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Brainless Pleasure
You know, if you don't own one, not watching TV is not really much of an accomplishment, or even that much of a laudable preference, I think, because you are never testing your implied conviction that not watching TV allows you to make better use of your time. I say this with all the vehemence of a person who had more or less gone twenty years without a TV in residence and then just went out and bought a five-inch black and white. This year I wanted to watch, instead of listening to on the radio, the New Orleans Saints football games. I really wanted to indulge in a simple brainless pleasure; is that so wrong?
At the risk of sounding as tedious and overbearing as a born again Christian or a recent non-smoker who acts all disdainful of his former nicotine soaked buddies (by the way, its been one thousand four hundred and eighty-eight days since I have smoked any kind of tobacco), I say to you my non-TV owning brethren, get off your mescaline soaked high horses and plop your asses down on that couch. I say mescaline soaked because it just popped into my head. I'm lying. I heard it on TV. I haven't been able to limit my viewing to just Sunday football games. I have watched a few other programs, occasionally bordering on what you might call faithful viewing. I sometimes forget to be faithful though, if I'm reading, or tranced out. One of the new shows I would see countless promotions for and thought looked ridiculous was Push, Nevada. But after watching the first episode--I had come out of a trance state and had time to kill--I thought the show might have promise. One of the characters asked the lead character, a perpetually befuddled, earnest, truth seeking IRS investigator (what a great idea for an anti-hero), if he had received mescaline as a painkiller for the tattoo he had just gotten. It's like that Monty Python bit--"...I think there's too much sex on television, I mean, I keep falling off...," except this one goes--I think there's too much mescaline on television, I mean, I keep tripping over it. Thank you, thank you very much.
For the purposes of this particular piece of preposterous babbling I'm pleading innocent to knowing anything about mescaline. I learned about it on TV is what I'm telling you. TV provides education as well as brainless pleasure. Go on, go on out and get you one. Saints are 6-1.
Positively Puzzling 7.22.98
Poochie's four year old daughter, Shentrell, and Shentrell's cousin, Erica, and her nine-year old uncle, Marqin, are
pestering me for a puzzle when I come home yesterday.
"I'll have to ask M," and when I do I agree with her that someone will have to be
with them or our dwindling supply of donated puzzles will be one less because
by act of God or just common carelessness the puzzle will be lost, stolen, or
destroyed, if two four-year olds and a nine-year old are not somewhat
supervised.
And neither M nor I are interested in heat of the day porch sitting.
And that is exactly what I eloquently explained to Erica, Shentrell, and
Marqin.
"So go get us one Mr. Jim," Erica said.
"I know you wouldn't lose it on purpose," I go on, gently and expertly.
"Which one you gonna bring out," Erica demanded to know.
"Yeah, bring the puzzle, Jim," Shentrell said.
"We won't lose it really, Mr. Jim," Marqin said.
And this goes on for awhile until they have me where they want me--broken,
unsure, and full of self-doubt, the three sisters of invention, so I relent,
crafting as I go.
"OK, I'll get one, but not one of the one's you really like, and if you all
three can play together nicely and not destroy the puzzle, then maybe on
another day I will let you play with a good one."
"Yea," they exclaimed.
And then, just for the hell of it, I give Marqin some explicit instructions,
and shut the door.
About an hour later the doorbell rings, and rings, and rings, some knocking,
and more ringing. "I'll get it," I said to myself.
I open the door and the three of them are stark raving mad with bubbling
enthusiasm.
"Here it is Mr. Jim, we didn't lose it, see," Marqin said to me with big teeth
smiling.
"Yeah, we thought we lose two pieces but we sittin' on 'em," Erica stammered.
"We sitting on 'em," Shentrell giggled.
"Erica was sittin' on one, and Shentrell sittin' on the other," Marqin
explained.
What a bunch of nerds, I thought.
"You are the greatest children in this whole world, and I am happy to know
you," I said.
Erica and Shentrell offer me kisses which I gladly accept, and thanking Marqin
I began shutting the door while pushing Shentrell's tiny hand from the jamb.
