Love & War

by James Carville

  Not long afterward, Stubs/Paula disappeared during one of my absences. I wasn’t sure what happened and didn’t want to grill James about what may have precipitated this. I trolled the neighborhood looking for her. I put up signs. I cried myself to sleep. But she was nowhere to be found.

  A few weeks later, I ran into our neighbors Liz and Poco Sloss, who told me how much they loved my cat, who had taken up residence in their home. But not in their yard, on their bed! Totally unaware that she had gone missing—they hadn’t noticed my signs—they did what New Orleanians do so habitually: they offered hospitality to any creature, large or small, that needed a bite to eat. They were happy to return her, they said. But in a testament to my love for James, I let them keep her.

  To this day, Paula is enthroned on the Sloss bed, and James has one kitty victory under his belt. Lately, I’ve noticed that he likes to leave the doors of our house wide open in hopes that one or two other critters might wander away, which is why we end up at the emergency vet so often.

  Lastly, I want to tell you about a man in New Orleans who has stolen my heart—and become one of my closest friends. We talk all day, every day. We call and text from overseas. We have regular dates and every one is special, from Sunday-night movies to the Dalai Lama. He plays piano and sings to me in celebration or sorrow. He knows when I need a good stress-relieving back cracking and knows how to do it expertly, as well as assess the inner turmoil of my daughters with far greater accuracy than their mother. And he has taught me everything about the beautiful things in life and even more about beautiful people.

  • • •

  I met Kevin Stone through a pair of stunningly beautiful and amazingly calm French bulldogs, Pascal and Henri. I was on a hunt for an oversized wooden chandelier and (being the occasionally obedient wife of James) I didn’t want to pay much for one. And as always, I was in a hurry. I screeched into Kevin Stone Antiques, the shop that he and his partner, Mark Diamond, run on Magazine Street, and was stopped deed in my tracks by the handsome, friendly canines.

  Forgetting all about my mission—and the big bottle of water in my hand—I fell to my knees to better admire these noble creatures in all their glory.

  The water bottle dropped to the floor too, hurling its contents all over the shop, a virtual palace of rare and amazing treasures that was now sprayed in springwater. Across the room, a beautiful man shouted out, “Pascal! Henri!” and raced over to rescue me. I loved Kevin instantly; his warmth, empathy, kind humor, and those bulldogs, won me over. And ever since, he has come to my rescue too many times to mention. I had hoped to include one such rescue tale, but out of deference to the squeamish (which Kevin is not), I decided against a full description of how he and Mark saved me from an unfortunate belly-button-piercing incident.

  My larger point here is to herald critters. They are good for the soul. And they bring kindred spirits together.

  JAMES

  MARY UNDERSTOOD THE SIGNIFICANCE of the Saints winning the Super Bowl. She gets the attraction of pro football. She understands the passion people have for the Saints because she grew up in Chicago, where everybody’s crazy about the Bears.

  But she doesn’t get the college sports stuff, especially my obsession with LSU football. You can hardly blame her. She went to Western Illinois University. How could you understand big-time SEC football?

  Of course, it ain’t just football. People show up in their RVs and camp for days when LSU baseball’s making a playoff run, and even I have to find a TV wherever I am to watch the games. My brother-in-law in Baton Rouge never misses a baseball game. He literally has one single season ticket. He goes by himself and is perfectly content to do so. He goes to basketball games, to softball games. I’m pretty sure he goes to a few golf matches every season. We’re talking tried-and-true fans down here, not fair-weather fans.

  Needless to say, Mary doesn’t come to Baton Rouge with me too often during football season. Maybe if we have friends who are throwing a tailgate party, or maybe if it’s a huge game (they’re all huge games to me). But there’s like ten preconditions before she’ll agree to come.

  It’s a totally different story for me. I live, breathe and eat Tiger sports. Always have. I didn’t miss an LSU home football game from the time I was in second grade until the time I went in the Marine Corps in 1966. I still go back every season, despite the crowds and the traffic jams and all the other small hassles that come with getting to the stadium.

