• A New Year’s Message from Southern Ronin

“I’ll kill that motherfucker-…”

and in the morning
courage isn’t quite courage
especially over a bowl of cereal

day old courage
because you just don’t buck the preacher!

like Ice told Action

“Gotta rocket in your pocket…turn off the
juice boy!”

the [King] spoke to me at [Don] and said :

“the world is prize fight”

and I can smell the dope roping
his sweat is heavier than the red leather crashing into my skull

thousands of little short term memories yelling out “TAXI!” at the drops of blood
leaving my lips
[like x-girlfriends]

but there’s a lady, watching the fight from the third row, who notices and screams:

“He’s not dead yet! He’s not dead yet! Rope’m…Rope’m…”

I want to hold on to this feeling of unexpected contentment. Sitting down, I had queued up something by the Drifters, but the rickety jukebox knew me better, and started playing “Seven Spanish Angels” with Ray Charles and Willie Nelson. Sitting at the stool, no demands on my time, just relaxing.

They know me here, I come in just enough to be familiar without being regular. Smiles and nods - the happy and haggard waitress, the nine-fingered cook (his ring finger stops just after his wedding band - what a grisly metaphor). The cook shifts between his rote cooking duties and an Iris Johansen novel.

I never feel like I’ve blended into society better than at the Waffle House.

Tipping is such a nice thing, too. I’ve been fortunate enough (if you can call it that) to eat in some very fine restaurants around the world, but I can’t think o fa better way to spend $15 than an omlet, a waffle, and a sixty-percent tip.

I don’t feel any watching eyes here. No one wants or needs to be entertained - not by me, at least, in this venue. Everybody has their own problems. They don’t care about mine.

I feel like I made the right choice tonight. Scratching away at my notebook in silence, the cook slowly turning the pages of his novel (peering over/under a pair of big reading glasses and a ballcap), and the waitress sniffing, leaning on the counter down the way.

Everything is living and breathing so quietly. The most blissful quiet in the world.

Don’t tell me machines don’t fit into the natural world. The hum and hiss of the fans and the gas stoves is calming. The air conditioner brushes me with a chilly feather touch as it makes its way around the room.

“Pretty dead tonight,” says the cook with a humorless chuckle.

I remember then, that for these people, these are not the quiet hours. This is working time. THey are “on.”

What I wonder is: are they ever “off”?

The waitress told me snippets of her life: two dogs, two cats, a husband (”Must be tough with five animals at home,” I say). She works a ten-hour shift, and when she’s done here, she’ll have more to do at home.

The cook…I remember his story from long ago, last time. A wife and children, but he never sees them. He works nights. He gets home in enough time to wave to the family as they start the day, leaves when the kids get home from school. His home life really is here.

He’s been working here for fourteen years. She’s been here for more than ten.

Noisy Patrons enter, the forks clang piercingly as she sets the table. Just keeping it up, working hard so she has enough money to keep coming to work.

Noisy Patrons clink some quarters into the jukebox. They pick Rod Stewart singing “What a Wonderful World”, or the jukebox picks it for them.

The hashbrowns hiss, the Patrons giggle late-night giggles, and I am at peace with myself.

What a wonderful world.

        I had not been to New Orleans since my childhood, so I was looking forward to going back and seeing the sights and sounds: both those I’d seen before and those I hadn’t been allowed to. And the fact that I had my fiancée with me made it all the better. We arrived late Thursday night and prepared to spend the next two days in jazz bliss. Our lodgings were in the beautiful Queen and Crescent Inn, just a short walk away from Canal Street, the border of all thing sinful: the French Quarter.

        Many people don’t realize that the Quarter isn’t just some tourist attraction. I argue that the French Quarter is New Orleans. It’s the old city. The original city. Those city blocks are the ones that the French themselves laid out and the Spanish conquered quickly afterwards.

        That’s something else many people don’t know. The French Quarter isn’t very French. Most of the original French buildings are, well, gone. Burned down in a fire. Most of the buildings you still see standing today were built by the Spanish. But, my friend, it was the French who were the geniuses. You see, the French picked the only piece of high ground in newly founded Louisiana that is on the Mississippi with quick access to the Gulf of Mexico. Genius. The Port of New Orleans is to this day the 4th largest in the world.

