The Goose Killer.
A bore is a person who deprives you of solitude without providing you with company.
I was just talking with a bore. This guy was not a hoot.
Mrs. King and I are self-employed, an army of two against the world. We manage to have more than a few laughs at management’s expense. What is a life well-lived without good memories?
That bore was no help. He was a boorish, to boot. After he left, I took a walk around the block.
I do not know how to drive a car with automatic transmission, which is why I scoot around New Orleans via Vespa. On the rare occasions when I drive a car, I prefer to feel the engine humming in my right palm through the stick shift. Sweetboy is the same way. Sweetboy drives a Chevy with a hemi.
Sweetboy holds New Orleans in the palm of his hand. If New Orleans is an oyster, Sweetboy is the pearl. I would never tell him that in person but I will tell you.
It never gives me agita to admit that Eric is a semi-precious organic gem. Would you like to know what Eric just said to me? Eric said he wanted to punch somebody like a baseball glove. I cannot think of a more perfect expression of gut feeling. Think about it. A catchers mitt is soft and comfortable, an extension of one’s hand when hand meets glove both inside and outside.
I have not worn a baseball glove in probably 45 years but I can still recall the feeling.
The first weekend of Jazz Fest is concluded. The second weekend begins soon. Then, it will be the less-intensive Bayou Boogaloo. Then, it will be Essence Fest. Then, it will be months of nothing going on. It will be hot. It will be humid. Such is life in languid New Orleans.
Now, I will tell you about how I killed a goose in Sweetboy’s rattle-apart Chevy. Hoo, what a ride that was.