You’re Not From Here, Are You?

Sometimes (ok frequently) I’m a little careless with my phone. I applauded one to death during a particularly entertaining Michael Franti set at Jazzfest a few years ago. I let one take a swim in a Super Dome toilet at a Saints game…well, a preseason game if that counts. I unintentionally threw one in the pond behind my house (too dumb to even elaborate on), and most recently, and least interestingly, my phone and a marble floor connected rather violently. While its trusty Otterbox case saved it from any superficial damage, the insides were as scrambled as a three-egg omelet. There would be no repair work in this phone’s future. Of course, I had insurance – I mean, who wouldn’t with a track record like mine – so the financial loss was relatively painless. My photos, music, contacts, etc. were floating around somewhere in that mysterious cloud, and while I still don’t really know what that means, I was able to retrieve most of what appeared to have been lost on the bathroom floor. I was even able to get a newer model – a more convenient size with a few more bells and whistles and enough storage space for me to update all my sad outdated apps that were numerous versions behind the rest of the world’s. The broken phone was beginning to look like a blessing in disguise. It wasn’t until I was crafting a text (sorry…had to say that because I relentlessly harass my spouse about using that phrase) that I realized the real loss I had suffered. Gone were my Louisiana-isms…those words that may seem odd or wrong or, in Apple’s case, misspelled, but are perfectly acceptable in these parts. Words that I had been forced to type over and over again, each time overriding the autocorrect feature, before my phone reluctantly stopped changing them to what it assumed I was trying to say and simply put the passive/aggressive “you misspelled this but I’m tired of fixing it for you” red line beneath each one. Now, all of that is gone, and the retraining must begin. (It’s kind of like getting a new puppy without the adorableness.) So to you, my invaluable but inexperienced new phone, here’s a quick NOLA tutorial. It would be great if you would take notes. Maybe that will be a feature on the next model…

Yes, we have a street here called Tchopitoulous, a river called the Tchefuncte, and a lake named Pontchartrain. I know…you don’t even know what to do with those, do you? Just leave them alone. They’re spelled correctly. Scout’s honor.

Sometimes I want to hang out in the Marigny, but I have never wanted to malign you…or anyone, for that matter.  That’s not really my style – a little threatening really – so let’s just leave it as Marigny. I do love that place!

Surely I meant to say feasting, right? Nope. Festing was exactly what I intended, although if it was in reference to Jazzfest, no doubt I was feasting, as well. No need to make any changes to that one either.

Yes, we actually do have krewes here. I’m sure that word looked strange to me when I first saw it eighteen years ago too, but it’s very commonly used down here. Much more common than the kreme you keep suggesting, I would say.

As for Fleurty…well just go ahead and get used to that one because I’m going to be using it a lot.

I’m sure over the next few months, we’ll discover other dialectical differences, but we will eventually end up on the same page…er, screen. I promise to take you to some fun places, and in time, you’ll start to behave more like a local. Until then, you just keep trying to accept those weird spellings and I’ll keep trying to remember that, by correcting me, you are simply trying to prevent me from looking like a moron to the rest of the world. I do appreciate it. Now, can we talk about my kids’ names?