Friends

I've just wasted the last hour notifying various file-sharing sites to remove illegally posted copies of my books. I'm not even going to say what I think about so-called fans who use these slimeball sites to steal work from writers, except this. I hate to give these sites any publicity at all, but I will say that other writers should check scribd.com and 4shared.com for stolen work.

A few days ago I tweeted the statement, "I think art about New Orleans, especially post-K, should be made by New Orleanians. #thereisaidit" I define New Orleanians as people living in the greater New Orleans area long-term as well as devoted exiles. I do NOT include jet-setters who own New Orleans homes that stand empty 90% of the time or those who left the city post-K and don't want to return.

But my Twitter statement still makes me antsy, because in general, I don't believe in using the word "should" around art at all. I've always been deeply suspicious of any statement beginning "Artists (writers, whatever) should..." that doesn't end "...do the best work they're capable of, full stop."

As well, I had made a hero's exception for Josh Neufeld, author of A.D.: After the Deluge, and a friend e-mailed to ask why. My friend wrote, "I bought that damned book because I thought he was a New Orleanian. Boy was I pissed when I got it and found out he was a New Yorker. I think it's a good book but if I had known he was a New Yorker living in New York I never would have bought it, to be quite honest. If he's giving profits from the book to the people who need it most, I'll feel ok about it, but I feel kind of like a duped schmuck as it is!"

I replied, "Neufeld = honorary New Orleanian because he did major, major rescue work down here after the levees failed, Like, lifesaving work. He has also put together a great A.D. website with tons of Katrina info & resources; http://www.smithmag.net/afterthedeluge/ . I couldn't find any indication that he had donated proceeds to us, but I'm kinda OK with that. I know how much it costs to research & make a book, and graphic novels sell even worse than regular books. Most likely there are no 'proceeds.' He also financed his own book tour, & I noticed that many of his signing events were also benefits for Common Ground & other local charities, so that's good."

But I realized that if I believe Josh Neufeld could get it right, there must be other non-New Orleanians out there who can get it right too. And for me, at least these days, that's what is most important in art about New Orleans: getting it right. Even before the storm, so much of it didn't. And if you haven't lived or spent major chunks of time here since the levees failed, you do not know what it was like those first couple of years. You can't research it. You can't imagine it from the footage you saw on TV. You might think you can, your heart might break for us and you might try to tell people why we still matter and if so I thank you, but you don't know the stenches, the tears, the daily assaults on the mind and spirit. You can never know these things if you weren't here. And you should be glad.

So I'm trying to at least modify my "should." It's hard to come up with another pithy line, though. Art about New Orleans, especially post-K, is less likely to suck and be offensive if made by New Orleanians? Art about New Orleans, especially post-K, has virtually no chance of getting it right if not made by New Orleanians? I don't know. Artists will, and should, make art about the things that grab them by the throat and won't let go. So if what happened to us after the federal levees failed does that to you, then by all means, go with it. At least your heart will be in the right place, and that will show even if you don't know the Ninth Ward from the Lower Ninth Ward. But if you decide -- as many already seem to have done -- that "Hey! Post-Katrina New Orleans would be a really cool, edgy place to set this!", then may God have mercy on your soul, because New Orleans will not.

Does anyone remember/can anyone track down the post I made here back in '05 or '06 about the (I thought) non-confrontational but brilliant way Chris handled the racist man who sold us a car in Bibleland during our exile? I wanted to show it to someone, but after looking through two months' worth of post-K posts, I can take no more.

The recipe was friggin' awesome. I had two helpings after a week of no appetite. I revised it a bit and renamed it Man Casserole because it seems like a perfect thing for a lonely man to fix and eat up from ingredients he might have around, but it is great for all genders.

