I follow the online journals of a lot of authors. One of them is Poppy Z. Brite, onetime wunderkind of the flash horror set, but lately the author of some really excellent New Orleans food porn novels. I really didn’t have much use for her early horror works, but both Liquor and Prime were excellent, both at portraying “the life” and at capturing the weird relationship between chefs and food. Also, both books made me very hungry at points.
Reading her journal (she was/is a New Orleans resident) in the aftermath of Katrina has been very interesting.
Anyway, I saw this snippet in her journal today, describing her reaction to seeing Krewe de Vieux on parade:
The macabre, slightly bitter edge to this year’s parade — hazmat suits decorated with sequined penises, little people drowning and writing HELP on their roofs while Mayor Nagin lies in bed masturbating — made me as proud of New Orleans as anything that’s happened since our return. Nothing destroys us so thoroughly that we can’t make fun of it, and Mardi Gras is a greater force of nature than any hurricane.
I quite like that.
