What's A Manner?
It always surprises me between visits those free roaming chickens that populate the immediate vicinity around Dorgenois and Dumaine, and this morning one of the hens was hovering near and instructing a cluster? of chicks who were foraging the leaf and trash strewn curbside as the sun rising behind me caught the humid air and gave proof to the theory that we live under water. "Do what I say, not what I do" is how I heard mother hen.
I think is was the character "Chef" from New Orleans in the movie Apocalypse Now who after being almost eaten by a Bengal tiger while foraging in the jungle on the boat ride to find Kurtz reminded himself adamantly--"Don't get off the boat, don't get off the boat, don't get off the boat!!!"
That's a feeling I sometimes relate to and is why I'm glad that reading is something I enjoy because it can be done on the boat. Here's a list of recent reads:
Farnham's Freehold by Heinlen--things aren't what they seem, more than once.
The Unvanquished by Faulkner--those who can, do, those who can't and suffer too much because they can't, write about it.
Forfeit by Dick Francis (former jockey)--he writes really well.
Primary Colors by Anonymous (Klein)--nice wording and pace and thought provoking too.
The Great Train Robbery by M. Crichton--great use of turn of century English street dialect, great anti-hero, nice characterization of different social classes, and at least one heartbreaking street scene.
An Invisible Spectator, a biography of a reclusive writer, Paul Bowles, and I haven't read much of it yet because I am currently a bit put off by the whole reclusive writer thing and that goes for you especially Jerome.
The Great Gatsby by Fitzgerald--I'm glad I waited on this one. He only had that one dream.
Empire Falls by Richard Russo--Russo is my favorite living author.
Those books, except for the Russo, and the Bowle's biography, which were hardbacks mailed to me by good friend, were all paperbacks bought for fifty cents a piece over at the Thrift store next to the Rockn'bowl on Carrollton and Tulane. So yeah I had to get off the boat to get them but a really good batch it was and worth the risk.
What about nourishment, slim? Sure, good question from the back row there. Well, I just do drive thru mostly. Doesn't that suck, slim? Well, sure, in a way, but it keeps me from passing out, which is a good thing I think. Don't you ever get off the boat for nourishment, slim? Ok, another good question from the back row, I was gonna ask you to speak up earlier but I'm glad I didn't, well, uh, yes, I do. What's it like for you, slim? Ok you cheeky sumabitch, it's like this, and no more questions from the back row.
Over at the Subway sandwich shop at Broad and Cleveland I was waiting to order a Club on wheat while a traveling salesman was hitting on my future Rocheblave postal delivery person (and who can blame him--she has nice bearing, and those eyes, ohmygawdhelpme, not to mention legs that walk a beat.), and these two goofy white frat boys are ordering in front of me and making a really complex thing out of ordering a damn sandwich (would you cut my bread the other way, and I'd like to pay for one of these with cash and the other one with credit), and the cashier is first looking just put out, which is a mirror to how I feel, and then she starts rocking back and forth, loosing her concentration, and saying things into that space where none of us exist, like,"--am I trippin?" And then finally her co-worker tells her to go on ahead and she rushes to the bathroom where we can all hear the highly audible retching. Which if I had to wait on frat boys all day (luckily an uncommon thing in this part of town) I would react the same way. As is sadly predictable the frat boys find humor in a situation that has none whatsoever. The one of them turns to me hoping for ally and I say to him without speaking--" I am closer than you will ever be able to imagine to reaching over the counter for that knife and making a sandwich out of your face." The salesman is quiet, and my future Rocheblave postal delivery person is also quiet. The retching continues as does the giggling of nincompoops. I had the opportunity once outside to back the cast iron bumper of my yellow beast into the shiny chrome of their obnoxious all terrain vehicle, but I passed on that.
