Category Archives: Stories

New Orleans ten years ago

Hello all,

Well as you can tell I’ve not been posting. Why should every post start with an apology? No one reads this, so I’m going to stop apologizing. Perhaps I’m apologizing to you in order to make excuses to myself. That has to be it. There. Problem solved without Dr. Phil or whomever is the latest TV psychologist. Except for Dr. Keith Ablow. What a douche.

Anyway, it’s now been ten years since the hurricanes swept through the New Orleans area, and there has been a lot on the news lately about it. I meant to try to dig up some pictures earlier so I could coincide with the media memories frenzy, but it didn’t happen in time. Besides, it all just seemed a bit too self-congratulatory to me, so again, I probably deliberately didn’t get around to it in order to avoid seeming like everyone else. Even though I’m not unique, I sure want to believe I am. I am comfortable with that delusion.

Back to the topic. I was in New Orleans four months after the storms, working with various health agencies that were determined to not only restore health services to the area but to improve on the delivery system. Prior to the storms, you either had insurance, and went to one of the big university hospitals, or you didn’t have insurance, and you went to Charity Hospital. Charity was where you’d also go for primary care. You’d go to the emergency room. Primary care for the uninsured was not prevalent. There were a scattering of privately run, donor-financed operations, oftentimes in collaboaration with a church, but not much. If you lived way outside of the city, you’d ride a bus for a couple of hours, sit in the emergency room at Charity, and if you were lucky enough to be seen that day, great. You’d get back on the bus and head home. If they didn’t see you, you still had to get on the bus to go home, but you’d be on it again the next morning to sit in line again. Great system huh?

In early January, 2006, I took these photographs in the lower ninth ward. The first one is of Fats Domino Publishing. He has since restored the building and it looks much better.

 

Fats Domino Publishing, January, 2006

Fats Domino Publishing, January, 2006

Kids used to play here

Kids used to play here

When the levee broke, it wasn't just water pouring into the neighborhood. This barge sits across what used to be several homes.

When the levee broke, it wasn’t just water pouring into the neighborhood. This barge sits across what used to be several homes.

Uninhabitable. You cannot just "go home." There is no home.

Uninhabitable. You cannot just “go home.” There is no home.

This used to be a street. Now there's a house there. Not a home. Just a house.

This used to be a street. Now there’s a house there. Not a home. Just a house.

This is what's left of the area near the main breach. Some sidewalks and concrete porches remain, but little else. This used to be a neighborhood.

This is what’s left of the area near the main breach. Some sidewalks and concrete porches remain, but little else. This used to be a neighborhood.

Four months later, there were still abandoned cars all over. The ones they had managed to move, were kept in a pile beneath the expressway leading in and out of New Orleans.

Four months later, there were still abandoned cars all over. The ones they had managed to move, were kept in a pile beneath the expressway leading in and out of New Orleans.

 

 

The thing I will always remember about my visits there was the utter lack of sound. In the lower ninth, where these photos were taken, there were no birds. No dogs. No children. No sounds of life. It was dusty, and the air still smelled of mildew and rot. Every once in a while you’d see a child’s toy, but it wouldn’t be next to a house, it would be stuck in a random tree. Powerful silence is quite the reminder of how fragile our little constructed corner of the galaxy truly is.

There’s also a new episode of the Prehensile and Gretel Show podcast available. On this one, Rita was unable to join, so I made up some stuff and then read from The Randy Scuffle Papers. This is your chance to hear it as it sounds from the mind of the author. Check it out here

-Phil Reebius

 

 

All photographs are copyright, Phil Reebius. I have the originals, so don’t try anything funny.

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Super short story

“Impossible” invention. Secrecy, chaos, then pursuit.

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The Gap

No, not the store The GAP, the gap since my last post. Has it been 6 days? This is what I mean about having a job. I like to eat and have a roof over my head, and often that takes priority over posting here. Sorry. I’m really apologizing to myself since I am blissfully free of readership. I still have the spammy bots though, which try to post helpful crap on the site in the guise of comments to my posts. They are all the same. The robot wants to help my site get noticed. I love most robots, just as I love most people. But I do not love asshole robots or asshole people. I also love happy memories of things I have seen. These things rarely involve puppies.

Today for some unknown reason I was reminded of a high school basketball story. We had been practicing pretty hard and everyone was getting tired. One of the players went for a rebound and as he did so, some inner pressure that had built up within his lower digestive system became too much for nature’s release valve to handle. The combination of physical activity and a ton of gas, probably caused by cafeteria fish sticks, pushed the sphincter to its limits and, as it performed its designed function, a loud blap echoed through the gym. Our coach (who has since gone on to become somewhat well-known in high-school and college basketball circles despite being an asshole) immediately blew his whistle to stop play.

He went on and on about how farting while playing basketball was uncouth and that he considered the gymnasium to be his house. And that we were visitors in his house. One of the other players had been at the other end of the court and was walking back to where we stood. Just as he rejoined our group, but before he could hear any of the pious anti-farting lecture, the kid rips a monster. He really “roasted the pigeon” as I like to say. This was one of the most excellent things I have ever witnessed. The coach turned all pink and then red. He was pissed. We all started laughing of course because it’s like when your dad is having a meltdown and you realize how absurd it is and you start laughing and then get your ass kicked by your dad and even though he’s punching you in the head you are still laughing. Dads love that.

My coach was a dick. He didn’t care that no one had washed their jock strap for a month or that a couple of players smelled of ammonia. That’s fine. He actually thought the gymnasium was his grand home and that we had defiled it with a single fart. Thing is, he was only about 25 at the time, so he had to be a real jerk from his very spawning onward. I hope that now, in his senior years, he can barely keep his own sphincter shut long enough to get to the bathroom.

More stories later if the spirit moves me. – Phil Reebius

 

 

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A Very Short Story

A water droplet hangs from the edge of a leaf, slowly growing toward critical mass, but before the baby lemur is able to moisten its tongue, the drop falls silently, becoming one with the forest floor. –Phil Reebius

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