/dev/null

Home. Well at work really, but back anyway. I have one last post left on my laptop that i'm finishing, which I wrote on the drive back up. I'll post it at some point. It's odd to be here at work, trying to go through my emails and catch up with the world. In part because I just don't care.

Anyway. Home.

The End of Waveland and New Orleans

I wish I could have posted yesterday, but it was so filled with us doing stuff, that I never really had a chance to post. Its amazing how much you can see in just days.

Leaving the New Waveland Cafe, was oddly indifferent. I woke up and did some work. We took breakfast to Patrick and his wife, did some work, cleared his yard a bit and talked to him some more. He told us about his boys. The eldest (20) was coming by later that day to help with the reconstruction, and his youngest (14) was in school that day. He explained to us that the his youngest son had been with him during the flood and also on the way back into the house. We asked how he was taking the flooding of his home, and Patrick said that his son had said “Daddy don’t make me move back into that Dump” Speaking of his house. Now, just in the work we did on the outside of Patrick’s house and lands, I could tell how beautiful it must have been. He had a large two story house, a guest house for his mother in law, a pool in the back yard, a expansive view of the trees and woods behind the house, a large yard, a septate covered garage. This home was once lovely. He also told us about the trip walking back to the house a couple of days after the flood. It took them three house to make their way over downed tree and broken roofs and flooded streets. On the way to the house, they saw a man carring the body of an elderly woman to the curbside and left the body their. A neigbor across the way came outside and screamed at the man that he couldn’t leave her there. Patrick stepped in and explained to him that there was no where else, and you can’t leave a body in the house, and this way at least maybe the helicopters might see her. Also, in those early days after the flood, they came across a crowd of people trying to separate a women from the corpse of her child, trying to explain that it was gone. The women, who was hysterical kept explaining over and over again, that the child would be all right. There are some things that children shouldn’t have to see.
This is about how we left Patrick and his wife Cathy. They were kind to us, and thankful for our help. They made us promise to send them postcards. There are so many people from Waveland that I’ll never forget. Patrick, Cathy, Ham and even some of the people from the kitchen, Becky and Vermin from Mass, who were always kind and friendly, Clovus one of the head cooks, and Ivan the giant biker that manned the Hydration Station. I left the New Waveland Cafe with a whisper, I loaded the trailer with more supplies and watched it melt into the seemingly endless backdrop of torn trees and broken homes.
Part of me needed New Orleans to be different, to be alive. To have people, and punk rockers and drinks with funny names. Part of me knew that wasn’t going to happen. In the end, it only half met my expectations. New Orleans is a city that has been turned off. Martial Law is still in effect, and the city has a dazed feel to it. We drove into New Orleans at night, and could only really what was right off the road. Our direction were a bit fubared, and we took a wrong turn off of our exit and ended up in St. Roca. (Thats my best guess at where we ended up) The landscape was like that of a zombie film, or a bombed out city. Building were all abandoned, there were no street signs. The lights were all either off or broken. The streets were mostly empty. Everything was the color of mud. In my minds eyes I imaged the Wild boys running rampant in the streets of broken bombed out post war Berlin. Berlin kept coming into my head the more we saw of the city. This city has been turned off, and is broken, but like Berlin, it has spirit and a magical life energy. When we finally got turned around and made our way to Marrus and Technostics place, I felt like I was waking from a bad dream. The street got lighter, better, stores were open, people were doing the things that normal city people do. We pulled up to their home, and there was Marrus, in a wild Purple shirt crying out to us waving. At that moment, it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. We unloaded a bit, had a beer while we three cycled through the bathroom and cleaned up a bit. I shaved with these girly pink razors, and it was the best feeling ever. After that, we went to the French Quarter, ate dinner and drank like heroes. I felt like I’d been given a 24 hour pass from the military. I suddenly wanted to do all the things I loved, a lot. Just to do them. I wanted to get into a bar fight, fuck someone and drink myself stupid, I wanted to dance all night with loud music and attractive people, I wanted to see amazing sights and hear good stories. I wanted to laugh all night long. And god bless Marrus and Technostic they put up with us and took us out to see some of the sights and drink some of the drinks. I held off on getting into fights, fucking and drinking myself into a gutter, all thou it was tempting to drink way to much, as in New Orleans it’s way, way to easy. After some silliness which involved all three of us getting temporary tattoo's, we crashed out on cots and futons. The next morning (this morning, wow) started pretty much the wall all morning should start. With Brunch. How amazingly normal and cool is that? We ate way to much, and drank way to much southern coffee, which has some sort of root in it that makes it taste weird. ( I was told what it was, but hell if I remember) Then we went to drop off the tailor. Now, the U – Haul adventures, would take up a whole lot more posting space then I think I want to use. In short, on the way down, we made it clear when RENTING the tailor that we wanted to drop if off somewhere near New Orleans. We called about four times to find a U- Haul office that was open in the area. Each time we were soundly rebuffed. The address we finally took us through the ninth ward. Seeing this place in the light of day was even worse then seeing it at night. Berlin. Beirut. Baghdad. Heaps of scrap everywhere. The stench of rotting food and trash. Humvee’s with armed troops zipped by. I half expected to hear small arms fire down the side streets. Needless to say we ended up at a destroyed building that was once a U – Haul office that was decidedly not open. A few phone calls later and we found an open office, and traveled across town to drop off the tailor...