Then, this morning I'm thinking I'll treat myself to a sit down breakfast at Besty's, Canal and Dorgenois, and so at six-fifteen I'm walking out my almost unblighted property on Rocheblave and across the weed choked vacant lot owned by those less than fastidious Pentecostal's, also of Canal and Dorgenois (and Iberville and Rocheblave for that matter) and on the sidewalk in front of the Auto Title Tranfer establishment is a dead black and white cat, which I'm hoping is not--although I have recently been wishing bad things upon--BigHead, or worse yet, the kitten, who is an adolescent now, but not that big, and its hard to say whoitis because the fur is well abraded and bloody and the neck is twisted and upside down and turned back looking towards the tail. A scene that has wild dog written all over it. So I'm on my way to breakfast and when I get there I'm surprised at how crowded and noisy it is.
Betsy's is a long standing white owned business in this predominately black neighborhood. Cab drivers for United start their day at Betsy's everyday, at about five-thirty. Then the neighborhood regulars, both black and white, and later, all the way into the afternoon, out of towners and out of towners accompanied by their hosts.
But this weekend was the final days for the Essence Music Festival and that brings in a lot of out of town black people, a good handful of which had found their way to Betsy's this morning, so that an establishment that is on an average day comfortably integrated (you know that for a "white owned" that has to mean more whites in attendance that blacks) was on this morning comfortably integrated with just a few of us whites. The young black men at the counter with me were respectful and respectable but had the styling and bearing of gangsters, probably the college educated variety.
So it was a different groove at Betsy's this morning, a joviality with different flavor and slang, less of the local white New Orleans New York working class sound and more of the national black homogeny of sound which hips and hops and might be just a bit cooler than thou. And a white man has to be so goddamn careful making any generalities about his black brother and I'm not really up to all that caution except to admit the obvious--my opinions are only that. Also Besty was a little manic this morning, decidedly uncool, worrying about people's movement between tables and trips to the bathroom as if a little unrest would rock this world out of orbit. I was only wishing the white regular sitting on the other side of me at the counter would stop smoking, stop hacking, and stop blowing the mucous from out of his nose, while I ate.
Any more questions?
|
It always surprises me between visits those free roaming chickens that populate the immediate vicinity around Dorgenois and Dumaine, and this morning one of the hens was hovering near and instructing a cluster? of chicks who were foraging the leaf and trash strewn curbside as the sun rising behind me caught the humid air and gave proof to the theory that we live under water. "Do what I say, not what I do" is how I heard mother hen.
I think is was the character "Chef" from New Orleans in the movie Apocalypse Now who after being almost eaten by a Bengal tiger while foraging in the jungle on the boat ride to find Kurtz reminded himself adamantly--"Don't get off the boat, don't get off the boat, don't get off the boat!!!"
That's a feeling I sometimes relate to and is why I'm glad that reading is something I enjoy because it can be done on the boat. Here's a list of recent reads:
Farnham's Freehold by Heinlen--things aren't what they seem, more than once.
The Unvanquished by Faulkner--those who can, do, those who can't and suffer too much because they can't, write about it.
Forfeit by Dick Francis (former jockey)--he writes really well.
Primary Colors by Anonymous (Klein)--nice wording and pace and thought provoking too.
The Great Train Robbery by M. Crichton--great use of turn of century English street dialect, great anti-hero, nice characterization of different social classes, and at least one heartbreaking street scene.
An Invisible Spectator, a biography of a reclusive writer, Paul Bowles, and I haven't read much of it yet because I am currently a bit put off by the whole reclusive writer thing and that goes for you especially Jerome.
The Great Gatsby by Fitzgerald--I'm glad I waited on this one. He only had that one dream.
Empire Falls by Richard Russo--Russo is my favorite living author.
Those books, except for the Russo, and the Bowle's biography, which were hardbacks mailed to me by good friend, were all paperbacks bought for fifty cents a piece over at the Thrift store next to the Rockn'bowl on Carrollton and Tulane. So yeah I had to get off the boat to get them but a really good batch it was and worth the risk.
