Me not understand why Chris Rose waste so much ink to shit on Cyril Neville. Dearth of celebrities beginning to get to Rose. Cyril hardly A-list Neville. Next thing you know, Rose start condemning Delfeayo Marsalis and Cooper Manning.

Not that me have anything against Cyril Neville. Austin where money is. City full of IT specialists who know how to make bank on Internet startups. You think NOLAFugees have competent web designer? Try to navigate archives for early Starfucking columns. It give me headache. Still, the only way me ever move to Austin is if Richard Linklater sign me up for 70s retro-porn movie with Milla Jovovich. Previous deals fell through.

On subject of broken porn deals, me accept invite to Light of New Orleans’ Josh Clark to New Year’s Eve Bacco lunch. Me get chance to catch up with Tennesee Williams Fest bitch Karissa Kary. She tell me she wear blue for me honor. Me fight not to believe flattery, but blue always erode me jadedness toward bitches.

While waiting at bar for flustered bartender to get me goddamn ten-cent martini, me meet old friend Lucas Diaz. Me and Lucas go back to his childhood days when me teach him to say “uno, dos, tres,” and it make me proud to hear Lucas now pimp for Irvin Mayfield’s New Orleans Jazz Orchestra, raising funds to keep Irvin in Warehouse District ass. Lucas now fluent in big numbers: "un mil, dos mil, tres mil."

Less fluent in language of big numbers is Soul Resin author C.W. Cannon and “Yours Truly In A Swamp” blogger Leonard Earl Johnson. It no secret why they value ten-cent martinis. Piazza and Biguenet have game on lock. No money in local literati scene. Me say this to NOLAFugees editors time and again, but they keep sending me back. Fortunately, me escape depression by talking to visiting literary bitches Amber Qureshi and Sarah Tinkler. Amber is Acquiring Editor at Picador in New York. Me not know what Sarah do, but her voice full of money. (It Fitzgerald line.)

Me spend last of cash on pick-me-up from Bacco waiter and drinks at Monteleone with bitch named Houston. (Or maybe she from Houston. What it matter?) Me forced to hit off ATM on me way to Mid-City bonfire. This sucks. Me have to pay me own way, and me not even supplied with transportation. Me have to turn down easy P.S.A gig for drunk driving because of perceived hypocrisy.

Bonfire very smoky and confusing. Me run into Handsome Willy’s bitches and they pour me cheap champagne. Word is Handsome Willy’s ready to re-open now that trash pile is gone. Whether DJ Soul Sister returns is matter of debate.

Cheap champagne and flames mesmerizing. Me think me talk to exiled poet Gabe Gomez, but me can’t be sure. Me positive me speak with Fair Grounds expert and performance poet Chris Champagne, because he give me flyer promoting Le Chat Noir show. $25 a ticket for poems? Maybe there money in literati after all.

No knowledge of how me get back to NOLAFugees office. Last thing me remember is listening to Schiro’s waitress bitches talking about E Coli and Nazis stealing French wine. Their voices not full of money.

Me New Year’s resolution? Get better gig.