I’ll finish this post later. We have just pulled into Ft. Payne Alabama and are going to bed. It is now 0232. We’ve driving all day and are completely beat.

:::moretocome:::

I wake up dry

Just a quick morning update, it's still early and the kitchen is in full swing, but I think I can sneak in and stir a pot or something. Today were going back out to Patrick and Catherines place to help them out and to bring them some breakfast in to-go boxs. Patrick told us yesterday that he hasn't been easting breakfast since he hasn't had the time. Well, we figured we could fix THAT easy enough! Last night, after reading his LJ, Z came up to me while I was typeing my post as said "So, since you the one with all the climbing Tackle, do you think you could rig up some framwork to hang towels in the tent" I looked at him and said. "I bet I could" Neither one of them as my inherent talent to sleep through the second comming. I suspect this talent comes from spending my formitive years with Marine corp Sgts. They so drilled in me SLEEP WHEN YOU CAN. That, I well do. So after taking a look at what I could hook thing onto in the tent I used a couple of carabiners and about 25 feet of green tubular webbing to create a framwork a couple of feet above our heads, which we draped towels over. This morning someone tripped on one of the tent lines and shook the whole tent. I /* Heard * / the shower of rain drops, but never felt it. victory!

Newman and Z are still sleeping soundly, Newman had a wolfish grin on his face, like the cat that just ate the canary. Or maybe the cat that got a bit more sleep.

:::moretocome:::

Tags: waveland

Lighting strikes and I realize that I am in fact, an idiot.

