Another sign of normalcy
The return of most normal mail to New Orleans is something I’m not sure I’m ready to see.
I mean, it’ll be good to finally be able to get Food and Wine again (this is, of course, assuming the subscription hasn’t long-since expired. Hell — I don’t know anymore). At least in some ways. I like the recipes and whatnot (food IS my business). But at the same time, I’m not sure I want daily reminders about how neat and pretty and normal other places are. I’m afraid it’s going to be like someone sending me a daily letter that says, “See? You could move away from all this and things will be neat and clean again.” Used to be we took an odd pride in living in a town that was a bit grittier, funkier and askance from the rest of the country. But we had a choice. Now that’s just How Things Are. Maybe I can come up with a new magazine idea, such as “Flood Zone Living” with articles like “50 Ideas For Soggy Wallboard” or “Mold Spore Decorating” or something. It’ll also be weird to get junk mail again. Maybe instead of addressing it to “Resident” or “Homeowner,” they should send it to “Survivor” or “Psychophant.”
On another note, I stopped for gas yesterday at Broad and Canal and pulled up to the pump behind some guy obviously in town for JazzFest. He had on the requisite Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts and straw hat and was filling his Tennessee-plated rice rocket with gas. We both go to the booth to pay and we’re in line behind this late-20ish couple getting smokes or whatever. The couple gets their stuff and goes back to their car at a nearby pump. We’re not paying much attention when suddenly the guy yells at the woman, “JUST SHUT THE FUCKING DOOR!” which she does. Then we can see this guy going all Al Pacino on her. Not that he hit her (at least not while they were there), but both me and Mr. JazzFest took a step toward their car. The guy noticed and calmed down in a big hurry.
Jeez, dude — it’s Friday. It’s JazzFest. Life’s tough enough around here.
I hope she ditches the bastard.
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i let guys use the word “fucking” as an adjective directed at me once (”shut the fucking door.” “get the fucking phone.” “you fucking bitch”, etc). they get one freebie (and the look/warning that comes with it). after that, i’ll line him up with a row up guys and say “everyone who is my boyfriend, step forward - oh!…not so fast there, buddy…”