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The Pill
Sometimes I just ride around New Orleans with my bag of fried chicken obtained from the Ideal Discount Mart (formerly a Spur) at the Canal/Galvez corner, just relishing the aroma and thinking what a fine date this bag of chicken is. I wonder if there is a women's perfume as fine as the scent of fried chicken?
I say to my fried chicken, baby, what you wanna do? And my fried chicken says, oh, I don't know cupcake, whatever you wanna do. I say, we could just drive around a little more before we go to my place, cuz you sooo hot, I'm afraid I'll burn my mouth on your delicious flesh. My lovely fried chicken giggles girlishly, and says, oh you. And I say, no seriously baby, you are just on fire hot, and, moist, and, crispy. I mean I never thought I would fall for a crispy lover but you are so--it. My bag of fried chicken purrs and says, I got a honey dipped biscuit in here for you too, kitten.
I don't really know exactly what that pill I took this morning does but if it's anything good I'll let you know......................................
....................................two days later, note to self--don't take that pill again.
God Or Fried Chicken
I am frankly a little hesitant to even pass on this very big news, due to the immaturity of some of my male readers, and each of you, right now, know I'm talking about you, on the east coast--in Brooklyn, Jersey City, and the LES, and to my new readers, New Orleanians and otherwho's, whose immaturity I just assume but lack personal knowledge of, except for that of my Uptown nephew (its pretty much in the bloodline) And you out there in CA pretending to be a Hi-Def corporate giant, keep it shut. And don't think I'm not talking about you, you rock star looking lawyer in Dallas. And you, Mr. BC, in VA, flirting with the Lear and/or a better anti-anxiety biscuit, just shut your immature mouth and don't even think immature thoughts about this big news. Because I got gas, yes I do, I got gas, uh huh, I got gas mthrfkrs, got it down in the N.O. I shouldn't be a sexist pig so I won't be. To my female fart joke lovers, quit being immature, and possibly, you might want to name a band after yourselves, if Dave Barry hasn't already suggested it.
Yeah, so. I got gas running to my house. Nobody told me I had gas, even though to be honest, nobody had to, because due to illness or bad diet, having gas was lately a thing pretty damn evident to me. Lucky for others I stay often to myself. That was an example of the type of immaturity I'm trying to avoid here, on this momentous day. How it happened was that 85 year-old dude back living in his house around the corner, stopped his truck in the street today and we talked about him being back and I ask him if he and his wife had stayed there those few very cold days and nights (it's warm again) recently, and was it cold and he said, no, he had gas, so, after we talked, I went and turned my gas meter on and then my stove, and voila.
I was on a six week waiting list for a hot water heater about 3 months ago. My water heater is in a shed outside and evidently four feet of flood water renders them useless. I should have taken care of that business instead of whatever the hell else I've been doing, (which partly was just assuming I would never have services restored to my neighborhood) because if I had, I'd be taken a hot shower right now instead of typing on this little Sony Vaio (still powered by a hundred foot extension cord running off the converter plugged into my cigarette lighter in the truck) while a big crawfish pot boils just water, slowly on my stove.
I ran some cold water into my tub, but clearly too much, because I just poured the first pot of hot water in there and when I stuck my hand into it, expecting tepid, it was still cold. I got another pot on the stove now, while the sun sets and I get ready to light the candles so I can see what I'm doing.
Over in Metarie today caulking windows to Chicago brick and this guy from India next door starts chatting me up about caulk and I clued him in to the intricacies of pure silicone versus acrylic latex silicone caulk and before I knew it he was confessing his Katrina related emotions towards suicide (the suicide numbers are pretty high in these first 6 post-K months). I told him, man, there is nobody here, I mean nobody, who isn't having some type of extreme emotional reaction to the Great Flood and don't be ashamed or hesitant to seek professional help (some of it free) and he said he was just praying, and I said, cool.
