bankruptcy and broadmoor March 22, 2006
A delightful, cool, sunny day which I spent almost entirely within the law school. I had my usual classes, plus the last of a series of mini-courses about bankruptcy. Bankruptcy turns out to be one of those things I thought would be complicated but it’s easy. The guy who taught it was a practitioner and he was very funny. He couldn’t hide how easy it is. You just put all the client’s income, asset and debt information into a computer program and push the button. If they qualify for Chapter 7 bankruptcy, a smiley face comes up on the screen. If a frowny face comes up, ut oh!, they need another chapter.
The interesting thing for blog readers to know is that the new bankruptcy law, which is much friendlier to creditors and more bureaucratic for debtors, has been suspended for people on the Gulf coast because of Hurricane Katrina. The old law is still in effect temporarily. If you know anyone who is in danger of losing their house because they can’t make the payments, tell them to get a lawyer now.
The most interesting thing I did today was a favor for Steve. I took some photos for him, and it took me into Broadmoor. I drove back to school on streets that I had never been down before. The destruction from the flooding was bad there. By the time the water got to Broadmoor, it had picked up every piece of floating junk in town. Every fence and bush was smashed down. The streets look pulverized. The Exploder was bouncing all around. Some of the houses look like they were bloated from soaking up flood water. These looked like they had been picture-book homes full of young families. It was terrible to think of all they must have lost. Yet, the neighborhood was full of people. Workers repaired roofs, families pulled out walls, one house was being jacked up about 9 feet. Steve told me that FEMA will pay a very large amount of money toward jacking your house up. If I had a beautiful house in Broadmoor, I would definitely consider doing that. There were signs everywhere with the message that Broadmoor was coming back. I didn’t see many trailers in Broadmoor, but every day I see more in Carrollton and Uptown around Claiborne.
Speaking of Uptown, I guess the new stoplight at Broadway and Willow was some kind of cruel tease. It was off today and the 4-way cluster-fuck was back. I was thinking as I drove down St. Charles this afternoon that I really miss the sound and sight of the streetcars. I guess it’s a frivolous thing to want with all that’s going on, but has anyone heard of any plans to put the streetcars back on St. Charles Avenue? I hope I can take my grandson for a streetcar ride down one of the most beautiful avenues in America before he goes off to college.
Someone told me at school today that the Sugar Bowl is going to be sponsored by All-State. Well, ain’t that a coinkydink? I guess if you want action from All-State, call the Marketing department!
I don’t write much about Loyola Law School on the blog because law school takes up all of the time that I am not writing on the blog. It is a fine school, though, and New Orleans is lucky to have it. The law school as an institution and the individuals who teach there have risen to the occasion in the most admirable ways since Katrina. Dean Bromberger’s amazing feat in moving us all lock, stock and barrel to Houston for the fall semester is totally unique in the history of American law schools. Since we have been back, the law school has made itself a resource for people in the community who have been affected by this catastrophe. Here is a program they are putting on this Saturday morning. Please pass the information along to anyone who might need it:
What: Loyola Law School Clinic Know Your Rights - Katrina related issues
Where: Loyola Law School
When: Saturday, March 25, 2006
Time: 9:00 a.m. to 1:00 p.m.
Contact: Ramona Fernandez, 504-861-5592
The goal of the Know Your Rights Day is to educate the public so they may have a better understanding of the law and their rights regarding post-Katrina issues that are affecting our community. Issues to be addressed include:
Buyouts/Footprint
Contracts/construction/contractor
Credit and Bankruptcy
Criminal Law
Employment/labor
Family Law (divorce, custody & support)
Immigration
Insurance Coverage
Landlord/Tenant
Mediation
Mortgages
Notary Services
Successions
Tax
Worker’s RightsThis event will be held at:
LOYOLA UNIVERSITY NEW ORLEANS SCHOOL OF LAW526 Pine Street
New Orleans, Louisiana 70118
Corner of St. Charles Avenue & Pine Street
One Block off Broadway and St. CharlesOpen to the Public and No Registration Required
the exploder
I drive an old Ford Explorer that I inherited from my stepson when he went off to Princeton. Before the hurricane I was a little embarrassed to drive this car because 1) It’s a piece of junk, 2) It is incredibly inefficient and wastes gas so badly that I can see the needle dropping as I drive, and 3) I’m one of those people who hates SUVs. But, it was free and I’m a student, so off I go in my gas-guzzling rollovermobile. I was able to pack an amazing amount of stuff into it to get back and forth from Houston, where it gave me absolutely no trouble. So, the Exploder and I have made friends.
