RED RIVER OF THE NORTH VS. NORTH EAST

Life often has quick and unexpected twists...well at least in my sorted multi-verse. Each day this week I have watched the level of the bayou rise. It sounds devilishly ominous to talk of the Red River of the North, far away in the Hellish  lands of Manitoba. The sever winter snows threaten to break the levees...and one can't blame it on the rain or Led Zeppelin lyrics. Migration entered the new scheme of things, a flight plan is dually in order. My Southern Sabbatical is at a sudden end. Decidedly I'm headed to the North West and then back Eastward. The only thing that would make this more appropriate, if Gargoyles carried me back to Gotham. A last Saturday night on the town was filled with sentimentality. Our venue seemed like a less glamorous version of Unsexy & the City. To compound matters worse, it seemed populated with rejects from the Jersey Shore. Has America become that bland and gentrified in it's plumage, who request a hip hop soundtrack for a warbling mating call? The night spot filled with bad tunes and equally bad fitting halter top dresses. Constantly people bark up the wrong tree, it's evermore difficult to watch yards upon yards of desperate behavior. Thoughts ran rampant through my mind like distorted rabbits feet. Maybe it's an effect of the pure Jack Daniles unadulterated without vile corn syrup. Amid the blandness, my perspective has me on glorious tangents. Without malice imagination leads me to thoughts that stem above the plexiglas ceiling. Perhaps it's the second Micheal Jackson song in twenty minutes, I'm ready to break the Dj's jaw and glass nipple. Distraction grips, a girls in one of those ill fitting tube to dresses stumbles to the bar to order 5 Lemon Drop shots. She had a forehead so broad, one could have spread knives full of mayonnaise across it's surface. Thankfully the whiskey inoculated me from adverse effects, or perhaps it was the distorted rabbits feet. Certainly these last memories will let me depart warmly, they may even prompt me to return...but it's time to return home.

THE QUESTIONABLE BEASTIALITY OF THE BAYOU

Before squat launching myself to the bayou for my Southern Sabbatical, I heard unimaginable tales of foreboding. One axiom in particular was, "New Orleans will either chew you up and spit you out, or dig her claws into you." Such claims and monstrous sounding pleasures have completely eluded me for 9 months. Where does this proverbial Confederate Jabberwocky reside? Has it suffered some crippling orthodontia and had it's South paws declawed? There are telltale signs of it's whereabouts, the abundant alcohol embalmed husks that walk the streets of the French Quarter. Temptation in a Hand Grenade, the radioactive green plastic vessels speedily anesthetize countless victims. Though back to mastication and hooked appendages, I remain unmarred and not fully impressed by this beast. There doesn't seem to be enough lockjaw or lockstitching to even get my mouth wet. For if there was, this protagonist, one Gothic Yankee would scornfully spit in the mouth of this Gulf for being absent. Oh lament, varmint of vexation...have you crawled off in fear?  Perhaps it's just that time of the month, as it occurs to me menstruating below sea level isn't natural. Explanations are always hard to come by, though answers always seem to abound.

These days I find myself doing more head scratching than a dandruff convention. The skids of Southern culture are either termite infested or got turned into bar stools. It's highly possible that the beast was injured during hurricane Katrina along with so many American dreams. It would have been more prudent to turn those bar stools into crutches. Hardly an affective use of man power, it obvious that would have hampered the rebuilding efforts. While the city is limping along, the only thing people are in a hurry for is getting to the next drink. New Orleans still remains a small town, albeit one that throws the biggest block parties around. While there is nothing like the carnival season in my experience, though in the words of Hunter S. Thompson "Things just haven't gotten weird enough for me yet."