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Feeding Fluffy
The cats don't read Proust, but Gide they really dig, and they recite favorite passages to each other when the sun drops behind the dance hall. Lolling on broken slabs of concrete with the Pentecostal weeds growing all around them, you can hear them.
Spinks says--"But I think there comes a point in love, a unique moment which later on the soul seeks in vain to surpass, and that the effort to revive such happiness depletes it; that nothing thwarts happiness so much as the memory of happiness."
BigHead responds, that's a good one baby, but check this out--"You're never satisfied until you've made them reveal some vice. Don't you realize that our own eyes magnify and exaggerate whatever they happen to see--that we make anyone become what we claim he is?"
Sure Poppy, that's cool, Notyetded says, but listen here--"One thing admirable about the Arabs: they live their art, they sing and scatter it from day to day; they don't cling to it, they don't embalm it in works. Which is the cause and effect of the absence of great artists. I have always believed the great artists are the ones who dare entitle to beauty things so natural that when they're seen afterward people say: Why did I never realize before that this too was beautiful?..."
The cats all check in: Kitten, K2, BigHead, Spinks, Notyetded (and his new stepbrother), and several unnamed. The Heinz 57 Calico (who resembles cats of that prodigious Dumaine Point Blank clan) is pregnant, which is weird because I just saw her nursing a little yellow tabby a few weeks ago. Yellow Tabby Senior is the new swinging dick who challenges BigHead for harem privileges. I tried to scare him away with near miss BB gun shooting several months ago while he was trying to poke Spinks, but I felt wrong for it so let nature take its course. Spinks had her usual two kittens by him but like last time, with BigHead's babies, chose only one to nurse. I'm not going to suggest she ate the other one but, well, you know. Its been known to happen.
In the neighboring suburb of Kenner, the feral cat problem is being dealt with thusly: new laws have been passed making it illegal to feed stray cats. "What you in for, buddy?"
"Awww sheeit mane, I was feeding Fluffy and this member of the local law enforcement came along and threw me down like Ima Dillinger. What about you, whaju do?"
"Nothing, I just turned myself in."
"Awww mane, whyja?"
"For the sex."
"Awww sheeit mane."
Yesterday I read in the paper about this Uptown woman who was organizing a meeting at a local coffee shop with area residents to discuss the feral dog problem after one of her cats got ripped apart by a large pack. The article had a picture with it and the woman looked pretty all right, in her forties like myself, or close to it. I thought, you know, it's not necessarily a bad thing to have ulterior motives and I think I have a lot to share on the subject of cats being ripped apart by dogs. If I didn't get too weepy I think I could even be eloquent on the subject. I mean I still have some unresolved issues concerning the attack on my Neon and the subsequent gaping whole in her neck writhing with maggots. I think I may be more culpable for the extension of her suffering than I would ideally like to be, but hell, you know, pain and suffering, suffering and pain. I could share it as well as anybody on Oprah and disregarding no more than one or two major character flaws I'm an OK guy so why shouldn't I inflict myself on this gathering of chicks. The use of the word "chicks" might suggest that one of my flaws is an emotional immaturity concerning the fairer sex and this may be a point of fact, or may be me blowing smoke. It doesn't matter which because I'm not going to PJ's coffeehouse, on Magazine, or anywhere else. I mean sure, eventually, down the road I may see the point of spending what I spend monthly at Rocheblave for coffee, on a single cup or two from a coffeehouse.
I mean eventually Maureen Dowd will get back to me. It may take awhile, I realize, and I wouldn't think of trying to speed the process by making direct inquiry. Hell, she's probably inundated with kook mail since the syndicated posting of her sultry new picture. No Maureen, I'm not one those wacko's, just a working class guy in New Orleans thinking about coffee with Maureen Dowd. It would probably be just as suspect to chum these html waters with salacious references for the googlebot. It probably wouldn't work anyway--fishing for hits to increase the likelihood that one of them might be Maureen Dowd her ownself. You know what I'm saying? Like Nude Pictures of Maureen Dowd (I don't have any, and think it would be improper to show them). I'm sure any number of her co-workers has typed that inquiry. Maybe one of them could pass this address on to her.
Hold on, I can hear those cats. Who that is? BigHead again, hold on, let me go out and hear this properly.
Okay, this is what I think I heard.
"Our happiness, during this last part of the trip, was so untroubled, so calm, that I have nothing to tell about it. The loveliest creations of men are persistently painful. What would be the description of happiness? Nothing, except what prepares and then what destroys it, can be told."
Open Sewage, A Kiss, And A Hound Dog 1.8.98
Flotsam and his pal jetsam were bubbling up from the manhole covers at English Turn today. All is not calm, all is not safe at the Turn, as people are not only burning stolen cars on the back roads, but crashing them into the front brick signage and then setting them on fire. Not to mention the long missing school teacher who was found in the not yet developed woods of English Turn this week, burnt dead in her car.
The red Mercedes sports car sits in Diane Ditka's circular driveway all day long.
