Hello from City Hall!

I'm doing an unpaid internship with the city of New Orleans. This disgusts my republican-for-life dad more than he'll ever admit. But I think it's cool. Here's why.

I can't tell you what department and with whom I work Monday-Thursday (Friday is sorta a "half day" for most of NO City Hall's employees) but I can give you some inside glimpses of what it's like. Here's a story of what happened to me on Tuesday. We are walking through the first floor of City Hall (the mayor is on the second). I'm trailing my boss, we'll call her Ms. Toni, who stomps around and calls out "Hey, there's my baby! How's my boo-boo?" to every person we pass. And they love it! Everyone, from the front-door security guard to Mayor Mitch's personal security guard to the maintenance people smile and tell her Boo-boo is alright! But I digress.

I'm walking. I see a $20 bill on the floor. I pick it up and feel guilty because it's not mine. So I ask a gentleman who is walking a little ahead of me if he lost his money. He's in a nice suit and talking on a blackberry. He sees the money in my hand, ends his phone call and immediately puts his fingers on the bill so we're each holding an end like a "Chinese finger trap" or whatever those things were called. I say "Did you lose this money?" He says, "I don't think so." And I am thinking, hmm, this is where I get lucky and get $20 to buy lunch for myself and Ms. Toni at Subway. But no, this is actually where the big-time city politician takes the money from my hand and mumbles that he'll "give it to somebody" and turns around and walks off.

Who do you think he'll give it to? Images of Elliot Spitzer and for some reason, the facebook page of that very pretty "escort" Ashley Dupree come to mind.

So I have to hurry to catch up with Ms. Toni at the end of the hall who saw the whole thing and is already bitching about what we could have done with the money and she's right, of course. But NOW we are going for a ride in an official City Hall van to Zea on St. Charles to pick up items for a surprise retirement party we are planning. Our driver is a lively, happy boo-boo of Ms. Toni. Those two are yucking it up all the way to the van. When I ask the gentleman for his name, he turns around and points to his NO City polo shirt where "Mr. Cousins" is neatly stitched. So I say "Nice to meet you Mr. Cousins." And he says, "No, it's Coo-zan!" Like I am the dumbest yankee he has ever met. Because I am.

So Ms. Toni, Mr. Coo-zan and I pile into the front seat of the van and before we are even out of the garage, those two are reading prayer cards that Mr. Coo-zan keeps in his cup holder. He says he goes to church every morning before work. I admire that kind of devotion. But I do not admire people who stop their vans at the exits of parking garages to read the prayer to St. Jude and St. Andrew and whoever else and chat like we are sitting on a park bench. So the honking from behind starts and we are eventually on our way.

During the drive I'm treated to a little tour of Downtown. We pass the Hyatt, which Mr. Coo-zan tells me had all of its windows and most of the structure of the top floors blown away during "the tornado." I'm assuming he means Hurricane Katrina, but there were probably twisters, too. We also pass through a not-so-luxurious neighborhood behind St. Charles Avenue where Ms. Toni tells me I should buy a house because the government will give me money to fix it up. This is where Mr. Coo-zan entertains us with the story about the money he owes to the IRS and whoever else. He hasn't paid taxes since 2005, his reasoning being that he hasn't been helped by the government since then so why should he pay? I do not even dare to point out who paved the road we are currently traveling on or even, who signs his paychecks. New Orleans has some federal money pumped into it . . . but this is not that kind of blog. These people are so fun and so nice, that I don't even care. I just look out the window and smile.

When we get dropped off on the corner, Ms. Toni calls out to another Boo-boo in a gray suit as he's walking out the door. A lively back and forth ensues until the gentleman turns around and smacks right into a light pole. But he's smiling, and he walks away whistling to himself.