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Author Archive: "Ethan Clark"


I go to a show. Why Are We Building Such a Big Ship? at the St. Roch Tavern. Big Ship is the latest in a medium-sized line of bands made up of punk kids playing horn-heavy, Eastern Europe-tinged stomp-alongs. The St. Roch Tavern is an old-man neighborhood bar, the kind that has weekly shrimp boils and dice-game betting pools. In recent years, the place has doubled as a home base for the latest batch of local punks, the type who wear black Carhartts, ride around on mutant bikes of dubious construct and all have their own techniques for breaking up pit bull fights. Perhaps there is a contingent like this in your town, too. Here in New Orleans they are reasonably harmless, completely insular, and won't attack unless provoked.

But now it is Carnival Season, which means that navigating the urban (or is it post-urban?) landscape of the city means contending not just with resident scumbags, but also every scumbag across the United States who has pulled his or herself out of a blackout long enough to realize that it is Mardi Gras. It's like there's some tractor


The Post Office

"Wait a second," I find myself saying, rubbing my fluorescent-light-weary eyes. "Let's go over this one more time. OK, just humor me."

Nicole laughs a little laugh, glancing at the customers in line behind us: A middle aged black woman in a jogging suit and aviator sunglasses and a young redneck looking couple, all of whom couldn't look less amused. The clerk behind the counter rolls his eyes, sighs and says flatly, "okay." This particular clerk, John, has been a fairly regular fixture in my life over the last year and, in the last week has become someone that I've had the unpleasant experience of dealing with two or three times daily. He's a memorable dude, not because he is the grumpiest clerk at the downtown Asheville Post Office (though he is that), but because he is almost completely unassuming looking, a husky late-middle-aged guy — gray hair, bald on top, deep trenches around his eyes that if they were bird's feet would be a turkey's. Then there's the moustache. It's a fairly famous moustache, talked about all over town: a thin, meticulously maintained little pair of antennae that shoot straight out to the sides of John's nose then curl up like the toes of elf shoes. Like I said, if it weren't for the moustache, John would be pretty forgettable , just another dissatisfied bureaucrat slowly going mad from too much multiplying in multiples of 41. With moustache, though, getting talked down to and given the runaround by this guy makes one feel like an extra in the movie Brazil.

Nicole and I had been getting to feel like that a lot this week. After over a year of dating, we were now more or less breaking up, and I was moving away from the little North Carolina town that neither of us could stand and back to my former home of New Orleans. For the last couple of weeks we'd been going through the whole fight, make-up, crying jag bit of disentangling ourselves from one another emotionally, and now we were disentangling ourselves logistically. This was, in many ways, more painful than the jaggedy ups-and-downs of the emotional part — just the long days of separating records, clothes, returning loaned items, and now, dealing with my withdrawal from our shared P.O. Box. These mundane chores were really driving home the break-up, like that point when you're quitting smoking, and after several days when the tremors, chills and intense, ripping-out-your-hair cravings have subsided, you have to face the boring nothingness of just not smoking. Forever and ever.

And John wasn't making it any more pleasant for us. In fact, he was making me want to smoke for the first time in four years.

"So," I said, starting again, "we share the P.O. Box."

John looked at me, unmoving, not even blinking.

"And I'm moving."

Still no reaction from John.

"And she's not."

"I'm not," said Nicole, shaking her head as though explaining something to a toddler.

No reaction. It was like we were creeping out onto a frozen lake, expecting it to crack and drop us at any moment.

"So I need to take my name from off the box, and leave her name on it — and still be able to get my mail forwarded."

At the last part, the moustache twitched and John's head batted back and forth.

Sploosh! We were in the icy waters. Sinking.

"Nope. Can't do it. No way," John said.

"Arrgh!" said Nicole and I at the same time, covering our eyes as though we'd just watched a friend wipe out doing a skateboard trick.

"Why not?!" I snapped, causing Nicole to pinch my outer thigh beneath the level of the counter.

"That's not how it works," John said.

" But it could! It could be how it works. You could just switch the names on this sheet of paper." I gestured frantically at the form I'd filled over a year ago. "And put a little yellow post-it note on the box with my new address! Voila!"

