Crawfish Boil.
I ran with the dogs last night. Shugee found an old movie projector and a cache of 1950s stag films so we had a crawfish boil in an unnamed person’s back yard. Shugee projected the black-and-white movies on a sheet. All the neighbors came over.
They do not do things like this in Baton Rouge. Only in New Orleans.
Even I, who have lived here for 13 years, I am infected with a sense of ain’t dere no more. Ars longa vita brevis. This is the New Orleans state of mind.
It was not a stag party. This is not 1953. It is 2023. Women were present. Things got pretty bawdy.
There is nothing new under the sun.
We are approaching the end of crawfish season. The crawfish are big and plump this time of year. They are juicy and their heads are full of brain fat. I still find them too much work and too messy to eat. A good time was had by all.
During intermission, the neighbors were throwing their empty crawfish heads at the sheet. This evening was getting rowdy as well as bawdy.
Mrs. King and I left early.
I had to walk Mrs. King’s dog. That is not a double-entendre.
I rode my bicycle to this wingding of a shindig. Mrs. King offered to take me home on her motor scooter if I rode sidesaddle. Always up for adventure, I accepted her offer. It was a wild ride.
The downside of this deal is that my bicycle remained parked at Winn Dixie overnight. Another adventure! I got to walk to Winn Dixie in the middle of the night. I will tell you what I saw after I put up the paywall.