I heard a bird today for the first time in days. It was up in a tree sining away. It was the sweetest sound I’d heard in a while. Today started as they mostly all do. I was up a little late, and my back has been hurting my quite a bit. I was damp, foggy and had a lot of sleep in my eyes. I walked over to the terminal and posted my morning “Hello World, not dead yet” post. The kitchen was running and thing seemed to be going smoothly without me. I jumped into the serving line and started serving grits. I had a nice conversation with the folks serving next to me, and during breakfast Newman talked to Big Ivan about getting us some work for the day. Now Ivan, whose name really should be “Big Ivan” is, well, large. he’s like this biker that got hijacked by a bunch of hippies and convinced that what he REALLY wanted to do wasn’t be a big biker guy at all, but a happy attendant of the camps “Hydration Station” and, thats pretty much what he does. Not, what he also does, is talk to just about everyone, and calls everyone “Brother”. Now the whole brother thing seems to really go hand in hand with the whole hippie thing, everyone here says it. Some people make it sound like a priest thing. Some people make is sound like dude. Ivan, well Ivan kind of makes it sound like a pro wrestler. And thats pretty ok. Well Ivan introduces us to Ham, short for Hamilton. An elderly gentleman with a Tulan University T-shirt on. He explains that he could use some help clearing his rather large yard and moving his stairs, which got washed away in the flood. We agree, and he writes us some direction in large purple marker and goes on his way. Well. After breakfast we pile into the Newman mobile and truck our way around the town of Bay St. Louis. We arrive at his house, and there are a number of good ol’ boys sitting in his driveway waiting for us. Ham, (which he prefers to be called over “sir”) takes us into the backyard and shows us, an I shit you not, 2000 pound hunt of wood that hast to be like seventy feet long. These are his deck stairs. During the flood, they lifted up and spun 180 degrees. Well we and the 4 other good old boys give it our best shot, and have no luck in moving this levitation. We can lift it, sure, but the weight alone starts to tear the stairs apart. We give up on moving it, though secretly I’m convinced that if I had something to tie a pulley to and some rope, I could lift it... So instead we opt to do clean the yard of fallen derbies for a few hours. The good ol’ boys take their leave, and we three, and Ham, begin to clean his yard. We mostly lift out the downed trees and branches, but sometimes we cut through the thicker trees. While we work, I hear that bird singing. As we work, Ham tells us about himself. It seem that he’s actually Hamilton the third, and that he has his PHD in Chemistry and teaches at Tulan University now, well only a couple of courses now. You see, he’s semi retired, he tells us of his educationally history which is amazing. From what I can recall, he went got his undergrad, then went to the “University of Saigon” and after that the government paid for him to do his masters, then his PHD in Chemistry at the university of Berlin, after which he spent most of his career making chemical weapons for the government, and then the rest of his career destroying chemical weapons for the government, and finally, in semi retirement, he ended up working at Tulan. To top all this, his son, is a Math Professor. Damn thats a smart man. So as we finish with this amazing guy, it occurs to me that I have a friend whose family lives in Bay St. Louis. I give him a call, and leave a voice message. Shortly after that we get back to the Waveland, and I start to help serving lunch.
I try to serve, at least in the food line here, at least a little bit at every meal. I like talking to the people that come through the lines. It’s the stories these people have that are amazing. In addition I feel like I need to pull my own weight. I’m not a cook, I’m not a cleaner. The least I can do is serve. Knights serve. I always wanted to grow up to be a Knight, so i’ll serve and hope that someday, when I grow up, I’ll end up looking at a knight in the mirror. But I digress, while I was serving lunch, I got a call back from Mark. For those of you unlucky enough not to know Mark, he is really an amazing guy. Check out his blog www.curiouscharacter.net for a really amazing view of what Bay St. Lious was like directly after the storm. Anyway, Mark puts us in touch with his familys contact info, and we pile into the car and to see if they need a hand. Sadly, we got their and knocked on the door, and no one was home. We hung around the house for a bit, spoke with the neighbors, and finally gave up, after leaving a note on the door with our cell phone numbers. Just in case!
Back in the SUV we went, and we took the beach road home, the destruction along the beach is amazing and total. By this time the fog had rolled in so thick that it was hard to see, and we drove at a really slow pace along the breach, looking for our turn off. We came to a road that we though was our turn, and tried it. Once more we saw the just complete and overwhelming power of the storm. Grand old houses had been turned to so many match sticks. As we moved inland, we came across a women carrying debris from a home that had been damaged but not totaled. It was on the crest of a hill, seventeen feet above sea level. We stopped and asked if they needed help, and they were delighted to have our help. As it turns out, she was a member of a crew of 15 volunteers from Montana who thad been working on this house for a number of days with the owners. The crew from Montana was leaving and was happy to introduce us to the home owners. Patrick and his Wife welcomed us, and thanked us for the help. As we got to work clearing more pieces of roof and cement from a broken up slab, Patrick told us his story. He wasn’t home the day the storm hit but was down at the mail, near the big K – Mart. He and his Wife and little one were trying to weather the storm there, when his son told him that the water had flood the K Mart. “Bullshit” Patrick told his son, in a thick Mississippi drawl. And then he turned and looked for himself and was stunned to see five feet of water filling the windows of the K mart. He put his Wife and son on top of his truck and began hand making a raft with the materials at hand. He told us that by the time he was finished with the raft he was making the finishing ties with his hands above his head. The three of them, and their three year old Yellow Lab climbed onto the raft and tied it to the roof of their truck as the eye of the storm hit Waveland. The raft was nettled into the L shaped elbow of the strip mall that the K-mart is in. As they sat huddled on the raft they watched at Katrina threw whole roofs over the walls that sheltered them. When the eye had passed, the wind turned on them, pushing wind, rain and derbies in toward them. Patrick broke the window of the store next to them, and they swam in, climbing on top of overturned displays which had floated to the top of the story. Patrick's wife was so exhausted she fell asleep, and thats how they survived the storm.
His story was amazing, heroic and unreal. This is the story of man whole family had survived impossible odds, with courage and wits and cunning. This was the story of a man we randomly met by stopping the car.

