Last night a storm band passed through our city, leaving a path of destruction that was smaller than that left by the late, unlamented Gustav (the hurricane that hit us dead-on in September), but just as destructive. A friend of ours told me, "In twenty-seven years of marriage I've never dove under the bed, but last night that's what my husband and I did." A small tornado touched down in several spots in the Red Stick, making the morning commute interesting. Some sports facilities were damaged at the University; the metal roof of one practice facility was transformed into a bunch of crinkly bands of aluminum, and the insulation that had been underneath ended up being blown across the street to near my wife's office, where some pretty amazing damage control crews with leaf blowers set to "heavy suck" had it corralled and stacked soon after it fell.

We do one thing well in Louisiana. No, we do two or three:

(1) Disasters. We've finally learned that the rugged individualist model of post-hurricane cleanup and survival doesn't work. Oddly enough, little daimons from the Free Market don't magically materialize after a natural disaster; guys from nearby states who want $2000 to even look at the tree that fell on your kitchen do. You file an insurance claim, and unless you're really lucky you'll get $200 toward what you paid them. Meanwhile, there are roads and schools that the Free Market somehow doesn't spontaneously clean up and repair. It takes a village, and it takes taxes, and it takes government. Today the local paper quoted my off-the-shelf cookie-cutter conser'tive, Republican state representative as saying that we'd probably have to raise taxes. That's like hearing Lawrence Welk say we' re probably going to need to hire an electric guitarist.

(2) Food and parties. When the power goes off, a block party will spontaneously erupt. Since my neighborhood has become close to a 50/50  racial mix since Katrina, I wonder if this will still be true. I'll bring whatever I have in my fridge if you will.

(3) Selective memory. We can remember that somebody is supposed to educate our kids and fix our roads, but somehow when we get to the part of determining who that might be (Jimmy Swaggart? Jesus? WalMart?), we get brain-locked. When will we discover the sense of community responsibility that characterizes every place worth living in? I'll bring my ladder and hacksaw if you'll bring your chainsaw.

So. Another feeder band coming through tonight. Wonder how we'll do?