Marching on

The adage about March coming in like a lion has been particularly apt these past few days. Heavy sustained winds and plummeting temperatures have accompanied uncharacteristically grey days. As grey as the skies may be, a sense of dread has also been present. This is due in no small part to the recent passing of one of my extended family (see February 28's blog "In the midst of joy there is pain") as well as the concurrent health crisis of his son, my brother-in-law Russell. Russell is very sick; make no mistake about that. He has fought a long battle with Crohn's disease, a malady that attacks an unusually large number of Jewish men of Ashkenazic (central and East European) heritage. Crohn's disease is an inflammatory affliction of the lower bowel that starts with pain and diarrhea, but can, if untreated, lead to debilitating and life-threatening consequences. There is no cure for Crohn's, but there are treatments that can lead it into remission. It is truly ironic that my other brother-in-law has also suffered from Crohn's. In both cases it manifested in them as young men and, after one episode, essentially vanished for decades. Then, without warning they were each suddenly and horribly stricken again with debilitating intestinal pain. Luckily, my other brother-in-law had a recurrence last year that was found to have been caused by aspirin therapy to prevent heart disease. He has recovered completely. That has not been the case with Russell. The disease has progressed over the past decade in a sinister fashion. Prior to Hurricane Katrina he endured several corrective surgeries and only with the grace of God survived. He was confined to a hospital bed in his home and was constantly connected to intravenous feeds for his sustenance. Since the storm he has been cared for in hospital facilities outside of the city and eventually returned to New Orleans when health services were restored. More recently he has been confined to a nursing home with a host of other problems including renal failure. He has made several trips to the hospital over the course of the last decade. His ability to undergo kidney dialysis has been compromised lately because he has been put on pain medication. The two are incompatible and unless he goes off the drip for pain, he cannot undergo dialysis. Now it appears his liver functionality has also been greatly diminished. Russell has moved back and forth into consciousness, appears jaundiced and is about to be moved to hospice care for short term care for what is considered a terminal case. With the recent passing of his father from Alzheimer's disease, family members are reeling. We are hoping for the best, but knowing that little can be done other than to wait for the inevitable. This is an insidious disease that robs young people of their lives and makes living an intolerable and almost unendurable ordeal. Oftentimes surgery results in having to live with the ramifications from one or more colostomies and, when the bowel becomes even more diseased, fissures can occur, which must be drained. Americans with Crohn's disease and ulcerative colitis are at a much higher risk for contracting colorectal cancer. For more information check out the Crohn's and Colitis Foundation of America.