The stories of the people here are amazing and sometimes threaten to overwhelm me. Sometimes as I walk back from a job, tired and sore I feel it well up in me, and I push it back down. I know that when I’m tired and sore from doing something I feel better. I feel like it’s important to not only work for these people, but to bear witness. Thanks you all for bearing witness to me.

Morning.

I slept later today then I have since we got here. The other guys were already up and doing stuff. The weird machine that is the kitchen and dish pit are already up and running. I'll try to get a spot as a server on the line when they start serving the food. Until then, I figured I'd write something. Its a nice way to start the morning. Today is just as wet as yesterday. Apparently Newman got so wet that he ended up in the car. I at one point in the night, did the Pennsic Pee walk to the Portas and cam back to a wet sleeping bag, and just feel back asleep anyway. I figure it will burn off at some point today, and then roll back in tonight. I'm not sure whats the day will bring but I'm sure it will bring something interesting. A quick story that I heard yesterday. The normal interaction while working here goes something like this: "Hi I'm pax, from Boston, where are you from?" "Hi, I'm sky and I'm from nowhere, or everywhere" (or insert place) I was talking with a girl while we were cutting tomato's yesterday. Her name was Jezel. I asked her where she was from, and she said right here in Waveland. Jezel must be somewhere around 16 and has two more years here. She can't wait to leave. She had the complete hatred and contempt of a place that only a young person raised in a place can have. I mentioned that I felt much the same way about Hawaii before I left it. She explained that she wants to go Alaska and study maine biology so that she can come back here and be a thorn in the side of the government. ( I smiled at the thought that she wanted nothing more then to escape her hometown to get an education so that she could come back) Anyway, I asked what the government did down here that bothered people. She said that for example there used to be an Island off the coase, called Boat Island, and the the goverment had wanted to put an oil rig or a waste treatment facility on it, but the town had vetoed the proposal because the island was some famous historical site from "the war" . Then the storm came and now the island was just gone. I, being a history buff, asked "what war?" She said, "oh, I don't know, the big one" I, not thinking asked, "Revolutionary? 1812?" those being the first two wars I could think of that took place in the united states, then it dawned on me "I bet you mean the Civil War" she just shrugged, as if to "No I just meant "The war"

Perchance I dream...

