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More Fur And Less Nicotine 8.21.97
Did I accuse those children, to their face, of being Satan's disciples? I don't remember doing that.
I pull L'il Red to the curb and D'andre is making a purposeful path to the car.
"Mr. Jim?"
"Yeah?"
"My mom said it was all right to come over here and ask you did you want to look after this cat."
"What cat?"
"I got him under your house. He might be sick, I don't know, I think he dehydrated, but he under your house now and I think he cooling off."
I should have given D'andre a big hug right then and there for using the word "dehydrated" in approximately the proper context, but I was just home from work and a little dried out and dizzy myself. Instead I said, "I don't know D, you kids have got to look after your own cats, preferably without torturing them to death. I mean, it ruins my whole day when ya'll torture those cat's, well maybe only half a day, I'm getting kind of used to it I guess."
D'andre is being kind and respectful, and Satan is nowhere in sight.
"Well, Miss M say if we have any more sick cats to bring 'em over here and…"
"OK D, I'll have a look." I walk over to the side of the porch and look under the house and see a cardboard box with shit smeared on the bottom.
"He right there," and D'andre points to a little black shape splayed flat on the dirt, about a foot from the box. "I wiped the dookey off him," D assured me.
So later that night M points to a little black shape laid flat on her pillow and I take a closer look. I'm giving this cat the evil eye on account of he might be a Trojan Horse. He recoils from my hard stare and acts all spastic and pitiful. I ain't buying it. "There's nothing wrong with this kitten, we've been duped," I declare.
M ignores me
We already have a ten-year-old black cat that we've raised (badly, I think) from a kitten. This is what I'm thinking an hour later as the black kitten is running full speed across my chest on a collision course for my chin. I can't quite grasp it but is this kitten one of them metaphors? I just won't give it a name, that's the ticket. He ain't smashed between two bricks anyway. I wonder if he is grateful for that? Maybe we're interfering with nature. That could be a bad thing. Is it possible to get too much oxygen to the brain?
My boss started whining at 6:30 this morning because my car was parked in the same spot I have parked it everyday I have worked at Muirfield Place, English Turn. Only today this caused him to have to walk across wet grass to get to the house. "Well, boo-fuckin'-hoo," I said loud enough for my boss and all the early rising, newspaper getting, punk ass bitch English Turner's to hear.
I'm trying to cut way back on my cigarette smoking. Can you tell?
Hot Dogs And Hair Balls 9.13.97
Erica made four on Monday and Mama D made 66 on Tuesday.
The boom box perched on the ledge of Mama D's front windows was playing old school rhythm and blues and soul most of the night of her party, but eventually at any party in front of Mama D's the kids will want to hear a little of their own music so they can "dance."
Magnolia Shorty (?) has a tune that goes something like this--"Monkey on your dick, monkey on your dick, monkey on your dick." The music is high energy hard edged hip hop, and is especially conducive to highlighting the athletic ability of twelve-year-old girls. E's daughter, J, is probably the most proficient of the twelve-year-old exotic dancers on Dumaine. Resembling a hybrid yoga/calisthenics workout at first, the dancing soon evolves into what can only be described as very athletic raw sex with an imaginary partner, much of this from the rear, but the young J is most decidedly not portraying the female as passive submissive participant. I venture a prolonged glance at this spectacle, while trying to maintain the visage of a detached scientist. It is amazing how J can keep her balance in that position, with her back arched so severely, her undulating ass so high in the air, only one arm and one leg touching the ground, the other arm and leg spread wide, balancing and inviting. Four younger girls, from four years to 18 months, try to imitate but aren't getting the encouragement they might on another night. And Magnolia Shorty is a one hit wonder this night as we are soon listening again to Etta James and Sam Cooke.
"Would you like some more of that Canadian Mist?" E asks me.
"Gah, I don't know E…"
"Mama D!" E shouts, "show Jim where is the hard liquor." And I follow Mama D inside and she points to a coffee table in the front room where sits several bottles of liquor, and a few liqueurs.
"Help yourself, Jim, " Mama D slurs.
"Thank you Mama D," I say, and pour myself a double.
