Marked

This morning, at the usual time, I threw on some pants, wrapped myself in a scarf, zipped up my fleece jacket, clipped Jack, the dog, to his lead and headed out the door for our walk. Jack usually gets two good walks a day, and like every morning, when he sees me take up the leash, he starts to prance and leap, he's so excited.

We headed out into the bright cold morning. My neighbor's Lincoln was pulling up to the curb, and since I hadn't seen them in a week or so, when Andy and Jera stepped out onto the sidewalk, I stopped for a moment to chat.

We were chatting and suddenly as I looked at her, Jera's eyes went wide and Andy shrieked. "Look at him. Bad dog!"

Jack was PEEING on me!! I guess he was impatient to get going.

No dog treats for you today, buddy.

Wake up, little school girl

First day of classes in 2016. Late Victorian literature, in an hour.

The man who fell

Rock musician David Bowie passed away January 10, 2016 at the age of 69.

On October 20 and 21, 1972, David Bowie's Ziggy Stardust tour played the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium. Perhaps because the show was in the Los Angeles region, home of the music industry; perhaps because it was live broadcast on FM radio and became a much-coveted bootleg recording; perhaps because Bowie was a dynamic and striking performer; or perhaps because the combination of all these things, this concert in the shambling, crowded 3000-seat beach-side venue and the breeze off the Pacific Ocean, this concert has been noted as one of the most legendary shows in rock music history.

Los Angeles Times Rock critic Robert Hillburn wrote: "[Bowie] is a certified, genuine, guaranteed, blue-ribbon star."

Halfway through the set with its flashing strobes and glitz-rocking drama, Bowie brought it down, for an acoustic performance of "Space Oddity," followed by a cover of Jacques Brel's "My Death."

My death waits like an old roue'
So confident, I'll go his way
Whistle to him and the passing time

My death waits like a Bible truth
At the funeral of my youth
Are we proud for that and the passing time?

My death waits like a witch at night
As surely as our love is right
Let's not think about the passing time

But whatever lies behind the door
There is nothing much to do
Angel or devil, I don't care
For in front of that door there is you

My death waits like a beggar blind
Who sees the world through an unlit mind
Throw him a dime for the passing time

My death waits there between your thighs
Your cool fingers will close my eyes
Let's think of that and the passing time

My death waits to allow my friends
A few good times before it ends
So let's think of that and the passing time

For whatever lies behind the door
There is nothing much to do
Angel or devil, I don't care
For in front of that door there is you

My death waits there among the leaves
In magician's mysterious sleeves
Rabbits and dogs and the passing time

My death waits there among the flowers
Where the blackest shadows, blackest shadows cowers
Let's pick lilacs for the passing time

My death waits there in a double bed
Sails of oblivion and my head
So pull up your sheets against the passing time

But whatever lies behind the door
There is nothing much to do
Angel or devil, I don't care
For in front of that door there is, Thank You

Under the weather

Down sick with a cold or flu. Spending the days indoors, with boxes of Kleenex, some ginger ale, and good books to read in bed.

Perfect Gentlemen take to the streets

Click any photo to "embiggen"

Today was the 25th annual Second Line parade by the Social and Pleasure club Perfect Gentlemen, accompanied by Sisters of Change, Extraordinary Gentlemen and Ladies, and the King of Kings.

It was a cold and grey Sunday, and the crowd was assembled at the corner of Canal and Rampart Streets, just across the street from the historic Saenger Theatre.

Bring in the new

Click any photo to "embiggen"

Happy New Year, everyone!

Last night The Heart Attack played at Vaughan's Lounge, scheduled to go on at 10:00 pm but really they didn't start up until after 10:45. No matter - everyone was having a good time. There were red beans and rice in the back room, and the drinks were flowing.

Katie May at the bar

We bailed out of there before midnight, and zipped up our jackets against the cold wind. All through the neighborhood, you could hear firecrackers and cherry bombs going off. Clutching our plastic go-cups from the bar, we walked to the Mazant Street Wharf on the Mississippi River.