Tonight looks like it’s going to end up being as wet as the morning was. It looks as if the rain that got me all wet last night, wasn’t rain at all. It was the fog. It came in, condensed and proceeded wake us. During dinner tonight, a deep heavy fog rolled back in. I’ll be taking my poor laptop to the car to spare is a possible swimming trip.
Today started with me doing dishes with a young long haired man named Sky. He washed and rinsed and I prewashed. Then I helped serve breakfast. God was that today? It seems like last week. I’m sitting in the big dome, trying hard to keep my eyes open. We served breakfast, and Newman, Z and I went off searching for good to do. We piled into the car, where I had a surprise voice message from Ms. Jezebelpussycat, which significantly brightened up my mood. We drove around a bit, asked a few people who were clearing yards or working on their house, and time and time again were turned away. I, already a bit uncomfortable with the whole affair became a little worried. I mean, its a bit weird, in the real world, for three large men to pull in front of your house and tell you that they want to help you. I know I’d certainly be asking what the motive was. I suggested that we stop by a home we had seen yesterday in our walk. Yesterday during our walk, we saw an old man and old women clearing brush from their house. We asked if they need help, and the say “No, maybe tomorrow”. So we came back. As we drove up, we rolled down the windows and asked if they could use some help. The next door neighbor seemed really happy to see us and announced “Ms HAZEL!!! we have some VOLENTEERS!! So out of the car we spilled. The neighbor introduced us to the gentlemen, whose name escaped me, i only ever addressed him as “Sir” and Ms. Hazel, and Sir’s daughter. We asked what we could do to help. Sir was an elderly gentleman, he walked slowly, and one of his eyes had some problems. His daughter also told us that he had trouble hearing and that we would have to speak loudly. Sir showed us that he had been working on cutting back a tree that had fallen on his house with a chainsaw. It rested about 10 feet onto his roof without actually breaking through the roof. He explained that he could do it himself, but he was trying to clear the branches so that he could clear the trunk from his roof. We offered to clear it from his roof, and at first he seemed reluctant, but Newman assured him that we wouldn’t damage his roof. We cleared away the low laying branches, and finally I climbed up onto the roof so that I could clear away the downed tree. I used a climbing runner and a couple of carabiner to clip into the tree and cut away as much as I could. This the single long trunk of the tree hanging over the. We tried to clear this by cutting away at it from underneath but It finally took me to climb up onto the tree and stradle it between my legs, like Dr. Strangeglove riding his rocket and finish the cut that Z and Newman had made for us to get the wood cleared. I shook Sirs and Ms. Hazels hands as we left. I laughed a bit with Sirs, Daughter when she explained that she was going to have to drag her 70 year old father away from the task at hand.
When we got back in, Newman and Z started to prep dinner. They had offered to cook for the camp that night. They got rolling and produced a fantastic meal that fed over 350 people. Amazing. After dinner had been sent out to the dinning hall, I pulled myself off the line and sat in the dark and just thought for a while.
In the kitchen I suck. I’m just this big goofy guy, with no idea what to do and where to go. I’m in the way, all the time. People who have been living here for a long time, for the most part, look at me like I’m a tourist. “What the fuck are you think your doing”, their eyes seem to say. None of them remember my name, many of them don’t talk to me. I smile at them, and they walk by blankly. It’s like I’m the uncool kid at a club. For the most part, I shrug it off and try and help. Clean a dish, chop an onion, run and get something from storage. Mostly, I feel replaceable. I’m not really needed here. Frankly I feel as if most people would prefer that I wasn’t here. Someone else would clean the dish, But for a moment, a brief moment while on that roof, I knew what to do. I can climb, I can hammer, and I can cut. Oh yes, I can cut. For that brief moment, I had purpose and skills that someone actually needed. Emotionally I feel impotent and withdrawn. Intellectually I know that work needs to get done by someone, and I’m here. Newman and Z busted there asses tonight, they thrived, and it was nice to see them doing something they liked and were good at.

The last thing that struck me, was how normal all of this was getting. After only a couple of days, I can’t imagine what else I would do. The normalcy of total destruction. People in the food line have started to recognize me. We chat while they walk by about life, and what they are doing for the day. I’m going to end up leaving here and going back to my life, back to the real world. I feel for the people that live here, but am amazed by their bravery in the face of despair. I at least have the Internet to take me away from this for a while. I read your journals today, and smiled. I listened to what you were doing with your lived and how your days went, and that was good. As I rested in the dark, a women walked by where I sat. She looked down and said “You resting up?” I responded “No, only thinking” She said, “well, rest up for tomorrow” “Why, whats tomorrow?” I asked.

“Another day”

Ride the wave baby...

Wet and damp. Last night it rained here. Or rather maybe it just sort of spit on us all night. Our tent worked great, just not anywhere that I was sleeping. Remarkably the laptop survived intact with nary a damp spot. Apparently It used me as a sponge, every time water went near it, it was redirected towards me. Something like this. ./rainonlaptop | sort | unique > pax_industria

The fog is so thick you can only see about 100 fee in any direction. I hope on all thats holy that the day drys out. The rain is playing hell on my allergies even though i have been dosing myself on Clariton. I’m going to cut this one short. I need to get cleaned up, dry out and see if I can help out. There are already people cooking behind me and while i’m awake I might as well do something productive.

:::moretocome:::

A bomb explodes in Mississippi

I woke up this morning and got a good look at this place. It is absolutely and completely destroyed. There is no town here any more. I feel like I /*should*/ say that there is a community. It’s small, but there are people trying to rebuild the world. But it looks like someone shot guided missiles at the town of Waveland.

