Chasing the Blues

Downtown Baton Rouge Rediscovered

Back from a quick weekend trip to Louisiana, once again heading from Atlanta to Montgomery and Mobile to Slidell, Hammond and Baton Rouge. We stayed in downtown Baton Rouge at the Hilton, the renovated Capitol House and Heidleberg.

What a pleasant surprise to find a vibrant scene in downtown Baton Rouge, which used to be abandoned at night. Now a number of bars, restaurants and live music sites keep the streets full with fun-lovers until the early morning hours.

Walking around the old streets near the Mississippi, I rediscovered how much of my past life unfolded in downtown Baton Rouge. I worked in several jobs there as a young man, and even lived close to downtown before leaving for Georgia 30 years ago.

Coming home, we again traveled through lower Alabama to northern Georgia. As has become our custom, we stopped at the Pizza Hut in Evergreen for its buffet. It's hardly elegant dining, as we enjoyed at a couple of spots in downtown Baton Rouge, but the salad and pizza bars are tasty, and the workers are always friendly and quite competent. And, a convenience store is right next door, where we fill up with gas for the ride home to Atlanta.

Crawfish, and Flood, Season in Louisiana

We crossed the Mississippi on the trip to pick up the crawfish. Looking down from the Mississippi River Bridge from Baton Rouge to West Baton Rouge, I saw that the water line had reached near the top of the bank.

"If they hadn't opened the Morganza spillway, LSU and downtown Baton Rouge would have flooded," said my sister, in the driver's seat.

Big ships still plowed down the heart of the river, leaving a wake of white turbulence behind. The day was hot and dry; a juxtaposition of drought and high water. My sister turned to the ramp headed to West Baton Rouge, and we were headed through Brusly, divided into Back Brusly and Front Brusly, as my brother-in-law reminded me from the back seat.

I was visiting from Atlanta, interested tyo see this road, La. 1, that I used to travel frequently when my late father had a camp in Bayou Pigeon in Iberville Parish. We would not be going that far today, but would stop in Bayou Sorrell on the other side of Plaquemine to get two sacks of living, writhing crawfish for boiling that afternoon.

As we road, my sister and brother in law commented upon how much the area had grown; and sure enough, what I remember as sugar cane fields now were covered with strip shopping centers, condos, apartments and subdivisions. Appaently, the recession had not hit the area that badly, although Louisiana's state budget was in serious arrears.

Just outside of Plaquemine, my sister pointed out a commercial crawfish pond, and I turned to see a long, rectangular body of dark, still water. A squad of white herons stood on sentinel duty, statoned about 20 feet from each other in rows. They looked real, but in retrospect might have been fake birds to scare off whatever predator a crawfish pond might need protection from.

Headed into Plaquemine, the trip began to feel familiar. I saw the old rusted railroad bridge at the Plaquemine city limits and the lovely collection of ante-bellum homes. The names of the politicians on the eternal political signs were also familiar, dynasties of one or two families that had been running the parish when I left 30 years ago were still running things. Plaquemine had an exhausted, run down atmosphere, as if the 20th century and now the 21st had not quite settled in deeply. To my amusement, I noticed a sign for an Islamic temple beside a low-slung house of yellow stucco.

"I'm surprised Osama Bin Laden wasn't found in southern Louisiana," my sister said.

We turned off on the road that led to the Atchafalya Spillway and the road where my father had his camp. Again, homes, quite nice ones, lined the road where once sugar cane fieids lay. We turned off on a street where mobile homes and trailers alternated with nice houses. I recalled the strength of Louisiana's off-the-books economy. Although the state lags far behind most economic indicators, it's really quite prosperous, with many industries conducted outside of the bounds of govermental accounting.

We turned into a nice house with a big boat in front and picked up the crawfish. I looked at them in their sacks, packed in tightly with their familiar, distinctiive brown-gray color. We threw them in the back, and my brother in law covered them in newspaper to keep them from dying in the brutal sunrays beaming through the back window.

We headed back toward Baton Rouge, traveling beside the stressed levees along the Mississippi. I'd last traveled this road as a young man, and here I was back again at 60, taking part in a unique Louisiana ritual. We crossed the bridge, Huey Long's state capital rising into the bluish-white sky to our left, Tiger Stadium and LSU to our right. Folks had been flooded in the Morganza Spillway, but Baton Rouge was dry, by God, dry and resplendent beneath the hot Louisiana sun.

