Anyone know an interesting person working for an oil company?

Location Cushion-bed on floor. Some honeymooners have booked our flash room, drats. Why can't they sleep on the floor? | Mood Drunk on music | Date 6 June 2006
Filed in:
Author (full name): 
Franny Armstrong
Location: 
Cushion-bed on floor. Some honeymooners have booked our flash room, drats. Why can't they sleep on the floor?
Mood: 
Drunk on music
Soundtrack: 
Tony Bennett & kd lang CD found in room. "While I'm alone and blue as can be, dream a little dream of me"
Ailments: 
Mossie bites from head to toe
Date: 
6 June 2006
Current crisis: 
Have we set the bar just a little too high - looking for an interesting person who works for an oil company?

A thousand people work for Big Oil in New Orleans. All we gotta do is find the interesting one, right?

We've got a few leads - and the phone book - but it all seems a little hit and miss. How do real filmmakers do this?

Can't really speed the process up, either - a lot of waiting around for call backs - so we're trying to adapt to the not-knowing grey zone. Writing diary, struggling to get through chapter two of The Prize, press-ups, logging tapes and, frankly, sleeping.

Went on an official "Hurricane Tour" through all the destroyed areas. Despite the tour-speak and tourists-with-cameras safety blanket, it was still deeply shocking. Looks like the hurricane was yesterday, not nine months ago. Every product of 20th century capitalism has been soaked for days, spun vigorously and then pasted all over the streets. Hairdryers, fridges, DVD players, photo albums, kids' toys, carcasses of animals (at least the dead people have been removed), pianos, bikes, computers, pens, books, Father Christmas models, skeletons, Mardi Gras beads, shoes. All silently rotting. There are boats in trees, trees on houses, houses on cars, cars in swimming pools.

The one time we got out of the air-conditioned minibus, we scampered quickly back in as soon as the stench hit us. Guess this is how the whole planet will look - and smell - in 50 years, once we've eliminated ourselves.

The houses are all marked with information for city officials.

The end-of-the-world feel continued when we hooked up with a very young (18?) Iraqi veteran - I have a vague notion to try to tie this story in with the Iraq war - who seemed a little confused and random, in a lost puppy kind of way. I thought it was the post-traumatic stress disorder, but he eventually admitted he'd injected heroin just before meeting us. So he wasn't too helpful in providing contacts of injured US soldiers back from Iraq. Suggested we hang around outside the barracks, but think that might be a more useful suggestion for what he's looking for, rather than what we are.

Some mad twist of fate meant The Boy's favourite band, The Twilight Singers - whose songs I've been receiving across cyberspace - played in New Orleans tonight. Couldn't resist going, but when we heard, at 8.30pm, that they wouldn't be on till midnight (6am jetlag time), it wasn't looking likely. But then the first act (Jeff Kline) was stupendous, the second (After Hours) more so and, before we knew it, Lizzie and I were dancing on the bar like a pair of rock chicks screaming for more. Turned out The Twilights were filming the gig for their new live DVD, so I suspect Spanner Films will be making a guest appearance. Should amuse The Boy. Bought him some CDs from the gig, in vain attempt to share the experience.

All of which has conspired to scratch my plans for post-Crude Cornwall turnip and windfarm planting. Now I'm going to consume like an American by day, play drums in a New Orleans C-list jazz band by night and go down partying with the ship.