A former speechwriter watches girlie movies in the middle of the day.
A Power Broker's wife feeds me gumbo.
A pretty sophisticate from Belgium reads to her children.
JT's brother, Paul, who runs one of the framing crews, shoots me the finger as I drive by and I return the gesture. Paul pretends to be a Mississippi redneck with a specific interest in farm animals and tall, thin painters. At least I think he's pretending.
And as Ozzie pulls up to the house on Dumaine, Harriet tutors the children on the front porch. Erica runs to the car yelling--"Mr. Jim, Mr. Jim," and gives Ozzie a big hug, and a kiss on the cheek. G sells a rock across the street but nobody cares G, cuz you ain't nothin' but a hound dog.
Wasting 1.4.98
(This first paragraph originally showed me upgrading from a 386 IBM clone (yeah I'm a very slow upgrader) to a Pentium class computer and I could just barely afford it and it was my first luxury in several years and it was a lemon. It was a Compaq. The original paragraph shows me being happy about their service, which was unquestionably good throughout, except for that at the end of it all I still had a lemon. I eventually just wrote it off as bad luck and let the Dumaine kids have it. For them, having the system crash every few hours, or several times in one hour, was normal. But in the end I felt about Compaq's discount items like I had once felt about Sony's discount items--junk, pure junk.)
It's Sunday and the boys are knocking on the door because they want me to take them to a jungle alongside the river where we play like we be pirates. Often I play like a tired pirate and lay in the tall grass by the river's edge waiting for super tankers to come by and make waves lap against the muddy bank.
Yesterday Shelton's sister, wearing long pants and a bra, tried to kill Moose out in the street with a butcher knife. I'll try to organize that in my head and get back to you.
Falling Bullets Fall 1.4.98
Holiday traditions live on despite the counter-efforts of concerned citizens and survivors of victims to falling bullets. Last night and early this morning the response to the slogan--Falling Bullets Kill, was a gangsta-like rap a tat-tat of semi-automatic and fully automatic gunfire. The Morse code of this staccato beat seemed to be saying--Falling Bullets Kill, what's that to me, this AK in my hand is gonna set me free. Bullets rained on New Orleans. I can report this with some certainty--the 6th and 7th wards of New Orleans are well armed. Unofficial and conservative count--many hundreds of bullets fired within a six, five, four, block radius of 2600 block of Dumaine.
Meanwhile, in the French Quarter, teenagers from Ohio State and Florida State drank themselves silly on Bourbon Street.
Twelve-year old Heather knocked on the door about one o'clock this morning. When I opened the door, the amplification of fireworks and gunfire was rather alarming so in response to her question, "may I speak with Miss Amanda," I said, "come in Heather." I lay in bed listening to the occasional bursts of machine guns as Heather talked to Mandy in the other room.
I fell asleep with visions of the Tek-9 dancing in my head.
Heather was unable to convince Mandy to drive her to her new home near the parish prison and the red light district of Tulane Ave. about a mile away, so Heather spent the night.
The Jan. 3 Times Picayune reports a safe New Years Eve. The police seem to have arrested all five people responsible for the discharging of firearms. Only one wounded this year--a local man on his way to the corner store walks with his hand over his head to deflect possible falling bullets and actually deflects a falling bullet. He walks himself to a neighborhood hospital and receives stitches for his hand and alcohol for the graze on his forehead. How absolutely ridiculous this man must have felt walking along the street with his hand over his head. Doctors say had he not, he would very likely be dead.
Murder rate way down this year--from 350 in 96 to 265 in 97. And considerably down from the 420 posted in our first year in New Orleans in 94. Some say the obviously improved police force is a factor in this, (I agree) and some say the resurgence of heroin is a factor, (I agree) and some say when killers kill killers their will be less killing, (I agree).
Happy New Year.
Tough Love 1.4.98
It is with some trepidation that I report the following exchange between Mama D and Shelton. I would hate for anyone in an official capacity to deem my use of questionable language as gratuitous. Journalism is in the Louis blood, and also it is helpful to the well being of my delicate psyche to expel certain experiences via email to a select group of friends. I am sure my earlier concerns about possible screening of these messages, and the subsequent loss of Juno email privileges, were the result of a mild paranoia, and not, in fact, a still to this day unexplained case of electronic censorship. Now.
Shelton and Eric and Glynn and Fermin went down to the SuperDome on the 20th with 9,000 other children to get their free toys. Shelton, Eric, and Fermin got the same toy--some kind of race track with two cars.
On the 21st Shelton says, "I'm gonna have to bust up on Eric."
"Why is that?" I ask.
"You know we all got the same race track?"
"Yeah?"
"We all be playin' in each other's houses and Eric switched his cars for mine," and Shelton goes on to explain about switched decals and how the glue residue was a dead giveaway and how he's gonna hafta bust Eric up.
