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Todd is Godd December 31, 2006

Posted by The Typist in Dancing Bear, New Orleans, NOLA, Odds&Sods, Rebirth, Todd Rundgren.
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Thank you Peter for this. Everyone in NOLA needs to hear this.

Now. Right now.

Click this link.

Can I hear an Amen?

Weve been waiting so long,
Weve been waiting for the sun to rise and shine
Shining still to give us the will
Can you hear me, the sound of my voice?
I am here to tell you I have made my choice
Ive been listening to whats been going down
Theres just too much talk and gossip going round
You may think that Im a fool, but I know the answer
Words become a tool, anyone can use them
Take the golden rule, as the best example
Eyes that have seen will know what I mean

The time has come to take the bull by the horns
Weve been so downhearted, weve been so forlorn
We get weak and we want to give in
But we still need each other if we want to win

Hold that line, baby hold that line
Get up boys and hit em one more time
We may be losing now but we cant stop trying
So hold that line, baby hold that line

If you dont know what to do about a world of trouble
You can pull it through if you need to and if
You believe its true, it will surely happen
Shining still, to give us the will
Bright as the day, to show us the way
Somehow, someday,
We need just one victory and were on our way
Prayin for it all day and fightin for it all night
Give us just one victory, it will be all right
We may feel about to fall but we go down fighting
You will hear the call if you only listen
Underneath it all we are here together shining still

At the Jazz Band Ball December 30, 2006

Posted by The Typist in Jazz, New Orleans, NOLA, Odds&Sods, Toulouse Street.
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Oh, yeah. Bobby Hackett and Boys take us to the Jazz Band Ball. I wonder if they got those hats at Meyer’s…

Thank you Bobby, boy, you really grooved that..

And now, for some hot kazoo playing..

Hat tip to boberwig

Palm to Pine December 27, 2006

Posted by The Typist in New Orleans, NOLA.
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Here is a weird bit of synchronicity I discovered just a few blocks from my new office in downtown New Orleans. It’s a marker erected in 1917 by the Daughters of the American Revolution to mark the southern terminus of the Jefferson Highway. As the post points out, the road once stretched from New Orleans to Winnipeg, Canada.


During my exile from New Orleans, I first settled in the upper midwest in a town called Detroit Lakes, MN, a sometimes sleepy little town an hour east of Fargo, N.D. It’s population would settle down to a quiet 7,000 or so but blossom into the tens of thousands during the busiest weekends of the summer lake season. One feature of that season was the Pine to Palm Golf Tournament, a name that always struck me as odd but which I never looked into, as I have no real interest in golf.

I have to assume that the name must come from the New Orleans-to-Winnipeg Highway. Growing up in New Orleans, Jefferson Highway was just an aging suburban strip of asphalt, an old Federal highway along the tracks that I thought was named after the suburban Jefferson Parish it traversed. Not until I returned home after 20 years away did I discover this pillar, which has been sitting at the corner of St. Charles Avenue and Common Street waiting for me to discover it and feel the odd twinge of connection. I stood at the terminus of a road that ran only 100 miles from Detroit Lakes almost a century ago. Winnipeg was close to my home in Fargo as Lafayette is to New Orleans.

Small world.

A Redneck Night Before Xmas December 17, 2006

Posted by The Typist in Christmas, New Orleans, NOLA, parody, Xmas.
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Was the night before Xmas in our trailer park,
An’ the street light was shot out, an’ boy was it dark.
The wind was a howlin’, the trailer was old,
So I drank me a beer so I wouldn’t feel cold.

The children was snuggled on their sleeper sofa,
And Momma was a snorin’ in front of her Oprah.
The tree had blown out all the fuses again,
So I dug out some pennies and jammed ’em right in.

I snuck in the kitchen to get me a beer
And some of that deer jerk I put up last year.
And me with my NASCAR Race Week in my lap,
I settled me down for a long winter’s crap.

When out by the door, I heard such a noise.
Sounds like Billy Bob coming home late with the boys.
I ran out the head with my pants still pulled down
And tripped over myself and Wham! I fell down.

Outside in the yard was a big F350
With all kinda’ lights that looked really nifty.
And tied to the hood of that beautiful truck
Was a fine lookin’ 24-point reindeer buck.

I hopped to the the kitchen, and what should appear
But some white haired old hobo a drinkin’ my beer.
Before I could say ‘What the hell are you doin’?’
He jumped like a flea right into the front room.

His suit was as red as the end of his nose,
And he had lots of black stains all on his clothes.
From the look of the guy and that flea hoppin’ trick
I knew right away that it must be St. Nick.

He didn’t say shit but just picked up his his sack
(An’ old Wal Mart bag with a big duct tape strap),
Dumped it out on the table and made a big pile
While guzzlin’ down my last beer with a smile.

For Becky Lou he had a great big surprise.
A doll beauty parlor built in a garage.
For Junior a NASCAR electric race track,
With a real workin’ pit crew around in the back.

Mama got matching housecoat, curlers and slippers
And a leopardskin outfit with all kinds a zippers.
And he gave me a wink as he slowly revealed
For me was a brand new Shakespeare spinnin’ reel!

He tossed back my last beer and belched with great glee
And hung up the pull tab right there on the tree.
He grabbed up his sack and slammed out the screen door,
So that half a the ornaments fell on the floor.

He jumped in his truck and he gave her the gun,
And with nary a word that old hobo was gone.
I went back in the trailer; didn’t know what to think.
There was no more beer left in the place now to drink.

But there in the trailer atop the TV
He had left me a whole case of Old Milwaukee,
With a note on the top that he wrote all hisself.
“Merry Xmas to all from that Old Redneck Elf!”

–MF Xmas ’00–

Can’t you show me nothing but surrender? December 10, 2006

Posted by The Typist in Debrisville, New Orleans, NOLA, Poetry, Rebirth, Recovery, Toulouse Street, We Are Not OK.
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The old roles are so comfortable, like dark mornings sliding drunkenly into familiar sheets with the voices of old friends and older songs still ringing in our ears. The ancient morality play, perfected beyond rehersal, draws the largest crowd around the mummers wagon on a rumpled avenue: puppets and shadow characters built by our grandparents. Paintless and saging facades backstop the stage, ill lit by a gravity-challenged lamp that casts shadows of the rats that worry the wires. Down the block comes dollar-colored motley hoisting its tin crown in the black parade, and the king lays down his crucifiction comic and calls the loser’s camp with congratulations. The news dissolves the audience into waring camps tossing empty bottles of Abita and Olde English at each other until a shot rings out and everyone scatters. Blue lights and horses parade down the street announcing Its Over and we retreat into the bars. In the comfortable ashen darkness the Lord Mayor and the Archbishop conspire seperately to tear down the cathedral to better resurrect Ranch Lawn Acres. Across town the lucky bicker over the location of the towers they would build in their own image to ring the high ground. But the bloody-handed carpenters are all babeling about the taco trucks, and the engineers are all practicing their Spanish in Austin. Beyond distraught, I blow my roll on a bottle of forgot I can’t quite finish. I call for a U-boat rescue but settle for a passing White Fleet while dreaming of a long ago Rocket V-8 with a glove box spilling splibs into my lap. Potholes rock me gently to sleep.

Just another Saturday Night in Debrisville, the City that Care Forgot.

Can’t you show me nothing but surrender?

Go Irish December 4, 2006

Posted by The Typist in New Orleans, NOLA, Rebirth, Sugar Bowl.
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Watch out, Tigers. Section 611, Row 42 will be Irish Country.