        It wasn’t long after the French settled New Orleans that the Spanish bought Louisiana from the French. The French natives in the New Orleans didn’t take kindly to this. So they ran the Spanish out of town. A couple years later, they came back, with all of Spain’s military might led by a fierce Irish mercenary. The Spanish brutalized the city’s leadership into submission, and until the 19th Century the Spanish ruled New Orleans to the displeasure of the Creoles.

        Oh, and don’t forget Yellow Fever. That’s right. New Orleans had a Yellow Fever outbreak in 1853. So many died, it’s said, that there were bodies waist high down the streets of New Orleans.

        And now this. New Orleans underwater. We all knew it would happen. I can remember all my life being told about “The Big One.” The day New Orleans would be virtually destroyed. How a city sinking below sea level, surrounded by water, would one day flood. We all knew it would happen, but for some reason, it didn’t relieve the shock. It still doesn’t change the fact that many of the places I saw standing just one month ago aren’t there anymore.

        I can remember walking down Bourbon Street and seeing all the bars selling hurricanes. I can remember eating at Commander’s Palace, the Court of Two Sisters, K Paul’s and falling in love with Creole food. I can remember sitting on the steps of a Supreme Court building listening to the best jazz band I’ve ever heard: a white guy with a snare drum and cymbals, a black man with a banjo, and a black woman with a clarinet, a microphone, and the smallest Fender amp I’ve ever seen. I remember beignets at Café du Monde and croissant French Toast. I remember haggling vendors at the French Market. I remember the casino in the town where the French brought us our favorite card game even today: poker.

        New Orleans has survived a fire that almost destroyed it, tyranny, disease, and flood. And yet, people still live there. There’s a spirit to New Orleans. It’s contagious. You can’t help but feel the history, culture, and uniqueness of this great Southern town. New Orleans will never die. It will never die because New Orleans lives on in our history, our food, our speech, our celebrations, and most of all, our hearts, because everyone who has ever spent time in New Orleans has a piece of New Orleans in them. Laissez les bon temps rouler!

I met Dorothy Dandridge at a dusty wine bar sharply at nine

nine, the number of the evening

nine ball
ninth street
theatre cats with nine lives

my fingers sunk into my pocket
begging 4 3 quarters

we played pool [billiards]

her pocket pressed firmly against the edge of the table

“you done sweetie?”

she takes my glass and walks to the bar
I miss my shot
        [I’m watching her]

shots of thunder crack across the tables
cloves burn with the smoke of war cannons
bodies slowly fall to the strength of liquor

I turn to stare at her leaning against the bar

she, the only [ten] in the room

she returns
she is my emergency

I dial [nine] hoping to add one to her [ten]

do the math
there was no answer

all I can do is sit and wait for Miles to make his way back around on the jukebox

To God:
We don’t understand why this happened. Many people have many different reasons, and I’m certain you are as tired as we are of hearing most of them.

We don’t understand why this happened at all, but we are writing to say, “We will accept it.” We will do our best to move on. We will grow, we will heal, and we will do our best not to turn blame to anyone.

New Orleans was a beautiful flower, the soul of our nation. We spoke of it in songs and poems, in the laughter of outrageous stories, and in whispers around the children. It was a city that played music during a funeral. It would not want any less on its own death, but joyous rememberance and most of all, a dedication to replant wounded roots.

We will do all these.

And above all, we will remember that the flower has sent many seeds to the wind, and they need our love.

To the Gardeners:

It was not your fault this happened. In your homes across the country, you could do nothing to stop this. And for some of you, you still can’t grasp the tragedy. That’s all right. You are human.

And as you are so, be so. Be human. The wind has picked up millions of seeds and sent them many places, and some have landed near you. They are foreign seeds of the fleur de lis: be kind to them. Don’t let them wither. Don’t let them suffer.

Lend a hand. If they need food, lend food. If they need warmth, lend them yours. If you only have a little, give a little. Even a little sunshine can do wonders when applied with care.

And above, remember, as you are human, in the end, so are they.

To the Seeds:

As the wind has swept you away, to new homes and new places, don’t turn away from the sunshine. Don’t refuse hope. Take hope. There is a brighter future ahead for us all, if we will look toward the light.

Be strong. Be strong for your family. Be strong enough to ask for help. It can be the hardest thing to do.

The flower of the Mississippi hasn’t wilted, the seeds have burst forth. You are the seeds of New Orleans. You can take it with you. And wherever you go, you have inside the essence of New Orleans. You serve it best when you nuture it, allow it to grow, share it.

