a postcard to katie

I originally thought that I couldn't write to Katie on my blog because everyone else reads it. However, due to the deluge in New Orleans, she is now sans phone and sans email account while she sits in Austin and waits out the interminable amount of time until she can go back to Louisiana. So I may periodically put up postcards to her on the blog--which is just like sending it via the mail in that strangers can read them, which means that I have to be somewhat guarded, but it's better than not writing at all. And don't even think about complaining that you don't get postcards like this--when a category five hurricane hits where you live, you can complain, but keep quiet until then.

Dear Katie,

'ello, luv! India continues to entertain, although I'm taking a break from work at eleven p.m. to write to you. I miss you tremendously, and I wish that you were here--at least then you wouldn't be flooded out, although perhaps the risk of cholera/consumption/malaria would scare you off. I had hoped to come to New Orleans and visit you again this year, but if there is nowhere to stay and nothing to do other than swim in chemical-soaked sewage, I may refrain from the journey. I've been worried about you, and I'm glad to know that you're alive and that you didn't stay in the city--it sounds like a nightmare that is going to get worse before it gets better. Have you heard anything more about when Tulane will reopen? From the news I've read, it sounds unlikely that they'll let you come back in a week, but I hope that they are making progress towards getting things cleared up by then.

If you get several months off from law school because of this, hopefully I'll have the chance to see you--we could do that barbecue roadtrip across the American south like we always dreamed of, or we could just sit in my apartment in Menlo Park and watch VH1 whilst drinking wine coolers and reliving the glory days of high school. We can also talk in strange, effeminate British accents and pretend to be gay (since we always thought that the townspeople suspected us of that, which is all that stopped us from putting up a pink marble naked lady tombstone over our plot in the cemetary--such a tragedy). And, we can go find some geese and chase them around a lake; then we can go rowing and put contaminated mud all over our faces while wading amongst the lilypads. India has its share of contaminated mud, and the men here are very affectionate with each other even though they are also extremely homophobic, and some people have weird variations of British accents--but they're not you and never will be, my Amazonian princess.

I can't wait to hear all about your frenzied flight to safety--I imagine that tossing several hundred thousands New Orleans refugees into the already-crazy Texan scene would lead to some quite interesting situations, and you must have met some ridiculous people. It's strange to believe that while I was staring mindlessly at the tsunami-producing Indian Ocean, you were fleeing from the normally-tranquil Gulf of Mexico. I do not envy you your experience, and I am here for you as you put your life back together, but I hope that it wasn't all bad and that you were able to take some ironic pleasure in some of the things that happened. If nothing else, I hope that dreams of a certain country barrister succored you in your hour of need.

Now, I cannot end this postcard with the customary lewd and gratuitous references since my family and coworkers leave this, so I will leave that up to your very fertile imagination. Okay, I'll give you three words: 'white lip balm'. That should be enough to get you started. Send me a phone number where you can be reached in Austin if you have one, and until then I remain,

Ever faithfully yours,
MacPherson