And tonite's play on Dumaine was as pure as this life will offer, but I don't
have the words for it.
A Guarded Good Morning 7.19.98
Heading for the river at 7 a.m. I see as I cross Bourbon and then Royal, on St.Peter,
an ambulance and some victims at the corner of Chartres--fat white brawling
tourists, and their blood, begin dotting the sidewalk. Following the drops I come to the
motherlode spot, ouch, and glance over to see a victim shimmied onto a
stretcher. And a pile of poop steams at the base of a no parking sign, the
obligatory vomit and the urine and beer make the sidewalk slick. And plastic
cups and paper fill the gutters
Heading home over flagstone with the Pontalba on my left and the wrought iron
of Jackson Square to my right. A black woman about my age in colorful ethnic
garb is sitting in the area reserved for artists and fortune tellers. The area
surrounding her on the bench is filled with treasure laden shopping bags.
Fifty feet away and I have entered her space and acknowledged her presence in
an offhanded way. At twenty feet I make shaded eye contact. Her eyes are
more tired and experienced than mine. Her expression is guarded, hopeful, and
resigned. And I know what she means by that and it makes me smile at her, and
say, "good morning." She returns my smile and years drip off her face, for
but a second, and then its gone, as if her cheek muscles, unpracticed and out of
shape, cannot bear the weight of momentary happiness.
I Saw Movies
I've seen some movies this summer. Here's what I think.
Down here in New Orleans, where men are men, except in the Quarter, where sometimes men are women, and you start questioning your sexuality, or the just the general idea of sexuality, because you really couldn't tell the difference, obviously you couldn't, the way you were staring at that woman (who turned out to be a man), surely a manly man could tell the difference, and eventually you console yourself with some laissez faire rigamarole like its only a chromosome or two separating the sexes anyway so don't be so hard on yourself, live and let live, go to a chick movie if you want. And back and forth and back and forth I went just to get up the nerve to go see Possession with Gwyneth Paltrow. I have two words for the movie: ick.
After all that though (my indecisiveness concerning Possession went on for days), I was all steeled up, so it was nothing at all for me to go see The Good Girl with Jennifer Anniston. Two observations: pretty damn accurate portrayal of housepainters, and, Jennifer Anniston is ok when she's not on TV.
Staying with the theme of chick movies I also this summer saw XXX with Vin Diesel. Vin, as you may know, is a homosexual. I read that on the cover of a tabloid at the grocery store. I went to work with that news and said, "Jerry, did you know that Vin Diesel is a homosexual?" Jerry said, "No, Come on!!??" "Jerry," I said, "live and let live man, what do you care who the man buggers?" Jerry said, "I really don't care, I liked that last movie." So there you have that.
I didn't see Like Mike but I recommended it to my friend from France and she, stranded for seven days in Dallas, took her 12-year old son who is a basketball and hip hop fan. They thought it sucked. Too Disney-like. Time constraints, at least, prevented them from accepting my offer to round up some of the Dumaine kids for a street game during their short visit here last month. And I'm sure Cadillac Shelton would have consented to blaring the rap from his most adequate sound system. His taste in modern urban music--like I'm any kind of judge--is actually pretty decent. Of the crowd that would have likely been sitting on stoops that night, one is dead from a (possibly suicidal) motorcycle crash at the corner of Galvez and Orleans, one has seven recent bullet holes in his body, and one is in jail for car theft, a count of murder, and two counts of attempted murder. Nothing Disneyesque about the Sixth Ward of New Orleans.
Road to Perdition was slick, maybe a tad too slick, and stylized, but I liked it, at least partly, if not altogether, for the same reason I liked A-I--that reason being--Jude Law.
Speaking of Tom Hanks, I saw the Greek Wedding flick, because Jerry at work said he laughed his ass off. Jerry is dating. People who date tend to laugh their asses off for reasons that are not entirely clear to the rest of us. But single people, like myself, huddled alone, by themselves, wallowing in singularity, attempting to assure themselves that singularity is greaaat, require actual funny material to make them laugh. I did not laugh my ass off but did not either feel like I should be refunded my money. I'm happy for the lotto-esque success of the Greek standup comic/female lead.
