A New Orleans memory

While living in Mid City area, my place to gas up was the filling station on Esplanade Avenue, right on Bayou St. John.
One day, a brown Rolls Royce pulled to the opposite pump. A dapper man got out and proceeded to fill his tank. And of course, my big mouth had to say something.
"That's a good way to stay humble . . . pump your own gas."
The matching brown colored man smiled and laughed.
"That's about right," he said.
As I drove away, I read his vanity license plate. PIANO

photo by NoVARon

Holy crap, I just smart-assed Allen Toussaint, famed musician, songwriter and a favorite New Orleans son!


In the months and years ahead, we often found ourselves at the same gas pumps and trading hellos. He'd ask if I lived in the neighborhood and I would point across the bayou to Moss Street. I would ask if he enjoyed the recent Jazz Fest.
After I moved from New Orleans to live in Houston for a year and a half, I returned to my favorite Mid City neighborhood and found myself at the Esplanade Shell once again. And who pulls up to the pump but Mr. Toussaint! I was happy to see my famous gas station acquaintance.
"Haven't seen you in awhile. Where've you been?" he asked.

Gotta love that.

Be sure to catch Austin City Limits featuring Allen Toussaint, full episode HERE. Watch his post-Rita thoughts at the end of the show.

How to shock my neighbor

Before the even more retarded dog moved in next door, the other neighbor's little yappy dog irritated me with his incessant barking. After a few weeks of the new puppy's unnecessary noise, I told the neighbor dude, "Y'know, I grew up with dogs and adore them but for the first time in my life, I finally understand those stories about an unhappy neighbor poisoning the barking dog."
He stood there for a minute, trying to figure out if I was pulling his leg, bent over to pick up his incredibly stoopid Dachsund and said, "Wow, that's cold, Leezra."
"I didn't say I would poison a dog, Tommy, I'm just saying I understand it. And besides, poisoning would be more efficient than locating and cutting out a dog's voice box. I have a weak stomach, y'know."
His dog hasn't been in my yard for weeks now.

Duh! of the day - Louisiana is nation's laziest state

from Business Week ,
No. 1 Laziest State: Louisiana
Time sleeping: 8 hours, 44 minutes
Time watching TV: 3 hours, 5 minutes
Time relaxing and thinking: 29 minutes
Time socializing: 54 minutes
Time working (ages 15 and older): 2 hours, 41 minutes
Median age: 35.1
Obesity ranking: No. 5 (31.2 percent)
We aren't trying to beat up on Louisiana. Goodness knows, between Hurricane Katrina and the Gulf Oil Spill, the state has been through some tough times in recent years. But the statistics speak for themselves: Residents of the state (which happens to be the country's third-poorest) watch more television per day than any other Americans except South Carolinians. They also rank third for being the most social, which includes entertaining and talking with friends, family, and other acquaintances. The average time spent working among all Louisianans is shorter than all other states, according to the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics.
(Data compiled before the Gulf Oil Spill so does not reflect recent spill-related layoffs.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hells yeah, we're lazy!
First, it's hot as a crotch in July and twice as muggy.
For dudes, that means bat wings.
For chicks, it's crotch pot cookin'.
Plus, we're tired.
Tired from picking up roof shingles from the damned hurricanes.
Tired of waiting for the insurance adjuster.
Entitlement-sapped from picking up our FEMA checks.
Spent from picking up our BP checks.
Achy from picking up sacks of crawfish.
Bloated from eating MREs.
Pooped out from evacuating from storms and such.
Done from collecting ice from the nice military boys.
Fatigued from unloading and reloading the refrigerator.
Sweaty from digging our meat holes.
Bored over hating on dolls.
Exhausted from partying.
Dog ass weary from parading.
It takes a lot of energy to rant, bitch, hate and judge. Think your day is long? Try living with multiple personalities in your head and all of them pushing their own agenda.
But hey, we're also thinking and socializing and planning the next crawfish boil and parade so give us credit for pacing ourselves.
Business Weekly should give Louisiana a major fucking break. I'd kick their ass but that would mean getting off the sofa . . . and the ice in my adult beverage is melting . . .
so I'll catch ya on the flipside, Biz Weak.

Funny Ass Shit: Pervert on the phone

Y'know, every once in a while, my smart mouth serves me well, like the time an unidentified male caller asked for "Laqueesha" to which I informed "there is no one here by that name". He then asked my name and said I "sounded cute".

"You want to know my name?"

Yes.

So, I said, in a low tone at a volume just above a whisper, "I'm your worst nightmare."

A long pause followed by a "sorry, wrong number" was the response, along with a dial tone.


Freakin' out the phone perv? One of my proudest moments.

My grandmother asked

When telling her my man woes, she dropped this gem,
"Why the fuck are you crying? You're the one with the pussy!"

A Dad-ism

"Damn, if you asked her what time it was, she would tell you how to build a clock."

-- his analogy of the secretary's long winded answers

Why is that?

My friend Elizabeth asked the timeless question today:
The troll that is known as Rachel Zoe is on QVC hawking her wares. I would love to know why they are called caftans when you are skinny and muumuus when you are fat?

A day in the life, in Louisiana

image:knifecenter.com

I shouldn't have been surprised to see a local merchant proudly display the above product. It's called a "Game Processor" or a portable butchering kit.

All I could say was, "Dude."

The counter guy noticed and said, "Yeah, it's even got a rib spreader."

"I'm sure it's very handy to have but it's kinda, um, well, gory", I reply.

He shakes his head in assent, "Oh yeah, definitely. It's basically a serial killer trunk set."

What he said

Saturday morning, seven-year old nephew Gregory and I were in line to go down the waterslide.

"Hey Gregory, be sure to scream this time," I instructed.

"I did."

"No, Gregory, that was me. You didn't scream at all."

"You couldn't hear me because I scream in my head."

I laughed, "You do?"

"Yeah. I'm doing right now."

Worse thing I ever said?

While listening to the Mel Gibson rant filled recordings, I wondered if any of my words would haunt me . . .
Thinking the worst thing I ever said was to the alcoholic ass boyfriend. During a particularly frustrating weekend of arguments, I told him I didn't understand how he could sleep with both eyes shut.

"What does that mean?" he slurred.

"I just don't understand how you shut both your eyes and sleep, knowing how much I hate you right now. And knowing there's an loaded gun in the house. Knowing those two things proves you're not as smart as you think you are."

I should probably feel ashamed but I don't. Besides, he probably didn't remember hearing it.

As my pastor once asked, what good is suffering? What can come from it?
For me, it is empathy.
I understand why folks can scream hateful words or fantasize about shooting their spouse in the face.