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Odd Words July 6, 2012

Posted by The Typist in books, literature, New Orleans, Odd Words, Poetry, Toulouse Street.

I guess what I want to tell you (which is to say, what I want to tell myself) is that we should get our hands dirty. We should write the things about ourselves and others that we never thought we could. We should not be silent in our quiet rooms and offices. We should hold our words in our bare hands.
— Poet Matthew Siegel from his recent contribution to Letters in the Mail

It is hot. It is slow. These two things are one. {Pages of illustrations}

& Saturday at the Latter Memorial Library poets Thaddeus Conti, Jonathan Kline and Melinda Palacio read from their work at the monthly Poetry Buffet hosted by Gina Ferrara. July 7 at 2 pm

& New York Times bestselling author Chef Jeff Henderson – COOKED: My Journey from the Streets to the Stove – is coming to New Orleans to cook some of his down home Deep South dishes and sign his book alongside friend Chef Dominique Macquet at Tamarind, the new French-Vietnamese eatery in The Hotel Modern on Lee Circle. Octavia Books will be on site at the restaurant with Chef Jeff’s book during the event. Books may be purchased from us there and may also be pre-purchased/reserved by calling Octavia Books during store hours, or online here anytime prior to the evening of the event. Saturday, July 7 at 7 p.m.

& I haven’t gotten an update on the Maple Leaf Bar reading series this week. You could always stop by and have a drink at 3 and see what’s going on.

& This and every Sunday Spoke Word New Orleans hosts Speak Easy Sundays Poetry at the Club Caribbean 2441 Bayou Road at 7 p.m. Cover. Visit their website for updates on other spoken words and visiting artists all around town.

& There is true crime and then there is this: Joseph Scott Morgan – Blood Beneath My Feet: The Journey of a Southern Death Investigator. Have you ever been locked in a cooler with piles of decomposing humans for so long that you had to shave all the hair off your body in order to get rid of the smell? Joseph Scott Morgan did. Have you ever lit a Marlboro from the ignited gas of a bloated dead man’s belly? Joseph Scott Morgan has. Have you ever wept over a dead dog while not giving a shit about the dead owner laying next him? Morgan did. Were you named after a murder victim? Joseph Scott Morgan was. This isn’t Hollywood fantasy, it’s the true story of a boy born into the deprivations of a white trash trailer park who as an adult gets further involved in the desperate backdoor sagas of the “New South.” No hot blondes here, just maggots, grief, and the truth about forensics and death investigation. Maybe I should get this for my daughter, who wants to be a forensic psychologist. Then again, maybe not. Garden District Book Shop, Tuesday, July 10 at 5:30 pm.



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