The mother of the woman whose house we are working on said to me on her second visit to the job site today, was that pile of dirt here this morning? I just smiled at her and nodded and she blushed and I said don't sweat it, we all got it, that weird memory thing, evidently related to the unique stress of living in a world turned asunder. She said, yeah, and then you could tell she was trying to remember something and she said, I've got CRS, and then you could tell she was trying to remember what that stands for, and finally she said, can't remember shit. She then told me two jokes and here they are--Beaudreaux in St. Bernard Parish heard that all the churches were being shut down (because there ain't no people because there ain't no viable houses for them to live in) but Beaudreaux said he didn't care about that because he preferred Popeye's. The next joke is lame too, pretty much an old standard, but not as regional and has nothing to do with Houses of God or fried chicken. A man is talking to his buddy and confides--you know, I didn't have sex with my wife before I married her. Hoping for a reciprocal confession he says to his buddy, what about you? His buddy says, well, I don't know, what was your wife's maiden name?
Huge News From New Orleans
I'm sorry, what did you say? Viability? Studies? Commissions? I don't need all that. You want proof that my neighborhood is coming back? I'll give you proof. Go to the corner of Canal and Galvez, this is in Louisville mind you, and the corner store (with gas pumps) you will find there, which has been open for three weeks, just added a new sign on the front plate glass--open 24 hours.
In all the devastated zones of New Orleans, this is the first 24 hour establishment. That's right, baby. Beer, wine, and liquor, and you know, food, snacks, toothbrushes and detergent and stuff, 24/7, in Louisville. You want viabliity, I got your viability, right here.
Birds, Rats, And Asswipes
I'm sitting in the truck again, in Metairie, early, before work. The lights are on in that trailer next door to the new house I'm working on. The old man and his wife are starting their day. The man can barely walk but still rides his bike around the neighborhood. Later, I'll watch him step in a mud puddle created by my brush and roller washing on the side of the house. I can see five or six more trailers parked in driveways up the street.
The earthen levee holding back the lake is a block behind me, and the 17th St. Canal, which separates Orleans Parish from Jefferson Parish, is about ten blocks to the east. The Canal runs perpendicular to the lake levee and is defined by concrete flood walls. A portion of this criminally under-engineered east side fell down after Katrina blew through in August, the wind of which took off many a roof shingle, and knocked down a few houses here and there, throughout New Orleans. If the west side of the flood wall fails while I'm sitting here, I'll be pretty quickly under eight or ten feet of water, that is if I don't have sense enough to move to the second floor of the job site. They say they got a little water over here, maybe a foot or so, but I have yet to ascertain from where the water came. The United States Army Corps of Engineers built our flood protection system. The United States Army Corps of Engineers is a federal agency.
There are good reasons our god of federal matters, George W. Bush, came here and talked a lot of shit in Jackson Square a few months ago. I can't myself enumerate them but... Oh, crapshit, that's not my thing,, political commentary, so let me just say--it just as well that incompetent fuckhead stays out of our affairs and stays forever more, the fuck away from us. If I say fuck one more time it will be a fucking trifecta. George W. Bush fucks up everything he touches, and there it is ladies and gentlemen, the trifecta.
I think the latest excuse as to why some 200,000 homes in the New Orleans area are rendered un-livable is that some flunky Corps clerk filed incorrect information, and all the subsequent sub-standard construction can now be explained away. When I talk to people out of state they shrug off the woes of New Orleans under blanket statements like--Well, you got all those corrupt politicians down there stealing your money, what do you expect? Why should our tax dollars go to support your fucked up situation, line the pockets of bad people? Let God Bless America, put Christ back in Christmas. Can you get me one of those Chocolate City T-shirts? Not all people who express such views are limp dick Rush Limbaugh Republicans, but what the difference would be I cannot say.
Work day done, weekend begins, although I'm too tired to stand up, much less trip the lights fantastic.
The Clothes Line Laundromat on N Broad is open but not selling their famous snacks, or for that matter, laundry detergent. I left my two trash bags full of dirty clothes on the Clothes Line floor and drove to the Spur which sells no beer on N. Broad. They are out of detergent too but got some on order for Tuesday. Galvez and Canal then, they got it, and, they got it going on. Pretty good chicken and biscuits out of there too. The Laundromat, that's where I'm at now. My washer and dryer, in the kitchen at Rocheblave, need gas and electricity to work and are just ornamental, shiny white objects at this point, six point five months after the flood.
M., I'm just going to assume you're not reading this, in Oregon, and will discuss with my usual selective candor, your rat problem, on Dumaine. Any problem can be solved, let's start with that.
