Nine3/9/2000
You never know what you'll be good at until you gain the experience is what I'm thinking as I sidearm sling from the left side another dead cat into the bushes alongside the vacant Iberville dance hall which extends all the way behind the new property which I am currently renovating.
And reputations grow without any prompting--the skinny white dude is a dead cat recycler. Every time we put a dead one by the curb in front of his new house he scoops it up and takes it somewhere. That's voodoo.
I did not go by the new house or anywhere else on Fat Tuesday. Today after work I stopped by, knocked down a couple of ceilings, drank a couple of beers. Immediately upon arriving, however, I walked along the right side and stood in front of the broken windows looking for whatever my instincts were telling me to look for. Oh, bullet holes, shot through the few panes that weren't already broken, small caliber, .22, or .25. Now I'm not going to pretend I don't find this a little discouraging, but not all that much. With so many guns on the planet some will go off occasionally. And it happened on Mardi Gras day, a day of encouraged lunacy. As for the possibility it was a welcome to your new neighborhood type of message all I can say is this--bitches better come with something bigger than a .22, although, no kidding, a .22 can do a good bit of damage, from a distance, and especially point blank.
I think it's important to be cheerful, though.
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You never know what you'll be good at until you gain the experience is what I'm thinking as I sidearm sling from the left side another dead cat into the bushes alongside the vacant Iberville dance hall which extends all the way behind the new property which I am currently renovating.
And reputations grow without any prompting--the skinny white dude is a dead cat recycler. Every time we put a dead one by the curb in front of his new house he scoops it up and takes it somewhere. That's voodoo.
I did not go by the new house or anywhere else on Fat Tuesday. Today after work I stopped by, knocked down a couple of ceilings, drank a couple of beers. Immediately upon arriving, however, I walked along the right side and stood in front of the broken windows looking for whatever my instincts were telling me to look for. Oh, bullet holes, shot through the few panes that weren't already broken, small caliber, .22, or .25. Now I'm not going to pretend I don't find this a little discouraging, but not all that much. With so many guns on the planet some will go off occasionally. And it happened on Mardi Gras day, a day of encouraged lunacy. As for the possibility it was a welcome to your new neighborhood type of message all I can say is this--bitches better come with something bigger than a .22, although, no kidding, a .22 can do a good bit of damage, from a distance, and especially point blank.
I think it's important to be cheerful, though.
- jimlouis 11-28-2000 12:26 am