I could have said more than I did (which was--"you probably don't want to do that Shelton") but instead I just watched as he went across the street looking for more trouble with Eric. He's probably still on probation from this summer's exposed genitalia episode involving Eric, and D'andre, and M. Harris, and himself.
Later, hearing raised voices, I look out the window just in time to see Mama D punch Shelton smack in the kisser with her open fist.
"You big headed cocksucker," she screams at Shelton.
Shelton starts bawling.
This was a Sunday and all my relatives were on their way out of town, having survived the wedding of my nephew, Ross.
Shelton, Fermin, Glynn, and I were scheduled to attack the mega-bar at Ryan's Steak House later that evening after I picked up Mandy from the airport, who had wisely opted out of the wedding festivities and gone to see her parents in Kerrville, TX.
I convinced Mandy to go with us and as the little inter-racial family sat down to eat off of dirty plates at the Ryan's Steak House in Algiers, I couldn't help wondering, "How the hell did I get here."
Gangs All Where?
I saw Shelton today while gassing up at the Chevron.
I was sliding my brittle Discover Card through the pay at the pump slot and was fantasizing about a meet with someone else--Canal and Broad's most ubiquitous homeless man, who with his shabby clothes and unkempt beard reminds me for no particular reason of the stoic philosopher Epictetus. Or I have convinced myself he is that reincarnation.
It's costing me about 25 bucks a week to drive the yellow beast to work and back.
I was on my way to see Spiderman over at the Elmwood Palace.
I was squeeggeeing my glass, oblivious to everything but my work, and the loud rap music pounding nearby when I glanced over to my left and there was Shelton, passenger in a jeep. We exchanged pleasant greetings; the nice me and the nice him just chance meeting in the neighborhood. He looked like he wanted to say something more and I thought about saying something more, but he didn't, and I didn't either.
I remember equally the times when he was one of a group of kids I gladly spent several hours with every Sunday traveling the streets of New Orleans and surrounding areas in the smallest car Ford ever made, as many as eight of us crammed in there, and also the difficult times while he briefly lived with me and a woman who even at the time was a former lover, and I screamed obscenities into his face like a poor imitation of Mama D before me.
It is more complicated and simple than I am able to figure out at this point in time but partly if you help by action or inaction put a kid in jail you feel a little connected to him in some way and also I feel various degrees of concern for the party who primarily (and correctly) had him punished for a breaking and entering on Dumaine. That he stayed in jail five months waiting for her to drop a charge that he could have pleaded to and been out in two weeks, or thirty days, is his own damn pig-headed business. And besides, a prolonged jail experience is like a badge he can wear on the street better than the high school diploma he opted against by dropping out in his sixteenth year.
I keep getting my mail over at that former Dumaine address partly because of the before mentioned (probably unnecessary) concern for the owner of that residence and partly because I'm truly literally incapable of accomplishing certain tasks at certain points in time, and partly because I miss the kids and characters from 2600, and getting my mail over there gives me a chance to run into them. He's not supposed to be there hanging out near the residence he burgled but I see Shelton over there in that block sometimes. Although truly that kid exhibits such bi-polar behavior I can't be sure whom I'm seeing from time to time so don't quote me on it. It might be someone else I'm seeing. Or I might be the one with the bi-polarity. And maybe I hallucinate. And anyhow, why would you take the word of an adjudicated felon? That covers that.
So I'm over there today.
Eddie Green lives in the Dumaine house during his summer breaks from Southern University in Baton Rouge, and is positioned as the good example for the many other kids who hang out there after school, and practically live there during the summer. Eddie is 6 feet and an inch tall and weighs 245 pounds. He plays linebacker for the football team. He offered me his Internet connection and I found some emails I had been neglecting. I answered the two that required that and then went out to watch street basketball. While I had been inside reading mail I could hear Fermin outside, who is trying to act out his role in society the best he can, but he's loud and profane about it. "Fuck" this and "fuck" that, "nigger" this, and "nigger" that.
Eddie, former high school states champion at basketball, had just beaten Fermin at street hoops. But from the tone of Fermin's harangue, somehow unfairly.
Eddie, with his shaved head and elaborately tattooed massive arms, smiled and said, "Why 'nigger,' Fermin, why not...'Black Knight?'" Thank you, Eddie.
I was standing next to Glynn who was sitting on the steps of an abandoned house across from where I get my mail. Above him, tacked to the siding was a warning that some bank had posted with a bunch of verbiage that I think meant--No Trespassing. His team was still in the playoffs but mine had been eliminated. My team had two seven foot white guys and neither one of them were true centers, nor could they jump, nor could they physically intimidate opponents. His team, I chided--"don't you think Chris Webber is a crybaby? I mean its behavior like his that sets a bad example for Fermin. Glynn just stared straight ahead. He seemed tired.
