I have a long “what all this means to me, being from South Louisiana” blah blah post queued up, but I can’t seem to wrap it with a pithy conclusion.
I don’t want that to stop me from sharing some other oil gossip with you, however. So here we are.
My parents are in New Orleans gobbling up all the seafood in sight. When I spoke to them yesterday — mainly about how my mom’s new shirt “looked like something Mama Cass would wear onstage” — they mentioned this choice nugget via my sister’s boyfriend.
His company is paying him time-and-a-half to live in a bunkroom in Venice to help engineer a giant $40mm facility, with living chambers and a cafeteria that can feed 2000 people at a time, for BP. They’re making the investment because they expect to be there, cleaning shit up, for the next 7-10 years.
Apparently the place is crawling with people, and money. The subcontracting checks have already started to flow.
I kind of hate New York these days. The social jockeying, the $2,590 alcove studios in buildings that include DJ Spooky lobby shows as their “amenities,” the promateur paparazzi pushing the delusion that everyone is a VIP, the Web 2.0 bubble-delusion BS, the price of beer vaulting past the $5…
I think you should move to New Orleans. That’s partly me living vicariously through you, but partly me knowing that it’s the rilly real-est place I’ve ever lived. And the music scene. (Hesitate to even call it a “scene.” That’s the whole point.) Take a weekender via jetBlue and see what you think.