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Dumaine Poultry
A couple of weeks ago I had an episode working over at Rocheblave where I almost "fell out" from heat exhaustion. It had been cooler for the previous week and I had under estimated the need for hydration, thinking it would be ok to be careless for one day. It's not ok.
Today is like a typical winter day, with lows in the forties, highs in the sixties. The wind is blowing hard out of the north and looking out the front door I can see the leaves of the banana trees on the south side of the property are shredded as testimony to a losing battle.
I have not been supervising, or doing myself, any maintenance of Dumaine street this year so stickered weeds are growing high in the cracks (or high from the crack(s)) in the sidewalk and along the curb. Candy and food wrappers and plastic bottles are compacted against the curb in front the house.
Across the street the dumpster is familiarly overflowed, garbage and broken down cardboard boxes strewn about. An emaciated black cat lurks nearby. And although I've never mentioned this before there are a few free roaming chickens in this area. Mostly they stay down around Dorgenois, but this morning one crosses from this side of the street and does that aggressive chicken walk dance towards the dumpster, and pecks a few times at the hardscrabble urine and greased soaked cement. The scrawny dark cat suffers a fleeting moment of grand illusion followed by the survivor's instinct of flight, which keeps us all breathing, and alive, to lurk by the dumpster another day.
Box Cutter
Within the definition of "life" as doing interesting and fun stuff to ward off the potentially dangerous realization that our existence is wholly meaningless, I have not really been having much of a life lately. Not that I'm complaining, just thought I'd bring it up to myself to see what happens; what the hell I can say about it.
I could console myself by saying that I've been busy finally breaking up with Mandy (although we still live together), and buying and slowly renovating the new house and also that it was so hot this summer that what kind of life are you going to have anyway, sweating, and breathing air that has the weight of hot water on your lungs?
While I'm writing this I make a batch of bachelor's spaghetti (that's just regular boiled spaghetti but I cook the sauce in the toaster oven, wrapped in aluminum foil, to reduce the dirty dishes), and while in the kitchen making final preparations, Mandy comes home and right behind her is Heather in her school uniform. Heather at 15, (or 16?) has been a woman in the world of adult men for a couple of years now. She is quite pretty of face and figure and her school uniform, kept neat and clean and worn tightly as if painted on is the only symbol of childhood she can cling to. I'm pretty sure she doesn't spend much time studying either in or out of school, but the school acts as a central body for social interaction among a peer group, and she clings to it. She confronts me in the kitchen. She rarely asks me for money (I have made a point of telling all the children not to), and because of that I always give it to her. Her eye contact is telling me she's getting ready to ask something like that and I'm a little disappointed because the last time was only a couple of weeks ago and that would be her playing me for a soft touch.
She lowered her voice a little and softy said, "Mr. Jim, you gotta box cutter?"
"Why, so you can kill someone?"
"Noooo."
"So you can slit someone's throat and watch 'em bleed?" I know why she wants a box cutter and I'm not pretending otherwise. Heather has no interest in the labor of cutting up boxes.
"No, there's a (football) game tonight and just in case we get jumped."
And I had just earlier been thinking about the abuse of women by men and maybe this is what she wants to protect herself from, or maybe from another gang of girls, which as I write this I think is more likely, because Heather's purpose for going to a football game would be to cruise for guys, especially guys from the other side, but even though I know it wasn't strictly the right thing to do, I gave her one of my razor knives, and showed her how to lock the blade. Because if she does need to ward off a male predator, in this particular environment I want someone who is willing to use a weapon to have a weapon, not a whistle.
"You don't have anything smaller?" she asked. She wanted a bonafide box cutter which is really a mean device because it is virtually invisible to an opponent.
"No, that's all I have, and don't go thinking you have to use it just because you have it."
"Oh no, I won't, Mr. Jim."
On the way home from work today I saw a billboard advertising an upcoming free concert by the Village People out at the Treasure Chest Casino in Kenner. I haven't been to one of those things in awhile. Jesus, the Village People, that could be a real lark, watching, and being a part of a group that goes through all the letter motions when they play that huge hit of theirs, YMCA. I've seen those Metairie/Kennerites form those letters with their arms to taped versions of the song. How this same group would respond to the live act, hmmm, if I have the courage that day, maybe I could get a life.
Me Reflecting
My mom is 82-years-old and you would think that advanced number of years would lead me to more seriously consider the importance of a regular dialogue. You would be wrong of course if you thought that but still I try, no, not my best, I'm saving that for the day after the end of time, but I try to think of her, and I do punish myself with that wasteful emotion, guilt, and then when I'm done with all that I ring her up on the phone, feeling bad some more that it's been so long since the last call that I'm not sure my memory is getting the right area code (afterall they changed it a few years ago). But I always get it right and how I know that is when I hear my mom's unmistakable, "Hello?"