Back outside I’m thinking I should have eaten more. Earlier Mama D had passed by me and laid a platter of 30 or 40 individually wrapped chili dogs on my lap. I took the opportunity to pin a five dollar bill to her blouse to go with all the other denominations of paper money pinned to her shoulder. It wasn't until after I pinned the five to her that she offered me ribs and chicken. There's a lot more people staying by Mama D today, that were in jail the last time we got together, so I regretfully decline her offer of real food and forced down a hot dog.
But now I've been at the party over an hour and am fully fortified by the Mist.
"E, did you make any stuffed eggs tonight?"
"Ohhh, I make a wonderful stuffed egg."
"That's very interesting E, but did you make any tonight?"
"No I did not, and are you getting sassy with me? Because if you are I’m gonna halfta divorce you."
"Well you ain't gonna see me boo-hooing over a woman who can't keep stuffed eggs in fronta her man."
"Ohhh that's it, ima divorcin' you."
"No you're not E."
"Yeah you right, darlin.' You want me to see if I can find you some eggs?"
"If Mama D can spare them, yes."
"Oh she can spare 'em, you just wait."
And E comes back with a saucer with five stuffed eggs on it and hands it to me, saying, "Mama D say give all the eggs to Jim."
As I'm stuffing the last egg into my mouth, Mama D walks by and I say, "thank you Mama D, the eggs are delicious."
Mama D smiles, "everybody say I make good eggs."
"I can't argue with that," I say.
E leans over and says, "I make better eggs."
"Show me darlin,' show me."
"Oh I will baby, I will."
Erica sits on my lap and shows me the Minnie Mouse figurine she got for her birthday. E yells at her to "get off Mr. Jim's lap." Jealous.
Jacque Lewis asks me how is the kitten doing.
"Well, uh, I don't know how to tell you this Jacque, but, well, I ate the kitten last night."
"Ohhh nooo, you did really, why'd you do that?"
"I was hungry," I tell him. And then I think of something else and I say, "Jacque, Jacque, come here, do this thing for me."
"No, no, no," Jacque squeals.
"Please Jacque."
He comes a little closer, "OK, what?"
"Ask me, 'how is the kitten, Mr. Jim.'"
He's not sure about all this but he finally says, "How is the kitten, Mr. Jim?"
I suck on my teeth while using my thumbnail as a toothpick, and say, "Delicious."
"Ohhh, that's terrible," but later he drags Shelton over and says, "Shelton, ask Mr. Jim how is his kitten?"
Shelton does and when I say, "delicious," he raises his eyebrows a bit, and turns around and walks off. Because his back was turned, I could not tell if he was laughing, or not.
Free Losers 10.14.97
Determined to hear Dr. John without paying for it, M and I went to stand on the sidewalk outside Armstrong Park Saturday night. We were a couple of white trash warriors with our go-cups full of vodka and a small cache of cigarettes. It was a black tie optional, open bar, fifty dollar minimum donation kind of affair. The private security guys lingered inside the wrought iron fence, code red, white trash in sector five, but we paid them no mind and waited, in vain, for Dr. John. Cars full of people with bona-fide social lives whizzed by on Rampart, en route to meaningful existence's. Funky Butt owner, RR, walked up and down the sidewalk, across the street, in front of his club.
"I guess we got here too late."
"Or too early."
"On the wrong day."
"Or misread the paper."
"Or we're just losers."
"Undoubtedly that."
Two weeks previous we had gone to the Funky Butt for a no cover birthday bash for piano man, Henry Butler, but at midnight, Henry was still eating birthday cake, and the grand piano on stage was as quiet as a pep rally for the New Orleans Saints.
"We can go whenever you want."
"How about now?"
"Now is good."
The week before that we went to Audubon Park to hear the symphony perform a free concert. We were just one day late.
"Not much traffic tonight."
"Nope."
And as we pull up to the curb outside of 2646, we see lingering across the street, Stink, Chicken, Moose, and other malcontented ne'erdowells.
"Ten o'clock Saturday night and two more losers come home to roost, on Dumaine."