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Jazzfest Birding
This morning I was up before the crack of dawn.
Slapping the still sleeping eminent New York Professor Doctor Wilson on his hip bone with a full bottle of water, I was made to recoil as he came awake immediately, Bowie knife in his teeth, growling. It's just me Professor Doctor, I squeaked.
While Professor Doctor performed his ablutions prior to our departing for the wilds of the Barataria Preserve, I ran off to gas up at the Chevron at Canal and Broad and get cigs at the Canal/Galvez Spur. It was hopping at the Spur this morning at five a.m. and while a confused driver backed out and blocked my ability to gain front door parking, a little dude stole my waited upon space. No biggee, I backed up and exited and parked in the adjacent lot. When I walked up the little loud-mouthed shit spewing dude was just getting ready to come back out for something and we met face to face separated by the double glass doors. I put a granite fist on each handle and opened both doors at once, pretty much piercing his inflated and constantly whining bitch ass persona, with the sharp edges of my bony, shiv-like rib cage. I went straight to the counter, got my cigs, and left, having to kill no one, and not looking back to see if the little dude wanted to kiss my ass.
We were to be on a bird hunt this morning but would end up seeing enough active alligators to distract us from our mission to observe as many as possible of the warm-blooded, egg-laying, feathered vertebrate creatures with forelimbs modified to form wings.
We entered the Jean Lafitte park illegally because it doesn't open until 8 but even a complete ninny knows birds are jumping at dawn.
There was a cacophony of bird noises in the bald cypress, water tupelo and red maple trees above us, as first morning light came on.
Later, resting on the elevated boardwalk of the Bayou Coquille section of the park and a woman and her young daughter, Kristy, approached us and asked if we were seeing anything. She meant alligators. A woman who goes out there everyday had told them she saw gators every time and I said (quite authoritatively I might add), ma'am, there are of course alligators in these waters but as a frequent visitor myself, I can tell you I have NEVER seen one out here.
Professor Doctor Wilson spoke up barely 15 seconds later and said, actually, there's one laying over on that bank.
Oh, those, I might have said, but didn't.
The woman and Kristy walked on and kept spotting alligators while Professor Doctor stuck to birds and I split my time between bird and gator watching, because I was determined to see more than Kristy.
We did enjoy watching one with a dragonfly on it's nose become aggravated and while opening its gaping, jagged, razor toothed jaw did nothing to distract the dragonfly, submerging did, and the dragonfly become gator bait.
We came back around lunch, dined on soul food with the rest of our party at Two Sisters on Derbigny, and then napped while they went off to Jazzfest again. We went out to City Park after the nap and got politely policed by a security force representative from one of the camping villages sprung up post-Katrina all along the waterways of the park. We weren't supposed to be parking near the devastated soccer fields at Boy Scout Island. We could go talk to some other out of towner about getting permission to freely use our own damn park, but I wasn't doing that, we just said we'd be leaving shortly, and we did.
What kind of birds did we see? Can't really say as I am no professor.
Packin' Brushes
I have a trio of New Yorkers and a solitary Californian visiting me here on Rocheblave for the first Jazzfest weekend and last night they took me out for cheeseburgers with all the way baked potato at Port O' Call. I wanted them to go hear without me Southern Culture on the Skids but it was their travel day and they were pretty tired and retired early. They said tomorrow they wanted to do some painting on the Dumaine house so I left them the key and said, paint and ladders are up in there, have at it. I snuck out the back way at 6:30 this morning as they slept on air mattress in the front two rooms.
I've been taking Fridays off recently so I can have three day weekends to work on side projects, like the Dumaine house, and my other favorite side project--laying about doing not a damn thing. Me and the boss always took off early on Fridays anyway. And this week, my boss said he was going to take off Friday too, so today, Thursday, was our Friday and we took off early.
Passing by the Dumaine house on the way over here to Rocheblave I expected to see my Friends just getting back from a late breakfast, and probably overwhelmed by the cumulative cosmic slacker dynamic of the hood, loitering about on turned over five gallon buckets, cat-calling at the now infrequent passing gangbanger.
