Our film opens some two thousand years ago with tribes of Israelites, Palestinians and whom-evers fighting for water or shade or passage-tribute.

A wise member of the feuding groups (I like to think of him as a columnist) points out that through yarn spinning magic these feuds could grow out of hand and engulf them all in unwanted pain, suffering and loss.

Flash forward to Terror-fat, Air-head Sharon and Burning-Bush Two - each a leader with diplomatic skills of teenaged boys poking sticks in hornet's nests. Moral: Easter could be a little late next year.

From Squalor Heights' front dormers I can see distant skyscrapers along Canal Street. At night they sparkle with red lights atop their roofs and thousands of glowing windows. From the highest roofs sprout porcupine antennas standing at attention above the lofty heads of lawyers and tourists.

Airplanes thunder over these buildings on their way in and out of Town and fighter jets screech past on their way to I-don't-like-to-think-where. Pray these planes and prickly spires spear the enemy and save us from today's followers of those ancient yarn spinners.

Robert Mottley is a New York City editor who was at Ground Zero September Eleventh. Earlier he spent a week in New Orleans covering a maritime convention. He recently sent us a sixteen-page manuscript destined for Big Apple publication. It is a telling of his relationship with the New York World Trade Center and his day, that day.

He writes well of groping through pitch black and avoiding falling debris by crawling into an abandoned city bus. Later he saw severed heads on the street and heard the nervous laughter at Cabrini Medical Center as thousands of expected patients did not come.

Horrific, yet he survived. "Some always do, you know." He writes of hope. Fearful hope, to be sure, but hope - though teenaged boys rattle their sticks in each other's hornet's nest.

I sweat as I read Mottley's story. In fear? Or perhaps I've not acclimated to Our City's newly returned humidity. It is back too early, after a long cool Winter filled with nights when blankets were unpacked, and sleep was done in the arms of Morpheus and cashmere. Try that now and you will awaken in a puddle.

Blue day, under The Court of Two Sisters' blooming wisteria, in The City's loveliest courtyard, with onetime New Orleans street musician turned North Carolina "pianer player," Phil Stinson. We are at a party for the French Quarter Festival, talking with Rockin' Dopsie, the young man with Zydeco's best new look and a great new sound.

Master pianist Ronnie Kole, from nearby Hotel Royal Sonesta, introduces himself while local Latin bombshell Margarita Bergen makes faces over his shoulder. Have you heard? Bergen and her many hats have retired from the French Quarter poster biz to homes in Faubourg Marigny and sunny Spain.

District C's Council member, un-elect, Troy Carter stopped on his way in. Mayor Mark Morial stopped on his way out. Both are out of work. What will be next for these stars so recently the latest fresh face?

A politician's life is not easy. One day you are the newest best thing and then you are yesterday's news. Through skill or luck one thing is sure, no bombs fell on New Orleans during their terms. Thanks guys and good luck.