Hm, I wonder what that scanner feed is pulling then, general HPD traffic?
That said, I think this pretty much invalidates the idea that the Astrodome is degrading that Peach seems to be promoting.
By TODD LEWAN
AP National Writer
HOUSTON
Some lessons learned by the new inhabitants of the Astrodome:
-It is pointless to wait for the stark, stadium lights to go out at lights out. (Or, for that matter, to expect one's neighbors to cease sobbing, giggling, gabbing or wailing during the wee hours.)
-It is not a good idea to allow children to wander out of sight for even a moment - unless four hours of continuous searching is in your plans.
-It is not recommended to leave cots unguarded. (They tend to disappear.)
Likewise, it is inadvisable to leave one's clothes on the wall peg outside the showers.
Torres Smith, 42, did, and "they stole 'em," he says. "All of my clothes. I had to walk out on the stadium floor with a towel around my waist, go to the table where they were giving out free clothes and get me some new ones."
Smith is - well, was - a machine operator at a New Orleans seafood plant. Now he sleeps maybe two hours a day, from 2 a.m. to 4 a.m., eats, showers, catches snippets of news on a TV in one of the concourses, minds his four kids with his wife, reclines on his cot, reads the Bible, or wanders his new home, trading numb stares with other aimless people.
Of course, to many who lived the horror of the Superdome in New Orleans last week, this old baseball stadium feels like the Taj Mahal.
It has lukewarm showers; 85 toilets that actually flush; hot grits, pancakes in the morning, Cajun dinners served on plastic foam trays at night; an operating air conditioner; complimentary socks, Twinkies, baby formula, flip-flops, tampons, toothpaste, Bermudas (with the big, stylish pockets), and Tom Wolfe and James Lee Burke paperbacks.
Most important, perhaps, it has a contingent of 500 uniformed, Texas lawmen who stroll the concourses, ramps and stands in white Stetsons, to make sure people behave.
But the Astrodome is also pervaded by a troubling air of unease - a sense of people turned inside out, of a shock too large to quite analyze.
Many folks here have lost contact with loved ones, and they worry if this will be permanent. They feel adrift, detached, anxious. What they did to deserve this, how long they'll stay, where they go - they've got plenty of time now to mull these questions.
Too much time, some say.
A Red Cross volunteer put Smith's name on a list for free and subsidized housing and a new job. Otherwise, he says, it's always the same routine.
"I got to get back to work. I'll do anything: cut grass, wash window, wax floors. When all you see is people lying around ... I don't want to be here any more than two, three months."
Selika Thomas, who landed here two days earlier, is getting out - in three hours. Her husband bought tickets on the 6:15 p.m. Greyhound to Atlanta, where they have family.
"I'm depressed," she murmurs.
"People stealing your clothes when you're sleeping, men peeking into the women's showers, people walking around, day and night, like zombies, afraid to sleep."