When I came back to New Orleans, I felt for the first time that I actually needed a big ole all-terrain, rugged, completely paid-for, unstoppable, sport-utility piece of shit with good tires to get around on what was left of our pitiful New Orleans streets. With people parking all over the place and driving like they’re in Rome, it also didn’t hurt to have a car that is more dings than fender at this point. It’s beyond worrying about.
Well, here it is March and the Exploder and I can finally report that the car-eating pothole at St. Charles and Pine has been partially repaired, enough that you can drive around it and not scrape the bottom of your car. One of the trenches across Broadway has been filled, but the other one is still there. Even better, there are now working stoplights at the usual intersections on Broadway, eliminating the last of the yellow-flashing-light/stop-sign combinations.
By the way, what’s up with that? Red flashing light means “stop” and yellow flashing light means “go slow,” right? So, if you put up a stop sign, shouldn’t you have a red flashing light instead of a yell…oh, forget it, we’ve gotten used to it now. Proper procedure at an intersection is to look at the faces of your fellow drivers and try to determine what they are going to do before you proceed. If they are distracted enough, pull out in front of them and gun it.
the anti-paradise March 21, 2006
Last night, Steve called very late from Hawaii. He had driven 2.5 hours across the island to take his brother to catch the red-eye. He was staying the night in the larger city where the airport is located, and so he had cell phone service. Apparently, it’s raining a lot on his brother’s side of the island, so it’s “very un-Hawaii-like.” They are predicting more rain, but I don’t think he minds for now.
The last time I talked to Steve on the phone was the night before he left for Hawaii. He described his brother’s place in a small town on the island of Hawaii, and what the weather was usually like, and he mentioned that it was hard to get a good meal anywhere and difficult to get good groceries and produce. He described it as being like the Carribean, but with better weather.
That night, I had a really fun dream about Hawaii, or my crazy dream version of it since I have never been there. Steve and I were in Hawaii in someone else’s house. The someone else must have been Cher, or an Arabian pasha, because this house was incredibly opulent. It was carved out of stone, and the windows didn’t have glass. You could pull the curtains back and just look out at the ocean. There is no lava in my version of Hawaii, it looks like California. Anyway, the dream ended when Steve and I realized there was no food in Cher’s house. I Insisted on looking in every room, but he was saying, “no, let’s just go.” I never found any food, and we got so hungry we left. A funny, unsatisfied dream, but nothing menacing.
Last night’s conversation with Steve should have made me have the same kind of dream. He told me about the volcano and how it constantly vents lava and there is a place where the lava flows into the ocean and you can see the steam rising from where the fire-rock and water meet. He said that the lava sometimes comes out in unexpected places, but it’s slow-moving and they bulldoze berms to try to divert it, which sometimes works and sometimes doesn’t. Few people know this, and now six more are finding out, but Dangerblond is a self-proclaimed, unreformed geography and earth-science geek. From way back. Go on, ask me anything. All this volcano-talk was enjoyable to me and made me want to see it. It was good to talk with Steve. He sounded good. He is coming for the first weekend of Jazz Fest and we are both looking forward to it. I went to sleep thinking that all was right with my world, or as right as it can be in March of 2006.
Then I had the most horrible dream, and it seemed like it lasted so long that I found out it was a dream but I still could not wake up until I heard the clatter of Katherine’s high heels on the parquet floors.
I was not in Hawaii, I was in New Orleans. I was not with Steve, I was with Shannon. It was Mardi Gras, but we were climbing the stairs inside a skyscraper, wearing costumes, I think. A black policeman was leading us up. I didn’t know what the hell was going on, but Shannon seemed to know. She was very suspicious of the policeman, but we had no choice but to follow him. After climbing about 40 floors, we came out on the roof. There were more people up there and it was like a party.
I was standing at the edge of the roof, and I could see a compressed version of New Orleans below me. I could see the Carrollton overpass and the bridge was right next to it. The West Bank was rolling hills in the distance. As we all stood there watching from this roof, the bridges and the overpasses, which were filled with vehicles, started to collapse. It wasn’t an earthquake, there was something wrong with their foundations and they were all collapsing at the same time. The drivers all tried to speed up and drive off before it collapsed, but the road fell out from under them. There were gas trucks exploding and all kinds of chaos below us. We just stood on the building looking at it, silent.
