Big Game Weekend

I was surfing Craigslist for used furniture sites and came across a round marble and brass coffee table. I walked over to Royal Street in the Marigny to look at it. The woman selling it had an immaculately restored shotgun down the block from the Orange Couch cafe. The interior had been opened up, with an open kitchen screened by an original brick fireplace in the center of the room at the rear and a living/dining space in the front of the main room. It was designer-curated, and full of interesting and expensive art. She described the table as being purchased from an art dealer on Magazine Street, and that is was purported to be from approximately 1960 and imported from France. I agreed to buy it, and found it weighed about 75 pounds, a little too heavy to walk across the Marigny. She graciously offered to deliver it in her Mini Cooper convertible, and we took a ride across the neighborhood.

Apparently her brother is a fisherman who works on a seiner in Craig for a captain named Lars. She told a story about her brother noticing a Haida raven tattoo on Meschiya Lake, a local jazz vocalist, and asking her about it. Apparently she is Haida! I’ll have to talk to her next time I see her perform.

The table is a definite upgrade, and will look great once the couch is gone and the chairs get moved around. The ikea coffee table went to the curb, and I walked to the postal drop to pick up a package. I stopped at Manolito for an excellent daiquiri on the way home, and talked whales and scuba diving with the crew who were in a lull before the football weekend begins.

Later in the evening, I left the house to find a 60 something creepy looking guy with a dog on a leash up on the porch on the front of the house, examining the electric meters, and exclaiming that there were six units. I’m not sure if he was a real estate tire kicker or our friendly neighborhood rule kitten concerned about zoning. I’m not really clear on the regs, but there is a reason that our big building is broken into two street addresses of three units each. Hopefully this does not create unnecessary imperial entanglements.

I walked over to the R Bar and talked with the “Hank was here” crowd and Michael Wilder, who is putting on a show next week at Sidney’s. It will be a new venue for me, always a good thing, and it seems they do music a couple of days a week. I went to Frenchmen Street and listened to an eight piece reggae band called “One Love” at the Cafe Negril for a set. One of the percussionists was Amari Neville, a late 20s looking member of the clan. I’ve seen him headlining other shows as a rapper. I couldn’t get a seat at the bar for Aurora Nealand and Tom McDermott at Buffa’s, but there will probably be a next time.

Next time came quick, as I followed up a day of walking around the Quarter doing errands while sore from the increase in exercise at the pool and on the floor with a set of music from Aurora Nealand with her old time music band, the Royal Roses. There were a couple of swing dancers in dba, so it was a full show. I like it when the good dancers get dressed up and come out to play. A man’s got to know his limitations, but it is fun to watch.

I ended up at Buffa’s for a beer and met Eugenie there, the woman with the sweet big Doberman. She had adopted a male dobie who had been starved, and was doing well with it for a few weeks when it got food anxious and bit her has she was trying to feed it. It got her hand and forearm with three solid bites, but not the crushing bites that they are capable of, thankfully, and a cut to the face when she fell and her glasses broke. She will probably have some scarring on her arms, but her face is okay. She was able to place the dog with a rescue facility as she did not want to put it down, but it is a scary story. I know some folks say that breed doesn’t matter, but I am pretty confident I’m not going to be adopting a Doberman or a pit bull anytime soon. The rumor at the bar was that there was a mugging outside the Rbar relatively early in the evening, so a little extra vigilance is probably warranted.

A big storm passed through on Friday Night and Saturday morning, but none of the predicted big winds, at least in the immediate neighborhood. The front passed through andSeker texted that he was out for a pub crawl with “the girls”. I had been taking advantage of the stormy morning to clean house and do my floor exercises. The group was Cecile and Chris, Ken and Cyndi, and Cecile’s guest Powell and her friend Blaine. We walked into the Quarter, stopping at the Golden Lantern, Lafitte’s Blacksmith shop, Johnnie White’s Hole in the Wall, the Cat’s Meow for those interested to do karaoke, the Olde Absinthe House, the Erin Rose, Pat O’Brien’s for a hurricane, and the Dungeon. It was definitely a Carnival event. I lost my sunglasses, inhibitions, and some dignity, but it was fun in the over the edge kind of way.

Powell is a graduating grad student from Las Vegas, who intends to move to New Orleans in May. I showed her the place Sunday morning, and we made a handshake deal for her to rent it for the summer as she looks for work and a permanent place to stay. I missed the battle of the college bands on Bourbon Street, and the crowning of the beer drinking champion, opting to relax and recover from pub crawling.

Monday was the actual game day, and I walked across the Quarter to the bank. People were starting to come out dressed for the game, so I went back home and came out with a camera to try to capture some of the shenanigans. There were a lot of college age kids out, and I headed back for the security of the inner orb when the frat boys started pushing and wrestling on the street. Nothing good was going to come of that. I stopped at the Dungeon, looking for my lost glasses without success, and had a Guinness at Mollies.

I watched the final interesting football game of the year on the porch, having a good conversation with Ellen and Tron as LSU steamrolled Clemson amid much hooting and hollering.

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