From Boston to Oxford to Memphis

Back at my desk in Atlanta after an interlude in Boston and Oxford, Miss. Those are two distinct worlds bathed in history and literary tradition, where the "past is not even past," as Mr. Faulkner said. Of course, the two worlds collide in Mr. Faulkner's "The Sound and the Fury."

I was in Oxford and Ole Miss for the "Faulkner and Film Conference." At Oxford, scenes from Faulkner's works come vividly alive. The charming university town boasts a lively square, with buzzing bars, a fine bookstore and a gracious old-fashioned men's store, where I purchased two Perlis shirts with their distinctive crawfish insignia. As I told the proprieter, an old-school gentleman although quite young, I'd bought several Perlis shirts about 15 years before in New Orleans and was still wearing them. That seems a long-distant time, before Katrina, the oil spill, the Iraq and Afghanistan wars.

Leaving the gracious University Inn, I got into a van driven by a young man with long electric hair and a voice that if I closed my eyes made me believe I was being driven by Seth Rogen. I was bemoaning the fact that I'd missed a tour to Clarkesdale, the home of the famous Robert Johnson crossroads and the place where Bessie Smith died, and he with a refreshing candor said I wouldnt' be missing much. He said he grew up there and that the town, despite its blues museum, was in serious decline. On I-55 to Memphis, we crossed the Tallahatchie River bridge, too new, I assume, to be the one Billy Joe McAlister jumped from. I knew better than to mention this to the driver and my fellow passengers, knowing the cultural reference would be either too old, or too obscure. I couldn't remember the woman who sang the song, her only hit, if I remember correctly. Wait: Bobbie Gentry, wasn't it?

Dropped off at the Memphis airport, I quickly abandoned plans to try to catch a shuttle to downtown and see the civil rights museum at the Lorraine Hotel, where MLK was assassinated. I'd had enough of the heat in Oxford. Instead, I hunkered down for a long afternoon at the air conditioned Memphis Airport, where folks are friendly and entertaining, exhibiting a natural showmanship, or show-womanship. As with New Orleans, how sad that such great spirit co-exists with devastating poverty and violence. Again, I found this difficult to reconcile.

I picked up the alternative newspaper "Memphis Flyer," and was struck by how professional and serious it was compared with our similar products in Atlanta. I almost bought a Memphis Commercial Appeal, but decided not to, since it seemed to have the exact same news as the Jackson Clarion-Ledger I'd perused back at the hotel. I couldn't take another account of Mississippi State's quarterback prospects, from a report on the SEC's media days. I was also impressed by the fall lineup of Memphis' theater company, with plays like "Superior Donuts" and "August, Osage County" and others. Again, Atlanta seemed curiously short in comparison: The Memphis company's lineup seemed more inviting than what I'd seen for Atlanta's Alliance Theater, which seems adrift.

An exuberant young woman at the Hudson News Stand cash register proved herself a great saleswoman when I was buying some Breath Savers. She asked "would you like a water," and I immediately knew that yes, I would love a water. She hustled off to the cooler and pulled out an ice-cold bottled water for me, and returned to the register. If I'd been the head of sales for some company, I would have offered her a job on the spot. Before I left with my mints and newly purchased bottle of water, I commended her, and she smiled and shook it off. As I departed for Gate B-27, I heard her energetic voice warmly welcome the fellow behind me in line. In fact, the black and white women all across the airport were vivacious and helpful, whether waitresses, hostesses, Delta representatives or TSA officers on the security line. Good for them for bringing their best to their jobs.

After not being able to get on two earlier flights to Atlanta, I at last hit the jackpot and was able to get on one an hour earlier. I could have driven home in the time I'd spent at the airport. Oh well, at least I know that the airport's Blue Note Cafe welcomes smokers. Barbecue, beer and cigarettes: Memphis, I salute you.

"Treme" Shows What It Means to Miss New Orleans

David Simon's "Treme" pretty much fulfulled my expectations, capturing well New Orleans' musical culture and neighborhood viewpoint.

However, "Treme" in the first episode didn't match the depth and scope of Simon's "Wire," perhaps because Simon possessed a more intimate knowledge of Baltimore, whose cultural depths he fully explored in that show. Also, "Treme" fell short of reaching the tragic depths of New Orleans' despair following Hurricane Katrina. The show attempts to show the anger and shattered spirit, but these efforts never delve far enough beneath the surface.

I enjoy seeing John Goodman in anything, but his rants against government malfeasance that resulted in the levees collapsing come off as rote, lacking emotional depth. Goodman plays a novelist who combines his strong moral certitude with a love of New Orleans' easygoing, food-centered lifestyle. He is believable as a New Orleans character, but his rants seem cliched and forced.

