New Orleans is America's [blank]
Fill in the blank. I've heard: Pompeii, tsunami, any other historic scene of devastation.
This week marks the beginning of what will be a long, long period of aftermath. I don't know about you, but I've had to turn the TV off. I feel terribly guilty to have the luxury of a home, air conditioning, drinkable water and other creature comforts. Short of donations, I can't help those poor refugees, and throughout the news broadcasts of pain and despair lurks the underlying message: We're next. News agencies are not helping with, "The hurricane season is far from over, doom, destruction, blah blah blah..." How does this equate with higher viewer numbers and greater advertising revenue to keep dangling the sword over the heads of Southern viewers who haven't gotten over the hurricane fatigue of last year? I look at the noaa.gov Web site and leave it at that.
I'll tell you one thing: More than any local station's proclamation of doom, Nightline's account of Hurricane Andrew scared the ever loving spit out of me. That and seeing a hundred-year-old home in Mississippi reduced by Katrina to a single set of concrete steps. You can bet I'm not riding out the next major storm at home.
My charities of choice? The Humane Society, the Emergency Animal Rescue Service and the Red Cross.
Still, I find myself wanting to take refuge in my house and never come out. Earlier in the week, the rumors of gas rationing in Florida had people lining up frantically at gas stations. I'm trying to conserve. I've turned the air conditioner to the point where it'll keep things from mildewing, but not all that comfortable, and yesterday I line-dried all my clothes using the racks I'd brought home from Japan (got to treat my neighbors to the sight of t-shirts and underwear hanging on the front porch). I myself want to keep the car topped off just in case we get news of the next Big One and I have to leave. I bought extra canned goods on Friday--more groceries than usual. Like I'm preparing for the coming Big One.
As I was waiting at the Publix checkout on Friday, a deranged man spat on my groceries. The cashier had asked me to put out the "closed" sign behind my cart, and instead of going to another open register in disgust, this man began stamping his feet, grunting, shaking his head furiously and shouting, "F--k off and go somewhere else!" He didn't look homeless, but he looked like he belonged at one of the institutions along Nebraska Avenue. He then pushed past the Closed sign, leaned over my stuff and commenced spitting. Needless to say, the store got to keep its soiled goods. As I loaded the car, I kept an eye out for him, but he never showed. I'm hoping the manager detained him and called his institution or caregiver to come get him.
This week marks the beginning of what will be a long, long period of aftermath. I don't know about you, but I've had to turn the TV off. I feel terribly guilty to have the luxury of a home, air conditioning, drinkable water and other creature comforts. Short of donations, I can't help those poor refugees, and throughout the news broadcasts of pain and despair lurks the underlying message: We're next. News agencies are not helping with, "The hurricane season is far from over, doom, destruction, blah blah blah..." How does this equate with higher viewer numbers and greater advertising revenue to keep dangling the sword over the heads of Southern viewers who haven't gotten over the hurricane fatigue of last year? I look at the noaa.gov Web site and leave it at that.
I'll tell you one thing: More than any local station's proclamation of doom, Nightline's account of Hurricane Andrew scared the ever loving spit out of me. That and seeing a hundred-year-old home in Mississippi reduced by Katrina to a single set of concrete steps. You can bet I'm not riding out the next major storm at home.
My charities of choice? The Humane Society, the Emergency Animal Rescue Service and the Red Cross.
Still, I find myself wanting to take refuge in my house and never come out. Earlier in the week, the rumors of gas rationing in Florida had people lining up frantically at gas stations. I'm trying to conserve. I've turned the air conditioner to the point where it'll keep things from mildewing, but not all that comfortable, and yesterday I line-dried all my clothes using the racks I'd brought home from Japan (got to treat my neighbors to the sight of t-shirts and underwear hanging on the front porch). I myself want to keep the car topped off just in case we get news of the next Big One and I have to leave. I bought extra canned goods on Friday--more groceries than usual. Like I'm preparing for the coming Big One.
As I was waiting at the Publix checkout on Friday, a deranged man spat on my groceries. The cashier had asked me to put out the "closed" sign behind my cart, and instead of going to another open register in disgust, this man began stamping his feet, grunting, shaking his head furiously and shouting, "F--k off and go somewhere else!" He didn't look homeless, but he looked like he belonged at one of the institutions along Nebraska Avenue. He then pushed past the Closed sign, leaned over my stuff and commenced spitting. Needless to say, the store got to keep its soiled goods. As I loaded the car, I kept an eye out for him, but he never showed. I'm hoping the manager detained him and called his institution or caregiver to come get him.