MAN CASSEROLE

Ingredients:

Pam
2-3 Yukon Gold or similar potatoes, peeled and thinly sliced
6 strips of thick-cut bacon
3/4 cup chicken broth or water
Handful of sliced pickled jalapeno peppers, or to taste
1 cup grated sharp cheese

Preheat oven to 375. Spray 8" x 8" baking pan with Pam. Line with one layer of potatoes. Cut bacon slices in half crosswise and lay them over potatoes. Top bacon layer with another layer of potatoes. Scatter jalapenos over top, then pour liquid (chicken broth or water) over whole thing. Bake at 375 for 45 minutes. Then scatter about 1 cup of grated cheese (any hard, sharp kind will do, or even Pepper Jack in a pinch) over top and bake for 30 more minutes or until golden-brown and bubbly on top. Casserole is now ready to serve, but if you don't want to eat it yet, cover it with foil, turn off oven, and just leave it in there -- it will get even better. As long as you don't burn the cheese, I imagine it's pretty hard to overcook, though it will begin to decompose eventually.

I need privacy the way I need oxygen, books, or love. I look back on all the people I've severed from my life because in one way or another they violated my privacy, and I see a bunch of people who had warnings. I don't make any big secret of it. Approach with caution, courtesy, and respect, and I will afford you the same. Approach with entitlement, rudeness, or lack of welcome, and at best you will no longer exist to me; at worst you will meet my friend Big Steve. (Yeah, and I talk so tough and defend my privacy and my property and then I take to my bed in a three-day swoon. Big fucking man. Also, you ain't no nice guy.)

Obviously, none of this commentary is aimed at anyone here. That I know of.

I'm making a Desolation Casserole, my own invention:

1 layer thinly sliced potatoes
1 layer bacon strips, halved
1 more layer potatoes
Scatter of pickled jalapeno slices to taste

Bake at 375 for 45 minutes. Then scatter about 1 cup of grated cheese (any hard, sharp kind will do, or even Pepper Jack in a pinch) over top and bake for 15 more minutes. If cheese is golden-brown but potatoes don't seem soft enough, cover with foil and bake the crap out of it for a while longer. I can't vouch for this recipe because it isn't done yet, but as long as you don't burn the cheese, I imagine it's pretty hard to overcook.

In case you haven't figured it out, I've been fighting off a bad depression for several weeks, and right now it pretty much has me where it wants me. I look at my neglected LJ and I feel sorry that I have so few words for the people who helped me, literally, through the failure of the federal levees and its aftermath. But words, even enough to make a blog entry, just feel so ... goddamn ... heavy right now. I'm still trying to struggle along with it, give you some content, make myself find something to say. But more often I find myself posting on Twitter, which people I respect have called inane, lazy, grunting. Maybe it is, maybe that's why I still have the energy for it. How much challenge can there be in 140 characters? Even I can handle that. If you miss me, and God knows I miss so many of you, come see me there:

http://twitter.com/docbrite

I've spent the last few days (daze) chowing down on a big-ass plate of invasion of privacy sauced with chronic depression and garnished with screaming panic attacks. There were demands by resident crackheads/junkies/general parasites for money and food. When said demands were refused, there were intrusions onto my property and peepings through my windows. There were threats (by me) to shoot people if said intrusions and peepings were repeated. There was lack of backup by my partner. There were, perhaps most gallingly, accusations that I was "a good Christian lady." I think things have calmed down now, and if any perforated corpses happen to be found near my house, well, that's just life in the goddamn hood.

Pity is for dogs and drunks. I'm neither. If I'm not feeling sorry for myself(and I'm mostly not), then why would I want someone else to feel sorry for me?

http://www.healthcentral.com/rheumatoid-arthritis/c/9937/97652/family

"There may be days when you ask how I am feeling. If I say I’m fine and you know that I’m not, please don’t push me to really tell you how I feel. I fear that if I tell you that I feel like I have been hit by a semi that has backed up and hit me again, and that I would do almost anything to make the severe pain go away it would be too much for you to bear. I say that I am “fine” for your benefit."

I like treehouses.
I like fireplaces.
I like Zoe Keating.
I like Batman.
I like squishy pillows.
I like fuzzy plants.
I like pineapple.
I like empty boxes.
I like saving pretty paper.
I like dancing.
I like very hot showers.
I like red.
I like sleeping.
I like big dogs.