(Or, why the Big Easy is becoming Small and Difficult.)
10. No Times-Picayune. And don’t tell me that three-day-a-week thing is what I go to a daily newspaper for.
9. No streetcars? What’s up with that? How long have you been “working on the tracks?” Where are the pleasant undercurrent of vibration along St. Charles Avenue and Canal Street and the clicking crescendo of an approaching car?
8. Nola.com. The younger Newhouses’ spit in the eye to the proud journalism that their forebears nourished.
7. Hand-lettered “ON VAC” sign on the door of the tin soldier store in the French Quarter. (Otherwise known as the Sword & Pen, it’s a fantasy Continue reading →
Bless me Father for I have sinned. Sixteen years ago this night, I committed murder.
God I wish I was Catholic. I wish I could unburden myself that easily, wipe it away, move on. Southern Baptists don’t have that luxury. We have to relive it, every year, every day, every hour, every minute.
Nine p.m. May 11, 1988. I am sitting home at the kitchen table. Frankie is asleep. Rock is gone, moved out day before yesterday. But I know he’ll be back, he always is. And I know where he is: sleeping on the couch at the onshore offices in Houma because the chopper is due to take off for the rig at 4 a.m.
I am exhausted, but I know I won’t be able to sleep. I smell like smoke but I don’t have the energy to take a bath. Most of all, I am so, so, angry. Upset with myself for screwing up at work. Pissed off at Peggy for her condescending attitude while she allowed me to screw up. But most of all, I am infuriated, incensed, enraged at Rock.
I could see disaster as soon as the word came in. Termite Theriot jumped out of his lair of Continue reading →