  It’s an emotional connection that goes back very deep. I remember watching Billy Cannon make his unbelievable Halloween run in 1958. LSU was ranked first in the nation at the time; Ole Miss came in ranked number two. It was a bruising defensive game. Ole Miss kicked a field goal in the first quarter, then it seemed like nobody would score again.

  All of a sudden, in the fourth quarter, Billy Cannon drops back to take a punt. He watches it bounce once and grabs it out of the air on LSU’s 11-yard line. He goes eighty-nine yards for the touchdown and breaks like seven tackles along the way. It was total pandemonium, total jubilation that night in Tiger Stadium. I can still hear J. C. Politz, who was one of the great college announcers of all time, making the call: “Billy Cannon races some eighty-nine yards for the touchdown! Listen to the cheers for Billy Cannon as he comes off the field! A great All-American!”

  The seat I saw Billy Cannon’s run from in 1958 is the same spot where my sister and brother-in-law still sit today, over in the southeast end of the stadium. Umpteen times over the years, they’ve had the opportunity to move up or choose another spot. Not a chance. Those seats have been in the family since 1955, and that’s where they’re staying.

  That’s just the way it is when you’ve had such a connection to something your entire life. The old wins still give you joy; the old losses forever gnaw at you.

  I remember the season after that 1958 national championship, when LSU looked like it might go undefeated all over again. On November 7, the Tigers played a nail-biter against Tennessee on a freezing day in Knoxville. Tennessee had been up most of the game, but LSU scored a touchdown in the fourth quarter to make it 14–13. They decided to go for the two-point conversion that would have won the game. Of course, they gave the ball to Billy Cannon, and the refs called him down a hair short of the goal line. Billy later said, “I will go to my grave believing I was over.” I too will go to my grave believing that he scored.

  Why do I bring this up now? Because I’ve never really gotten over the treatment Bill Clinton endured during the Lewinsky scandal. Ken Starr, the Republicans, the press—they were all obsessed with this witch hunt over something that wasn’t criminal and never had anything to do with his abilities as president. Same with Whitewater and all the innuendo and accusations around that, which never amounted to a pile of beans. All these years later, I don’t want to let go of my anger over it all. I still want to taste it; that’s how furious it made me.

  MARY

  LOUISIANA MEN CAN REALLY cook and they all do a lot of it. The first time we had Mitch and Cheryl Landrieu over for dinner, when we didn’t really know him all that well, he bypassed the polite public areas of our house and walked right to the stove. He uttered an indigenous saying I’d never heard before—but have heard many times since: “I need to get all up in your pots.”

  This “pot-getting-up-into” is reserved for the best of peeps—not just anybody. After all, you can’t just let any-old-body get all up in your pots, now can you? So I loved Mitch from his first takeover of my kitchen.

  Since he’s the mayor and all, Mitch’s pot marauding is somewhat limited—he’s got bigger and more important things to do—but he still does try, even at catered events for him. But my most frequent kitchen raiders are Monsignor Christopher Nalty and his merry band of better-than-professional chefs.

  Sporting events are only one thing that brings us together to eat, to drink, to spectate and holler. In New Orleans, any and all occasions, or no occasion
at all, demand celebration and things frequently get out of hand, or at least out of hand by a Midwesterner’s standard. We are intrinsically more reserved, though we do enjoy a good steak and rowdy free-for-all sports event, but my new home has made a convert of me on every level. I understand how sports and food and drink go together—and not because it’s a business or networking opportunity, which is how it always felt in Washington, D.C. Dining was about deals and schmoozing. Sports was about more deals and schmoozing. In New Orleans, sports or any event with food offer a moment of beauty, truth and possible redemption.

