Dead Man's Party.
I have a lot of good ideas of what I should be writing to you about over the course of any given morning. Unfortunately, I rarely have time to write them down. The dog is usually pulling me as we stroll about the neighborhood in search of the next interesting thing to smell.
I should take better notes.
So, instead of whatever interesting thing I wanted to tell you this morning, I am going to tell you about what is going on right now around me. More of the usual folderol.
That table where the four Creoles were sitting yesterday, now there are a young boy with his grandparents. My guess is that they are maternal, but, really, how is there any way to tell? I am just making that up to have something to say.
Only a churl would complain about the noise a boy makes when he gives his grandfather a tambourine he has made himself out of two paper plates, Elmer’s glue, dried beans, and jingle bells. A gentleman enjoys life’s little joyful interludes. I know I do.
Today, I will tell you what has happened thus far. It is 2:02PM on a Saturday.
I made an archeological discovery. I caught Mrs. King out on the town. I went to a dead man’s party. Then, I was invited to an off-the-record motocross race out in the East. That track out in the East is totally illegal. Nobody cares.
Bones were made for breaking. Skin is made for scars—-get them while it is easy to heal.
It is one darned thing every day in New Orleans. I don’t remember it being like this when I lived other places. I guess I have gone native.
I should start at the beginning rather than at the end.