I read a book about rats recently and so I can say that your rats are completely normal, not mutants, or in anyway acting out of character. It is selfish of me but you know I love it when the good news and bad news are the same. It is in a way comforting, and descriptive of the human condition in general.
So I got two rat size traps from the Gemplers catalog because I was so happy with the kill rate or their mouse traps, in my pursuit of the Virginia country mouse, but let me state the obvious, that little Virginia country mouse wouldn't amount to a pimple on the ass of a New Orleans rat.
I set the two traps in the Dumaine kitchen and came back a couple of days later and one trap was sprung, and licked thoroughly clean of its peanut butter bait, and the other trap was, uh....missing. But I later found the second trap, about six feet from where I had placed it. It was behind the dryer. When I picked it up it had not a rat in it but a half eaten mouse, which to add insult to injury and death, was nearly sliced in two by the overkill strength of the metal spring bar.
So I think the the rats are recognizing the new objects and are staying away due to this suspicion and the mice are just digging in cuz they stupid, and springing the traps, maybe getting caught, maybe not, and then the rats come and eat the caught mouses, and finish up with a little peanut butter dessert.
I think I'll go over today and start gutting your front room and check those traps, and see about finding you that general contractor info you asked for so you can have better ammunition to fight Allstate for the money owed to you, but which they are trying to fuck you out of, because, yes, you in good hands with Allstate, only thing is, one of those hands is flipping you the bird, always has been.
The Unlucky Pigeon
I park the truck sideways across my driveway, and close to the front steps so I can plug in the extension cord that runs from the CyberPower converter in my truck and into the house through my bedroom window, where it powers up my devices, and occasionally that single strand of Christmas lights I use for a night light in the bathroom, when I am feeling especially festive.
Today when I got out of the truck after work a Red Tail hawk flying six inches off the ground shot up Rocheblave toward Bienville and in it's talons was an unlucky pigeon.
Chauffeur came over with his grandson, Darius, who I the other day thought was his cousin, and they said howdy and looked at the new trailer they will both be living in once it is inspected and powered up and unlocked. It will sit there as the locked property of FEMA until the same pole that controls my house, and the Sculptor's, is switched on. Chauffeur said he called Entergy but he may have misinterpreted the importance of our pole in the equation and ya'll can hold your breaths but I'm just getting more and more used to the idea of living without electricity. For the Chauffeur and Darius' sake I hope it happens though, eventually.
I went to the Spur (gas station/convenience store) on N. Broad, between here and the Dumaine house, on Sunday, to get some beer to take over to my nephew's, Uptown on Carondelet, for the Superbowl. I walked past the counter by the front door and to the back of the store and stared and stared and stared and then turned around and walked back and the counter girl said, you looking for beer? and I said, you know I am. She said, you look just like everybody else coming in here looking for beer, you look like your feelings are hurt. She was so exactly right about that and I told her so. I went to the Spur at Galvez and Canal and got my twelve-pack of Heinekin and headed Uptown.
The kid from N. Tonti, Raheim, came by before the game on Sunday and we played Around The World some but I was so good, circling his world 'till it made him dizzy, that finally he said you wanna play that spelling game, which is Horse, but which I played with him the other day as Cat. I said, sure, and we played Cat and Stop and he beat me twice. On the third game I was about to crush him with my superior round ball skills and he tried an over the backboard trick shot and swished it home and I said I'll bet you this game you can't do that again, and of course he did. I don't care. I didn't want to win anyhow. Winning is for losers.
There are now more stoplights than temporary stop signs in the neighborhoods of Louisville (Bienville Corridor), Mid-City, Esplanade Ridge, and Bayou St. John, and that is progress. I said no way that Spur at Galvez and Canal be open this morning at 5:55 a.m., on the way to work, but I was wrong about that and I got coffee and carrot cake for breakfast before heading out to Metairie to caulk and putty and paint wood as quick as my boss could nail it up.
I'm getting my cold water bathing techniques down to a fine art and someday I'll tell you about it, except for one particular technique which may come under the heading of--More Information Than You Need.
I think that 85-year-old couple, The Smith's, are back, and camping a good bit of the time at their very fine house around the corner, on Bienville.
Raheim came by, ostensibly to humiliate me again, but he couldn't see me sitting here in the truck so he went back around the corner. The setting sun made the little studs in his ear lobes, sparkle.