In the midst of joy, there is pain

How ironic that today is a day both of celebration and mourning. It is not only my birthday, but also the Jewish holiday of Purim, considered the most joyous on the Hebrew calendar. While my birthday is but a minor cause for celebration, Purim is a major cause for revelry and raucous behavior. It is mandated that everyone must give to charity, donate food items to friends and listen to the reading of the Book of Esther, the scroll which recalls the struggle of the Persian Jews who had been marked for destruction. The Persian queen Esther, also known as Hadassah to the Jewish people, is a pivotal character in the story. It is through her supplication to the king on behalf of her people that the evil Haman and his sons and henchmen are killed in the place of the Jews and her cousin Mordechai is raised up and given the rank of counselor to the king. Much of the public reading of the scroll, also called a megillah, involves drinking so that the names of Mordechai and Haman are not easily distinguished one from the other. Groggers or other devices for noisemaking are used to mark the mention of the villain's name and children in particular delight in being allowed to act out in synagogue while the scroll is read. The Purim scroll is a lengthy one, usually requiring a period of about 45 minutes to read from beginning to end. Because the wording is particularly intricate, abstruse and complicated, many people referred to having heard "the whole megillah," an expression that has taken on the somewhat negative meaning of dealing with a long, rambling act. Some might recall the animated Hanna-Barbera TV character Magilla Gorilla (seen above), a tongue-in-cheek misspelling for a Saturday morning cartoon show that had nothing to do with its star save the fact it rhymed with gorilla. I suspect it was the work of a Jewish writer with a wry sense of humor who came up with that ditty and convinced studio heads William Hanna and Joseph Barbera, neither of whom were Jewish, to go with that name to market the toy figures they hoped to sell when their show hit the airwaves (the show's sponsor was Ideal Toys). In any event, Purim has always been a day to celebrate the redemption of the Persian Jews and the capricious nature of life. The date of the 14th of Adar was the arbitrary date selected by purim (lots) on which all of the Persian Jews were marked for death. Jews in walled cities like Jerusalem celebrate it on the 15th of Adar. Instead, it turned out to be the day when Haman, his sons and other cronies were dispatched. The volatility of life is therefore to be celebrated. That leads me to the reason for mourning. Today is also the day that I say goodbye to a member of my extended family. My brother-in-law's father passed away in La Crosse, Wisconsin on Friday. At 92, Fred Feran lived a long life by anyone's figuring. Yet, like the Persian Jews who might have all perished were it not for a change in politics, Fred survived despite the threat from without in his native Slovakia. Born during the waning days of World War I, Feran, whose surname was at first Feuermann, grew up in turbulent times. The threat of Nazism reared its head when he was but a teenager and he and his brother Erwin fled their homeland in search of the Jewish homeland, then the British protectorate known as Palestine. As the inevitable war approached, the two brothers spent four months at sea aboard an illegal Greek ship trying to convince British authorities they should be allowed entry into the country. Finally granted permission, Feran worked as an engineer in the vital oil industry and later enlisted in the Czechoslovakian Overseas Army in Jerusalem and England during World War II. After the war ended, he was posted to Brazil, where he met his future wife Jean (Jirina), also a Czechoslovakian émigré and Holocaust survivor. The two eventually settled in New Orleans, where Fred and Jean adopted their Americanized names and he became a skilled clockmaker, working for a cousin who owned a jewelry store. Feran was so noted an artisan that huge grandfather clocks and other intricate time-keeping mechanisms were regularly shipped to and from his shop. His two children, Russell and Maureen, married and had children of their own. The Ferans became active in the New Americans Club, an organization of Holocaust survivors who had embarked on new lives in New Orleans. After retiring, Feran began to slowly lose his mental faculties due to Alzheimer's Disease and the condition was only worsened after he and his wife were forced to relocate due to the loss of their home during the time following Hurricane Katrina. Living out his remaining days in La Crosse seems unfortunate for a man whose life symbolizes struggle and overcoming the odds. Today Fred comes home to be buried and I will be present at that funeral and celebrate a life well spent, but a life that might well have been different had the times he lived under not been as trepidatious and threatening. Those who have been touched by Fred's story might want to consider a donation to the Maureen and Robert Freedland Fund for Shoah Studies of the La Crosse Public Education Foundation founded by both Ferans and named for their daughter and their son-in-law, who will administer the funds. The address is P.O. Box 1811, La Crosse, Wisconsin 54602-1811. Such a gift would be in keeping with the spirit of the holiday where giving to charity is encouraged and I would personally regard note of such bequests as among the best presents I could ever receive on my birthday. Chag Purim!