Then Shannon led us all back downstairs, which was about 2 flights down this time. We went outside and it was still Mardi Gras. We passed by people enjoying themselves. A band was playing on a stage that had an exploded truck on it. The band played and, thank god, it was the clatter of Katherine’s heels. The weirdest thing about this weird dream was that I could not speak at all. I could only look at people’s faces, and they seemed not to want to look at me. Ugh, a dream of powerlessness. Of being unable to communicate. Apparently, I’m also deeply worried about the possibility that New Orleans is standing on some pretty rotten foundations. I have no faith at all in the people who are making huge decisions for us right now. I’m filled with anxiety about how easily this next election could be fucked up. I think it’s inevitable that someone will contest the results, and I think it would be terribly destructive if a cloud of illegitimacy develops, like the one that surrounds Bush. I think before I go to sleep tonight I will visualize a landslide victory for Mitch Landrieu. Maybe that will take me back to Cher’s place in Hawaii.
journey to a humid civilization March 20, 2006
Dangerblond is getting over yet another allergy attack and can’t come up with anything tonight except random musings from a Benadryl-induced funk.
Loki from Humid City was nice enough to link to my posts about the garbage and to comment approvingly. I read his site daily. I wondered for a few days if I was too fixated on the garbage issue, or if I should just change the name of the blog to Garbageblond. Then, Chris Rose wrote a column in yesterday’s paper describing almost the exact same experiences and feelings I have been having regarding garbage and the importance of its timely, regular removal to the smooth functioning of civilization. Well, I felt better after that. If Chris Rose and I are thinking along the same lines, then that’s good enough for me.
I developed a close, personal relationship with Rose when I was in Houston. Every morning, I would wake up, put on the coffee and download nola.com to see if he had written anything new about the state of things back here. If there was a new piece by Rose, I felt he had written it just for me. When a few days went by without a new column, I worried that he had been hired away by the NY Times. After a while, I began to fret about the stress all this must be causing him. I wrote him a fan e-mail and then deleted it because I didn’t want him making fun of me to all the other columnists. I’m kidding, but I and my roommate seriously considered Chris Rose’s columns a lifeline during that time.
I also discovered a New Orleans blog called A Frolic of My Own. There is a link there to a very interesting, and very long, article about Mardi Gras 2006 by Matt Labash, writing for the Weekly Standard, Will the Good Times Ever Roll Again? He pulls a couple of boners, like saying that Kimberly Williamson Butler, god forbid, is the chief elections official for the state. I bet Al Ater would roll over in Fox McKeithen’s grave if he read that. The guy has an interesting take, even if he does get things wrong, and it’s worth the read.
Apropos of nothing, I’m still fascinated with Katherine’s taste in music. It’s like a trip down memory lane. In Houston, she played Journey’s Don’t Stop Believin’ and Faithfully every day, faithfully. She has an unhealthy fondness for The Carpenters. Since we’ve been home, she’s been listening to Dionne Warwick’s Burt Bacharach and Hal David Songbook. I hadn’t heard these songs in years and I had no idea that young people even knew about them. Upon hearing the opening chords, however, all the words to these songs came right back to me. Immediately, I started torturing Katherine by singing along, lounge lizard-style.
With Journey, I associate the memory of riding around in someone’s car, drinking beer and being bored. The Carpenters made me remember my cousin, Martee, playing the piano and following along with The Carpenters Songbook while I turned pages. The whole family would actually gather around the piano singing Carpenters songs.
Dionne Warwick was my mother’s favorite singer and she played the Bacharach-David vinyl LP until the grooves wore off. I knew all the words to their songs by the time I was nine. I remember trying to read the album covers. I imagined Burt Bacharach and Hal David living together in a big Hollywood house like the one where Sharon Tate was killed. I don’t think I thought of them as gay, I just thought they must live together so they could always just say, “Hey, Burt - listen to this….” They had a piano and a small stage, and they would invite Dionne over for dinner and then they’d sit down at the piano together and she’d go up in the stage and they would try out songs together. I remember asking my mother what “lyricist” meant and she said, “I don’t know.”
