I was out earlier (sans camera, unfortunately) driving through Smoketown via E. Kentucky, and the scene was insane: Fucked-up, out-of-commission cars haphazardly strewn onto sidewalks or in the middle of the street, clogging the half-flooded one-way, their owners standing nearby, arms-crossed or nowhere at all; the odd, bulky tow truck crawling by, lights flashing against the gray, soggy environs; human and natural debris — mushy cardboard boxes, articles of shit-covered clothing, bottles, scraps of plastic, ubiquitous black sludge — scattered about as if an MSD truck had been charged with equal parts garbage and ammonium nitrite and detonated at Hampton Park. It was everywhere.
Old Louisville was hit hard, too — downed trees at Oak St. virtually severed the neighborhood’s main vehicular artery, causing all manner of detours and perquisite homicidal driving: A golden Sedan nearly hit a bicyclist at an intersection and, without warning, cut in front of a blind-spot-residing black pickup and jettisoned across three lanes while making a left turn onto Floyd. Simply priceless.
Later, at Broadway & Barret, Beargrass Creek was violently cresting at the goddamned banks of the canal wall. Half of the eight-lane road was underwater, and my thought (like Mr. Bailey’s) was: given the legacy of the ’37 flood — wherein Louisville’s gentry up and packed their gilded asses to the East End, which contributed much to the West End’s current physical and economic state — aren’t the same “poorer and blacker” residents getting pissed on by failed post-merger promises if they’re still improperly protected against natural disasters?