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Me been down in 9th Ward, learning to love in Summer ruins.
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Many people ask where me been over past month. Me tell them truth—me in hiding. City gone crazy. Now more than ever me need connection inside gates of Audubon Place. Is it too much to ask of city officials to be able to hound society bitches in safety?
Meanwhile, me read where Chris Rose riding bicycle in Ninth Ward on shady side of St. Claude. Asshole out of his mind. Or maybe he scouting property for stake in New Marigny development. Either way, he encroaching on me turf. Or did he not see territorial wall graffiti on corner of Alvar and St. Claude? Careful, Rose, or next time it not car that hit you in ass.
While me in hiding, me focus on 2006 FIFA World Cup soccer action. Me big fan of international sport ever since heyday of New York Cosmos when me and Giorgio Chinaglia would do lines off thighs of junkie heiress bitches he drag out of Odeon. It good to see Giorgio with steady ESPN gig. Me need to get back in touch.
Good news is me bet heavy on Ghana to defeat United States in group play. Me get last-minute tip from me congressman, William Jefferson, who tell me intimate secrets about Ghana’s strategy. Me trust Bill on all matters Ghana, and he not disappoint. ME not see why FBI have such bug in ass to take Bill down. Me squarely behind Jefferson.
In fact me so happy to cash in on game that me come out of isolation that weekend to attend Press Street book release party for “Intersection,” hosted by dog lover Ken Foster and NOCCA bitch and Katrina Baby mom Anne Giselson. Good party filled with keg beer and theatrical poet bitches like Andi Young and Carolyn Hembree, and luminaries like Dean Paschal and Jose Torres Tama. Me also get to talk to drunk songwriter Alex McMurray and his wonderful bitch Kourtney Keller. They invite me to their weekly Tuesday night movie screening at Truck Farm on St. Claude. Now that National Guard patrolling neighborhood, maybe me show up.
Later me run into cash-in educator and New Orleans Review editor Chris Chambers, and it give me chance to apologize for comments made in recent column about him leaving price tags on wine bottles for his book party at Bacchanal. Me since learn that it standard practice of Bacchanal owner Chris Rudge to leave price tags on wine bottles, even when he host wedding event. It tacky shit, and me erroneously blame Chambers. Me regret error.
Me so happy to be out again me go on long Bywater bender following book gig. Me recall hair-of-dog pints of Guinness at Markey’s watching morning World Cup matches, followed by wasted afternoons decrying crime wave at Bud Rip’s and crash-and-burn nights at Mimi’s. Cycle continue for a full week, culminating in gin-soaked Morning 40 Federation show at One Eyed Jack’s in Quarter. Me have vague memory of opening act One Man Machine, though me think his show only a hallucination. Me also recall sharing strong drink with Morning 40 singer/guitarist Ryan Scully. Me remember many Bywater beauties. When me wake up, me fur smell like sandalwood and me pee burn.
Bender interfere with ability to prognosticate World Cup semifinal action, and me lose stack me make on Ghana by betting on Kraut Germans over Greaseball Italians. But with city in shambles, breaking even is staying ahead of game. Plus if me find other earring, me know good pawnbroker.
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