The trio of waiting customers behind us looked as though their higher functions had all but shut down, their brains just sending off the slightest of electrical impulses necessary for maintaining a standing position. I did see the woman in the jogging suit grimace ever so slightly, though, as John again launched into his explanation of just why it was impossible, absurd, even, for us to keep the box open, which had something to do with the Patriot Act.

"Okay," I said when he'd finished, and started to explain myself again, changing the wording as much as I could. I'd played a similar game dealing with cops, the game where you know that you can talk your way out of guilt if you can just pull from the stratosphere the right combination of words that will turn the rusty pins of the lock in the cops' minds, and open them. John was a tougher case than most cops (with a proportionately more flamboyant moustache), and it seemed like I might need the Rosetta Stone to find the combination.

This time Nicole, who is much more patient and diplomatic, interrupted. "We just really need to keep the box open so that I can get my mail, but Ethan is going to New Orleans, so he needs his mail, so it needs to get forwarded to this other P.O. Box, which he already has, see?" She held up something addressed to my new P.O. Box, which I would be sharing with my friend and soon-to-be-roommate, Shelley.

John blinked. "I just can't do that."

We almost repeated the skateboarding-trick-gone-awry "Arrgh!" thing, but were cut short. "BUT," John said, "I could do this."

An Eight-Bit Version of Paradise City

One unexpected side effect of the floods in New Orleans was the sudden proliferation of high-tech gadgetry. In the months after Katrina, the phone and power were out all the time. Soon some of the most Ludditical folks I've ever met could be seen tapping away on a MacBook at the coffee shop or struggling to maintain balance while text messaging on their bikes.

Before the storm I would sometimes feel as though the whole town was on the verge of returning to the earth, succumbing to the will of the swampy, prehistoric pteridophytes that work their way up through our cracked and crumbling cement. Whether the day was radioactively sunny or deluged by the remnants of whatever tropical storm had just hit Florida, life in New Orleans ambled on like a tuba bass line, all half-drunk and in no hurry, far removed from the roar (or maybe whir) of the information superhighway.

Then Katrina, by knocking out the traditional forms of communication, cut an onramp from the information superhighway straight through the ...

New Orleans Music Continued

So I'd like to thank Powell's for letting me do these blogs. Also thanks to my loyal and patient publisher, G.K. Darby, who set this whole thing up, and then nearly had an anneurism the other day when I didn't get these blogs done on time. He told me that he was going to kill me, then told me my first entry was great, then lopped off the last three paragraphs of it when he sent it into Powells.com. So, on that note, here's a slightly expanded version of how yesterday's blog should've ended, which means that between the two entries I'm probably giving you more obscure New Orleans R&B knowledge than you ever really wanted in your life.

Here we go:

The 45 is the opposite of the impersonal, un-interactive, faceless MP3 file. Dusty and warped, spinning on a turntable, sending a signal through a tiny metal tube into your bedroom speakers — you are like a little music-listening autonomous being. Each pop and warble on that vinyl exists only for you and no one can download that or check it out on MySpace, which is a rarer and ...


Growing up in Jackson, Mississippi, I was close enough to New Orleans to be splashed by the wake of her culture. Thus, I developed a pretty serious aversion to Dixieland jazz, brass bands, and funk. Later on, while visiting Dublin, I would see Irish friends of mine reacting to roundtable trad sessions the same way, cringing visibly at the pub as a bunch of old dudes with flutes and mandolins tuned up and launched into the opening notes of "Danny Boy" (later on, at a party, I would witness a room full of people shaking their heads in sorrow and hitting "skip" on a stereo that was blasting Johnny Cash's version of the same song). My hatred for the music wasn't really rational or based on anything — it was purely rooted in overexposure. Musicians like Professor Longhair, Louis Armstrong, and Rebirth Brass Band never had a fair chance with me, starting way back in Kindergarten at St. Andrews Episcopal School, whose team was the Saints and whose song was, predictably, "When the Saints Go Marching In." My stance on New Orleans music was similar to the one ...

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