Jermaine was to my right with a clear plastic sack of raw hamburger, some charcoal and lighter fluid. He was going to throw a small to-do for Lance, whose birthday was the day before. I don't even worry about Jermaine burning down that house across the street, like he once threatened to do. Truth be told, he's a nice guy, respectful, intelligent, amusing, cheerful, and a lot better than some as a role model. Lance dropped out shortly after Shelton did. If it's true what the lady said, about it taking a village, then this one is better off for Jermaine being in it, and his taking of certain responsibilities seriously.
Bryan had called out to me, "hey splinter," which is why I came over to this side in the first place. He's hiding behind that car now, and won't come over to shake my hand. "Come on Bryan," I say, "I'm not mad, I won't hurt you, come on over here and talk to me." He acts cautious and I act mad, it’s a game, doesn't take much energy.
Jacque is across the street wandering around behind the fence at Stacey and Brianna's house, which nobody really does. He disappears around the side and shortly comes back with a tiny puppy on a leash, which he then walks up the sidewalk a short distance before bringing it back to Stacey and Brianna, who are now sitting on their steps watching it all.
Lance, who is almost a foot shorter and a hundred pounds lighter, is trying to man handle Eddie. "Lance, don't hurt Eddie," I say, and Lance, clearly pleased that such a thing could even be considered possible, smiles and says, "I ain't gonna hurt 'em, Mr. Jim."
"245 Eddie, isn't that a little big for your position?" I'm worried about his speed.
"No, not really, no. But I'm going back for summer school and I'll be working out so I'm going to drop ten pounds or so."
"How fast are you?"
"Four seven."
That seems like a slight exaggeration to me but I didn't call him on it. Instead I said, "you should do it in four three."
"Gawwwd." Eddie said.
Of course if he could hit like I've seen him hit and run the forty in four point three seconds he would be bona-fide pro material. "I just think you could be faster."
"I've got three more years of eligibility (he was redshirted as a freshman), Mr. Jim, I'm gonna be workin' on it," he smiled.
"Well, Okay then."
I haven't yet heard from Maureen Dowd but that doesn't mean I won't.
Jacking, Rats, And A Moose 10.14.97
Assimilated--the ability of a white person to drive by an all black school as it is letting out for the day, and to recognize among the din of hundreds, one single "heeyyyyy!"
And I'm in the next block before I look in my rear view mirror and he's standing in the middle of the street waving. He reads my brake lights as invitation and starts running. As much as I don't want to, I back down the street to save him a few feet of running.
"Hey Moose."
"Harlogable."
"I guess I'm getting to be a regular chauffeur here." I gave him a ride home once last week.
"Har, hargrafle."
I park in front of the house and say, "all right Moose."
"Frankenmurfle," he responds.
The weather finally broke on Oct. 14 and it's not 90/90 anymore. I promised myself I would get back to work on the house when things got cooler and I guess this is it. JW let me borrow two house jacks before he and family went North for the summer and I've been thinking I should use them before he wants them back.
So I'm jacking away on the right rear of the house where I have about 20 inches of clearance between the side of the house and the cyclone fence separating this property from Y's. D'andre comes over and asks can he help, reminding me what great fun we had last spring when he helped scrape loose mortar from the brick piers so they could be re-pointed. It doesn't really matter what I say I know D'andre is going to climb over that fence sooner or later, but I say some stuff anyway and remind him that his mom does not like him fraternizing with us people.
"Oh, she's not tripping on that no more."
"No?"
"Naw, she know I come over here sometime."
"It could be dangerous jacking up a house and she might not want you around that," I say.
"The house could fall on me?" He says.
"No, I don't think that will happen but a window could break and the glass might fall on your head."
"I forget," D'andre says, "what is hollow?"
"Well this pipe I'm using is hollow because it has a hole through the middle, but if it were solid…"
D'andre starts reciting some poetry about dead children, snakes, and rats.
"Oh you mean Halloween," I say.
"Yeah."
"What are you going to be this year?"
"A dead Ninja."
"That's nice," I say.
"We have a refrigerator where we put all the rats we catch."
"Dead, or alive?"
"Live ones," D'andre says. "And we gonna feed 'em and then take them out and fight 'em."
"You ever fought a rat?" I ask.
"No, no, we gonna make 'em fight each other."
"That should be fun, huh?"
"Yeah," D'andre says. "We have little leashes we put on them when we take them outside."
"Okay Dee, three more turns on this jack and then I'm going in to see what's cooking for dinner."
"I'm having Pop Tarts for dinner," he says.
"Pop Tarts?!!" You have perfectly good rats in the house and you're having Pop Tarts for dinner, that just doesn't make sense."
The house went up three-quarters of an inch today.
Maureen Dowd's Make A Wish Foundation
Here's what I think is unfair. Maureen Dowd doesn't even know I exist. And this at the same time I intuit she would really benefit from knowing me; at a time when I have made room for just one more fantasy.
Recently I had to put to shelf a romantic crush I was feeling for a local rock star. I came to realize former Bangle (Walk like an Egyptian), Vicki Peterson, probably would not like me. This let down came to me in a sort of dream trance I was affecting at one of her recent shows with band, Continental Drifters.