We drove in last night under the cover of darkness, which masked how bad things were. The signs looked mostly ok from the highway. Once in a while I would see the Neon lit sign of a Chili’s Restaurant from the road, and it would only be partially lit, but that was ok. Life, was pretty much normal in every town USA. Then we pulled of exit 13, to Waveland. There were no lights, and as we drove we saw that houses had been uplifted, moved, or just knocked down. The countryside reeked like an open septic tank. Newman asked if anyone could ever get used to the smell. I no longer notice it. We pulled into the Waveland cafe, which as far as I can tell is a Commune. They were surprised to see us, but delighted with the supplies, and by the next morning most of the other volunteers, even those we hadn’t met, had at least heard of the “Three guys from Boston”. At this point I feel i should mention, I don’t do all that well with communes, or hippies, or long haired men telling me how “beautiful I am man”. It’s just not my Idiom. Even as I sit here pirating the wireless from the Waveland PD I feel a bit more at ease knowing that the text from my fingers is streaming over the cool digital strands of the net. I can tell how frustrated Newman and Z are, and I know they have good reason to be. Part of me wants to be as frustrated, but I know that people are getting fed, even if it’s not being run as well as it could be. I also feel as though I’m a new recruit to a war zone trying to tell the veterans what they are doing wrong. Who the fuck am I? Where was I in September I ask myself? Eating well. Sleeping in my own warm dry bed. Who am I to tell people they are wrong? I feel like a man without a place. I don’t relate to my fellow volunteers. Maybe while we share many values, the way we interact with the world is drastically different. Furthermore, i dread talking with the natives of this town. They have all, everyone been friendly, generous, kind and upbeat. But what do you say to someone thats lost everything? We walked to the beach today, and on the way we spoke with a number of people, one gentleman, was cleaning out an office building, that we later learned he owned. He explained that his house, which had been down the road, had been destroyed. His office was starting to look ok, but he was living in another town up north. Newman did the talking. What do you say? I feel like a jackass saying “Sorry that you lost your house, office, all of your possessions, friends and neighbors, what a bummer” it feels trite. I feel like a tourist feeding off a dead landscape. The land here is dead. I walked 5 miles today and saw only a single bird. The only living sound was insects. No dogs, cats, bird calls. Nothing. When we drove in, one of the first people we met was a girl named “Onyx” she wears black pants and a black tank top, her hair is dark, and she has with her a black dog names Discord. I chuckled when she told me her dogs name, and think to myself; “Maybe she’s death”

Today as I walked around parts of this dead town. I wondered if maybe she was. This place is dead. It reeks of the dead. The trees are stripped bare and the country smell of rotting things. Windows stare out at you and broken doors grin like the jagged teeth of huge skulls. As you walk, you begin to notice that nearly every building is spray painted. “Clear” “Clear” repeated again and again, painted in red along the door frames of condo’s “Clear” “Clear” and then “R.I.P. Jackie Collette, we love you” sprayed along the wall in ugly black paint” This door has no “Clear” painted on it’s door. Large “X”s are sprayed everywhere, usually marked with a date and other glyphs I don’t understand. On one house, nay, a roof sitting on a pile of rubble, someone had spray painted “Thanks for nothing Katrina, you Bitch” Z, likes this one, he likes the defiance in it’s tone. Anther is painted over the window, in which an American flag, a bible and an old vase sit. “Katrina took all we had, State farm took the rest” We visit a cemetery, it’s in pretty good shape, a couple of stones broken and a couple of the above ground crypts have been opened, presumably to take the remains of a loved one to a safer, dryer place. Flowers are everywhere. In the month since the storm this little place has been regularly visited. I take off my hat. I pose for a picture with a boat thats hanging from a tree. We walk on, rarely talking anymore. The woods become more broken, the houses less intact. Most of the houses are simply piles of rubble at this point with driveways that lead into the piles. Many times there are cement stairs that lead nowhere. We reach the beach and sit on the edge of the road, staring out into the gulf. There is a single bird fishing. The gulf is so calm it nearly looks like ice. We sit for a while, my companions talk a bit and I play with a piece of hay, and look at a U-haul truck that is sitting facing the wrong way, without wheel in the sand. It looks as if it drove straight out of the ocean before giving up the ghost, like maybe it was the first U-haul truck ever to leave the sea for a life on land. If there is a hell, it must look like this. On the walk back to camp, we ask an old one eyed man if he needs help. He thanks us for coming to Mississippi and tells us they don’t need help, but maybe tomorrow. I am without a voice, for I know I’m not the man to write this story. I feel like I should keep writing. I met a man today, His name is BJ. He asked me to teach him how his cell phone worked, because he can’t walk very well and his mind is going. He was hit by a log in the head he tells me, and he can’t remember the day and time. The doctors have told him he needs access to 911, so he has bought a cell phone, but doesn’t understand how it works. I teach him how to use a cell phone as best I can. Back at camp, I bury myself in work. I cut onions and garlic for hours thankfully that I didn’t have to look up from my duty. Thankfully that the other volunteers are like myself, wealthy, and comfortable and privileged. I don’t care about the politics, or the drama unfolding around me between different personality's. I care about this onion.