The Crusty Sidekick
As I remember portable hoops were in the last couple of years banned from the streets of New Orleans, because of the criminal element's propensity for using them as a way to kill time, and each other, during the down time between drug deals.
A little bit overly sensitive to the perceived disadvantage of being a woman in a male-driven world, my new partner in crime, while helping me to steal one of these hoops from a next door neighbor's yard will be goddamned if she going to take the lead from my maleness as how to carefully relocate this hoop to a chained up position next to the telephone pole in front of my house. She is to me in this sense very much like a man overly imbued with his sense of maleness, and will throw out her back, or rip her flesh on rusty nails in her pursuit of the alpha-station, a station I will gladly relinquish to any woman, or man. She got the can-do attitude though and this is a thing only to my benefit, and hopefully hers.
I really think of this caper as a Rocheblave reclamation project, and the hoop will be gladly returned to the owner, should that owner ever show up, after now five months of absence. In the meantime Ima work on my three-point shot, and the delivery of my explanation as to how that chain they had around it got cut clean in two, leaving out the part about my purchase of a very effective pair of discount ($12.95) bolt cutters.
This is why New Orleans will never get the help it needs, because we all criminals here, and will abuse any assistance you send us. All of us. And one other thing. If you take George Bush's advice and bring your family here because you believe what he said about this being a "heckuva place to bring your family" I give you fair warning--we will eat your children. Crawfish are prohibitively expensive this year.
Before the hoop theft I stole a piece of plywood from the Sculptor's property and jumped the Chauffeur's fence and stole another piece from his property. With a 97 cent can of Walmart spray paint I made two signs that say NEED POWER, and leaned one against the Sculptor's house and one against the telephone pole in front of my house. I wrote the same message on the plywood boarding up one of the Chauffeur's windows.
Later, this guy came by looking for the Chauffeur and so I called him and said somebody looking for you. It turned out to be an old friend who was temporarily working with FEMA trailer delivery and he was front man for the actual delivery process, now happening after 3 months of broken promises. The two of them hugged. The trailer came and then a plumbing crew came and then right at sundown a crew of men came to block it up, tie it down, unlock the cabinets, and pull out the side extension. We toured the inside in between these visits and it pretty nice in there. Chauffeur had to test the bed with imaginary sexual maneuvers and I said well I'll be leaving you alone now.
Between the initial delivery and the plumbing crew, Chauffeur brought out his sorry ass basketball and bounced it once but it didn't bounce back. I went in and got my new ball and we shot around a bit. I said, Chauffeur, when I jumped your fence this afternoon I finally got a look at that hoop you've been saying we could set up and it's got a whole bigger than a basketball in the cheap plexiglass backboard. Chauffeur just shrugged.
A kid is down at the corner banging a fireplace poker against a metal pole at Iberville and Rocheblave. I already know how this turns out so I just sit tight, shoot poorly, and wait for it to happen. My game is coming on and I turn around after setting the net on fire with a high arced three-pointer and the kid is coming up. I toss him the ball and the the three of us begin shooting. The kid is better than Chauffeur and almost as good as me, which frankly, is not that good. But the kid is only ten or so and the hoop is at regulation height. He's got a white wave cap on his short cropped head and imitation diamond earrings in each ear lobe. He wears a clean un-tucked dress shirt over baggy jeans and an easy smile shows big white teeth.
When the plumbing crew came they gave our game a wide berth and Chauffeur went and talked to them while the kid and I played. I did not ask the kid too many questions because that is no way to get information from a kid. I did slip in a few casual questions though and know that his mama works, not too far away, he lives on N. Tonti, has electricity but no gas, that old woman with the dog is not his mama but just a friend, and he goes to school in Jefferson because there are not that many area schools open for ten year olds, in New Orleans.
He showed me a couple of his favorite shots--The Crusty Sidekick, and, The Twister, both of which he missed. He at one point posited that perhaps his wave cap was too tight and might be adversely affecting his game. I concurred. He went away around the corner for awhile and I glanced over there once and saw him talking to the old woman in the housecoat and she was wiping something off of his face. He came back without the wave cap and we played Around the World a few times, until I got so smoking good I was shooting and swishing them home, with my eyes closed. The kid expected no bones from me, which is good, because I wasn't giving any. I beat him, but just barely, and his spirit, when he walked away, seemed pretty well intact.