Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Theatre for Life
Posted by admin on Tue, Jan 8, 2008 at 10:12 PM
Louisiana Organ Procurement Agency, or LOPA, are the brave souls who approach a grieving family within 24 hours after a loved-one's death to ask for organ donation. Can you imagine that job? I can, because for 3 afternoons last week I reacted to the awful news of a loved-one's death, over and over again. As an actor, I dramatized scenes that simulate real-world scenarios, so that the LOPA grief counselors could practice their craft in a safe environment.
The scenes were specifically designed to be difficult for the counselors; and thus, as an actor, difficult for me. My wife and I could not have children, and our adopted daughter was struck by a drunk driver on her way home from the school. It just so happened that the grief counselor who approached us was 6 months pregnant. DANG. I was a Fundamentalist Baptist who could not accept the death of my teenage son because Pastor RJ promised that my boy, Steve-O, would rise up at 10am. And then at 10am, the grief counselor had to approach me for organ donation. SHITE. I was a teenage son who's mother died, and at 18, am legal next-of-kin; but if I consent to organ donation, my step-father will kick me out. FRAK.
When Does a Test Hold Water?
Posted by David Winkler-Schmit on Tue, Jan 8, 2008 at 5:19 PM
I’ve known Matt McBride, a mechanical engineer and a Army Corps of Engineers watchdog, for about 2 years. In that time, I’ve seen McBride spend what appears to be an unbelievable amount — Does this guy eat or sleep? — trying to keep the Corps honest. McBride combs through huge piles of government documents like Takeru Koybayashi going through a mound of hotdogs. And McBride finds more than indigestion; he discovers indignation and dismay at the Corps incompetence.
It was McBride who alerted the media and the public that the Corps had installed defective pumps in 2006 at the outfall canals. The pumps are used in case the floodgates have to be closed in the event of a hurricane. When gates are closed, the pumps will move water out of city. That is, of course, if they work, and as a memo written by one of the Corps own engineers, Maria Garzino, pointed out, the pumps failed when they were tested prior to installation. McBride found out about the contents of the memo through the Freedom of Information Act request. Not only were the pumps defective, but also, as I wrote back in March ’07 so were the testing facilities used. Still, the Corps installed the pumps, New Orleans survived the 2006 hurricane season, and the defective pumps were repaired for the 2007 season with each pump successfully tested for two hours.
Hooray for Hurray for the Riff Raff
Posted by Ethan Clark on Tue, Jan 8, 2008 at 3:14 AM
There's a lot of ways to become a musician. You could take out a bunch of student loans and go to some fancy shmancy university for it. You could be born into some travelling family of musicians with a whip-cracking father who beats it into you. You could snort piles of speed and sit in your garage listening to Rush records over and over again until you can play all the parts. Or you could hop trains around the country for a few years with a band of gutter-punk-cum-old-timey-musicians, playing on boxcars and street corners until your capable of knocking out the banjo part to "You are my sunshine" even when you're full of whiskey and haven't slept in two days.That's (more or less) what Alynda Lee from local act Hurray for the Riff Raff did, spending ages 17-20 (or so) traveling around with The Dead Man Street Orchestra (www.myspace.com/streetorchestra),
Bourbon Street pt. 1: Working the Big Game
Posted by admin on Tue, Jan 8, 2008 at 12:12 AM
Seven years ago, after moving here from Florida, I spent some weeks working at a fine-dining restaurant on Bourbon Street. I watched the place’s white-table-cloth-and-piano-jazz mood killed over-and-over by the constant stream of stumbling Yankee pukers passing outside the picture window, until finally they turned it into a sports bar called The Frat House. I went on to work at better, or at least more tolerable restaurants and bars in other more realistic parts of this city, and even managed to escape the Service Industry entirely for several years. But now as I plan my escape from New Orleans (surely I’ll return; I just need a break; god do I need a break) I find myself again tending bar on Bourbon Street.
“You need to hurry and squeeze in your three, three-hour training shifts this weekend,” said my new boss, a big burly older dude who seems mellower and more understanding than most who’ve been in charge of me. “That way you can be ready to work the big Ohio State vs. LSU game Monday.” So badly in need am I, that wading into a crowd of drunk football fans sounds absolutely desirable.
