I could have blogged Saturday, but I was in Alabama, and it seemed there were more important things to do than find an Internet cafe – if electricity was to be found. Relief efforts were great. Four Clear Channel stations simulcast 24-7 “wall to wall coverage” for disaster aid. A sister station in the Florida panhandle put up a fishbowl on a street corner and raised $46,000 in cash within hours. Lives were lost, many were homeless, electricity was out all over the place, and many had sustained smaller-scale devastation.

One could not in good conscience just drive through such want and need, so I pulled off at a gas station in Tuscaloosa to find out where I could go to be of service. A lady was talking to a man about losing everything, and he was giving her instructions. I asked the man where I could be of service, and he directed me to a large church down the road that was serving as United Way headquarters. I filled out the paperwork, but was told the only people still being dispatched that day were folks with trucks and/or Red Cross disaster relief certification. I could return at 2:00 the next day.

I hit the road to see if I might be more helpful in Birmingham. Somewhere along the way, the federal government held a press conference. It sounded like a bad parody of federal turkeys out of an Ayn Rand novel. “You can’t just walk off the street and volunteer,” they advised. Everybody who wanted to help had to register with the federal government. It was nice that churches were collecting clothing and food, but they needed to wait for the federal government to organize the distribution. The state’s governor had a faith-based outfit that would assist in organizing as well. Companies wishing to deliver compassionate service were advised to register with the federal government to find out how to apply for government contracts. Register, register, register. It was a fine example of credit hogs gumming up the works by jumping in front of a problem, thought I.

The next gas station I stopped at was in a town that appeared more or less intact, except power was out everywhere and all but a few businesses were open. I was eleventh in one of two lines at the gas station. They were manually processing credit cards. The girls in front of me told stories of death as if it was part of their routine. I asked them where I could help. They said I needed a badge. I could call 211 or log on to some government site. They agreed with my, “I don’t need no stinkin’ badge” attitude.

As we spoke, four cops sped down the road with their sirens blaring. The locals, who had been through all kinds of mischief, thought they must be playing. Cops had come in from all over. I thought maybe this was the Chicago delegation. The locals assumed they were after looters.

Hopeless, I went on. Nearing Chattanooga, the devastation was too horrible. I had to get out and help. A church was feeding the masses. A man told me search and rescue had been completed in a town that looked like Godzilla had stomped all over it. However, the effort was not complete in an area up the mountain on the other side of the railroad tracks. I looked around for somewhere to pitch in. I met a couple up from Georgia. They had packed their jeep with supplies and equipment and headed north to help. The husband was on a roof chainsawing a tree. These people didn’t need no stinkin’ badge, but they had come with supplies.

I next spoke to a lady who told me the police were sweeping the neighborhoods of outsiders. They were protecting against looters. I eventually heard that line enough, I disheartenedly got in my car for a final time and headed home. On the way, a cop handed me a flyer advising me how to apply for FEMA aid. Down the highway, when it was too dark to see any more destruction, I pulled over to let four keystone cops, racing with sirens blaring, perhaps the very same Chicago delegation, pass.