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Clifford RIP
The generator just shut off at the Bienville house where Killer used to live, the backyard of which backs up to my Rocheblave side yard. They have been steadily renovating both sides of that double shotgun for months now. Killer been long dead.
An old lady in a housecoat walks a dog down Rocheblave to the Iberville corner and disappears to a world of viability that may or may not exist outside my view.
A cat I have never seen likewise appears and disappears.
I started smoking again Saturday morning. I apologize to the people who were proud of me for quitting but I feel like I will quit again so feel free to be proud of me again in the future.
I was just at the lake with my nephew throwing the football and drinking Guinness while his son tried to make me be Eli Manning. I resisted. I don't want to be Eli Manning.
I have been more or less geographically rejected by the Mid-City Association and will not in the future ever refer to my neighborhood as Mid-City. I have in fact only been doing so recently as a convenience to outside readers who may need a little geographical crutch to picture my area. This exclusion makes me not even a little bit sad. I live in the Bienville Corridor or my self-named Faubourg Louisville, and don't want to be, nor did I ever, want to be, associated with the politics of Mid-City.
I haven't heard or seen a car on Rocheblave, Bienville, Iberville, or Dorgenois, all of which I can see from where I sit in the passenger seat of my truck in my driveway, for thirty minutes now. I am not disturbed by this at the same time it seems notable to me.
The Baptist church parishioners of that church on Bienville between Galvez and Claiborne were out front again this morning, sitting in folding chairs, and there was ten-year-old drummer backed up against the church building, but I could not see in my passing other probable musicians. I wish I has the guts to sit in with them, if they would even begrudgingly have me.
I was yesterday helping the chauffeur measure dimensions in the catastrophe that is his home across the street and a van from the Victory Fellowship people, who either are the people from, or are just associated with, that really cool church at the corner of Broad and Iberville, and let me tell you they give out plate lunches in styrofoam containers that rock the world of free food, and this cute young woman pulls up to the curb and says, want some food? and we say yeah. Victory Fellowship, thank you.
Speaking of great free food, some new friends got married to each other in the Irish Channel last night, in front of their home and thirty guests, and the groom is a fellow former Dallas boy with barbecue skills and had enough beef and pork barbecue, cole slaw, potato salad and baked beans to allow me three full plates over the evening and I was stuffed, except when I got home, when I wished I had taken a to-go plate.
This week stop lights have been powered up at Tulane and Broad and at Canal and Broad and at several of the intersections of Orleans Ave., between Broad and Claiborne.
There are notably a few pickup basketball games happening at area courts.
Despite the lack of what George Bush considers a master plan, people all over the city of New Orleans are rebuilding. At the wedding party last night a man described his innovative ways of just pushing ahead without insurance money and then presenting his work to the insurance representatives as a way to get the money owed to him, given to him.
It's almost February here and it hasn't been very cold this winter and as the sun sets on Rocheblave, I swat mosquitoes.
My mom died on Friday.