NOT ANYTHING

Sobriety is so awful, and it's so awful in such uncool ways. It's waiting, always waiting, and you're the only magazines to read, you're the unattractive wallpaper pattern, and you're the climate control that displeases and the TV that's loud and the receptionist who won't make eye contact. You're stuck in yourself waiting for nothing, nothing, it really sucks. I mean drinking makes one fat and clownish and more monstrous than usual and ruins one's life but there are far worse things than ruination. Ruination is at least something, and sobriety is nothing, nothing, nothing, every fucking tick-tock moment.

It's a howling absence of pleasure's possibility, an absence that makes the multifarious other absences in one's life sing in sympathy, chiming in until every dog in the neighborhood's barking. Emptinesses, shortfalls, absences, keening like cavities, a cacophony crowding ever into one's attention, the wind whistling through them all. God, one longs for the absence of absences, but of course there are things to be done.

Another moment endured, another minute survived, another hour harrowed, another afternoon undergone, another weekend withstood finding ways to get by, and no reward waiting, nothing waiting but nothing, more of it, a fucking wall of it falling over you every second, burying you again and again, and you're clawing through your life like it's quicksand, but it's not-- it's not anything.


...Fortunately, one can sometimes find solace in a good book. The Iron Rail is open every day from 1 to 7 p.m.

FRED GOTS IT

The National Guardsmen near the Rail are now painted over. Why and by whom? A righteous patriot who found the depiction offensive? Some total weirdo making an ironically complex gesture of anti-art? The building's owner, afraid of thieves stealing his wall? Fred himself, using his penis as a brush? Doesn't matter. Really, really doesn't matter. All that matters is that it's greyed over. Fred is greying, and all greying accrues to him.

I liked the Guardsmen stencil-- hell, I loved the piece, even more than I love Banksy's other work-- but the half-assed buffing of the artwork does resolve the tension of how long it would last and what would become of it. Vulnerability is part of what makes Banksy's work and all graffiti exciting. Now it's grey again, or mostly grey.

We've reached a point where we can pretty much ascribe public artwork's inevitable reversion to grey to a natural process. It's no longer an insult, no moreso than litter on your stoop or mold spots on your linens. Call it an environmental quirk, endemic to the area. Fred has made himself the status quo, but he isn't just the status quo, he's ours. He's us. Banksy visited, graced our city with several glorious artworks, more than one of which specifically critiqued the Grey Ghost... did you really think some foreigner, some out-of-towner, would be allowed the last word over New Orleans' own Duke of Desaturation?

Maybe you're tired of Fred, and tired of hearing or reading about him. Only two more short paragraphs.

No-one can still deny Fred's tireless labor has created our city's contemporary visual reality. It's a distinctive, recognizable look, as pervasive as summer heat. It's locally characteristic, full stop. The WWL radio promos like to say, "As New Orleans as the St. Louis Cathedral." "As New Orleans as Filé Gumbo." As New Orleans as Fred Radtke.

I should be funnier, but I don't want anyone to mistake my tone. We might as well own this, and we might as well recognize the buffing of Banksy's National Guard stencil for what it is: an assertion of authentic New Orleans ugliness destroying a colorful, beautiful contribution from someone from somewhere else. It happens every day, and in ways much worse than paint on a wall. Don't try to distance this from yourself. If you love our city, go pose for a snapshot in front of the eradicated Guardsmen. There's your postcard: New Orleans 2008.

CATALOGUING PARTY THIS SATURDAY

The Iron Rail is volunteer-run. We're here because we CARE, and one of the things we care about passionately is finding the best method for cataloguing our library. Finally, we have arrived at that method. We've sorted it all out, every detail of it, and will never have to address the issue in any capacity whatsoever at any time in the future ever again. To celebrate this, we are having a CATALOGUING/LABELING PARTY this Saturday afternoon at 1:30 PM.

WHAT IS A CATALOGUING/LABELING PARTY?
We are gonna go through our whole library and label each book with its category and shelve it alphabetically and catalogue it by hand

WHERE'S THE FUN IN THAT?
Don't knock it 'til you've tried it. This is librarianism at the fringe. Didn't you read that clipping your mom sent you about how it's cool to be a librarian? She was right. Not right about you going to library school, but definitely right about it being cool.

Tintin, Snowy and the cast of sesame street will be there. Fat, fluffy goblins, their dreddy gnarls combed out and their fur gently, organically shampooed, will be there, be-ribboned, dispensing loving hugs. You may cry into their absorbent, fleecy nap, and the internal pressure that's been building up for weeks will dissipate, leaving you cleansed and calm. This will be a deeply healing cataloguing party.

BUT IT WILL ALSO BE FUN.

OUR LOVE IS OVERDUE

WHY does it have to hurt so bad? Why do you check out books and never return them, or only show up drunk and give us run-around excuses?

The Iron Rail has feelings too, and if you have books of ours past their return dates, or you've misused your thief skillz to "borrow" them without asking... well, I'm a let my girl Tammy speak on it:

THERE USED TO BE AN MP3 WIDGET HERE THAT SERENADED VISITORS WITH TAMMY WYNETTE'S EXQUISITE "LOVE OVERDUE," BUT NOW IT IS GONE, POSSIBLY STOLEN?? EXPECT TO HEAR ABOUT THIS OUTRAGE AT THE NEXT COLLECTIVE MEETING!!!!