What about nourishment, slim? Sure, good question from the back row there. Well, I just do drive thru mostly. Doesn't that suck, slim? Well, sure, in a way, but it keeps me from passing out, which is a good thing I think. Don't you ever get off the boat for nourishment, slim? Ok, another good question from the back row, I was gonna ask you to speak up earlier but I'm glad I didn't, well, uh, yes, I do. What's it like for you, slim? Ok you cheeky sumabitch, it's like this, and no more questions from the back row.
Over at the Subway sandwich shop at Broad and Cleveland I was waiting to order a Club on wheat while a traveling salesman was hitting on my future Rocheblave postal delivery person (and who can blame him--she has nice bearing, and those eyes, ohmygawdhelpme, not to mention legs that walk a beat.), and these two goofy white frat boys are ordering in front of me and making a really complex thing out of ordering a damn sandwich (would you cut my bread the other way, and I'd like to pay for one of these with cash and the other one with credit), and the cashier is first looking just put out, which is a mirror to how I feel, and then she starts rocking back and forth, loosing her concentration, and saying things into that space where none of us exist, like,"--am I trippin?" And then finally her co-worker tells her to go on ahead and she rushes to the bathroom where we can all hear the highly audible retching. Which if I had to wait on frat boys all day (luckily an uncommon thing in this part of town) I would react the same way. As is sadly predictable the frat boys find humor in a situation that has none whatsoever. The one of them turns to me hoping for ally and I say to him without speaking--" I am closer than you will ever be able to imagine to reaching over the counter for that knife and making a sandwich out of your face." The salesman is quiet, and my future Rocheblave postal delivery person is also quiet. The retching continues as does the giggling of nincompoops. I had the opportunity once outside to back the cast iron bumper of my yellow beast into the shiny chrome of their obnoxious all terrain vehicle, but I passed on that.
Then, this morning I'm thinking I'll treat myself to a sit down breakfast at Besty's, Canal and Dorgenois, and so at six-fifteen I'm walking out my almost unblighted property on Rocheblave and across the weed choked vacant lot owned by those less than fastidious Pentecostal's, also of Canal and Dorgenois (and Iberville and Rocheblave for that matter) and on the sidewalk in front of the Auto Title Tranfer establishment is a dead black and white cat, which I'm hoping is not--although I have recently been wishing bad things upon--BigHead, or worse yet, the kitten, who is an adolescent now, but not that big, and its hard to say whoitis because the fur is well abraded and bloody and the neck is twisted and upside down and turned back looking towards the tail. A scene that has wild dog written all over it. So I'm on my way to breakfast and when I get there I'm surprised at how crowded and noisy it is.
Betsy's is a long standing white owned business in this predominately black neighborhood. Cab drivers for United start their day at Betsy's everyday, at about five-thirty. Then the neighborhood regulars, both black and white, and later, all the way into the afternoon, out of towners and out of towners accompanied by their hosts.
But this weekend was the final days for the Essence Music Festival and that brings in a lot of out of town black people, a good handful of which had found their way to Betsy's this morning, so that an establishment that is on an average day comfortably integrated (you know that for a "white owned" that has to mean more whites in attendance that blacks) was on this morning comfortably integrated with just a few of us whites. The young black men at the counter with me were respectful and respectable but had the styling and bearing of gangsters, probably the college educated variety.
So it was a different groove at Betsy's this morning, a joviality with different flavor and slang, less of the local white New Orleans New York working class sound and more of the national black homogeny of sound which hips and hops and might be just a bit cooler than thou. And a white man has to be so goddamn careful making any generalities about his black brother and I'm not really up to all that caution except to admit the obvious--my opinions are only that. Also Besty was a little manic this morning, decidedly uncool, worrying about people's movement between tables and trips to the bathroom as if a little unrest would rock this world out of orbit. I was only wishing the white regular sitting on the other side of me at the counter would stop smoking, stop hacking, and stop blowing the mucous from out of his nose, while I ate.
Any more questions?
- jimlouis 7-08-2001 3:43 pm