Chekov's misery

Boner has bit the big one. Andrew Koenig, the onetime child actor from "Growing Pains," who grew up as the son of "Star Trek's" Walter Koenig, only to become a tormented 41-year-old depressive, apparently ended his own life on or around Valentine's Day. Koenig's body lay undiscovered in a remote section of Vancouver's Stanley Park for the past 10-plus days. After several days of exhaustive searching, the well-known actor who portrayed Ensign Pavel Chekov on the original Star Trek series and his wife were notified that their son's body had been found. Vancouver police have ruled out the possibility of foul play. It is another tragedy related to the inevitable consequences of unchecked depression, a disease which, if untreated, almost always leads to death or madness. The simple truth is that anyone hell-bent on dispatching himself or herself will probably do so eventually. Some people attempt suicide as a cry for help and as a mechanism for attention. Sylvia Plath had the routine down so regularly that when she figuratively stuck her head in the unlit oven, she knew just when her paid worker would arrive in time to turn off the gas and save her again. The only thing she hadn't counted on was that her helper might have missed her bus. That act of accidental tardiness proved to be fatal. It was a suicide, but one that might have just as easily been another in a series of attempted suicides. More recently, another son of an actor, David Carradine of TV's "Kung Fu" and the "Kill Bill" films carried out an autoerotic act that led to his untimely demise by suffocation. Again, it was an unintended suicide. What happened to Koenig was an entirely different matter. He suffered so much in life - perhaps because of the shadow of having to live up to his famous father - that everything seemed tedious or tortuous to him. Apparently, he was on medication for treatment of depression, but like a lot of patients who are in a downward spiral, taking those prescriptions regularly proved to be too difficult. The pain of this event should be a wake up call to those teetering on the edge. Suicide may seem a quick way out, but it has disastrous consequences for family members and it never eases the pain for loved ones left behind. I have long held the belief that suicide is the final symptom of unchecked depression, a disease that brushed many of my fellow New Orleanians when dealing with the flooding, related deaths and loss of community we experienced following Hurricane Katrina. While I never contemplated suicide or found myself unable to cope as others did, it would have been a different story had I not had support through counseling in my home away from home in Cleveland. That simple mechanism helped me to deal with the vicissitudes of life in part from having to be separated from home, hearth and extended community. Luckily, my mechanisms for self-preservation kicked in without the need for medications, but there are a number of people for whom these drugs mean the difference between a productive life and a life with no purpose. The lesson to be learned here is there but for the grace of God, would I go too. There are too many times that tragedies like these could be averted were those stricken to seek out treatment, get counseling and take their medications. For Koenig it is simply too late, but for those who have loved ones still struggling with depression, take his father Walter's words of good counsel to heart: "If you are one of those people who can't handle it any more, know people are out there who really care before you make that final decision," he said. "Talk to somebody."

I need a dozen step program

My "problem"

I don’t know if I’m ready for “Celebrity Rehab 4” or not, but I do know I have a problem. It’s hamantaschen and I know I’m addicted. Call me a junkie, if you will, but when Purim gets near, I can’t wait to fill myself with the scrumptious taste of a poppy seed- , fruit preserve- or chocolate-filled triangle of baked dough. When Purim comes around, I buy them by the dozen, gouging myself on as many as I can take in one sitting. I don’t care who sees me. I am powerless to resist this sweet tooth. It is my jones. Whatever is left over I will then freeze in gallon sized plastic bags for use throughout the rest of the year. Weeks or months after Purim, I will remove one from the bag and microwave it for just a few seconds to restore the tasty delicacy to room temperature and allow me to gobble it down greedily. I am hooked. I admit that I do this oftentimes when I am alone. That can’t be good. In point of fact I am reluctant to share with others, knowing that I can’t bear to part with my trusty stash. Then there’s my biggest dilemma: cake or cookie dough. I can no longer hide my problem. It becomes incredibly difficult during Passover when chometz (leavened items) like hamantaschen are forbidden. It is only by the hardest determination that I make it through those eight days with this monkey on my back. So, call Dr. Pinsky or Dr. Phil, I cannot calm my cravings. I know I need somebody’s help to get me through this time of year. I’m ready to buy my dough of choice and I know that that time honored adage is true: one hamantasch is too much and 1000 hamantaschen are not enough. It’s time for me to get into a program with a dozen steps to ease me out of my misery and help me with my problem. This is not a half-baked idea. I know I "knead" to do this and will, with the help of my higher power, rise to overcome my pastry dependence.

