Brother, Please Be Quiet 2.8.99
I have no idea from where I was coming but at the corner of Orleans and Carrollton I was almost all alone. Three boys, not really gangsters, but stoned out of their minds and carelessly carefree, are sitting on the broken down parade barricades just to the left of a car (me) sitting at the light in the left lane, riverbound. I am not completely oblivious to the spectacle that is me driving the beat to shit Festiva, a car of a size perfectly at home and somewhat respected in a place like Mexico City or some other developed third world, but pretty much an embarrassment anywhere in the USA. The ego unfettered is a dangerous thing, so the little red car is really this thing I got going for me. And me and the three boys are the only inhabitants of planet Earth. There is no traffic, of any kind.
"Look at that little car, brah, heh, heh," middle boy announces to left and right end.
Okay, so I'm not really completely dope free, and driving around town early Sunday morning with a self-concious weed high is a thing I still try to enjoy now and again. But I'm wearing cheap sunglasses so my condition is not as obvious as that of the three boys.
"Yeah its little," I say, obviously tired of being quietly self-concious, and also remembering the gangbanger who on Friday said "look at the white boy," as Van and I left Dumaine to fish the river. I rolled the window down and turned to look slightly behind and to the left at the dred-headed bitch who would not return eye contact, and said something lame like, "you ain't color blind, what else you got going?" Van was quietly occupying the 6' 3," two hundred pound space to my right and I can only imagine that he lamented his proximity to a white boy who talked so freely, and stupidly. I should be more prudent.
Like I was telling PVA after we parked on Rampart near the Iberville projects so she could see one of the cemetaries she had read about in her travel guide. The one for which the guide suggests caution and warns of modern day outlaws. And one of two which claim to be the burial site of Voodoo priestess Marie Laveau.
In trying to figure why I obsess on the crime angle of this city when describing it to visitors I can only count off in my mind the number off intersections to which are tied horrendous crimes. Bloody crimes that ended with death(s). Perhaps most visitors would rather smell the smells and see the sites without my crime scene editorials, but I rarely offer that
option.
Impossible to give even a short tour of this city without passing ten such intersections. And this is just the last few years. Who could give accurate testimony to the life of a New Orleans street corner over a hundred or more years? Horrendous acts and off the meter depravity are inextricable from what makes this city alive, and interesting enough to capture an imagination.
The study of life and death, up close and personal. The historical events emedded in the asphalt covered cobblestone of this city are staggering to consider.
Who spit, shit, shot, (who) on this corner in 1923? 1790? 1897?
Anyway, what I'm telling PVA is that she's been watching the wrong movie if she thinks there are any hero's when it comes to having a loaded gun pointed at your head so, "for the record, if we're jacked, give up all worldly goods with good humor and don't speak unless spoken to. More than a few victims have been unnecessarily shot just because they tried to run away or spoke out of place. My goal will be to live through it, and if necessary, in the event you are not as lucky, I will speak kindly about you to your survivors."
Which all sounds even more like a crock of doodoo when you consider that one, the vast majority of us survives the New Orleans experience, and two, for the second time in three days I am talking stupid shit to members of a rather volatile age group. That 15-25-year old group. And I think I'm getting plain weird with this one because I'm rolling down the window, hanging my arm out, getting conversational. The middle guy is freaking, and goofing, on me; the right end is seeing some merit in my mode of transportation; and the left end is
theatrically nodded out, mouth hanging open, eyes closed, which upon noticing, causes middle guy to break out laughing again, and stuttering a little.
I could have been sympathizing with the middle guy when I asked, "you're too stoned to talk aren't you?" But I wasn't, I was fuckin' with him, and felt like doing it some more but the light changed and I was forced to awkwardly glide away, leaving behind the words of a white cop, "have a nice day, fellas."
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I have no idea from where I was coming but at the corner of Orleans and Carrollton I was almost all alone. Three boys, not really gangsters, but stoned out of their minds and carelessly carefree, are sitting on the broken down parade barricades just to the left of a car (me) sitting at the light in the left lane, riverbound. I am not completely oblivious to the spectacle that is me driving the beat to shit Festiva, a car of a size perfectly at home and somewhat respected in a place like Mexico City or some other developed third world, but pretty much an embarrassment anywhere in the USA. The ego unfettered is a dangerous thing, so the little red car is really this thing I got going for me. And me and the three boys are the only inhabitants of planet Earth. There is no traffic, of any kind.
"Look at that little car, brah, heh, heh," middle boy announces to left and right end.
Okay, so I'm not really completely dope free, and driving around town early Sunday morning with a self-concious weed high is a thing I still try to enjoy now and again. But I'm wearing cheap sunglasses so my condition is not as obvious as that of the three boys.
"Yeah its little," I say, obviously tired of being quietly self-concious, and also remembering the gangbanger who on Friday said "look at the white boy," as Van and I left Dumaine to fish the river. I rolled the window down and turned to look slightly behind and to the left at the dred-headed bitch who would not return eye contact, and said something lame like, "you ain't color blind, what else you got going?" Van was quietly occupying the 6' 3," two hundred pound space to my right and I can only imagine that he lamented his proximity to a white boy who talked so freely, and stupidly. I should be more prudent.
Like I was telling PVA after we parked on Rampart near the Iberville projects so she could see one of the cemetaries she had read about in her travel guide. The one for which the guide suggests caution and warns of modern day outlaws. And one of two which claim to be the burial site of Voodoo priestess Marie Laveau.
In trying to figure why I obsess on the crime angle of this city when describing it to visitors I can only count off in my mind the number off intersections to which are tied horrendous crimes. Bloody crimes that ended with death(s). Perhaps most visitors would rather smell the smells and see the sites without my crime scene editorials, but I rarely offer that
option.
Impossible to give even a short tour of this city without passing ten such intersections. And this is just the last few years. Who could give accurate testimony to the life of a New Orleans street corner over a hundred or more years? Horrendous acts and off the meter depravity are inextricable from what makes this city alive, and interesting enough to capture an imagination.
The study of life and death, up close and personal. The historical events emedded in the asphalt covered cobblestone of this city are staggering to consider.
Who spit, shit, shot, (who) on this corner in 1923? 1790? 1897?
Anyway, what I'm telling PVA is that she's been watching the wrong movie if she thinks there are any hero's when it comes to having a loaded gun pointed at your head so, "for the record, if we're jacked, give up all worldly goods with good humor and don't speak unless spoken to. More than a few victims have been unnecessarily shot just because they tried to run away or spoke out of place. My goal will be to live through it, and if necessary, in the event you are not as lucky, I will speak kindly about you to your survivors."
Which all sounds even more like a crock of doodoo when you consider that one, the vast majority of us survives the New Orleans experience, and two, for the second time in three days I am talking stupid shit to members of a rather volatile age group. That 15-25-year old group. And I think I'm getting plain weird with this one because I'm rolling down the window, hanging my arm out, getting conversational. The middle guy is freaking, and goofing, on me; the right end is seeing some merit in my mode of transportation; and the left end is
theatrically nodded out, mouth hanging open, eyes closed, which upon noticing, causes middle guy to break out laughing again, and stuttering a little.
I could have been sympathizing with the middle guy when I asked, "you're too stoned to talk aren't you?" But I wasn't, I was fuckin' with him, and felt like doing it some more but the light changed and I was forced to awkwardly glide away, leaving behind the words of a white cop, "have a nice day, fellas."
- jimlouis 12-30-2002 4:30 am