But glancing over as I passed by on N. Broad and I could see they had completed their assigned task of priming with exterior oil base paint the power sanded bare wood spots on the front of the house, and I thought, holy sheeit, these some kickass, sumabitch, worker guests.
Tomorrow I know they want to hit first day of Jazzfest, see Dylan for sure, but Ima see if I can get them to put on that new roof before they go.
Chicks
Yesterday, or the day before, on N. Broad St. in New Orleans, I saw, near St. Philip St., a hen walking down the sidewalk followed by 14 chicks.
Probation, But Congo Square
Prior to actually having electricity in my neighborhood I received a bill for a couple hundred dollars and I bitched about that for awhile but then I just went ahead and paid it and then five and a half months after arriving back in New Orleans my block got back on the grid, and as my required electrical work had been done I just sort of assisted the energy company and switched on my own electricity and then about a week ago a new tag showed up on my meter, which made me feel all official, but the tag was purple, the same color as my expired break tag on the truck, instead of red, which is the normal color for active meters, as opposed to yellow which is the tag they put on meters to signify inactive accounts.
I just figured this new color was part of the new world order we exist in down here, welcome back to New Orleans and all that, but every time I mentioned it to someone they would say the exact same thing--what does that mean, this purple tag of yours?
Well, Phillis knows someone down there at the energy company and she said she would ask that person and yesterday she called out to me while I, after my nap after the day job, stretched beyond what is optimal on the too short ladder I am using to scrape the high parts of the Dumaine house. I climbed down and she told me that basically what this means is I am not a special person and I am not being welcomed back to the new New Orleans but rather that I am on a probation which at some point will end with me receiving either the proper red tag, or, having my purple tag replaced with a yellow tag and my electricity being shut off.
This is all to say that, hey you Jazzfests guests visiting me next week--Welcome to Louisville, welcome to New Orleans. Good thing one of you is an electrical engineer.
Mr. BC, you still got time to jump on that jet and get down here this weekend for the French Quarter Fest. If only for Sunday at noon in Congo Square where Wynton Marsalis with his Lincoln Center jazz orchestra will perform the 80 minute world premier of his new composition--"Congo Square." Congo Square is by the way, where, arguably, American music began. Not to be missed. See you there.
Letter To Clifford, 12
Dear Mom, Aug. 2, 2005
It is 5:30 in the morning and I am up listening to the birds chattering and wondering when the neighbor's dogs are going to start barking. I have a fan running in the room to drown out the noise a little but I can still hear them barking most nights. And then they start up in the morning. The dogs live down the hill a ways, about as far as Marsh Middle School is from you, but there are no buildings between this bedroom and the dogs, so the sound travels unobstructed. People say I should go talk to my neighbors but I am not aware of anything a person can do to make a dog stop barking, short of buying the dog a one way ticket to a land far, far away. I was talking to this nature-boy recently and this nature-boy doesn't kill snakes and gets out of his truck to remove slow moving turtles off the roads and generally is a friend to animals everywhere and he offered me this bit of insight--"It's not the dog's fault." What a wonderful insight, huh? I asked the nature-boy would it be, in his opinion, my fault, if I went down the hill and shot the barking dogs? Nature-boy did not even give me the benefit of a response.
I don't reckon I am going to shoot any dogs though. When I lived in New Orleans I slept through gunfire in the night on a regular basis and so I guess I can forgive the dogs their barking. You know mom, it's not the dog's fault.
I'm waiting for a slightly more respectable hour and then I will go over to T's house and wake her up so we can go on a hike in the woods.
