"We gotta great sho' today. Im'a be on top o' tha' building, buck nekkid," Dr. Love says in voice that is one part Ed Sullivan, one part Red Foxx, all New Orleans. Dr. Love does not hold an advanced degree in medicine; quite to the contrary, medical, dental and mental health professionals would have an interest in him. He wears a beige, lambskin jacket with red marker all over it--signatures from the passers-by and passers-through of the Crescent city. A woman jogs by, "Baby, I'd join ya' but ah gots these co'ns on ma feet!" His light demeanor could lift the fog off London.

I've spent a long time trying to figure this city out. Katrina only complicated matters further, muddying the waters of understanding. Within its pungency is the smell of life. Dilapidated walls belie a city full of strength. New Orleans—by all manner of logic—is ugly. And yet handsomely unique.

This is not my first time here. I'm not blinded by the flashy lights and blaring jazz of Bourbon street. I'm no longer endeared by the edgy products sold all throughout (such as “Wake the Fuck Up” coffee or “Bayou Pecker Power” hot sauce...which is delicious, by the way). Regardless of having spent over a month of total time in this city between pre- and post-Katrina, it's source has become no clearer to me.

In searching for this poignant, one-line definition of New Orleans, we decide to meet my parents for an after-work drink. It's 7:30 a.m. We've just rolled ourselves out of bed, and dragged the remains of a 12-pack of Natural Light to the Riverwalk just off Decatur. The sun is just rising, sending voluminous columns of moisture into the air over the gulf—might mean rain, might not, but we won't know for a few hours; heaven help the local forecasters. The sun has yet to turn the air into a palpable consistency. The truly homeless—the ones that sleep under the canopy of the Dumaine streetcar station—have already found their way back into the city. It's a magical time and I almost fear that simply talking would ruin this beautiful moment. This is when my father says good morning to the Doctor...he joins us, lugging his own 12-pack of cheap beer.

Hereabout we dranks our beer...

This place is comfort. I can't get work done here. I drive myself insane trying to define it—trying to relay to those “back home” just what it means here and trying to do so in under 750,000 words. Ultimately, that's the problem. Whether you're a transvestite or a lawyer, gay or straight, baptist or agnostic, goth or prep, worldwide traveler or hopelessly lost tourist, you have refuge here. There is such a powerful sense of community that it defies usage of labels. Fall down drunk back home, people will talk. Do it here, you'll barely raise an eyebrow. New Orleans simply accepts—and allows—that we're all flawed, silly individuals, from the den of the gutter punks, right into the Mayor's office. Here, it's simply O.K. to live and let live...as ugly as they may sometimes seem. Some regard it positively, as a realization that we all need help; some take advantage. It repels those who want everything compartmentalized and easily describable—it has repelled me in my attempts. Only the quiet riverfront brings me back.

“I got ev'y key to da' city h'yar...'cept the one to da' safe!” Dr. Love is showing the tangle mess of keys and pens that hangs from his neck. “Seems to me you'd be too late to get anything even if you had it,” I couldn't help taking a cheap shot at historically corrupt Louisiana politics. His infectious, wide-mouthed laughter exposes his few remaining teeth. Another woman jogs by, "Baby, I'd join ya' but ah gots these co'ns on ma feet!"

Doctor Love is one of the innumerable characters in New Orleans. At 64, he says he has served two tours in Vietnam as a marine and swears that Katrina was worse than anything he'd seen over there. He collects what he calls a “crazy check”. You can see him almost daily, in Latrobe park of Decatur Street as he dances to the music of the band at the Gazebo Cafe'. He stayed in this city through the storm, and says he plans on doing it again if another storm comes. If there's a single, quintessential definition of this city, it probably lies with the old man who dances with a broom in Latrobe Park.

As for me...well, I've stopped trying to define anything. It's 9 a.m. And I've polished off the better part of a twelve pack.