Clarke Peters, who in "The Wire" played the honest conscientious cop Lester, a man forced into duplicity, achieves a few fine scenes as a Mardi Gras Indian chief. He comes back to find his home and business severely damaged, and seeks to recover to his old life by returning  to the tribal rituals that sustained his family and community. Yet, his travails don't appear that desperate, when compared with those who lost loved ones. His character's struggles come off as not that difficult to overcome. Another character has lost a loved one, but the tragic possbilities of that situation are not fully realized.

Melissa Leo, once a troubled detective on Simon's NBC show "Homicide, A Life on the Streets," has a strong role as Goodman's wife, a crusading attorney.  Perhaps the most believable, interesting performance is turned in by another "Wired" alum, Wendell Pierce, as a down-on-his luck jazz musician. Steve Zahn chews too much scenery, and sips a few too many libations, as a struggling musician/disc jockey.

Despite its opening blemishes, "Treme" shows the promise of developing into the latest classic show from HBO. New Orleans is one of those rich, strange cities that can never be fully captured by film or TV, but "Treme" has the possibility of coming close. 

Around the Neighborhood

We're lucky to live in an area of North Buckhead/Sandy Springs with small/local businesses that give the personal service associated with the "good old days" of the 1950s and early '60s.

On a chilly morning, I dropped my car off at the local service station for an oil change,tire rotation, etc. While the service station sells gas from a major British oil corporation, its busy mechanical business supports a staff of around 10 men.

After leaving my car, I walked home, stopping off by the Publix to buy a few things. Along the way, I passed several strip shopping centers, recalling how the commercial zone had changed over the years. I walked past Arby's, where I used to frequently take my children to lunch; stores, including Starbucks, where my daughter had worked; the Korean cleaners; the now vacant restaurant area that has housed a number of eateries. I also passed an elegant rowhouse development, once the site of the house of an eccentric Georgia Tech fan who painted his house yellow.

In midmorning, I walked back to the service station, to find my car still up on the rack, so I sat in the small waiting room, listening to the guys talk about this and that. I was interested by the service station's selection of food and drink products. Although Christmas season had arrived, the racks still displayed Reese's Peanut Butter Cups in special pumpkin Halloween wrapping, decorated with bats flying around a yellow sky. I imagined some person whosr job it was to go around to service stations and convenience stores, replacing and refreshing products. Perhaps he hadn't arrived yet, but would soon come to stock the shelves with special Christmas Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, which would remain there until Valentine's Day.

I am often entertained by American commercial poetry: the advertising slogans, brand names, witty phrases that sell products and help define our on-the-go, sales culture. So I enjoyed the "Nutter Butter," "Hot Tamale," "Red Bull," "Full Throtle," and other product names, as well as the slogan above the cooler, "cool and refreshing," in blue letters, with blue drops flying off  that evoked spray, or a splash of water from a swimming pool. Who had designed such a simple but symbolically effective sign?

Across the street stands the Mexican restuarant where we often go and eat. Around the corner was the locally owned pharmacy, which moved from another neighborhood corner a few years ago, when its shopping center was remodeled. I still get my prescriptions there, supporting the pharmacy in its competition against two Walgreens within a half a mile of each other and the Publix.

My car ready, I drove off down the same road beside which I'd walked about an hour and a half before. A profusion of signs from local businesses and corporations: Jiffy Lube, McDonalds, Chik fil A, a body shop, a dentist.

At the service station, the guys had talked about the failure of a local bank, one of many that sprung up during the big housing bubble. In Washington, debate on the health care bill had begun. The climate change meeting was under way in Copenhagen. Here, on Pearl Harbor Day, traffic sped by, workers flipped burgers, filled prescriptions and coffee cups, changed tires with whining power wrenches, and thought about the approaching holidays.

Heading for the Holidays

On a chilly Thanksgiving afternoon, we left the feast to go for a walk. Realizing that we were close to the street where we had our first house 25 years ago, we found our way through an alley behind our hosts' place to where we had lived when our first two children were babies.

The old neighborhood had undergone some changes, but much of it was eerily familiar. We remembered couples we'd known, the houses in which they'd lived, and headed for the park where I used to take the kids. The memories kept returning as if from a subterranean card file - when I took my daughter trick or treating for the first time on a rainy Halloween night, the sandbox where I used to sit with young mothers, the creek, the swings, the playscape, although the latter had been replaced. 

