The Little Imp and I

I'd decided not to bring the camera on vacation, then quickly realized the error of my ways.
Luckily, the Kid, my sister, had to get a Secret Santa gift for work. So we stopped in at Walgreen's where she found a digital camera small enough to fit on a key chain for only $10.

This was like a message from the gods, so I bought one myself and the above photo of her child is the result.

Shakin' it with the Kid in the French Quarter.

Went out with the Kid, last night, got tanked, and a good time was had by all.

"The Kid" is my sister, for those who don't know. Been calling her that for most of her life and even though she has one of her own now, an adorable imp named Lucy, the name still sticks.

We started where she tends bar, "The French Quarter," figuring we could get a few cheap drinks in us, mix with her coworkers and head out. And... we never left.

Turns out they had the biggest crowd for a Thursday since opening, and of course, the least experienced bartender to stem the tide. The Kid and Amy (her busty, blonde, birthday-girl boss) came to the rescue while I sat back, took in the scene, and did my fair share of shots:

Numbered among these were Mind Erasers, Lunch Boxes and Tuaca Lemon Drops. If you've never had a Tuaca Lemon Drop, imagine a caramel-filled lemon, soaked in alcohol, and you pretty much get the idea.

After an initial rush, the crowd thinned and we were finally able to get down to business - good ol' fashioned drinkin' -and- booty shakin'!


The music was a bit... flaccid but the overall vibe was cool, with an interesting mix of folk: black, white, breeders, gay men (closeted and otherwise), fag-hags, lesbians (with a friendly bull-dyke thrown in for good measure) and all points in-between.

Plus the music got better as the night wore on. Whether this was due to our suggestions or a steady influx of alcohol on our parts is debatable.

They did play House of Pain's "Jump Around," which was a good thing.

After all, I came to get down.

Keeping a Stiff Upper Lip

Turns out that there really is no such thing as blue blood.

I was under the mistaken assumption there was and, unfortunately, mentioned it to my father.

"Sure thing," he said, "and I believe that there's a flower for every raindrop that falls."

"No, really" I said, "the blood doesn't turn red until its oxygenated. That's why veins are blue."

He paused.

"What about arteries?" he replied.

I pondered this, then tried to distract him with the mention of "icefish" - a species of fish without hemoglobin I'd read about the night before. This one I knew for sure.

"I'm not so sure I can believe anything you say after the blood thing."

Right. So I came inside to look up blue blood vs. red on the net. Turns out he was right.

Sigh.

"Sara says turtles breathe through their ass-h*les, " I told my father when he came in from smoking. They both peered over my shoulder while I typed. "Do you believe her?"

"Sure," he said. "She never said that blood was blue."

The More Things Change...

Home for the holidays and what an interesting experience that is.

You know that old saying, "you can never go home"?

While its true to a point (time marches on, the river continually flows and we can never cast our net into the exact same river again) I think there must be some middle ground, somewhere between "never" and "always".

The past doesn't just dissappear - elements remain - only they're mixed in with the here-and-now so that a strange hybrid results. And that's what makes for the off-kilter sensation - being lulled in by the familiar, only to have the familiar spun on its ear. Like a dream.

Dekalb is like that for me, at least right now...

Right now I am hanging at Dad's place (under remodel for the past ten years and known, tongue-in-cheek, as "Palatial Estates") listening to my Dad's oldest and best friend, Bruce, play the guitar.

Bruce can pick up just about anything and start playing, but he tends to focus on one instrument at a time - currently the lead guitar. As I write this, he is laying down a bluesy riff and ever-so-slightly f*cking with the playback so it sounds almost backmasked.

Back when Bruce still owned the place, he gutted the place and hired Dad to do the remodel. There was a big hole in the living room floor, going down to the basement, and crap all over the place, but Bruce would sit in a chair, non-plussed, and thump out a funky bass beat. Once in a while, after Dad was done for the day, we'd sit around, drink beer, and listen.

Then Bruce got the wanderlust and after his kids were old enough, he sold the place to Dad for a song (not literally) and started moving around. First New Mexico, then California, and then London, to be closer to his daughter. We didn't hear much from him and weren't even sure we'd see him again.

Yet here we are, Christmas time, and I am sitting here listening to Bruce play. He's only here until his next sojourn, "Honolulu, maybe" and its the lead guitar he's playing - but I am sitting here listening to him play.

And I don't know when I will see him again.

The more things change, the more they remain the same.

Merry Effin' X-mas!

Coffee

The Visitor - Click and Enlarge

Photo By M

Dudes - You really need to click on this image, wait for the larger image to load, then enlarge it again to really appreciate the alien nature of this critter.

The Beast

Flat Building