he whole nation wants to do their part to help the victims of Hurricane Katrina, but a Madison, Wisconsin man is doing so much he makes all the other volunteers and charity donors look like dried puke. For Albert Pohl Martinson hasn't merely taken in three or four family members or refugees from New Orleans: He's taken in a whole jazz band.

"I just wanted to do what I could," Martinson told a deluge of fawning media standing on his front lawn. "So I said I would take in the first group of refugees I could. I sent them bus tickets and had them carted up here immediately. And then, being a good citizen, I called the local news to make sure they were informed."

However, Martinson didn't stop and giving the 5-man combo all the food, shelter, and clean water they needed; he also bought them sparkling fresh instruments so they could take their mind off their troubles.

"I've always enjoyed the real music and culture of working-class people," said Martinson, a retired advertising sales manager. "Not particularly jazz, more the rich and textured Delta blues. Some jazz, I guess… this Dixieland stuff isn't really what I thought I was getting when I agreed to—you know what? It doesn't matter. I'm just trying to give back something to a community that has lost so much."

Martinson, upon opening his front door to go back inside, was greeted with the jovial and unrelenting blasts of trumpets playing, "When the Saints Come Marching In."

"Oh, goody—they're still playing!"

Martinson is not the only one opening his home to those in need from the disaster—only the best. But across the nation, many Americans are staking out their piece of great historic tragedy. Like Amy and Morrie Callum of Albany, New York, who took in New Orleans legendary jazz guitarist Halo Jones.

"It's horrific to see all the death and destruction left in Katrina's wake," sobbed Amy, while her husband nodded perfunctorily. "I had to do something. Like everyone else, I was thinking, 'What can I do? Little ol' me?' But I didn't let that hurt me. I got on the phone. I called disaster-relief people. I told them, 'Get me a jazz guitarist.' And they did."

Sure thing, less than a week later, Jones arrived via cab with his trademark Yamaha acoustic.

"He loves to play that thing," said Morrie with a smile. "Honestly, he won't stop playing it."

Still, there are others. Few who have given to disaster relief groups can match the sheer generosity of Ketcham, North Carolina strip club owner Paco Wiley, who opened his home and his club to 13 refugees from a New Orleans brothel, including 12 high-priced prostitutes and a madame, Ms. Louise.

"You've got to remember these are people like you and me," said Paco, wiping his forehead with a lacey pink bra, in one of his rare public appearances outside his club. "You have to give them back their independence. Give them back their dignity. So immediately, rather than just give them charity and let them live off my contributions, I put the ladies to work for me. It's all in the name of relief, folks."

And we spell relief with media coverage—oodles and oodles of media coverage.

n the wake of the catastrophic flooding that hit New Atlantis/New Orleans this week following Hurricane Katrina, tens of thousands of refugees have been evacuated from their submerged homes and treated to an exciting whirlwind tour of America’s domed sporting facilities.

“Don’t worry, the government will take care of you all,� explained President Bush, who drastically cut funding for levee upgrades in order to pay for a war in Iraq, so terrorists wouldn’t be able to destroy a major American city like New Orleans. “We’re sending water wings and crossword puzzle books on the double.�

Upon being plucked from their rooftops and attics after breeched levees on Lake Pontchartrain submerged the city in up to twenty feet of water, thousands of New Orleans residents were transported to the Superdome, home of the NFL’s New Orleans Saints, for emergency lodging, beer, and giant cheese-filled pretzels.

“I really appreciated that they opened the Superdome to us,� expressed flooding victim LaTrevor Wynn. “But I gotta say they gouged the fuck out of us for boat parking at the stadium. I was saying we should park a few blocks away and swim to the stadium, but there was some guy in a wheel chair who wanted us to just pony up the money. I guess he was rich or something.�

Good spirits quickly turned foul, however, when the stadium’s power and sewage systems both failed, and they ran out of souvenir air horns. Before long, deteriorating conditions and asshole Saints fans forced the evacuation of the Superdome, which by then smelled strongly of poor people.

Refugees from the Superdome, which is now almost completely under water, were moved by bus to the Astrodome in Houston, formerly home to over 30 years of bad baseball courtesy of the National League’s Houson Astros, as well as the catastrophic 1992 Republican National Convention that offered America one last chance to listen to Ronald Reagan flapping his cheek meat.

Relief efforts at the Astrodome were short-lived however, as over 100 refugees suffered knee injuries from the stadium’s unforgiving Astroturf playing surface. Several reported serious cases of rugburn as well.

Re-refugees from the Astrodome were then bussed to Minneapolis, Minnesota, where a disappointing summer performance by the local Twins has left plenty of empty seats in the Metrodome.

“This place blows,� complained disaster victim and dome expert Marvin Milk. “It has all the ambiance of a bus station and the hot dogs are gross.�

Fellow refugees agreed about the hot dogs, but gave high marks to the stadium’s nacho hats, a popular refugee staple. Problems arose at the Metrodome, however, after some disenfranchised dickcheese left the stadium’s back door open, allowing all the air to escape and collapsing the dome’s pressurized roof. Some blame the mishap on the Metrodome’s short-sighted no-smoking policy.