I announce myself the same everytime, "Hello mom, this is Jim Louis." I do it that way because at some point years ago I realized that just saying "Hello Mom," only gave her those two words to try and distinguish me from my four brothers, and to be fair, my one sister. I could tell those years ago that she sometimes wasn't sure who the hell I was. Why punish her that way after all the grief I provided for her over the previous twenty or thirty years. Its her golden years, try to be nice, if you can.
So yesterday I'm talking to her on the phone because it is she who called and left the message regarding the birth of my new nephew, Sam Clifford.
"It's about time this family got another Clifford," I said. (My mom's name is Clifford, and there is no family story as to why that is).
"Yeah, you think so?" she said.
"I, for one, was not going to rest until one of the Louis Baby Makers produced a 'Clifford.'"
"Well that's good, you can take a nap now," she said.
We talked some, and I pressed her for details on other family members, just in case there was anything juicey going on, but according to my defintion I would say, no, nothing really juicey, but still, some things one might consider food for thought. I told her about myself such as is pertinent to a mother, and at one point she intoned with that alarmed voice of the maternal one, and said, "What, you quit your job!!!?" And then I became impatient with her, my 82-year-old mom, and assured her I still had a nice paying job, and what I was referring to was the Rocheblave house, which is my non-paying job. I wish I could get over that childish impatience with my mother's misunderstandings which always come from that equal mixture of my mumbled speaking voice, and her less than stellar hearing ability; it feels so impure and improper to snap impatiently at one's mom. Or maybe its more accurately a boorish adult behavior I wish to abort. Hell, when I was a kid I used to get a kick out my mom's alarmism. I can remember my brothers and I would amuse ourselves with this little game: Loudly opening the back sliding glass door of the North Dallas home and using our own special intonation, to crescendo the word "Mommm!!!," which would grant us the sick pleasure of our dear mother's Pavlovian response--borne from all the years of tending to our broken bones, and sliced and punctured fingers and feet, and overall bad judgement--which would look and sound like this: her running from wherever in the house she happened to be and crying out in that voice that is only Clifford, "Whaaat, whaat, what!?!?!"
And although I know not every child is as sinister as I was, most at least go through some period where they can be only described as god awful. And so birth always amazes me, and puts me into a mode of reflection.
Vote Bully
No really, I can't go on and on, I have to get ready for the presidential debates, which I hope to listen to on the radio, maybe get some visuals from the internet but probably not, unless I start to think I'm missing something like a sick Nixon, or an impatient Bush Sr., then I could log on, might be worth it if I could catch Dubayou snorting up the back drain from the blow he inhaled before the debate. Or Al blowing kisses to his wife, whatshername, while George explains why he's against aid to the Bosnian rebels in the Middle East. One things for sure, I can't dillydaddle around, got to hose down, and chow down, and at least read the comics before the debate starts.
I have time to say this one thing though, to my brother Paul, the criminology professor at that small private Catholic University in Austin, TX, congratulations on the birth of your new son, Sam Clifford, and to his wife Judy, good job, you're the greatest, but next time he aims that thing at you, call a cop. Also, I'm outing my brother as a radical, because I know he intends to vote for a minor candidate in the presidential election and that's fine and good because this is America, Land of the Free, but let me say this about that, and "that" is a vote for Nader, or anybody else who isn't Gore or Bush. A vote for a minor candidate is a vote for the fratboy. Which one you might ask?, and that's fair enough, so let me break it down for you: Bush is a fucking idiot from the aristocracy, Gore is a fairly well educated dweeb. The election process will always be a choice between lesser evils, let's not hope for or pretend otherwise. Its a tough decision really because I can imagine a scenario of the candidate I like least actually having better access to the "oil" which will make this country run most smoothly, and the one I'm going to vote for, if I get out that day, doesn't inspire me in the least. So why do I care, and what does it matter? Some would say--"do what thou will, that is the whole of the law," I'm saying always vote for yourself, and to this audience that I know and love in varying degrees, I say, Vote for the Dweeb.
Got Gas
This is kind of a cool thing I think. About a week ago I called the local power company, Entergy, and told them I was renovating a house that for all practical purposes had never had gas run to it ( the Rocheblave house was moved to its' present address from its' original location which was about three blocks away, on Dorgenois, across the street diagonally from Betsy's Pancake House, and was set on its' new cinderblock piers, some say it was Christmas Day '91, and then forgotten about for nine years, until I came along). I make it sound like I just made the call but for some reason calls like that take a lot out of me and so I am prone to putting them off. But the thing is, people in the business world don't really care if you are somewhat retarded communicationally [sic] speaking. You can stutter, stammer, hem and haw, or have a frog in your throat, the people on the other end don't really care as long as you can tell them your name, address, social securtiy number, and telephone number. Which I did, and the woman said, "Ok, you're all set, you are on the fifteen day waiting list" I asked her if I needed to be around when they came out and she said no I didn't. She also told me it would be free unless it ran over a hundred feet, and I told her it would not. A few days later I got a letter from some Entergy office in Arkansas, or St. Louis, and it told me there would be some cost involved, but their estimates were nothing, at least when you consider what is involved...
