Wednesday, September 28, 2005


For you bibliophiles out there, you might reflect on my mumbling about quietly missing New Orleans. At least I was missing the mythical Crescent City of my youth, the New Orleans of the Veaux Carre, of waking up drunk in Jackson Square with a bunch of my KA brothers after we had driven thru the night so that we could pretend to be sophisto worldly wise veterans. Childish... I know, I know. But that was all mixed up with my own Faulknerian emotional knowledge of the Old South as manifested in the wonderfully decadent city of New Orleans.

I was cautious of trying to retain the old pleasure I had... like remembering the imprinted scent of an old girlfriend after a bout of particularly athletic monkey sex. You didn't love her and you still cringe at the thought of leaving a sperm trail through her loins. Oh God! What will I do if she calls me next month with talk of eternal child support? Oh, no. Oh, no. Uh, tell me... why does it hurt so when I try to pee? She gave me what? Yeah, but she smelled so good as we rolled off and lay there puddled in the sweet smell of sex and cigarettes, of the licorice taste of absinthe all mixed up with the acrid taste of Jamaican tops. Sweaty sheets all twisted up with JOB rolling papers scattered all over the kitchenette table... last week's pizza stuck to the floor along with dirty bras and other women's panties. What was your name again honey? Where are we? Your place? This guy is your pimp? Jesus, my head hurts. Where are my friends? Bail? For what?

Memories of New Orleans weekend trips. My friend Dan Gilmartin and I once were sitting in a biker bar in Leesburg drinking shooters of tequila and talking about a trip to the French Quarter, then after closing time we found ourselves careening through the night in my elderly VW, singing tuneless riffs from Greatful Dead albums and talking about Rimbaud. Then waking up back in Leesburg after forgetting where we were going (duh... um... duh) somewhere in Alabama then turning around and driving back. Waking up sick and shaky with vague memories of girls with green teeth and hair on their tits...then doing more tequila shooters just to get the shakes down. Ice water and aspirin. God... I still hate myself. But the memory of the smells of the French Quarter are all mixed together with that frantic sex with ugly women and fear and then going out to Preservation Hall to listen to antique jazz while we pretended to be terribly cool and hip like... uh, you know... like Jack Kerouac or some such shit as that... Ferlinghetti and Ginsberg and Muddy Waters and all the rest of that lame white guy idea of hip. Sort of like pretending to know all the words to those lame lyrics to Bob Dylan songs. Sigh.

So... here comes some nightmare stories of dangerous evilness coming out of the stylized ghettos of the quiet nastiness of my childhood memories of the Crescent City. Gasp... then he was Paying for a blow job from some black French girl then we went to Pete Fountains place where we practiced being cool, then we took turns throwing up.

Ah... youth! And all that bullshit of evil New Orleans came creeping back to haunt my highly selective memories. Shit... I LOVED that dirty old whorehouse! And now it turns out that we were all PLAYED. Yeah. PLAYED! All that crap about babies getting their throats slit at the big football arena was just that... a lie. And there were no stacks of corpses there. Nope. Lies. Troops of gang thugs wierding their way through the ghetto streets... all just a bullshit lie. We... all of us twisted, sick, frightened white people were played by the media who wanted to give Bush a blackeye so badly that they were running a propaganda blitz that would have given the Weimar Nazis a case of amazed admiration. But they overplayed their hand. They overdid it. They were willing to just pass over the big lie and no one would notice that reality was not matching up with the Big Lie the MLM was peddling to the suckers.

But... a few of the papers admitted that it was all bullshit. And all the bloodthirsty, unrelenting bloggers of the internet never giving the MLM a breath to try to cover up their dopey attempt to smear Bush by making him the enemy of the people... hates blacks, drags his feet by making FEMA the boogeyman. How? Why, don't you know, Bush hates blacks.. especially the ones who are raping and slitting innocent babies throats while helpless women are starved and Republicans are holding them back. Huh? This has nothing to do with the gentle grace of courtly New Orleans. Where did this crap come from? Why... it's just a Democrat mayor and a Democrat governor in a state that is 75% Democrat politicians (you do rememer Huey Long don't you? Ah, the original kingfisher).

What makes me bug my eyes out is the certain knowledge that the poor president can't run again, but the Democrats are still trying to run against him. Will someone please tell those idiots that President Bush is not running for anything. He's just stumbling towards the end of his second term. What the fuck is wrong with those guys? Hey, you doofs... you're grappling with a whisp of smoke.He's not your enemy. You just hate him so bad that you can't think forward towards the NEXT election. Bunch of maroons!

Shit, we should take up a collection, pull on our beslobbered Go Gators/Kappa Alpha sweatshirts, clamber into my old VW microbus, and take George Bush to the French Quarter, then buy him a blowjob from one of those sweaty cajun girls who seem to live only in my jaded memories.