Misery loves company and Cleveland

My goodness. Is there no end to the bashing my beloved Cleveland is taking today? Following the Mardi Gras madness and the good feeling generated by the world championship of the New Orleans Saints, there is little doubt that good spirits will abound here for some time to come. But, according to Forbes Magazine, the tiny area bounded by Cleveland, Akron and Canton is the most miserable in the United States with Cleveland listed as number one, Canton at number nine and Akron at 12. When you add Toledo into the equation at number 15 and Youngstown at number 18, Ohio is clearly the runaway as most miserable state with 25% of the top 20. With a notable exception for the league-leading NBA Cavaliers, Forbes determined the combination of lousy weather, high taxes, public corruption and high unemployment present in Cleveland was their clear choice for most miserable city, beating out last year's number one, Stockton, California. Having lived there for close to two years, I agree that the weather is not the nicest. In fact I never knew what it was to see so much snow in all of my days, but I dealt with it as best I could. A good pair of boots is de rigeur in order to walk about during winter and driving in snow and ice was a constant challenge. Nonetheless, I lived through it and my car is still in working order today, almost three years since I returned to New Orleans. There is a lot to love in Cleveland, especially the arts and cultural scene there. The Cleveland Museum of Art was going through a major expansion phase during my time there, but the parts that were opened to the public were quite impressive. The theatre district is home to the largest grouping of theaters in the country outside of Broadway, which most people will find hard to believe. The downtown district is home to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and several noteworthy museums. Then there are special places like the City Club, which serves as a speakers bureau nearly every Friday throughout the year and has done so for almost a century. For all of the harsh conditions they must endure, the people of Cleveland have proved to be indomitable. Indeed, many of the young residents have chosen to settle elsewhere after college, yet there are those diehard Clevelanders who will never leave and cannot envision living anywhere else. My sister has lived in Cleveland for more time than she spent growing up here in New Orleans or attending school at nearby L.S.U. She seems to have adjusted and, were it not for a lack of Mardi Gras and other amenities there, I might have stayed in Cleveland longer. But there's the rub. Perhaps, if Cleveland got more into the Carnival spirit, the people there might not be so miserable. I've started in my own way by sending beads to my friends living there. Perhaps some doubloons, cups and specialty throws are needed to pull them out of their doldrums or maybe some good New Orleans cuisine. Recently, Louisiana was given top honors as being the happiest state and I can assure you that New Orleans is the happiest place in our state, despite the sluggishness of the recovery in some areas of town. Yes, we have our share of corrupt politicians, but we're having so much fun, we don't seem to mind as much. The other factor here is the amount of sunlight we experience here and the lack of it in Cleveland. There's little I can do about that other than offer my Cleveland friends an opportunity to visit the Crescent City during the darkest and snowiest of winter days.

If ever I cease to Mardi Gras

Louis Lederman, a member of the Krewe of Cosmic Debris and a jester at Mardi Gras

Like a meteor hurling through the atmosphere, there was no doubt that the mad rush towards Fat Tuesday would end very quickly with somewhat unsettling results. The black and gold tinged festival ended very abruptly last night after the final weekend of parades extended into Lundi Gras and Mardi Gras, but Saints fever will no doubt continue unabated for months to come. It was an amazing ride, but still had a few surprises for those of who extended out into the hoopla or watched it unfold on TV. I did get a few hours of sleep following my return from the Krewe of Orpheus Orphescapade at approximately 4:00 a.m. With some urging, I took to the streets of the Faubourg Marigny and the Vieux Carre to soak up the latter portions of the day. Many more people seemed to be in costume or masked for the day of celebration and revelry and it wasn't hard to see that everyone was enjoying himself, from the kids taking it all in to the police officers and state troopers dealing with the huge, but peaceable crowds. Still smarting from the blows to my face from beads thrown by happy paraders on Sunday, I paced myself throughout the day and into the night with appropriate libations and wound up having a most enjoyable day. Still, there's only so much one can do and I missed the final moments of the meeting of the courts of the Krewe of Rex and the Mystick Krewe of Comus that has been an annual broadcast event for decades. It was a beautiful, but chilly day and one I will recall with great affection for some time to come. The one item of note that I did catch was the ceremonial passing of the whistle from the captain of Rex to the Rex official who will take over that prestigious post now. The new captain of Rex like the the new captain of Comus is surprisingly young and it seems this new blood may guarantee many years of continued success for the two oldest Carnival organizations. So, it's back to work for all of us today in the Crescent City, but the countdown to the next Mardi Gras has already begun.