I feel a little strange admitting to secret fantasies, but life's inconsequential privacies weigh down a person too much. Also, in the back of my mind there is the comfort of that dubious statistic that has men sexually fantasizing something like 400 times a day. Maureen would probably say that's because men have such an abundance of fear concerning sexual inadequacy, and fantasizing is safe, and I would say something, I think I could make her laugh, or she might laugh because she was uncomfortable, either way my ego would attempt to ignore the difference.
I haven't done a lot of research on this but Maureen's not married is she? Because if she's married I may throw my affection to Atlanta's Cynthia Tucker, whom I believe is married, and if I am limited to having crushes on married women with national syndication, I think I may go with Mrs. Tucker. She also, if you can believe it, doesn't know I exist.
Maureen, would you like to have a coffee with me, in NY, DC, or New Orleans? I'll wait here while you think about it.
Oh Little Town Of Bedlam 12.25.97
A beautiful Christmas day with sunny skies and temps in the upper sixties turns dark and quiet as everyone on Dumaine settles back in their homes to be quietly disappointed with the gifts they received or did not receive.
The children, I believe, were universally disappointed with their gifts. On a zero budget M bought and scraped together nearly 30 gifts for the neighborhood kids. No one got a BB gun, or a remote control car, or anything really cool. I ran Shelton off with a rather boring speech on being grateful.
Erica seemed not to notice that the Sesame Street doll M gave her was a second hand item, and let me read to her from a Disney book without interrupting too much or repeatedly assuring me that she can read this herself. When she grabbed Marqin's spark gun and started blasting me, I was forced to take the law into my own hands and throw her on M's bed, put her arms behind her back and cuff her with imaginary bracelets. Erica did not, however, respect the imaginary boundaries of my jail, and was soon on the lam. The first thing she did after breaking out was to track me down, throw me on the bed, and put cuffs on me.
"You'll never get me to that jail, sheriff," I taunted her.
"I ain't no sheriff, Ima police," Erica tells me.
So we had a few moments of that traditional familial type fun on Christmas day, then we threw the kids out and had a quiet time. M developed the dreaded fever addendum to the ongoing cold everyone in New Orleans is sharing, and can occasionally be heard to moan pitifully, or cry out hysterically,
"I've got hepatatic diptheria and will die from it."
Although formerly a health care professional, M learned everything she knows about life threatening malapropisms from yours truly.
The Bell Tolls For Thee
A man and a 43-year old woman from the affluent Lakeview neighborhood were parked in the 3000 block of Dumaine at four o'clock in the morning discussing the direction of their relationship. Normally after a night in the French Quarter they exited northerly to the safeness of the Lakeview area by way of Esplanade to City Park to Marconi.
Friends described her as "streetsmart" yet able to quote Shakespeare. The 2900 and 3000 block of Dumaine are not safe. To be conservative let's say the 500 to 3300 block is not safe, especially 1200 to 3300. Dumaine, 500 to 1500 is French Quarter/Armstrong Park. Tennessee Williams lived in the French Quarter, on Dumaine. 1500 to 2700 (North Broad) is Treme. 2700 to 3300+ is Faubourg St. John. The 3300 block of Dumaine crosses Moss, which runs along the south side of Bayou St. John. This is a line of demarcation between safe and untold wickedness. Which side is which is a question for debate.
She saw the man approach and drove off, or her companion was driving, I am unsure, but the man in the street shot at them as they tried to escape to make it those three blocks to the bayou. The shooter was good enough to hit her in the head, and she died. There are more than a few unanswered questions in that one. It is one of several recent violent crimes in the vicinity of either the Dumaine or Rocheblave residence. Which is why I bring them up I guess. It's local news. Murder is noteworthy, an exclamation point, an underscoring of something gone wrong in our cities. The al Qaida terrorist network is less a threat than our neglect towards our weakest, least educated citizens, too many of who between the ages of 18 and 25 show a remarkable propensity for murder. I think this neglect shows a startling weakness in the greatness of character that is the United States of America. If we as a country were only as good as the metaphors of our drill instructors and high school football coaches and were only as strong as our weakest links, how strong would we be?
In a related unrelated story, today's newspaper greeted me with the happy news that Alabama was putting Cherry away for the rest of his (miserable) life. At the same time this is an encouraging picture of perseverance against overwhelming odds, and better late than never is better than not, still, it almost makes you want to cry as it reminds us how far there is to go. It seems to me like 40 years was too long to wait for that.
There's so much to be improved, Slim. Why don't you do something? What the fuck are you doing, Slim?
The Cloth One
My eighty-four year old mom on Mother's Day said, "You know, I read the paper pretty thoroughly," this I believe to convince any and all that she still has her full wits about her. And although there is no major debate about whether she does or doesn't the subject did come up during a recent visit as to the eventuality of such a question and how are we to go about it. How should we act? How should we not act? Clifford asserts of course that she is too young to talk about such things and we the six of us her kids all blindly hope that is true.
