"Help" image downloaded from www.katrinadestruction.com
"Three years later, 'we see hopeful signs of progress,'"
That's the phrase that will be repeated seven times during the speech he is going to make. Three years? "Hopeful signs of progress" after three years?
Here's what I know. A city I used to adore, hell, I loved New Orleans sober. There were a lot of towns that once I quit drinking lost all their appeal and charm. Not New Orleans.
Now, it's gone. Dead. Gone. The mold that grew in the Lower Ninth, the noxious stuff that blossomed out of the combination of petrochemicals, human waste, rotting bodies, rotting food, decaying houses and such is toxic to a level where a wonderful singer and a good friend who used to live there is unable to even go near the place he grew up, he has asthma and a breath of home might kill him.
The rebuilding of an Epcot Center, monsterous capitalist version of "The NewOrleansland Experience" is not something I want to see.
Until my friend, his family and I can strut down the streets on Fat Tuesday with The Wild Tchapatulas, fuck it. I ain't going. To see what they've done would only break my heart.
That George W. Bush has the fucking gall, the bloody goddammed cheek to visit the scene of his worst domestic crime appalls me.
I'm going to be in kitchen with kids today, trying to keep my heart from exploding.
Pomegranate Sherbet is our plan.
Nothing at all, neglect would have been better than the crap they've delivered and called help.