|If this isn't a New Yorker cartoon, I'll eat my hat.|
I met a woman named Farrah today. I said it was a popular name, for babies, when I was a boy. She said she was named after her grandmother. I said I wasn't that old.
My house guests departed this afternoon. They had stayed for nine days. Lovely folks, they kept me from my usual armchair. Seven days separated from fine furniture makes one weak. I put my feet up on an ottoman.
I was thinking about how Istanbul was once Constantinople, and old New York was once New Amsterdam. New Orleans has always been New Orleans. The city's history is silent until it gains its name, then it sings. New Orleans is a city that begins by being true. It is forever-new in a way that is eternal. It is what it is, like nowhere else. The women look prettier, and the men seem smarter, in New Orleans, Louisiana, especially at night.
How do you illustrate the passage of time? If life isn't like an S. Kelly cartoon from the Times-Picayune's editorial page, I'll eat a dozen Gulf oysters, puttin' on the ritz, just the way I like 'em. Between Calliope and Thalia, there is Erato. I was sitting between two ladies at the Two Muses, on Frenchman Street, two days ago. A night can move in strange directions in 2012 AD, you only have to wish it hard enough. I can't tell you more without switching to a romance language in la Nouvelle Orleans!
|Another kind of comic art.|