"...and there are some people I just don't like."
I had been daydreaming and had to wing it. "I hope I'm not one of them," I said.
"No," she laughed, "but that George Bush, if you really follow him, he...is...so, he really says some stupid things." My mother's short, patriotic hiatus from Bush bashing is over.
I thought I should stick to positive themes.
"You like his mother though."
She had to think about it a moment but relented to say, "Well, yes, I like her, but her son is really," and here the machinery of her emotions and intellect were spinning so fast the gears were stripping and no cohesive thought could find its way into production, so she settled for the simplest way to say it, reiterating her earlier statement, "He is so stupid."
She was in good spirits, my mom, on Mother's Day. Had I encouraged her further she would have told me her feelings about other politicians. She was against the new Democratic Dallas mayor because she felt the woman should be raising her kids instead of running for office. There is, I think, a Republican from Texas in the Senate or Congress whom my mother truly loathes, Kay Bailey Hutchinson (?). Back in the days when my father was a living pollster and they were invited to political functions my mother had been insulted by this woman's gloating manner as Kay Bailey and several women, including my mom, collected their coats from the guest bedroom. My mother wore a cloth coat; Kay Bailey wore some sort of exotic, or farm raised rodent-like, animal skin.
She told me my sister and family are coming from their Bay Area suburb to Dallas and Austin the last weekend in July, and it would be nice if we could all--from Arlington and Lake Highlands, and Austin, and Kansas, and New Orleans--meet and be like a large nice family, briefly. I was thinking well sure at the very least we could give that a try.
"Of course I'll come." After f-ing up last Christmas I am determined to be more family oriented. "I mean unless my name shows up on some list that has me consorting with known anti-government subversives..."
Filling in the pause after an appropriate number of beats, my mother said, "You mean me."
"I'm just saying."
"Well, you try to make it."
"Okay mom, Happy Mother's Day."
"Thanks for calling." (Thanks for answering)
Where Is Susan Cowsill?
I could not really see myself standing shoulder to shoulder in the full 90-degree sunshine with only a hat and maybe an occasional mist of water to cool me off so I stayed home the first weekend of Jazzfest and painted my kitchen. Occasionally I would look out a window and see that plane with its banner advertisement for Tequiza, which is a product I do not want to know anything about. And I could hear the motor of a blimp every so often, so it was like Jazzfest in my kitchen, except I was drinking a lot more beer than if I were at Jazzfest, and there are more trees around here than at the Fairgrounds. I had the radio tuned to WWOZ because they broadcast live some of the acts. I heard Astral Project, a highly reputed jazz group but not one I am that fond of. Gatemouth Brown, however, seems to be getting even better with age.
I have no idea why I picked the color I did, but there it is, there you have it. I could not tell if it was the beer or the brand of cigarettes I was smoking but at one point the color that now surrounded me seemed to be buzzing. The color, you are curious about it now, don't tell me otherwise, is like the yolk of a farm egg plugged into a 220 volt wall socket. I do not spend that much time in the kitchen so maybe this will be all right. Painting is what I do for a living and therefore doing it in my spare time is not always that enjoyable so the chances are better than good that the kitchen will remain in its vibrant state for some time.
I do not mean to snub Jazzfest and the myriad related musical venues around town for the two week period even though cover charges at popular clubs double and drink prices are like being in NEW YORK CITY. So after painting the kitchen I took a shower and went to the Mid-City Lanes Rock n' Bowl to hear Anders Osborne. He is a Swedish dude who wanted to play the blues and relocated here six or seven years ago and the best I can tell you is he is sort of like Sting meets Jimi Hendrix. He's good. His jams are about as far out there as you can get, but he always comes back with a little melody to remind you where you were before you left. That's assuming you left with him.
Did I mention that Mick Jagger has been inside the Rock n' Bowl? Which is to say I've never enjoyed myself there because it seems like whoever is in there, besides Mick, is waiting to see Mick, or something, I don't know, I'm not blaming them that, I'd like to meet Mick too, seems like an agreeable chap, but Jesus Christ man, if you can't leave Dallas when you leave Dallas, don't come here. Of course, if you're already here, buy a bunch of T-shirts, have a good time, buy a bunch of stuff, it's your world baby.