In a moment of lucidity I slip into the past...

We have Just slipped into Alabama, and in the blink of an eye, we slipped into the past. Yes, thats right, I’m now in YOUR PAST. It’s weird. At exactly 3:47pm EST I moved into 2:47 Central. For future reference I’m going to reference my local time. I have no idea if thats going to be reflected in the time stamp on the journal, but I suppose it doesn’t actually matter as some of these are getting delayed anyway.

The road seems to have straighted out. For a while in Atlanta, the trailer was hopping all over the place. I’m a bit less worried about becoming part of a flaming pile of death. Always a good feeling. Kinda warm, but that could just be the laptop. With us hitting Alabama, we have seen the reemergence of pron and fireworks. If Texas had Steers and Queers, The south has definitely cornered the market on Straights with explosives. (note: we just passed a roadside store with “1000’s of guns in stock”
I think I both amuse and annoy the other guys with my insistence in keeping this journal. They have put up with my war-walking with good humor ( It was a small adventure to find WiFi for the Saturdays post) Gotta go. Pulling off for food.

15:35
back. We ate at Hardee’s for those of you that don’t know. Hardee’s is like a heart attack. Fucking A. The creaking sound you hear... my arteries. So the sun is low in the sky and glaring through the windshield. Nothing really exciting at his point. I did get WiFi from a linksys router really briefly while we were looking for our food, but sadly not long enough to post anything. (Gotta love War Driving) I’ll leave you with this. For as weird as I’m sort of finding this region. It’s mind shatteringly beautiful. The color of the foliage, the sky, the water rivers and lake, really amazingly picturesque .

Nest Stop; Waveland Cafe!

We are driving along route 80 at about sixty miles per hour. We’ve just finished loading about a ton and a half of food into a U-Haul 5 foot by 8 foot trailer. Literally three thousand pounds of food. The car and trailer are weaving like a boat we are so over weight, and we left the restaurant depot frustrated we couldn’t figure out a way keep meat from going bad, so we haven't packed any. The car really is weaving badly enough at them moment that i’m not sure I can keep typeing in the car, but I wanted to get this out while it’s (urp) fresh.

3000 pounds of food. Thousands of dollars. Planning. Coordination. Is all Newman. He’s done something great, out of pocket. I could never have done anything like this, Indeed as we talk, we joke about what famous movie trio we would be. Z is our cleric, indeed he’s already bandaged up my hand, I scraped a knuckle while packing. Newman is the brain and heart of this thing. I may make lock this entry from him. Both of these guys have heart man. Newman for, well everything. Money, time, resources, planning. Fuck man. Everything. Z has a huge brain, and a heart to match. Had it not been for the SCA theres no way I would have had a chance to see this part of these guys. Z’s face was rough when we went into the depot for the fourth time, to get MORE food, and we talked about how we just couldn’t get meat to stay good on the trip, but we could bring bread, he felt, I don’t know, bad, or wrong about being bread and nothing to put on them. I could see it hung on him. Sometimes I'm glad I'm the mook. Being the “lift it” and “punch it” guy is easier. I do feel guilty though, I wish I had something better then that. Dad always said “You are strong like ox” I’m glad I have that to give. Do me a favor, Go to learneddax’s Journal and Newmans journal, let em know they did good. It’s not right that people don’t know how much good they did, and damn folks. No. Fuck. Fuck they are doing a metric fuck-ton of good shit here. Its neat to be the guy that gets to watch.