  • • •

  The monsignor likes to eat God’s creatures that he has felled on the earth or from the sky, or pulled from the warm Gulf waters, and then cleaned and butchered himself. His hunting skills are legendary, and his gathering isn’t bad either, as he grows his own herbs and veggies—all of which help to make him a delightful dinner guest. He brings his kill and harvest to our house, prepares a feast and always cleans up after. Did I mention that he can make any kind of martini you can think of and is an oenophile with an extensive cellar of unobtainable rare bottles? He also has an endless repertoire of stories and, in the event of necessity (ghost sightings, weird noises, bad history, etc.), can bless your house.

  We have a fairly regular weekly gathering, mostly on Friday nights, and it is always memorable, always an extravaganza. Just to give you a flavor, here are some printable deets from our last dinner before we all hauled out of the hot city for the summer.

  Monsignor brought freshly caught tuna and red snapper, along with venison sausage made from another personally felled beast. With herbs from his garden, he made special sauces for each, and a kale salad, which he dressed to perfection.

  His Jesuit classmate, Eddie Connick, whipped up some kind of flaming extravaganza for dessert—something he calls peaches Julie Ann after the wife he adores and never stops talking about . . . in a good way, the way all wives wish their husbands would talk about them—while our other dinner regular, the only noncook of the bunch, Terry White, provided entertainment by riffling through all my kitchen-gadget drawers and imagining alternative uses for each exotic (to him) utensil. And he didn’t just tell the predictable and pedestrian “take my wife” jokes while holding a turkey baster or meat thermometer, but he regaled us with bust-a-gut, previously unimagined applications for everything from an avocado peeler to a garlic press to a hand-cranked tomato masher. Though Terry always marches to the beat of his own creative drummer (for instance, arriving at his own parties in footies, togas, animal skins or some antique velvet he took off a chair that Kevin was re-covering—though he wears Nehru jackets on a normal night), we were all very impressed with this sustained riff and it more than made up for his being clad in a polo shirt.

  Though we can all cook, the “little women” (a term no one would use for any of us), the beloved wives of Eddie and Terry, Julie Ann and Frog, and I were reduced to menial food prep, table setting and hanging out on the back porch. The monsignor doesn’t trust me with the guts of his dinners. After the third time I drained the pasta and didn’t leave any preseasoned water to finish his sauces, I temporarily self-deported from even prep work to spare him further frustration and spare myself further humiliation.

  Which was fine with all of us, because after a couple of James Bond martinis and copious gallons of rare wines, who wants to get up in any pots?

  So I went to bed on that one typical night, and the monsignor went home to prepare for early Mass (and I do mean early, since he has many adoration hours a day, including a daily one at four-thirty a.m.), and the wives bid a fond adieu to their clowning partners, who proceeded to party on.

  Sometime later, I got up with heartburn and came down to a kitchen that looked like a bomb had gone off. I promptly texted the “boys,” berating their kitchen etiquette lapse, and as luck would have it—which happens all too frequently in New Orleans—they had retired right next door and were partying at the home of another routinely misbehaving couple, Parker and Julie LeCorgne.

  To cure my heartburn, they rushed right over with icy mojitos made with muddled mint that had been raided from Julie’s garden. Yum. And instant heartburn eradication.

  But before we could get around to cleaning up, we had to have a cook-off, because New Orleans men are nothing if not competitive and they have limitless appetites. Because soft butter is always available in my kitchen, I chose the vehicle for our completion: grilled cheese. In the Midwest, gourmet grilled cheese consists of white bread slathered with butter and two slices of processed American cheese. Because I am a true epicurean, I substituted fresh sharp cheddar cheese.

  Terry and Parker were the judges and seemed to be anxiously awaiting Eddie’s entrée. Eddie was the focus of everything. I should have known, whatever I chose to make, the game would be rigged.

  Eddie found some fresh-frozen deveined local shrimp in the freezer, discovered much better cheese hiding somewhere in an icebox drawer. He used “artisanal” bread and garden tomatoes and about three seconds later, with none of the smoke that always accompanies burning butter, served up the most delectable grilled cheese ensemble known to mankind. As I said, I was robbed of victory.