Okay, okay, I'll tell you what got me so pissed off that night. I’m just standing there, with my back to the bowling lanes, facing the bar, drinking bottled water, wondering how old those girl bartenders are, wondering if wearing Catholic school girl mini-skirts while selling liquor is legal. I have the backs of my knees pressed up against the edge of a molded plastic bowling alley type seat. It is my not so subtle way of saying I may need to sit down soon, I'm tired. It is the end seat I am protecting. There are four empty seats next to it. They have been empty for ten minutes before a group comes and sits down. Which is fine and good, until a guy comes and stands next to me, in front of his female, and slowly begins insinuating himself into my space so that he can worm his way into the seat I am clearly standing in front of. He did not speak to me or ask if he could have "my" chair, which I would have (begrudgingly) given him. He literally slithered his body up against mine and acted as if he were quite willing to occupy the seat even at the expense of having my ass in his face. With forced politeness I explained the situation to him. How I thought I might like to sit down soon, and then his buddy came into it and ludicrously explained how they had been sitting there and I just raised my hands, in defeat, moved over two feet, and spoke no more to them. At their soonest opportunity they took a group of seats away from me, and I sat down, talked to pretty party chick from Memphis, and her boyfriend, but got bored, and not being able to find a comfortable groove at the Rock n' Bowl, I left very early. I didn't see Anders Osborne but I had seen him for free back dropped by the Mississippi with tankers and sternwheelers moving by at the French Quarter Festival and that would have to be good enough for awhile.
The Rock n' Bowl is a good venue though, and I'm sure does not suffer from me not liking it. And 15 bucks for two stages, upstairs with bowling, downstairs without, is not so pricey considering the talent--Rebirth Brass Band, Rockin' Dopsie (that's Doopsie, he's pop rock rhythm and blues zydeco), Anders Osborne, and Ingrid Lucia (I don't really know who she is, but she's not generic, and I would like to hear her again; she was the soundtrack to the musical chairs ordeal).
After a six-month slowdown work got steady again. The boss and me went to work for his brother, still painting high end, but in Old Metairie this time, instead of River Ridge, and English Turn. Old Metairie is the closest affluent suburb and shares some of the New Orleans charm--albeit watered down and with apparent lesser depravity. But being old the charm is earned more legitimately than a few area imitators with much shorter histories. Also, it seems to be the highest concentration of beautiful people I have encountered thus far, so I may wash the truck, which as far as I can tell is the only thing holding me back from a complete and total discreet integration of Old Metairie.
I have even postponed putting oil in the truck to keep from spilling it on the area's most valuable real estate, where older homes are torn down for the sake of their 200-300 thousand dollar lots and then replaced with four to six thousand square foot two stories with brick and stucco exteriors. In fact I have ignored the truck's crankcase since that disappointment before Christmas when the dipstick was showing such an alarmingly high level of fluid--of course it should be just oil--that I had to reconsider a thousand miles of cross country travel. But I've driven it everyday since and only recently has the oil light alarmed me I might want to check the dipstick. There seems to be a little more smoke and of course the transmission still slips. And instead of adjusting the idle I just drive the (automatic transmission) truck with one foot on the gas and the other on the brake so at stoplights my foot keeps the idle up and I don't stall out. It does backfire occasionally. I haven't checked the oil yet, as of this writing. And the nails in the tires have worn away and a lack of a proper gasket between the manifold and the exhaust has me in the cab breathing gases that should be puffing out the rear pipe.
My second car has two flat tires and an undiagnosed mechanical problem.
I know, I know, where is Susan Cowsill? All the previous words are simply an avoiding of that simple question. I went to Howlin' Wolf Tuesday night between the Jazzfest weekends and saw local band the Continental Drifters, roots rockers, and they were good. And I may have most maturely put a cap on my six-month crush for former Bangle, eight year New Orleanian Drifter, Vicki Peterson on a night that had me acting out a role that allowed me to drink Bud and Jameson till two a.m. on a school night.
Probably marriage and divorce to leading male Drifter, Peter Holpsapple, was a hindrance to her having a happy career with the band but Susan Cowsill was sure missed at Tuesday night's show. Some people you just end up wondering about. I wonder where she is, Susan Cowsill?
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."
Fools Consultation
Sitting on a four hundred pound square of rough cut granite continuing with the theme of insanity as it pertains to survival in the inner city I am deep into retribution fantasy with my crack consultant when the female sculptor pulls up in her new Nissan truck and says, "having a block party?" I lamented the mail system's lack of proficiency in delivering her invitation and complimented her husband's recent public work (large house shaped piece constructed of half inch ship's aluminum with painstakingly detailed cutout work which sits now in the neutral ground on St. Bernard near the Gentilly/DeSaix intersection). "Is he famous now?" I asked in good humor and she said no more so than he was before and how art is not such a big deal in New Orleans and how he already has pieces in the museum, and I said, "well, I liked it," partly because I do and partly to be polite and partly because her husband seems like one of those interesting quiet type of persons, and she responded to the polite, yet obviously totally ignorant person, artistically speaking, with an expression that said well big fuckin' deal.
My crack consultant went inside to try and bum a cigarette and I waited patiently inside the haze of thirty or so ounces of Budweiser, gazing to one of the corners where a wheelchair-ridden living gunshot victim sat exacerbating the problem currently being discussed.
Sometimes you just have to talk things out and this is what me and my consultant were doing before he left, and continued to do when he returned without cigarette.
I was empathizing with him. And I'm sad to say I was because the subject is not pretty. He too has been seeing Travis Bickle in his mirror. The simple aggravation inherent to co-existence had put my friend on the edge of the brink. My crack consultant, in the most perfectly political correct manner, was seeing beyond the wheelchair of the man, and considering him full equal.
