Kajun's Pub in New Orleans is the only bar left open during the devastating passage of Hurricane Katrina in 2005. Armed to the teeth, its owner was collecting the castaways. A flamboyant heroine revealed in favor of her sex change.
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The last time JoAnn Guidos "Booted the ass" An unwelcome man who has been driving mechanics in his establishment at 2256 Saint-Claude Avenue, New Orleans, dates back a few weeks. The guy was stuffed with cam and he resisted – he should not have. "JoAnn fucked him and the cops packed the guy up", recalls one of the waiters at the bar. Leaning on the counter, the boss of Kajun's Pub, a massive silhouette of upset American footballer molded in a short dress with red glitter, opines: "Right: a real rust. But I have 70 brooms, I do not bang as hard as before and as a bonus, I think I broke a rib. "
The troublemaker may be happy: Fourteen years ago, when Hurricane Katrina turned New Orleans into a martyred city of devastation and looting, JoAnn defended his property with a loaded shotgun the mouth and a 38 Special short barrel slipped into the belt. "And damn it, I would not have hesitated a single second to shoot"she said, her nose immersed in a little glass of vintage Scotch.
August 29, 2005. A flurry of gusts from the tropics falls more than 200 km / h on New Orleans. Fifty-three dikes supposed to protect the city yield under the pressure of waves of eleven meters high that rush on the engineering works designed by the US Army. The city is 80% flooded, the beds are flying through the broken windows of the Hyatt Hotel, the palace of Loyola Avenue, which will reopen only six years later. Electricity is cut off in most parts of the city, the lines of communication are impassable, one-third of the police force has abandoned its post, delivering the streets to looters and hungry delinquents. "Poor people, mostly black, who would not have been able to leave the city by their own means anyway. They had nowhere to go, did not even own a car. ", recalls Dan Baum, freelance journalist accustomed to the prestigious columns of New Yorker, come to cover the events.
A wedding, two children
Avenue Saint-Claude – which takes its source in the district of the same name and unrolls its bitumen on nearly 2 km crossing a part of the Lower 9th Ward, the most miserable district of New Orleans – is a time spared . Half a dozen blocks from the north shore of the Mississippi, it becomes the only artery of importance to be borrowed by the few emergency vehicles still in service.