  Since I was unable to remain good-natured and uncomplaining about my loss, they placated me by doing cartwheels over my family-room chairs.

  It was just another night in paradise, but it provided the sort of memories and magic that in twenty-eight years I’d never experienced in our nation’s capital. Could it be that people take themselves a little too seriously there?

  JAMES

  OF ALL THE THINGS getting rebuilt and restored after Katrina, the Saenger Theatre in the French Quarter has to be one of the most recognizable landmarks. It’s this beautiful old space built back during the 1920s, with a pipe organ and ornate carvings around the walls and lights in the ceiling arranged like constellations. It’s got this great marquee hanging over Canal Street. The Saenger has seen it all over the years—silent films, Broadway shows, classic movies, comedians, concerts. It fell into disrepair a couple times but always came back.

  Katrina really did a number on it. The flooding rose above the stage line. The place was a mess. Nobody was sure what would happen. A few years back, the city entered into a public-private partnership and raised something like $40 million for restoration. It’s as gorgeous as it’s ever been. Jerry Seinfeld performed at the reopening last fall (September 2013). Garrison Keillor brought his radio show (October 2013). Wynton Marsalis came and blew his horn. Diana Ross did a concert. It’s back.

  When I saw that restoration start to happen, I got to thinking that if we can rebuild the Saenger why don’t we rebuild the Dew Drop Inn down on LaSalle Street, across from the old Magnolia housing project?

  A lot of people don’t know the history of the Dew Drop the way they know the history of the Saenger. But they should. It’s a hell of a history. In the forties and fifties and sixties, when segregation was still the law down here, it was one of the hottest nightclubs in the African American community. So hot that even white people sought it out because the music was so good. Deacon John Moore, a local blues legend and a great guy, who played a ton of shows at the Dew Drop, told me they used to have a COLORED ONLY sign in there. I hope to God it still exists.

  Every big musician played there back in the day. Ray Charles played there. Billie Holiday, Louis Armstrong, Little Richard. Allen Toussaint. Earl King. So many legends. In its heyday, there was also a barbershop, a restaurant and a hotel on-site. Some of these jazz and blues legends would live there for days or weeks at a time. They’d have these nightly stage shows with magicians and comedians and all kinds of performers in addition to the music.

  The sign is still hanging out front, but it’s been shuttered as a music joint since the early 1970s. I’m certainly not the only one who’s wanted to restore it. A lot of people would love to see the Dew Drop make a comeback. But after I started looking dee
per into the history of the place and understanding its significance, I couldn’t shake the thought that it needed to be returned to its former glory. I’ve talked to a lot of people about the project. We’re hoping to get Tulane behind it, maybe get the architecture and law schools involved. My hope is to see a concert there again someday. Or educational programs for kids. Or historical tours.

  As I’ve become more cognizant of the culture and the history around every corner in New Orleans, one of my goals is to play a role in giving people markers about their past, so that it never gets completely lost. If places like the Dew Drop get torn down, they’ll vanish into memory. You can’t really recapture it.

  13.

  BP

  JAMES

  THE SAINTS WON THE SUPER BOWL. Mitch Landrieu got elected mayor. The early part of 2010 was shaping up pretty nicely in the Crescent City.

  Then BP’s Deepwater Horizon rig exploded on April 20, 2010. For more than a month, a lot of us down in Louisiana watched with disbelief and growing anger at the lack of an effective federal response or any real cleanup efforts by BP.

  By the middle of May, I was fuming. Eleven crew members had died. Millions of gallons of oil were gushing into the Gulf. The federal government had neglected New Orleans during Hurricane Katrina, and everybody worried it could happen again. The government should have been much, much more aggressive on the oil spill from the beginning. Washington was dragging its feet while so many people were suffering along the Gulf. Just look how long it took us to get an actual shot of the oil gushing out.

  I knew what was coming out of that hole. Finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I started making the rounds on TV, trying to stick up for New Orleans and not pulling any punches. I was genuinely angry, and I thought that if I could cause a stir some good might come from it.