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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."