Scrooge McDuck.
What a lovely pair of coconuts.
Someone just showed me some Zulu coconuts. He is giving them to his girlfriend. They are collectors' items. They will be worth a lot of money some day. The goodwill they inspire is priceless. To be gifted a Zulu coconut is good luck. Mrs. King and I have two. Zulu rolls six blocks behind our house on Mardi Gras Day.
I don't think all the women in LaPlace are named Nancy but it sure seems that way.
As regular readers know, I rarely venture more than two miles from my home base on any given day. My life is as dull as dishwater.
I have been to LaPlace. It was once that I remember. There may have been more times but it was only once that I stopped and really dug into the place called LaPlace. Mrs. King was with me, as she has always been during the most important moments of my life since I have met her. I remember enough of that magical trip to be able to talk about LaPlace without knowing much. I am sure Mrs. King feels the same way, though we have not ever talked about it. Happiness loves company.
I asked Nancy if she thinks I am rich. "You sure dress like you're rich, Mr. King. You act like it, too. I don't know for sure if you are rich, Mr. King, but I know you should be."
I make my money off paid subscriptions to this newsletter.
Nancy acted all astounded. Nancy said, “People pay to read your blog, Mr. King?”
No one knows what voodoo it is that I do, not even you. I am simply a man in New Orleans, the main character of these letters, a regular Joe, a man-in-the-street, a kind of a journalist, a kind of a kook. Other people know me from other facets of my moment-to-moment interactions in the weft and the woof of Mid City. It’s a knockabout life.
Be careful what you wish for. It might come true. I know. I live in Mid City New Orleans.
It is good to be alive. A visit to LaPlace, to me, is as exotic as a trip to moon. When was the last time you were there? It was probably the last time you spent a long time considering the atomic structure of plutonium.
I told Nancy that, yes, people do actually pay to read these letters to you. “What I do for a living is a very cash-poor profession,” I told her.
This is why I am thinking about becoming a gentleman squab farmer. Don’t tell Mrs. King. Both nature and the free market abhor a vacuum. There is an unfulfilled demand for locally-raised, organic squab, like the kind of pigeons I could raise in my back yard if I had the right set-up. I have purchased a book.
New Orleans chefs are desperate. I have got the inside skinny that local supply cannot meet local demand. September is coming. A man with a pigeon coop could make money like Scrooge McDuck.
If I can pull off this pigeon coop scheme, then—-THEN!—- oh boy! Then, maybe I will be rich. Or, you could subscribe. That won’t make me rich but it will help keep ink in the well. It is getting to the point that the soles of my shoes are more newspaper than leather.
When I look in the mirror, I don’t see a man who is well off financially. I see an old man who is rich with experience. I love where I live. I hope you love where you live, too.
Now, for the rest of the story…