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."
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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."
- jimlouis 4-30-2002 11:16 pm