New Orleans. Need I say more?
Two words can contain more than they can hold. The human experience is a cornucopia. Feast on the fruits. In New Orleans, juice drips off the chin.
Catch a wish. New Orleans will justify your love.
Mrs. King and I went to Fatma’s Cozy Corner for breakfast yesterday. The back room was bedecked with creepy paintings. I am going to get in touch with the painter. Great minds think alike.
Fatma’s Cozy Corner used to be Ruth’s Cozy Corner. It is located in a shotgun house in Treme. One block away from Tuba Fats Square and the Backstreet Cultural Center, on N. Robertson Street.
Today, Mrs. King and I had breakfast at Elizabeth’s. We had breakfast with Dr. Bob, or, rather, we had breakfast in the same room as Dr. Bob. As a small-scale celebrity, myself, I do not bother people who are trying to enjoy a newspaper and a meal. Dr. Bob was reading the Times-Picayne. He ordered a cup of coffee and a plain waffle.
Dr. Bob’s studio is around down the street from Elizabeth’s. Elizabeth’s, like Dr. Bob’s compound, is festooned with his artwork. Both are on Chartres Street. You just mispronounced Chartres.
I do not think Dr. Bob can draw to save his live but he makes a good living. I admire a painter who can laugh all the way to the bank. Rodrigue was like that, too, but on a larger scale. Rodrigue is dead, of course, but his family is living off his legacy.
As Python Lady noted the other day, just because someone is the most interesting person in the room, that does not give other people open permission to bother that person. You can imagine what happened that made her bring it up to me. It happens all the time.
Boy George had to perform an intervention this morning, before Mrs. King and I went to Elizabeth’s for breakfast (it has been a very busy day, today, like most days). This was when I was by myself, at Klub Kayla, while the sun was still in the Eastern Time Zone. Some kind of kerfuffle happened and two people wanted to talk to me about something. I forget what nonsense it was, a tempest in a go-cup. Boy George had to tell them, “He is trying his best to be polite but he really doesn’t care about any of this and he just wants to be left alone.” And, with that, I was left alone to read my book and make notes undisturbed.
On our way out of Elizabeth’s, Dr. Bob waved to me. I tipped my fedora in the doctor’s direction.
And, then, something else happened.