So today I show up at the house, after my day job, and there is a four by six by six foot deep hole in the street in front of the house, partitioned off with four metal saw horses and some of that yellow plastic caution tape. About ten feet into the driveway there was apparently another hole punched through the concrete and ten feet from that, near the shade tree, another hole punched in the concrete and then a trench six or eight feet in length running up to the house with a new gas pipe sticking up at its end. All the holes on my property are pretty much covered over with new river sand, which of course leaves the original fill (black dirt, clay and old bricks), and large pieces of driveway concrete, in various piles about the driveway. It is really quite a scene, and implies the use of heavy equipment that those of us who are prone to do so--can only dream about operating.
At The Movies
The last two dollar theaters in New Orleans closed down recently and my other favorite site closed down as well, losing the competion to the new stadium seating theaters which are springing up not everywhere, like weeds, but everywhere that matters, in the market.
In the case of the latter loss, a multiplex venue for first run movies (3.50 for matinees), and the last surviving business at the defunct Belle Promenade Mall in Marrero, I knew I was enjoying a thing which would eventually spell doom for the proprietors, that thing being having the 800+ capacity auditoriums almost all to myself, and in fact the next to last movie I saw there, The Replacements, I did have all that air-conditioned cubic volume to myself and never let it be said that I don't praise the Lord because I do praise the Lord for circumstances like that, Praise the Lord, I don't take gifts like that for granted.
So I cooled on movies for awhile, ocassionally hitting the Palace (in Harrahan) for my first run stadium seated fix. That's where I saw Almost Famous. But I've had to consider alternate venues. And really up until today, "consider" is all I've done. I thought I could go to Movie Pitchers on Bienville to see independent/art films which I haven't done much while here in NO. It's a "multiplex." The theaters though are actually rooms and the seating is more like easy chairs and couches, which is nice but not that nice when you consider the screen is more like something you might be able to hang on the wall of your home. Also, a new grocery store is planning to build around the corner and there is talk that they may level the MP for parking. I don't want to get comfortable with something and then have people suggesting I sign their petitions to save them. I sound so uppity saying I don't sign petitions.
Now Canal Place is a mall near the foot of Canal and shows independent/art films and is across the street from that struggling Harrah's Casino which is whining to our governor that unless they can get a break on their 100 million dollar yearly tax commitment, they will have to shut down. Our governor, God bless him, even though his familial ties to the Klan are not so Godly, has thus far proven to be anti-gambling and is basically telling the Casino people to go fuck themselves. And I like him for that. I should probably add that I also like the loveable ex-Governor Edwards who was corrupt as a public official can be and is mostly responsible for the presence of gambling in Louisiana. He's being punished for that though.
I have for the last few days been power sanding the lead based paint from the cypress siding on the Rocheblave house and even with goggles and mask that powdered material enters the lungs and eyes and so today being Sunday, the day the Lord commands we rest, I took a break from it, and did some piddling on the inside. Until about 11:30 anyway, at which point I decided to head for Harrahan to see a movie. But I started feeling that the Palace (stadium seating) Theater could not be my only remaining choice for movies so I turned right out of my cracked driveway and traveled the block and a half to Canal, turned left there and made the short drive to downtown and Canal Place and becoming confused about the garage parking situation headed back up Canal to find something to eat. I ended up at the KFC on Claiborne, directly across the street from the community that recently became a national news story because of a shooting at Woodson Jr. High. I like that original recipe, and looking across Claiborne I don't know if its the Melpomene or the Magnolia projects (currently known as Guste and CJ Peete) I can see but true enough its not an easy neighborhood and although at first I was pissed off for the media attention, because it didn't seem right that these local children have been killing each other all year, year after year, and now just because school shootings are a hot topic the local and national media does that little frenzied dance they do. But after further review, I'm glad for the attention, no matter the motive, no matter to what purpose our politicians play it, because it needs to be seen, and seen some more, until, I guess, the right people get killed, which then causes the national consciousness to wake up and say, "oh my god, this can't go on, something radical must be done." Our great murdered numbers have no great cause behind them to at least add a sense of higher purpose--be it religious or political--to the insanity that is the killing of your neighbor. Our legacy as a nation is indifference. Our national complacency about casual killing will someday find its season to molt, and out of that will come an outrage which unfortunately will be but a first step. Or not.
I saw the Tao of Steve, it was a love story.