Cornball oldies music is making a comeback, I think. We have been watching Big Love, the new HBO show about a polygamist family. Their favorites are John Denver and Lynn Anderson. Along with garbage roulette, this trend must stop. Civilization depends on it.
the city that fast food forgot March 18, 2006
The Downtown Irish Parade drew a pretty good-sized crowd at Mimi’s last night, but not an uncomfortable crush of people. Although I think I have some Irish ancestry, I have to confess it’s been years since I went to a St. Patrick’s Day parade. When I was younger, I didn’t like all those old guys kissing me. Now, I’m older and it’s young guys wanting to kiss me and give me a flower. Well, that’s more like it - come to mama, Seamus. The Downtown Irish also have women in their parade. Quarantined in the back, of course, but still. They looked pretty hot, too, with formal coats, fishnet stockings and high-heels.
Since I haven’t been to an Irish parade in so long, I don’t know if the crowd was typical or not. Almost every single person there was white. Of course, that’s New Orleans these days. It reminds me of when Don and I moved to Covington in 1992. We never saw any black people anywhere. A few years later, we moved to Hammond, and the mixed population was one thing that made me feel more at home there. Nothing against Covington, which I love, but I like a diverse mixture of people and that’s why I eventually wound up back in New Orleans. Don has said that the Flood turned New Orleans into Covington. So far, he is right.
Other New Orleans bloggers have been writing lately about the fast food shortage that is going on. I’ve noticed this phenomenon, too. There is almost no fast food to be had in Orleans parish. The exceptions are McDonald’s and Burger King on St. Charles, and the Rally’s on Carrollton. More people are opening up every day, so I am guaranteed to be inaccurate here, but, a large number of fast food places remain shuttered, even in areas that are otherwise coming back to life. I don’t think a Taco Bell taco can be had for love or money in either Orleans or Jefferson.
Starbuck’s also seems to have abandoned Orleans parish. I hope this gives CC’s, Rue de la Course and independent coffee houses an opportunity to eat their lunch. When I first came back from Texas in December, the large chain grocery stores were still closed but Dorignac’s and Langenstein’s were open. I guess it was better for the bottom line of the national chains if they left stores closed for months. Meanwhile, if you are a local company, you have to re-open as soon as you can and start making money. If it hadn’t been for these local businesses, we would have been driving to LaPlace to make groceries until very recently.
Just one more reason to support local merchants. But, wouldn’t it be kind of fun if all we had in New Orleans were local merchants? It hasn’t exactly been a bad thing that dangerblond can’t get her hands on a Mad Cow Taco Burger. If I get the shakes, I can always go to Taqueria, which is a local company. Hey, Taqueria - how about a drive-up window?
garbage roulette II March 16, 2006
Today, I heard the unmistakeable sounds of a garbage truck coming down my street. I ran outside and, sure enough, they were picking up everyone’s garbage that’s been out since this weekend.
“Hi. Thank you for picking up the garbage.”
“You’re welcome, ma’am.”
“Is Thursday going to be the day now?”
“I don’t know. They got us all running backwards.”
“You guys work for the city, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You don’t know what day we should put it out?”
“No, ma’am, I’m sorry.”
“Well, thank you very much for picking it up today.”
“You have a good day, ma’am.”
So, it’s back to garbage roulette. The day you don’t put it out will have a 1-6 chance of being garbage day. The mystery continues.
arigato, arigato
Dinner and good conversation last night with a very interesting new friend, Will. I find it amazing and maybe a little bit refreshing that we are all being so honest with each other these days. “So, how bad has your life been fucked up?” has replaced the usual small talk and trying to impress each other. For Will, it was pretty bad because it included the loss of everything in his Lakeview home except a suitcase full of clothes. Like so many people who live in New Orleans, Will had been a collector. In his case, it was Civil War books. He had also lost his job, but I got the feeling the job was more easily replaced than the books. He evacuated with his cat, Mary Chestnut, who I suppose sounds just like Julie Harris when she talks. It was interesting to talk to a guy who is into Civil War history, but is a liberal. Very Louisiana.
Will is an attorney, and I surprised myself by talking in lawyer lingo with him. I guess the transformation is actually taking place. I feel like I have learned absolutely nothing about practicing law, but it appears I have gained more of a grasp of the fundamentals than I thought. Something must have penetrated the Martini-haze in Houston, imperceptibly to me. I certainly didn’t feel all lawyerly last summer. Who knows, maybe I was just thinking about myself all the time then, and now I am seeing what’s happening to other people and thinking about the recourse available to them. I find that my level of interest has increased, so that’s good.