I am still in Virginia. Haven't seen JF in a few weeks. Have talked to him once or twice recently and he said he may come out this week and talk to some of the townsfolk who are trying to convince him not to develop this property. He doesn't really want to develop it but the townsfolk are nervous about his potential to develop it and so have initiated movements to take away his rights, which means the property would be worth less money. So it's sort of like stealing, but in the townspeople's mind, for a good reason. The only legal way for Jeff to fight off the stealing of his rights is to actually initiate the movements to develop the land so it is a pretty pickle sure enough. I'll let you know what happens, if in fact anything happens. love, Jim
Letter to Clifford, 11
The beerless Spur convenience store on N. Broad St. has gone 24 hours, so once again a Louisville establishment puts it's neck out to make New Orleans all it can be. I came home from work yesterday and took a nap and woke up about six to a tapping on the front door and I got up and it was Raheim with his head nearly shaved, in flip flops. He looked forlorn and desperate in that way 10- year-old boys look when they are bored. I don't try not to be an old fart around kids, except when they make me, and I asked him the predictable questions--how was school? (he didn't go, duh, look at my flip flops, you can't go to school in flip flops, left my shoes by my mama's house over Easter and evidently his stepmom and dad around the corner don't have an extra pair for him), are you bored? (his eyes expressed a yes in the most definitive fashion, he looked as if he might perish forthwith). I wanted to play with him a little, humiliate him on the basketball court, perhaps that would make him feel better, but I was still so nap groggy I couldn't find my way to it. He finally said, like a full grown proper Englishman, well I won't disturb you any longer, I will let you get back to your nap. He rode off on his second hand razor, performing a neat little hop trick at the grabble (tm) apron of my driveway, amazing his ownself, and looked back to see if I was impressed and so I tried to look like I was. He sped off down the middle of Rocheblave to the Iberville corner and I heard his flip flops slid-breaking to a stop on the beaten asphalt as a car sped through the intersection. I went over to Dumaine for an hour and worked on re-glazing a window in the shade while the Muslim across the street worked his ass off, by himself, on a project that would seem undoable, but won't prove to be. Joe was laying almost flat across the steps of the former hitman's house, listening on the radio, or sleeping through, the mayoral debate. Following is the fifth-to-the-last letter I wrote to my mom last year, who suffered from Alzheimers and the good intentions of her children.
Dear Mom,
As a continuation on the theme of socializing well beyond what I would think is possible for me, I went to a dinner party last night. I met some more new people and even though meeting new people is the last thing I would intentionally put on my list of things to do, it was fine and fun and if nothing else gives me an opening for this letter to you.
At the party besides me and my girlfriend T, were: a female chef, the owners of the restaurant where the chef works, two gay men who told funny stories, a gray-headed long-haired computer expert, an environmentalist/tennis pro, the girlfriend of the environmentalist (who was also the hostess), and the mother of the hostess (who came up, to Virginia, from Ft. Worth, and made enchiladas). Ceviche was also served. Ceviche is raw fish (red snapper in this case, cooked by the acidic power of citrus juices instead of heat, mixed with a wide range of vegetable matter, depending on your tastes.)
The mother from Ft. Worth asked me if I two step (which is Texas cowboy dancing) and I said no. Later, holding up a big metal cooking spoon she said--you must know what this is? and I said, no. It turned out to be a spoon for making roux, which is the base for all New Orleans-type dishes like gumbo. I had told her I lived in New Orleans for ten years previous to coming to Virginia. I never seem to do things that are most associated with the places I live. There was also plenty of tequila served and I drank enough to be polite but not enough to crash my truck into one of the trees lining the steep driveway.
The really good news is that the mother gave up the recipe for the enchiladas, and her daughter, the hostess, looked on perhaps a little perturbed while T copied it down for me. Before I met T the hostess might have implied some little attraction to me. At that time however, the hostess had both a boyfriend (the environmentalist) and a husband (from whom she was separated, and is now divorced). So I never really encouraged her attraction, but did and do innocently enjoy her company. T has an ex-boyfriend in the area, and plenty of friends who are men, so we take turns being jealous of each other. The hostess has two young boys and she brings them over occasionally to swim in the pool on this property I take care of for JF. So, if I don't ever write the story about New Orleans, maybe I could write some sort of Virginia-based Peyton Place. love, Jim.