1978

The last time I was in the Sportsman's Paradise the Grammys awarded the Eagles Record of the Year for Hotel California. Thirty years ago. In Louisiana a call from a phone booth was just a nickel. Now I’m feeling old. Could Superman even find a phone booth anymore?

I am in Harahan, Louisiana a ‘burb west of downtown New Orleans and off the eye sore corridor named Airline Highway. The hand of Katrina had nothing to do with the run down look. This is Louisiana. It was this way before Katrina. Also known as Route 61, it’s a pipeline of cars running more east and west, but nevertheless named north and south. I took a wrong turn out of the airport and went two and a half miles toward Mississippi before I felt I had erred in my ways. No sun, no direction. I will forever be lost in New Orleans, a providence similarly shared in Cleveland when on my first trip there an overcast day caused me to lose my orientation. Once I get turned around it is hard to recalibrate.

I profess that the best thing about Louisiana is the sign that says “Welcome to Texas.” I spent eighteen months here in the seventies. Fresh from Alaska, I got acquainted with the state just outside of Ft. Polk. There was the distinct smell of paper mill, and never has there been a place where more cockroaches fell on my head than in DeRidder. So many that the roaches in Micronesia look like an endangered species.

In 1978, it took twenty dollars to fill the gas tank in the Dodge B200 van. Gas prices had rocketed to forty eight cents a gallon. We bought the van new in January 1977 and had 12000 miles on it by April. I saw that sign welcoming me to Texas quite often. God, I hated this place.

I’m not exactly back. I’m just outside New Orleans on Mardi Gras weekend. I’m not too interested in mingling with revelers, but I would love to see the destitution of Katrina.