Movements.
Nothing seasons a meal quite like the piquant taste of rueful disappointment. If you are curious why I rarely eat out, you now know why. Mrs. King and I were supposed to have lunch at II Tony’s today but, once again, events have conspired to interupt the best-laid plans. Tomorrow is always a day away.
I saw New Orleans heart beating in the sky this morning. Were you awake then?
What is rolling around amid the loose marbles of my mind today? We shall see. I have something I want to discuss behind the paywall, but there is more than enough time to get to that. I lack anything to do before 2:00PM, which is three hours away from here and now.
I rarely wonder why people subscribe to receive these letters. This is not because I find my life endlessly fascinating, so, how can you help but be fascinated? Rather, I figure your motives are none of my business. The human heart holds unfathomable mysteries, as I observed to Mrs. King this morning.
There is a song on the radio right now. I think it is Amy Winehouse, though it may be Winegarden. I know her first name was Amy. She is dead. I think she died of a heroin overdose. Now there is a Lizzo song. I only know this because Python Lady told me it is Lizzo. All I know about Lizzo is that she is famous for being fat.
We have just exhuasted my knowledge of popular music. I wish someone would put on the Depeche Mode station. Life is full of petty, predictable disappointments. I wish I had more pull around here. I am good for business, after all, an oasis of calm at the end of the bar, contentedly reading my Wall Street Journal as I watch the rat race in constant locomotion.
Ah. This is what I wanted to talk about while I was walking Mrs. King’s dog this morning. I was thinking about movements, so I will title today’s missive that. Movements.
I was not talking about bowels or symphonies. I want to hold your attention. I am talking about the rhythm of a New Orleans day, which, I know, is something I discuss endlessly, but, well, today is today. Let us dive into the topic at hand.
Yesterday, I made a jarring change of venues. Have I talked about this yet? Wait a second. I am going to dip into the archives to see if I am repeating myself. I would hate to bore you. No, we have not discussed this.
I love to find the typos in these letters if and when I reread them. I can tell when someone is talking to me while I type. It makes for wonderful gibberish. These are the days of our lives.
Hmmm. Someone I dislike just sat next to me. He knows I dislike his conversation so he does not bother me. The problem is that there is an empty chair between us. Someone will sit in the middle who I like and this joker will jawbone their ear off with non-stop nonsense, versus me talking to this person about whatever burbles to the top of my head when I feel like talking about it while I hold the newspaper in front of me.
This guy is a know-it-all and he loves the sound of his own voice. I am praying Vincent will not show up. If Vincent were here he would have a field day with this joker.
The thing about Vincent is that he is genuinely interested in people. Vincent will talk to anyone for as long as it takes to drive me nuts, and then some more, and then some more. Everyone needs a friend.
The human heart holds unfathomable mysteries. I mentioned this to Mrs. King, in passing, this morning. She remained mute on the subject.
I am reading a very long article about Jeffery Epstein. I have no particular opinion about any of it. Like most things, I find it none of my business. I have a live to live.
A life well-lived is its own reward. New Orleans is the right city to do it in. The only place that I have inhabited that is equivalent to New Orleans is Naples, Italy—not Naples, Florida, where I have never lived, though I have visited. I remember nothing of the Florida Naples. I am sure it is nice enough for what it is.
Living in Naples, Italy is inhabiting an opera.
Living in New Orleans is a long solo in an improvised sextet combo.
Life is good. Why? Because happiness loves company.
Have you ever had a birthday?
Okay. I am putting the paywall up. You really should become a paid subscriber. What do have to lose? Seven bucks a month? You spend less than that on eggs every month. It is not like I am charging diner prices for these overcooked essays.