Letter From New Orleans: Day One
Odd flashbacks. Police shooting reporters. Trying to find hope.
So let’s give it a shot… I’m currently in New Orleans for a journalism conference, and I figured I could write about it – if something interesting pops up. If nothing interesting pops up, then I won’t write a second or third or fourth letter. But you’ll have to cut me some slack. Because I don’t have the time to perfectly sculpt each letter with just the right amount of flair. It’s the old “in and out.” (Just like a quick letter to a friend, so I guess it does fit the bill.) And with that, here’s my first Letter From New Orleans…
The flight from Los Angeles to New Orleans was smooth, uneventful, and pleasant. There were no kids screaming. There was no one snoring next to me. There was no one playing a video on his or her phone without wearing earpods. People were generally polite, considerate, and good.
But the same depressing thing happened that often happens when I’m flying somewhere: I was one of the few people who was reading an actual book or newspaper or magazine… not one of those e-books or whatever. In my case, during the flight to New Orleans, I read Casino by Nicholas Pileggi andVanity Fair and Esquire.
I didn’t buy Vanity Fair and Esquire for the celebrity profiles. I bought the magazines because they sometimes have a good true-crime story or a bizarro piece about a degenerate prince trying to steal his family’s money while on a months-long drug binge with his former nanny. That kind of story makes me laugh for some reason, as long as the rest of us don’t have to pay the price for the prince’s greed and degeneracy.
So I opened up the magazines, and there were profiles about Bono and Kathy Bates and Scarlet Johansson and lots of pictures of fancy watches and expensive notebooks and other extravagant stuff that no one really needs.
I didn’t read the profiles because I knew I’d get nauseous if I did read them, and I didn’t feel like getting nauseous 30,000 feet above Texas. It’s the same old thing: a reporter meets a celebrity in New York or L.A. or somewhere like that; the celebrity talks about the difficult life of being a famous person; the celebrity talks about how hard he or she tries to keep his or her artistic integrity; the celebrity talks about a few other things that don’t matter to any of us; and the writer comes up with some weird, high-minded prose about why the celebrity is so wonderful and special and real. No wonder people don’t read magazines on the plane anymore.
When I arrived in New Orleans, it was hot (as expected) and humid (as expected) and relaxed, as if the city was taking a break. I last visited New Orleans many years ago, and as I was driven to downtown from the airport, my mind, once again, flashed back to the TV coverage of Hurricane Katrina – and the fact that President George W. Bush and the federal government had essentially abandoned New Orleans, in 2005, during and immediately after that awful, lethal storm — more than 1,300 people had died.
At the same time, my mind thinks of jazz and zydeco and food and Mardi Gras and Louis Armstrong and the second line and Dr. John and Treme and the Saints and the Jazz (when the pro basketball team played in New Orleans) and “Pistol Pete” Maravich (who played for the Jazz) and The Big 6 Brass Band and college brass bands (I watched a battle of the brass bands last time I was here, which was phenomenal), and the Louisiana Music Factory (one of the best record stores in the country, which I plan to visit again).
So it’s not all doom and gloom when I think of New Orleans. There’s a mix.
Anyhow, I’m in New Orleans to attend the annual Investigative Reporters & Editors conference. It’s my first one – I recently became a member of IRE. It seemed like a good time to learn some new tricks and possibly bond with my fellow reporters, who work crazy hours and take on big industries and get paid little and sometimes get shot by the police.
That last one actually happened this past week in Los Angeles during the ICE/Trump protests. Things were getting so out of hand, with so many journalists getting banged up, bullied, and shot at by the Los Angeles Police Department, that the Los Angeles Press Club, of which I’m member, sent out a press release the other day saying it had filed a federal lawsuit to rein in the LAPD.
The pictures of bruised and bloodied journalists that accompanied the press release were shocking, and brought back memories (another flashback) of getting shot in the neck and stomach with rubber pellets fired by the LAPD when I was covering a homeless march/protest outside the 2000 Democratic National Convention at Staples Center, where Al Gore accepted the presidential nomination.
As we approached a line of officers in full riot gear, back in 2000, they yelled “stop” while simultaneously lowering their rifles and pulling the triggers, aiming at our heads and bodies. No warning shots or cops trying to reason with us or anything like that. They just lowered their rifles and fired. After I got hit, I scrambled behind a tin sign near a car wash, and I could hear the rubber pellets pinging off the metal. They’re not supposed to do that, and the LAPD was sued back then, too – and the city settled, if I remember correctly.
The next day, my editor told me to toughen up when I explained what had happened, so I didn’t join that lawsuit. But I should have ignored my editor, if only out of principle – you just can’t have the police shooting up reporters when they’re trying to cover a story.
So I didn’t get a $50,000 settlement from the city of Los Angeles, but I did learn a very valuable lesson: whenever the cops say “stop” while lowering their rifles, you don’t start talking about the freedom of the press. What you do is turn around and haul ass, as quickly as possible. Because the police shoot first, then ask questions later, if questions are ever asked. That’s been my experience with the LAPD. I can’t say what other police departments have done.
And that ends my first letter. I have to stop and get something to eat and then go to sleep so I can be in decent shape to attend a bunch of sessions tomorrow about filing a Freedom of Information Act request and investigating the real estate industry and trying to find some hope in stories that are filled with lies, scams, and the abuse of power, which should be interesting. Maybe hope can come from the ordinary people who are pushing back against the abuse of power?
Until next time, possibly…