This morning, Katherine cracked me up with her tale of the reopening dinner she attended with Jason at Stella last night. Scott Boswell, the owner, has trained under the Iron Chef, and the Iron Chef of France was the guest chef for the dinner. Katherine acted out the scene with the Iron Chef theme song swelling, the lights dimming, and the Iron Chef’s entrance, “Arigato, Arigato.” There was a huge Japanese film crew, and she belatedly realized that one guy had been zooming in on her decolletage all night. The twins are going to be famous in Tokyo, Katie! My photo of Katherine on Mardi Gras has received over 80 views on my Flickr page. Even if half of them are Jason, that’s still a lot of people.
Katherine also said that Scott gave a very emotional opening toast, thanking his staff and saying how proud he was to be reopening his restaurant in New Orleans. She said there was not a dry eye in the house, and I can imagine. Boswell is now on dangerblond’s good list, along with John Harris of Lilette and others who have been getting a lot of publicity, for making nightlife and fine dining in New Orleans the excellent experience that it is. Arigato! Arigato!
garbage roulette March 14, 2006
Judging from the publicity, one would think the most important thing that happened in New Orleans this weekend was the visit by Billy Graham. The elder Graham looks about as wiped out as New Orleans, but his son, Franklin, is taking over. Graham and his son are no fools. I’m sure their business raked in a bundle by using New Orleans as the backdrop for their latest evangelism pitch. The Grahams didn’t get where they are by giving it away, though I suppose some food was given out and maybe some cash. I’m certain the Grahams have prayed for New Orleans, but in theory Franklin or Billy Graham’s prayers for you or your city hold no more water with the Almighty than my Aunt Selma’s prayers. And she will do it without passing the collection plate. Their revival meeting was surely a fairly low-budget affair since all they are selling is good feelings, so it’s a cinch that (tax-exempt) revenues exceeded expenses. The Grahams came, they saw, they prayed. They mounted a very smooth and slick publicity campaign which reached everywhere in town to advertise their appearance. I was fully informed about it, and I hardly ever watch television and spend my Sunday mornings reading the New Yorker.
It’s been a few days now, and nothing has changed, except Billy Graham’s resurrection combined with the star power of New Orleans has raised his son’s profile and lent stability to the Graham brand. It’s too bad religious empires can’t be publicly traded companies. The Graham’s organization would be blue-chip. In fact, it’s too bad it can’t be taxed - it’s probably enough to pay for the rebuilding of Arabi.
I don’t mean to sound bitter. I feel like that time when I told my mother that Sally Struthers wasn’t earnestly appealing for money for all those poor children out of the goodness of her heart.
“Mom, she’s acting.”
“Kim!”
“Mom, has she been on TV lately, other than this? What movies has she been in? She’s taking any gig she can get.”
“I thought she was off helping poor children.”
“I’m sure she does care about poor children, but this is her business now and she is probably getting as much, if not more, money out of this than the poor children are.”
“You mean she’s just like Ed McMahon with those sweepstakes?”
“Yes, just like Ed McMahon. And Cindy Crawford does not dye her hair at home or use cosmetics from a grocery store.”
“Well, I knew THAT.”
“And the Marlboro man is an actor, not a cowboy.”
“Shut up.”
I guess I’m upset that even Billy Graham, on a direct line to God, couldn’t get something done about the garbage. My neighborhood looks almost normal. My street looks totally normal. Except that we’ve all got garbage piled up out front and we have no idea when it will be picked up. I’m talking about normal household garbage, the house-gutting ended in this neighborhood a long time ago.
I can’t even consider supporting Sugar Ray Nagin’s re-election when, at this remove from the flood and with people trying to return home, he can’t make sure the garbage is picked up. I know it’s tough. I know it’s a hell of a thing, man. But if you can’t get the garbage picked up then people can’t live here, and it’s as simple as that.
We have to come to think of “quality of life” as some kind of great set of amenities that you get when you move into a subdivision in Mandeville. That’s not so. Quality of life is not having to drive your own garbage to the dump.
In order for people to enjoy a life of any quality in a city, a few things are requisite. Garbage collection is right up there with keeping the lights on and the thoroughfares passable. The fact that there are fewer people here should make the garbage thing easier. Garbage day should not be a mystery to me and my neighbors. It’s not like we’re asking for the recycling program to be brought back. We don’t even care what time of day you get here. Just pick a day.
I’ve noticed garbage piling up in the Uptown neighborhood around the law school, too. Of all places, garbage around the universities needs to be picked up. A thought: if you pick it up early in the morning, students won’t be parked in front of it.