I saw some other stuff, can't remember it though, but can say with the utmost certainty that it was all either ehh ok, or, hey man who you think you dicking with laying off crap like that? Oh yeah, Signs, with Mel Gibson, two words--yawn.
And Slim really liked Undercover Brother, gives it his one very enthusiastic double jointed thumb up.
The Mean Month
I'm hearing that distant helicopter again. Last night the search light blasted briefly through my undraped windows; it was better than the effect of a disco ball, even if I don't dance. I judged the distance by the muted sound of the chopper. Chopper is slang for helicopter. It is also what the local youth of the street call the fully automatic weaponry--some hybridization or bastardization of the Israeli Uzi or the Russian AK-47--that is so prevalent on their streets. But let's not talk about modern aviation and weaponry.
On Monday, with primitve motive and that relatively primitve butcher's knife, two youngsters, brothers they were, murdered a college student on Fourth and Magazine in the Irish Channel, adjacent to the Garden District. The student had adopted the admirable but bad habit of allowing those in need to come to his door for small monetary handouts. The girlfriend upstairs heard the boyfriend say he didn't have any money to give, she heard a struggle, went down, saw the two brothers carrying the student by his hands and feet, she then ran back upstairs and locked herself in the bathroom and dialed 911. When the police came they found the front door open, the boyfriend dead with two stab wounds in his chest, and apparently a couple of minor items stolen from the house. The girlfriend was noted to be (understandably) hysterical. Ten thousand dollars quickly added to the standard Crimestopper's reward (you can remain anonymous, identified by a file number, and don't have to testify in court) had the brothers dimed out and in jail within 24 hours. A third brother was arrested the next day for accessory after the fact--letting the brothers hide in his crib.
On Wednesday a major drug sting in the Iberville Projects (bordering the French Quarter to the north) culminated with 14 arrests. Police also collected 100 pounds of weed, 1.5 kilos of heroin, a few hundred rocks, 250,000 dollars in cash, and a tractor/trailer. A product of the First (police) District himself, new police chief Eddie Compass III remarks that the drug activity in and around the Iberville projects was directly related to the high murder rate for that area--25 per cent of the First District's 44 murders for the year have occurred in or around the Iberville. He boldly, perhaps too brazenly, stated that we will see a drop in the murder rate in that area. There have been two, possibly three murders near the Iberville in the three days since he said that, but we can still hope for better days.
For his part Chief Compass is determined to do more than just hope. He has enlisted the help of the state police and for a few days now there have been joint operations in the city's high crime areas. I assume the helicopter with the spotlight is part of that.
I am grateful for the efforts of the previous chief, Richard Pennington, who after losing his bid to be mayor, accepted the top job with Atlanta's police department. He did in his years here unquestionably bring improvement to a department nearly crippled with corruption. And he promised to cut the murder rate in half, and he achieved that. What I have lately come to realize though is that that promise was a bit of political snow (blow) job to ease the minds and hearts of the New Orleans citizenry, and which was at least somewhat calculated, I think, to pad the resume of a basically very decent guy with high ambitions. He was playing with a fairly obvious spike in the murder rate graph. The 420 murders that year were statistically very unlikely to recur, with even the slightest intervention from an improved police force. All I'm saying is--at the time it seemed like a remarkable thing to promise and when the promise came to be, we all got blinded by the apparent greatness of the accomplishment. We loved our chief. I don't know jack about statistics but I think what we have been left with here is something that goes by the title--the mean numbers. How appropriately descriptive that is. And I think our beloved chief knew that is what he was promising us.
Bottom line though, Richard Pennington was good for this city at a time when only an outsider could have affected the necessary changes. Now though, with our mean numbers to deal with every year, we are lucky to have a hometown boy in the trenches. I think Eddie Compass will be part of brighter future for this city. He's seen enough. We've all seen enough.