"Ima kill the motherfucker."
"Yeah, but the world's only going to see another jobless hustler done some terrible, terrible deed and that's all it will look like."
"I don't give a fuck."
"Well, you should. You can't set a guy in a wheelchair on fire. It's just not done."
"It's been done."
"I'm sure, but not in polite company."
"The motherfucker showed me the gun in his waistband."
"Yeah, that's why I'm advocating caution. You wanna dedicate your whole life, as defined by the end thereof, to the aggravating tendencies of some punk? 'Oh yeah, whassisname, over on Rocheblave, he got smoked by that Wheelchair dude who been handlin' him.'"
"He ain't handlin' me."
"I know he's not bro, but you should quit worrying if he is or isn't. He's pretty well punished already for being an asshole."
"He is an asshole."
"I believe you. So you wanna die for him?"
Later I called his retributive scheme half-cocked and he called my scheme ridiculous.
"I shouldn't be telling you any of this."
"That's true, you shouldn't."
He noticed an NOPD bicycle cruiser rushing up Bienville and said, "That's new."
"Yeah, for around here I guess, I've seen it in the Quarter (but I was thinking about Seattle)."
"I think it's about to come down."
"Well, it would be about time, if nothing else we have made clear through discussion that there way to many stupid sumabitches on the street right now."
Earlier I had with considerable more aplomb than I ever showed on Dumaine dealt verbally with the two young hustlers, the one of which has taken to calling me "white boy," in an effort to get into my good graces and hopefully, I think he thinks, become my sole supplier for something he hustles but for which I have no pressing need. I asked him not to call me "white boy," and suggested that being good neighbors was more important than feeding this young boy's drug kinpin delusion, and besides, whether or not I was one to partake in certain pleasures outside the law, as he insisted I was, was not something one would want to discuss on the street if one were hoping to instill trust in his clients. I did become impatient a couple of times and I guess with some condescending incredulity expressed an attitude of--Jesus Christ, who's teaching you kids today. I introduced myself by name and his little partner gave me his Christian name but bad boy gave me his street name. And then I bid them adieu.
To show me that he had been listening to my every word, and I must say it appeared he had been, he said to me, "so I can come by you?"
"No brah, you can't."
Talking To Travis
I don't want to be angry, uptight, pissy, threatened, compromised, psychotic. The summertime dude is popping into the picture. He's a dude that inhabits all of us around here. He is a temperature-related phenomenon. As the daytime temps rise with their humid luggage in tow, dude speaks out.
A young local person with whom I have had the utmost, minimal, peripheral contact is calling out to me from the street, while I'm weedeating the property, or--and all this just in the last few days--I've even heard him call out to the house while I'm inside--"Hey white boy." Today walking back from the Robert's around the corner at Bienville and Broad, a place I rarely go because the panhandlling outside is too overwhelming and if I needed another reason, the NY strip steak I purchased from there today was tasteless and tough. Of course that galvanized boat of boiled crawfish first thing entering might get me back. Anyhow, walking back from the store up Dorgenois and I hear the kid about a half block behind me, calling out, for the second time today, "hey white boy." The first time, this morning coming back from the Home Depot, turning into my driveway while he dawdles by on his bicycle, and he, waiting till he's twenty feet away says, "hey white boy," and I call out loud enough but perhaps he did not hear, "hey punk."
Now, I try to maintain a placid disposition towards the aggravation that must infiltrate our lives, but the audacity of this young man has really got me boiling. Travis Bickle talks back to me from the mirror. Oh god, please not that again. Give me a break, let me focus on the meager pleasantness of my simple days. I talked to my crack consultant and he said I should dress the boy down, which is exactly what I didn't want to hear because that's what Travis was saying too. We can always hope for an amusing anecdote out of all this or that this brief reporting is the anecdote, and all there is to it.
I had a friend in town some months ago who was similarly treated while he walked up Iberville on his way to the Rite-Aid at Canal and Broad. This crude appellative way of talking to a complete stranger is not appropriate in the least and I would have felt really bad for my friend except that he is one who visits regularly enough that in his case being called "white boy" by a black person on an isolated street in New Orleans is something he would eventually have to experience, due to the prevailing sentiment of the louder minority of the overall majority, and because me being here is somewhat stretching the lines of demarcation for this particular part of Mid-City. One must expect some resentment when one moves and lives outside the "natural order" of things. The black man has an historical perspective from which to judge the white man harshly just as the white man has a relation to his ascendants who throughout history have feared the man of color and moved in any direction which would keep them separate. Still all and all, and not discounting the harsher accountings of history, most people don't give a good goddamn about the color of someone's skin and are at their worst only paying lip service to the weaker judgements of their perspective races. This is what I like to think, anyhow. That is me explaining to Travis why certain actions should be curtailed lest they be judged in the simplest manner by the simplest minds.