Running for Mardi Gras

Okeanos Queen Martha Elizabeth Dart at Gallier Hall with sidekick

Yesterday was a real workout. After what for me was an unusual night of at least four hours of sleep, I awoke to prepare myself for the challenges of being the announcer for four day parades at Gallier Hall. Being prepared is a bit of an understatement. No matter how well I held up my end of what was needed, I was still dependeent on lots of external factors and other people to do what had to be accomplished. After finding a parking spot within three blocks of Gallier Hall, I walked the ten blocks to the hotel where the Queen of Okeanos' mother was hosting a special breakfast in her daughter's honor. All of the royal maids of Okeanos and their mothers were smartly attired in dresses or suits. Each maid donned an attractive hat. The queen, Martha Elizabeth Dart, was resplendent in a white suit with a crown symbolizing her reign. The limousines carrying the royal party had a bit of a problem. Because the four parades needed motorcycle escorts to their respective staging areas, the New Orleans Police Department's Motorcycle Division was hard pressed to provide a full escort until after the 10:00 a.m. start time. As a result, we had to "buzz" the parade route on the way to the uptown staging area, making our way through Carnival crowds already camped out on Napoleon and St. Charles Avenues. Two stretch limousines, which were in reality converted SUVs, carried the maids, a male escort and yours truly in one and the mothers and the captain of the krewe and a female escort followed behind in the other car. The police did a great job getting us to where they thought the beginning of the parade was, but it soon turned out they didn't know where they were going. We got within a block of the start of the parade and I stopped the caravan, grabbed a dozen yellow roses intended for the king's float and ran like the dickens for three blocks bouquet in hand. After handing the flowers to the aid on the king's float, I ran back to the waiting limousines, while the officers conferred as to what route would get us to the reviewing stand in time for me to announce the parades. I marvel at my breakneck speed in making it through the obstacle course of people and parading units. A bit out of breath, I waited for another two minutes while the motorcycle escorts and the drivers figured out a suitable side street on which to turn. These stretch limos were quite long. Finally I made a suggestion and off we went. As it turned out, we made great time getting back. However, by the time I got into the stands, the Knights of Babylon parade was already at Gallier Hall. It took a bit of running up the marble stairs and negotiating through the crowd, but the toast from the city to Sargon XLV went off magnificently as my adrenaline kicked in yet again. The parade, rescheduled from Thursday night's rainout, passed by in rapid order due to the fact they had no marching bands. It seemed to be less than ten minutes in length from the time of the toast to the time the trailing police and fire department units were passing the reviewing stand. It was then time to announce the arrival of the royal party. I called out each maid's name and her parents and introduced the Queen of Okeanos, Martha Elizabeth Dart, to my announcer's booth. After the captain's wife was introduced, all of the mothers of the maids were allowed into the mayor's reviewing area. Within a few minutes the 61st parade of the Krewe of Okeanos winded it way to the former New Orleans City Hall. The theme "Okeanos Asks: 'Will You Be Mine?" was an obvious homage to Valentine's Day The Krewe of Mid City followed right behind with 18 bright and dazzling floats decorated in alumninum foil of many colors. Another parade and another two toasts to the 2010 king and queen. Finally, the crowing achievement of the day came about when the impressive Krewe of Thoth, the second largest Carnival krewe behind Endymion passed in review. It was a huge parade with 42 floats in total and the theme "Thoth's All Mixed Up," a tribute to libations and potent potables like the White Russian, Margaita and Fog Cutter. The final toasts were done by recently re-elected Councilperson Cynthia Hedge-Morrell, but the parade seemed to last forever. It was a great day for Carnival, but I must admit I was plain tuckered by the time that the Krewe of Bacchus was set to roll with Drew Brees as its celebrity king. Brees was picked to be Bacchus several months ago when the Saints were still undefeated and when a Super Bowl win was still an unrealized dream. It was the third parade Brees has been in since the win last Sunday in Miami. He was in Orlando at Disney World for their parade on Monday, in New Orleans for the Super Bowl parade on Tuesday and, following stints on the Ellen Degeneres, David Letterman and Oprah Winfrey shows managed to get back in town to portray the Roman god of wine. Meanwhile, I am ready for the Greek god Morpheus to take over. Sleep...sleep...sleep.