On Thursday, Eric McCormick, a young man I have known for several years, and have referred to by various names, was, while in jail for car theft, booked on one count of murder and two counts of attempted murder for an incident in New Orleans East back in December. His younger brother, Glynn, is one of the core Dumaine kids I used to spend time with each Sunday, and still see ocassionally.
On Sunday in the BW Cooper projects a crowd of nearly 200 people gathered to celebrate the murder of that project's most unfavored son, Alexis "Slam" Williams. While his family wept, word of the killing moved quickly throughout the complex and people came in numbers, kids eating candied apples and snacks, and adults drinking beer, as they gathered around and rejoiced at the sight of Williams' dead body under an oak tree. Suspected of several but charged with only one murder himself, Alexis Williams was a person no one would testify against.
On Monday, the Times Picayune's editorial department ran a scathing indictment against those people who celebrated the William's death.
On Thursday Leonard Pitts of the Miami Herald ran a column also lamenting the behavior of the residents of the BW Cooper (aka. Calliope) projects. He yearned for a day when such residents might gain the "intestinal fortitude" to deal with the Slam Williamses of the world by turning to the police before circumstances lead them to behave in such unkindly fashions as murder and celebration thereof.
Several days passed with no murderous crime reported. It is these days which keep the NO murder rate down as an end of year number. Which keeps this city in the top ten per capita murderville every year, but not number one.
Then tropical storm Isidore came through and dropped 25 inches of rain. The Wednesday before landfall the heaviest rains hit and I watched from my windows and front porch as Iberville Street, and half of my block of Rochebalve Street, flooded mildly. Three or four inches of standing water in my back and side yard were all there was at Rocheblave. I was at Dumaine today (Friday, long enough to realize the A: drive wouldn't accept my movie reviews, so nothing for the dmtree, but did not ask any of the ten or twelve teenagers residing therein how high the waters got. I did remind Glynn that his St. Louis Rams have lost eight in a row, but Glynn remained hopeful and loyal, which is a thing I greatly admire about him. He did not think my suggestion that perhaps Kurt Warner's contract with the devil having expired was a theory worth considering. It did not hold water, in his opinion.), and I could see the ruts in the grass of the neutral ground on Broad Street which prove the water got high enough to scare people to park their cars up there, a six inch advantage which often is all the difference between dry car and flooded, stinky carpeted car.
In the Wednesday-Thursday twenty-four hour period during which Isidore was all the worry, there did occur six murders. I have done the per capita comparison to a large city like New York before; in this case it would calculate out at 120-140 murders in a single day. Which I think would be world news. (Would link in nicely with the assassination style murder madness in DC/Maryland occurring a few days after this. I can't help hearing Barbara Walters reporting "tonight on 20-20, Madness in America, what is weely going on?")
One of the NO dead was a 7-year old kid named Ishmael, who while trying to protect his mother from being beaten by her 49-year old boyfriend was chased from the house by boyfriend and then repeatedly stabbed in the chest until dead, in broad daylight while stunned church-goers watched.
And the only reason the murder count wasn't 7 in a 24-hour period is because the gun jammed when the alleged gunman, 19-year old Bryan Nelson, fired at Amy Briede as she lay on the floor of her home in Fabourg St. John (near the Bayou St. John and the Fairgrounds), next to her husband Christopher, who had just been executed with a gunshot to the chest. Amy had been carjacked to the nearest ATM on Broad Street and was then brought back to the house where the gunman's accomplice(s) held hostage her husband. The click of the gun was her salvation, and she lives.
The hurricane Lili produced a frightening lot of wind. Between the two storms the most notable violence was the surviving of a man on N. Villere, in Treme, who was shot twenty-five times.
Invariably, those artists and celebrities of the cinema that come here from elsewhere, and are famous enough to be quoted, say the same thing when speaking about the unspeakable allure of New Orleans. They, each and every one, use the word "Ghosts" to describe what they most notice about this place. And they got that right. In many cases the blood is barely yet dried when they walk around that corner where reside the spirits they talking about.