New Orleans herself will bloom again, but that will take some time. But until then, you are seeds that need tending, and there are many gardeners waiting. If you look for it, you will find light and warmth here in our gardens. You are welcome to put down roots.

And perhaps, come spring, with your help, and the gardeners, and the Almighty, we will see the seeds of New Orleans blossom all over this great land.

With that aside, today, I’d like to talk to you about the joys, not of being in a relationship or being married even, but getting engaged. Little did I know that the engagement process is the one of the most enjoyable experiences you’ll ever have. Here’s a little breakdown.

1. Asking the girl. There aren’t many times that men can get away with being mushy in public and not have their masculinity questioned. The proposal is one of them. Now, all of us men have a soft spot in our heart. How often do you get to write a poem for a girl, get down on one knee, and do the most romantic thing you’ll ever do. Very awesome.
2. Calling friends and family. This is an opportunity for a wonderful ego boost. Not only is it requested etiquette to call and tell the good news, people expect it. Then, for 10-15 minutes, said party on phone is required to tell you how great the both of you are. Note: This is required even in the situation where the person does not like you/your partner/your relationship with your partner. It would be bad manners to do otherwise. How great is it to have someone you know is not satisfied with the situation have to tell you on end how great it is? Score one for the home team!
3. Inviting people for your wedding. You get to tell 300+ that they better get their asses to the greatest party of your life. Not only that, but when they do, they should bring a gift. How many times in your life can you ask 300+ people to buy you two pages worth of shit. (I kid you not, look up a wedding registry checklist. The thing is enormous. We plan on asking for an HDTV monitor. Earl, I can’t wait to see the TV shaped box lying on the table at the reception.)
4. The funny thing about wedding gifts. It really is funny actually. I mean, how often can you ask people to buy you an iron as a gift and it actually be a good gift. I mean, you give your wife an iron for her anniversary and you’re not getting laid for a month. Really, if you think about it, the gift giver is getting the better end of this deal.

I’m sure you can think of many more amusing aspects of engagement. These are just the few that I’ve come up with that I feel like sharing. All kidding aside, the engagement has added a sense of security to our relationship that has taken it to new levels. I can’t wait for the day that Earl, Daniel and all my other close friends can call me up, tell me they’re getting married, and want me to be their groomsman. There’s no better honor. Here’s to love.

Along the way, we struggled to pay the travel costs, hunted Kevin Smith, and screwed with Steve Sansweet’s delicate mind.

This is a record of that journey.

Right-click the link and click “Save as…” to download it.

• Wizard World 2005

Katie Johnson was a beautiful 6-year-old girl, one of three beautiful daughters of Alvin Johnson (founder of the "Fighting" 501st Star Wars costuming group). In November, Katie was diagnosed with brain cancer. When the Johnson family learned the tumor was inoperable, they did the extraordinary thing families must do every day in this world: they chose to spend every minute loving their daughter and each other, providing support, humor, and strength to each other.

And they weren’t alone. Good wishes and gifts came from around the world, from 501st members, from Star Wars fans, and certainly more. I never met Katie Johnson or her wonderful family, but I didn’t have to: their warm love and unbelievable strength have become well-known in the Star Wars fan community.

No one has missed the sad irony of this day: Alvin Johnson created the 501st as a charity for sick children, a way for Star Wars fans to meet and enjoy company. Yet it was his own child that would become sick.

It is a sad coincidence, but people should remember what’s more important: over the last months, there were so many opportunities for Alvin or his family to curse God, Muhammed, Jesus, the Universe, or circumstance, but they never did. They were humble, they accepted the difficulties dealt them and they responded with a love that would not be broken or separated by anything. This is what they’ve taught all of their children: happiness isn’t guaranteed, but it can be shaped from even the most difficult of events.

To Alvin Johnson, I say God bless you and your family, all of them. There is nothing I can say, except that my thoughts and prayers are with you, and I am not the only one. Katie and your family have touched and inspired thousands of lives, and we are immensely grateful. I am so sorry and so happy that you were blessed with such a beautiful soul that needed to move on before any of us would have liked.

“This too shall pass”, as my parents often said, but the memory of Katie and your family will go on so much longer.

God be with you all.

• ForKatie.org, the official website for Katie Johnson. Read the full story and send a message to the Johnson family.