My sincerest apologies, Mooshay Vernon, as we South-siders would say in our Sunday best French, for getting you into cattle belly crossways, with your once beloved partisans. My intent was to inject some mirth, into what is otherwise a very morose and funereal forum, and certainly not to expose you, a once beloved "Son of the sand" to the ire of your fellow tribesmen.
This unfortunate circumstance which should inform us all, is how tenuous and nebulous those ancient tenets, of brotherly love and family ties, have become. In this dog eat dog world of today, its "no money no love," and if you do not comply, "dog eat you supper" except at the esteemed Mamma San's Emporium of Epicurean delights, at #1 Rue d' Boyke, where the opposite is true.
Your mistake was not employing our good friend Talkshop Selwyn, to pass the word, prior to your arrival, that kind stranger from "Hamerica" with a reputation for running de bread, was on his way to the Upper Depradine. You would have been welcomed with open arms, and the red carpet, would have been rolled out on de Pont du Seine, construction or not. Of course the " cut eyes and stretch mouth" you endured, would have been replaced by "sweet eyes and blown kisses" and all Selwyn would have charged for such an essential service, would have been an eights of Clarkes Court, for each day of your stay.
Your experience reminds me of the time, I took a visiting Diaspora dwelling friend of mine on a tour of the Town that duzzen sleep. After being commanded to come in and make a drink, at just about every rum shop we passed, we inadvertently bumbled into "Gun Battle", and immediately received to scrutiny and attention of its denizens. The lazar guided stares trained on us, were so intense, that it burned through our clothes, and we beat a hasty retreat to Kelly's Hot Spot, to cool down, and recover our "rum high" which had been blown by that encounter. My friend afterwards commented that for a moment, he felt as if we were two soul brothers, who stumbled on to a Klan rally , in the Mississippi woods. It's a hard knock life, indeed.
My advice to you Mon Amie, is that the next time you visit the French Quarter, make your appearance as the second coming of "Mr Mills'. Milk white suit and shoes, a Panama straw hat, and a well worn leather bound Bible, to accompany you on your strolls through the Highways and Byways of Insomnia City. So profound will be the respect of its erstwhile citizens, which of course is "richly deserved," that you will be guaranteed to be drafted by those seeking redemption, and proclaimed as the new Messiah, who transcends politics, answers to a higher calling, and has returned to lead his flock outta Babylon.Sello and I will be in the front row cheering you all the way, with fish broth in we belly, and a petit quart ah Rivers in we back pocket.
