at that broadcast thought they were looking at the London Canal floodwalls.
As Maitri advises, "PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE DO NOT WATCH CNN AND FOX NEWS!" and she gives a nice link to web page that allows you to watch feeds from four local television stations all at once. Easy and accurate.
Get your news from people who know what they're reporting about.
But does that stop them from broadcasting?
Absolutely not.
Last night I saw a weatherman from Anywhere-but-Louisiana standing in front of a beautiful satellite montage photo of greater New Orleans. As he spoke and gestured dramatically about the likely path and power of Hurricane Gustav, the photo rotated and zoomed in that fancy Google Earth way that makes you wonder how the heck we got along without this stuff before. As the graphics were doing their thing, the weatherguy continued to talk about the potential storm surge and the threat to St. Bernard. And right smack in the middle of the graphic was "St. Bernard" with its levees all highlighted and easy to see.
Except it wasn't St. Bernard he was showing us--it was New Orleans East.
Doubtless the dramatically gesticulating dude did not know 7th Ward from 9th Ward, either, but who cares? It's just news for goodness sake.
Today, CNN was reporting breaches in the Industrial Canal. Except there were no breaches.
And later, there was a phoned-in interview with someone from the Corps' public affairs office to explain why the London Avenue Canal gates were being closed. There was discussion of the safe water elevation and the need to coordinate pumping with S&WB. During the interview CNN decided to show footage of the Industrial Canal with water to the top of the wall and waves and wind splashing and spraying over the wall. So I'd bet most of America looking at that broadcast thought they were looking at the London Canal floodwalls.
As Maitri advises, "PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE DO NOT WATCH CNN AND FOX NEWS!" and she gives a nice link to web page that allows you to watch feeds from four local television stations all at once. Easy and accurate.
Get your news from people who know what they're reporting about.
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