As we returned to the Thanksgiving party, lights shone in the darkening dusk. On the other side of the park from our friends' home, we saw the red-striped tents of a temporary Christmas tree lot, dimly illuminated. Stepping into the warmth of the house from the chill, we heard the sounds of talking and young children playing. Pies and cakes covered the table, and a bowl of whipped cream caught the reflection of the overhead chandelier. The children clapped and shouted in glee at the treats.

After one more glass of wine, we headed home, another Thanksgiving in the memory card file.  Now we'd rush forward to the holidays, Christmas, new year's, winter. We headed up Piedmont to Peachtree, blocked because of the Christmas tree lighting at Lenox Square. Then we were turning into the street where we'd lived for more than 20 years, where our children had grown up. Leaves covered the yard, the patio, the carport, and soon I'd rake them.

Borne Back Ceaselessly Into the Past

Walking through Phipps Plaza to lunch with a former colleague, I'm struck again with images from the past in a Proustian muddle. Christmas trees have sprouted for another season in the place by the spiral staircase where I once took my children to see Santa. Turning toward Saks, I recall going there to hear a Christmas concert by my daughter's elementary school choir. And, I'm going to the restaurant where my son worked as a waiter one summer.

Such reveries arise everywhere I go in Atlanta. A recent trip down Druid Hills Road to Emory University brought a constant bombardment of the past. The Salvation Army Church, where one of my kids once played basketball on a Sunday afternoon. The Tall Tales Bookstore. Emory itself, where I've heard so many poetry readings and so many performances. Here in Toco Hills Shopping center, I once ate lunch with the great poet James Merrill. That brings memories of Callanwolde Poetry weekends, and fiction and poetry workshops.

At lunch, I overhear conversations from other tables as my colleague and I swap news about what folks with whom we used to work are doing now. A man nearby talks about All Souls Day, how he attended church and felt the presence of his mother's spirit. The restaurant is a whirl of motion, voices, the presence of the present quickly receding into the past.

 

Art and Money's Discontents

The Chastain Park Arts Festival is a strong addition to Atlanta's cultural scene. On a cold but blessedly sunny Sunday, we made the long walk from our house to the park, where the artists' booths stretched along a little-known path beyond the pond. Along with paintings of dogs, tourist photos and kitschy crafts, the quality of the work was high, and I was impressed at the large number of artists represented, from woodworkers to painters to sculptors to photographers and jewelry designers.

While enjoying the pleasant, not-too-large crowd, I felt a bit strange at the mixture of art and commerce. A sense of voyeurism overtook me, since I couldn't afford to buy anything, but still went through the ritual of looking at the work, and engaging in discussions with the artists and their pitches. The experience left me mildly disconcerted. The artists' work existed on an aesthetic plane, in which I participated, but they also sought to sell it as an artifact or product, with which I wasn't going to participate. And, the artists displayed a mild desperation, realizing that while their work would receive appreciation from gawkers like me, there would be little if any sales.

I'd had a similar expereince the night before. We'd gone to a charity event, in which a silent auction of a variety of artwork, photographs, famous autographs, sports memorbilia and trips drew little if any bids. Despite rumors of an economic recovery, the great recession's pall continued. The event unfolded in an art gallery in a long warehouse. As a jazz band played, well-dressed people ate shrimp, short ribs and grilled vegetables from martini glasses, and several women dancers enacted scenes vaguely reminisicent of Les Demoiselles des Avignon, I had the breathless sensation of floating on a dark sea, as if we were all on the Titantic just before the ice berg loomed. 

An Appetizing Food Issue From New York Times Magazine

Usually The New York Times Sunday magazine is my least favorite section of the newspaper -- too many pretentious, boring articles on subjects that I don't find that interesting. But last Sunday's special food issue was outstanding, especially Alex Witchel's piece on British superstar foodie Jamie Oliver's attempt to bring nutritional sanity to the most obese town in America, Huntington, W. Va. The article was full of humor and surprising information, and gave an in-depth portrait of the amazing Mr. Oliver.

The issue also had a nice piece on a Wisconsin baker who follows the local food principles of Wendell Berry, and a compilation of food wisdom by regular folks compiled by Michael Pollan. Overall, the issue's articles achieved a nice balance, giving good, common-sense food advice that avoided hectoring and dogma. The articles showed that food and eating are the foundation of a variety of other issues, from global warming to health, education, community and politics. I was inspired to eat better and seek meaning from local neighborhood life.