Out of the past

Do you believe in ghosts? Since college I have lived in city apartments, most of them built in the early part of the 20th century. That means my homes have been home to scores of other people, and sometimes I think they're all still with me.

It's not that I have sighted any actual ghosts, like the Confederate soldier my stepmother periodically spots in my Tennessee home. But sometimes I feel quietly overwhelmed by the fact that I make my abode amid layers of memory and experience.

I got to thinking about this today as I pondered artifacts previous residents left in my apartment. (I believe the place was built in the 1920s.) Most striking are the small holes in the bedroom doors where locks and latches were installed. These holes disturb me, as they bespeak discord: sometimes housemates do not trust each other, and so they lock their bedrooms.

But what house doesn't have discord? Still, I'm glad Ereck thoroughly smudged our home when we moved in. Out, bad spirits!

Sir yes sir

Here's a story from eWeek, a computer-industry trade publication, about directNIC, the Internet provider that sells me my mail service -- and that has been running on generators in downtown New Orleans since Katrina struck. As I have mentioned repeatedly, a former military man is running the business and writing about his experiences on a blog that reads like letters from 'Nam.

I don't mean to bore you with all these postings about my ISP, but the story is really quite remarkable. My e-mail is diesel-powered these days.

Overheard on the bike path

"He looks like a Mon Chi Chi."

A critic hits flyover country

Arts blogger Terry Teachout, theater critic for The Wall Street Journal, is posting this week from right here in Wisconsin. He's checking out Frank Lloyd Wright structures and seeing local theater -- American Players Theatre in Spring Green, and Madison Rep in the capital city. At least one local theater critic is holding his breath.

Good words?

Now that I am -- can this be happening? -- a full-time writer, I dwell too much on small, everyday writing tasks that most people probably don't give a second thought. Perhaps it's all those years of writing entertainment blurbs, but I find myself striving for grace and wit as I construct even the smallest bits of prose: thank-you notes, reminders to buy milk. It's paralyzing. But fun.

Good word

"Some people are such good musicians that even their mistakes are right."

--Sara Pace

From the archives

Just turned up a short article I wrote in December 2003 about New Orleans' Rebirth Brass Band. I asked bandleader Philip Frazier to name some good restaurants in his city. He suggested, among others, one called We Never Close.

That seems as good a battle cry for the Crescent City as any, these days. Keep being beautiful, New Orleans.