In an attempt to seem more worldly and intelligent than I actually am, I subscribe to more magazines than I could possibly read or give a crap about. If say, Barack Obama decided to stop by my apartment, he would see the latest issue of “Business Week” sitting on my coffee table and think, “This young man, who is clearly a real gem, possesses every positive adjective I can think of, and I should offer him a position in my cabinet as Secretary of Looking Jazzy and Acting Classy.”
It is in preparation for this event that I was flipping through “GQ” when I came across a travel article featuring our own New Orleans.
After getting over my indignation that Chalmette was not listed as a place of interest (Myrtle Grove Trailer Park and Winn Dixie are very touristy, I swear), I continued to read and only then did I notice the relevance behind the article: today marks Katrina’s third anniversary.
While I could go on and on about what I have lost and how I have learned to cherish my loved ones and how material things are fleeting, I’m not Dr. Phil or sedated and such optimistic waxings certainly aren’t my style. When I do feel these sorts of thoughts, I quickly suppress them with a shot of tequila and move to the dance floor to grind like an oversexed lizard.
Despite Katrina and the problems that the city and its people continue to face three years later, New Orleans remains my heart’s desire. Perhaps it’s only the frequent rain recently and the intoxication caused by it, but I have replaced the need for a healthy, stable relationship with my city.
New Orleans is my lover.
Sure, the risk for contracting an STD is still pretty high, but at least I don’t have to worry about anyone getting pregnant.
Like in any codependent, volatile and occasionally abusive relationship, I consciously ignore the problems because the sex is so hot.
Yeah, the murder rate is abhorrent, the heat is nauseating, poverty is unavoidable and the politicians are more corrupt and perverse than me, but this is my lover, and even when she hits me, it feels like a kiss.
My love eclipses all of that crap. New Orleans has history, nature, architecture and the arts, not to mention 24-hour drive thru daiquiri shacks and to-go cups. Besides, like any committed lover, I know how to nurture my baby and turn her crap into solid gold.
To survive in this city, walk around with a battery-powered fan and dodge bullets. To supplement your income, cater to our leaders’ perversions, rocketing that to a profitable black-mail and public revelation. The whole thing could prove very lucrative. Just ask David Vitter’s special lady. You could even get your own talk show.
This week is the first of a new semester and for many of you, your first time in New Orleans and away from home. Enjoy it , learn from it and seriously consider what I said about bagging a married politician.