::::moretocome::::

A nightclub rudely intrudes upon my thoughts.

After being dixie fried and ready to crash. I get a call (well IM but call sounds so much cool) from Ms. Ariaben, who lived in Atlanta, like 2 exits away from where were staying. We milk her for information and pity. She, because she rocks like my socks, gives us the low down on where in town we can eat, dance and have a good meal. Off we go to a foreboding place called “The Underground”

Now, the Underground, is neither foreboding, nor underground. The entry is a HUGE MUCKIN PINK NEON SIGN that says “THE UNDERGROUND” (blink blink blink) ... ok I made up the blink, but they should have been there. Once there we mingled with the natives in their natural environment As far as I can tell, this means walking around a giant mall like enclosure that makes up a part of the underground. We shopped a bit, then decided on dinner; I spoke for a bit with the sexy Ms. Jezelbellpussycat, who is very sad. She is having a very lousy weekend. Two things to note here. It’s lame when she as she’s both sad, and while she’s exceptionally cute while sad, it’s still not something I encourage. So first. I really don’t like to see her sad. Second. I think you. YES YOU. (well, um you know if you guys are friends) Should let her know how great and amazing she is)
I digress, we then went into the actual interesting parts of the undergound. Kelly’s ally. Where we had a FabuLOUS Jamaican (Ja man) dinner. From there, since it was still early, did a pub crawl. We started at the pussycats lounge, and ended at an Industrial Club called Future, where I danced like a motherfucker. Time is running short, and I wish I could be more verbose, cause that whole night was odd and really fun. Sadly. I need to go get clean and get on the road. I’ll post more! Ari, thanks for the great night! Jezelbell, I love you.

:::moretofollow:::

Were in a Ramada Inn, in the outskirts of Atlanta. We drove all night. I slept from about midnight to five, then drove a bit during the day. There is just something exhausting about driving on and on, even when you aren’t in the hot seat. Tomorrow, load trailer, drive four seven more hours until we get to Waveland.

My mind is a bit burnt. Observations.

Watching Fall melt into Spring was weird. Broken cars all the way down. Every twenty or thirty miles there were abandoned cars. They looked fine, as if people, frustrated from traffic, or driving, just pulled over and decided to walk. It was weird. I kept thinking about all the post nuclear holocaust movies where there are lines of empty cars. Weird.
Porn and fire. There is a whole lot of Porn and Fire and firecracker stores all along the route. Cafe Risque was by far my favorite sign, they had both Topless adult toys and couples were welcome. For an area of the country that I keep hearing is so conservative and concerned with the values of a traditional family. They sure have a lot of porn. A whole lotta porn people.
There are a metric ton of all you can eat restaurants. We were calling them out on the ride down here. Now, it struck me, we are traveling all across fuck all to try and bring FOOD to some people who are starving, and like 300 miles away, people are stuffing themselves. Ah whooo ha? Weird man. Weird.

To sum up. Tired. Ass feels like a pierog. Mind >> /dev/null Lots of porn and fire. People starving in the midst of plenty.

:::more.to.follow:::

I’m avoiding everything at the moment. Today has been odd. I left the house and my girlfriend was crying. She’s sad and a bit worried about my going to New Orleans for the week, and I won’t see her again until I get back, as we are leaving tonight before she gets out of work. So that was goodbye. Yesterday I was nervous, and today I’m just distracted and indifferent. Sometimes I feel like I’m riding behind the eyes of someone named Pax Industria, trying to act as though he should, without really caring or being engaged with the world.

“The person Pax Industria thinks he should be would go down and try and help out. So, I’m going to too.”

I mean, I don’t care all that much for people anyway. So, why?

Two reasons I guess, or at least two I could think of.

Even if I am just pretending, I guess I’d rather pretend to do the right thing.

Second, and almost more important. I told my friend I would.

I feel like disappearing for a week, at present leave a whole bunch of projects at work, and at home in limbo. To many rods in the fire that need my attention and I won’t be here to take care of them. I’m sure they’ll keep, and the world won’t end if a couple of docs don’t get written, and some computers don’t get serviced (which sounds much dirtier then it really is)

In any case. Off we go. Time get some stuff done.