I’m a little behind on getting my photos off my camera and into a useful place. While doing a bit of that work today I came across this photo from a recent rgb gig at the Hi-Ho Lounge. I like it because it shows our friend Matt Rota joining us on the banjo.

Posting this picture here will also let our friends see what they missed. Because, since our gig was on the same night as the Big Easy Roller Girls Calendar Release Party, even our closest friends bailed on us. And who can blame them? Did you see what we were up against.

When the single word safety is related to the two words New Orleans, most people–including those of us who live here–immediately think crime.

Pedaling through the Marigny this evening, it suddenly hit me: maybe New Orleans is the safest place for me. I mean, I tend to work my ass off. For whatever reason, I seem to be genetically wired with a sense that I’m not doing as much as other people are and so I want to make up for it. I want to demonstrate my worth.

I’m like this here in New Orleans: a community that values enjoying life and encourages people to take time to eat, hang out with friends, listen to music . . . play dominoes in your neighborhood bar.

Tonight I began to wonder: What would I be like in D.C. or Chicago or San Francisco? What would I be like in a community that valued productivity, success, or the outward signs of material achievement?

I’d like to think I’d stay centered. But would I? I have a hard time here slowing down enough to cook dinner with k, to nurture the relationships with people I love, to stop and recall what is important.

Anyone who lives in New Orleans — especially these days — understands the allure of places with fortune 500 companies, places where it is assumed you have health insurance and a 401k, places with little league and where mention of the American Dream doesn’t elicit cynical smirks.

So it took me off guard tonight when I got ambushed by the thought that perhaps this is the safest place for someone like me. Maybe this is exactly where I need to be: a community that subtly but insistently pushes against my tendency to want to score in the 98th percentile on some standardized test of American life.

More photos at flickr

For the past two years I have been working on painting the exterior of the house. It has been slow going with a patch getting done here and there every couple of weeks. I have been determined to do this myself because long ago in a former life I was a house painter. Therefore, it seemed to me, I needed to paint my own house.

The problem is that the job never seemed to get any momentum.

So I finally admitted defeat. On Thursday Jacques and his crew began sanding. In a matter of days they have accomplished what I was unable to do. The house is sanded down to bare wood. Weather boards have been replace. The house has been pressure washed to remove any lingering mildew. Next week, the house will be painted!

It is gonna suck to write that check. But I couldn’t be happier. In fact, I may go have a cocktail to reward myself for all my hard work.

I never quite got this site functioning the way I hoped it would. And somehow the thought of changing it all around seemed a bit daunting. Like most things in life, the thinking about it turned out to be the hardest part.