I think it is a rule that apartments in New Orleans must only have a single window unit, K&B whiskey in the Mock Daniels bottle, and the remix of “Today Was A Good Day” playing on cassette in the background, that great woo-hoo-hoo of the Staples fuzzing out on the left speaker.
When my buddy jp! moved out of this house in 2001 he’d already packed up all his records and we were left only with Lucinda Williams and Car Wheels on a Gravel Road and Madonna’s Music. Don’t ask. I accidentally ripped his subway poster of Blue Train and we left it behind. It was also literally the hottest day of all time.
I stumbled by his old pad out seeking daiquiris on the trip down to see X last weekend. I had that brief timeslip where you suddenly feel like it actually is the time you were thinking of, nothing has changed, it’s not déjà vu it’s actually still 2001 and you were just taking the trash out to the tubes carved into the curb and you were staring into the sun and you dreamed the rest of it, the past seven years was just a rogue penumbra and you walk back in and turn on the television and you take a nap on the couch, because it’s too hot to really do anything else.
I’m thinking those timeslips may be more common in New Orleans than elsewhere.
While in my PA last week, I was doing two miles on the new lapwalk around the ballpark across the street from my home place. Momentarily, I picked up a ballbat and tossed a ball in the air, swung, and . . . That was while momma cooked the breakfast. No hog, turkey derivative.