 There was a crowd there already - neighborhood folks mostly, but also a couple of tour buses full of tourists, or maybe party buses. We clustered up to the edge of the wharf and looked toward the city lights upriver. The paddle-wheeler Creole Queen rolled by, its lights amber in the night.

At midnight, the fireworks started, bursting in the air and reflected in the water.

There on the pavement stood a huge champagne bottle - was it a Jeraboam? A Nebuchadnezzer? a Salamanzar? I don't know, but a man in a white linen jacket offered me some, hefting the thing up to pour into my plastic cup. It was real champagne, and awfully good, too.

(My son says the guy who brought the champagne "was on the party bus. And he was definitely on the party bus.")

Happy New Year!

Fried pickles

What's better than fried pickles?

Fried pickles and beer.

Fried oyster po'boys, of course, and firecracker shrimp - that is, shrimp fried and doused in Crystal hot sauce, on a po'boy.

Served here at Parasol's bar in the Irish Channel neighborhood of New Orleans.

Hello there

Waiting patiently. Near Barataria, Louisiana.

See him? He's watching you.

Click to "embiggen."

King John's Christmas

by A. A. Milne

King John was not a good man —
He had his little ways.
And sometimes no one spoke to him
For days and days and days.
And men who came across him,
When walking in the town,
Gave him a supercilious stare,
Or passed with noses in the air —
And bad King John stood dumbly there,
Blushing beneath his crown.

King John was not a good man,
And no good friends had he.
He stayed in every afternoon…
But no one came to tea.
And, round about December,
The cards upon his shelf
Which wished him lots of Christmas cheer,
And fortune in the coming year,
Were never from his near and dear,
But only from himself.

King John was not a good man,
Yet had his hopes and fears.
They’d given him no present now
For years and years and years.
But every year at Christmas,
While minstrels stood about,
Collecting tributes from the young
For all the songs they might have sung,
He stole away upstairs and hung
A hopeful stocking out.

King John was not a good man,
He lived his life aloof;
Alone he thought a message out
While climbing up the roof.
He wrote it down and propped it
Against the chimney stack:
“TO ALL AND SUNDRY — NEAR AND FAR —
F. CHRISTMAS IN PARTICULAR.”
And signed it not “Johannes R.”
But very humbly, “JACK.”

“I want some crackers
And I want some candy;
I think a box of chocolates
Would come in handy;
I don’t mind oranges,
I do like nuts!
And I SHOULD like a pocket-knife
That really cuts.
And, oh! Father Christmas, if you love me at all,
Bring me a big, red india-rubber ball!”

King John was not a good man —
He wrote this message out,
And gat him to his room again,
Descending by the spout.
And all that night he lay there,
A prey to hopes and fears.
“I think that’s him a-coming now,”
(Anxiety bedewed his brow.)
“He’ll bring one present, anyhow —
The first I’ve had for years.”

“Forget about the crackers,
And forget about the candy;
I’m sure a box of chocolates
Would never come in handy;
I don’t like oranges,
I don’t want nuts,
And I HAVE got a pocket-knife
That almost cuts.
But, oh! Father Christmas, if you love me at all,
Bring me a big, red india-rubber ball!”

King John was not a good man —
Next morning when the sun
Rose up to tell a waiting world
That Christmas had begun,
And people seized their stockings,
And opened them with glee,
And crackers, toys and games appeared,
And lips with sticky sweets were smeared,
King John said grimly: “As I feared,
Nothing again for me!”

“I did want crackers,
And I did want candy;
I know a box of chocolates
Would come in handy;
I do love oranges,
I did want nuts.
I haven’t got a pocket-knife —
Not one that cuts.
And, oh! if Father Christmas had loved me at all,
He would have brought a big, red india-rubber ball!”

King John stood by the window,
And frowned to see below
The happy bands of boys and girls
All playing in the snow.
A while he stood there watching,
And envying them all…
When through the window big and red
There hurtled by his royal head,
And bounced and fell upon the bed,
An india-rubber ball!

AND OH, FATHER CHRISTMAS,
MY BLESSINGS ON YOU FALL
FOR BRINGING HIM
A BIG, RED,
INDIA-RUBBER
BALL!