Those who know her well say that dangerblond is a woman of simple needs. It’s true. I need me a mayor who can get the garbage picked up. If I can’t have that, I need to know where to drop it off.
metal against metal March 13, 2006
Today started out much better than the average Monday, with phone calls and invitations so that the rest of the week looks to be shaping up very well socially. A lawyer friend discovered the blog and wrote to say how much he likes it. That makes six readers. The weirdness of today, though, began just after noon.
Fourth floor of the law school. Prof. G expertly intoning about redhibition. Students asking good questions. Suddenly, the fire alarm went off with a noise that was the loudest and worst thing. It wasn’t like an alarm siren, it was like metal loudly scraping metal. It sounded like the hammers of hell. Students yelped and jumped up, holding their ears. Poor Prof. G is also a musician. His face looked like he was in pain. He couldn’t speak. Hands over his ears. Everyone started to run out and leave their laptops, etc., then I watched them slowly turn around and come back in as they realized 1) there was probably no fire, 2) class was over, and 3) if they packed it in now they would not have to wait and return to the 4th floor after the all-clear. The alarm never went off as we all slowly went down the same stairway in confusion. I imagined how they would find us all after a real fire, packed in the stairway, still standing up, our hands clasped over our ears.
I came home with a crashing headache and took some Aleve. Shannon, Katherine and I planned to meet at Savvy Gourmet for lunch. As we three converged on Uptown, Katherine rear-ended someone - her first car accident. She called Shannon and Shannon called me, so we met at St. Charles and Louisiana. Neither of them were hurt, but Katherine was shaken up. Air bags did not deploy, so she wasn’t going very fast. The other girl was really sweet, with violet-colored hair and pale, beautiful complexion. UNO sticker on the back window of her car. She was trying to make Katherine feel better about having run into her. Katherine’s car was much worse than the other girl’s car and had to be towed. Katherine is very together about her insurance, so everything was easy, even without the police showing up. Someone brought her a rental car. While she waited, Shannon and I had a delicious lunch at Savvy Gourmet and brought Katherine a sandwich from there.
Finally I am home and the omens are clear. I will not leave the compound tonight. Katherine will probably stay with her mother. No music, just silence. It looks like it might rain.
if i could make a livin’ out of lovin’ you March 12, 2006
Drove to Lafayette today for Laurence’s Birthday Crawfish Boil. It was the kids, the in-laws, the former in-laws and the out-laws. Laurence used to jokingly introduce us to his friends: “I’d like you to meet my Real Mom, my Step Mom, my Biological Mom, my Surrogate Mom, my Spiritual Mom, my Second Mom….” I got there late, so I managed to slip by most of the adults like two ships missing in the night.
Laurence’s crew from the restaurant, Amy’s friends from work, and the neighbors and their families were gathered in the back yard. Almost everyone had little kids. The young women minded the kids while the young men tried to out-do each other making the best batch of crawfish. The tables were covered with newspapers and plastic. Maxine, a neighbor around my age, started a poker game. I remember thinking right after the hurricane that if I had to be stuck some place and unable to get home, there couldn’t have been a nicer place for it than Lafayette. It’s a very laid-back place, and the people have a very direct way of talking and looking you in the eye.
Jackson followed a little three-year-old girl, Lily, around while she picked daffodils. She handed him a bouquet. He looked at it and threw it down. Then he picked up a few and handed them to her. Lily stepped in a puddle and started screaming. I thought she had stepped in fire ants. Her mother came running over and said she doesn’t like to get wet.
Jackson played with the live crawfish and held them in his hand. Laurence says this is going to teach him not to be afraid of bugs. His parents peeled crawfish tails for him and he ate and ate them. I wondered if he has any idea that the grey-colored live ones are the same thing as the red, cooked ones?
Amy has a friend named Gretchen. Jackson calls her “Gigi.” She’s beautiful, with pale skin and black hair. She’s from Loreauville, and knows all about crawfish.
“She called me a redneck.”
“Who?”
“Amy.”
“When did I call you a redneck?”
“When I shot a possum off the power line.”
“Oh, yeah!”
“I ain’t no redneck. I’m a coonass!”
“Did you eat it after you shot it? Then you ain’t no coonass!”
I left right after dark. I turned on the radio. The choices were 1) country, and 2) western. I sang all the way home.
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I’d be a millionaire in a week or two
I’d be doin’ what I love, and lovin’ what I do
If I could make a livin’ out of lovin’ you.