The remaining refugees who didn’t take to wading through Minneapolis’ many metropolitan lakes out of sheer habit were shipped to either the Skydome in Toronto, Canada, or the Tacomadome in Tacoma, Washington.

“Man, this sucks. I knew we were going to get the Tacomadome,� bitched flooding victim Marcy Flobere of New Orleans.

A few lucky victims were bussed instead to Tropicana Field in St. Petersberg, Florida, which has a part time gig as the home of baseball’s Tampa Bay Devil Rays in-between housing refugees from the region’s monthly hurricane disasters.

Tropicana Field has not been without its share of problems, however, ranging from occasional hurricane damage to the roof and overcrowded bathrooms to the stinky, lousy baseball taking place on-field.

“This has been a disaster. I’ve had to watch four Devil Rays’ games this week,� groused Tropicana Field refugee Homer Angus. “This is worse than the hurricane.�

Government officials have assured the tired, huddled masses that they will be allowed to return to their homes in New Orleans as soon as disaster-relief workers can find the city.

Sad, sad pity be to the lowly songsmith. Lord knows the songwriters and lyrical artists of our times need all the help they can get, the state of modern lyrics being what it is. For every brilliantly wrought "Pianoman," "American Pie" or "Horse with No Name" we get a half-dozen treacley "Ooh, Baby Babies" and the odd "Rock my Jock" thrown in for good measure. I, for one, have always been happy to lend a helping hand, though I must admit my aid is often of the accidental variety.

For who has never misheard the lyrics to a favorite tune, only to discover later that the song’s true verse is a decided downgrade from what one has been singing internally for years? I have! Or haven’t, if you choose to follow the proper grammar of the previous sentence. Previous to the "I have!" part, that sentence, which was pre-previous, technically speaking.

For example, few non-mouth breathers can honestly deny an overwhelming fondness for American folkstress Carly Simon’s incendiary classic "You’re So Vain," from its impenitrable opening bass meanderings to the deliciously mysterious identity of the song’s protagonist. Could it be Warren Betty? Mick Jagger? Charo? Regardless, this lamentably brief sprinkle of heaven masquerading as a pop song has always intrigued me with its Byzantine lyrics, particularly the line "There were clowns in my coffin," which I always found to be a terrifying and apt metaphor for the feeling of being trapped in a failing relationship. Imagine my surprise when CarlySimon.com recently reprinted the lyrics as "There were clouds in my coffee." Excuse me? Don’t take up my precious listening time just because you’re unhappy with Starbucks’ quality control, missy. Simon: 0, Pickles: 1.

Likewise, Ray Parker Jr.’s scabrous "I hate Mexicans!" sung during the staggering middle eight of his unforgettable theme for Ghostbusters long made this groovy classic one of my own all-time faves. Imagine my flabbergast when, during the trial over Parker’s justified "sampling" of the Huey Lewis and the News potboiler "I Want a New Drug," word came out that Parker Jr. was supposedly singing "I hear it likes the girls" instead! Shame on you, Ray Parker. And your son.

Granted, there is room for argument in any of these lyrical corrections. Some might find the originative message of Neil Young’s "Keep on Rockin’ in the Free World" preferable to the "Keep on Rocking at Marine World" I grew up with, as is their wont. I can’t be asked to understand the psychology of individuals who hate dolphins.

But who, tell me who, wouldn’t rightly prefer the jarring, surrealistic imagery of Elton John’s classic lyric "Hold me closer, Tony Danza," to some grotesquely undernourishing tripe about a midget doing the foxtrot? I fancy these as citizenry I’d care not to suffer.

Now, I truly am loathe to utter a singular unkind word about 80’s tunesmith Kim Carnes, a woman who has been rightly described, without exaggeration, as God. So I’ll just say a few words about her most preeminent of hit songs, "Bette Davis Eyes." I’ll not hesitate to admit I may have been somewhat guilty of lackadaisical listening habits or a minor Sudafed addiction when I decided that the chorus of this song read as "She’s Got 30 Days to Die," but regardless, the urgency and drama of my lyric is something I find it difficult to surrender, regardless of the fact I most certainly have been subverting the original intent of Carnes’ epic coloratura.

Drug use not my own has to be at blame for the Paul McCartney lyric "The magical mystery toad is coming to take you away," regardless of what any of the album’s erroneous liner notes say about some kind of "mystery tour." In the midst of an album chock-full of talking walruses and proudly singing, self-actualized Eggmen, a lyric about some boring bus tour really is vastly implausible.

And with all due respect to Jesus, and regardless of what the church says, I stand by my earlier stated claims that the entire religious experience would be improved with a recognition of my superior lyrics to "Cheese is Coming."

Lastly, I leave you all fondly with the immortal lyrics of one Louis Armstrong:

"I sees guys of blue, clowns of white. The bright plastic day, the dogs say goodnight. And I think to myself what I won: Der Fuehrer World..."

---

Dr. Joyce Pickles, M.D.P.S.T., received her degree in psychology from U.S. Zoological College in Burnt Harbor, Maine. She remains hilariously ignorant of the commune’s status within the U.S. as an enemy combatant, as well as our status as the Worst Website Under $5*.

*Time magazine, 2005

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