The neighborhoods in New Orleans isolate themselves to such an extent that at times I feel I'm living in a small town that is the bywater. Not only do I run into a familiar face at every turn, find myself remaining with in neighborhood limits for days on end and constantly being surrounded by people who know more about my love life than I do, but we even have our own local celebrities. Two such men billow stoically above the cracked, littered sidewalks of St. Claude avenue on thick, rickety billboards reminding me that in the case of severe injury my first order of business should be to call a lawyer. Luckily, I have a choice: I could "Phone Cardone" or "Be Wiser [and] Call Bizer" both of whom look reliable, professional and proud to be helping the injured men on cell phones by their respective sides.
A couple of nights ago I was at the Jon, peering into the bottom of a mason jar half full of gin, as I tried to get comfy on the gold-leafed toilet seat serving as my chair when I noticed a familiar face at the next table over. I squinted my eyes, trying to place him, it was hard to see due to the combination of the black ceiling and sparse flourescent light. I whispered to my friend Kirsten, asking if she knew why he looked so familiar. She paused, and cocked her head, "I know we know him...I just can't place him" she sighed. At this point he had noticed our prying eyes, "It's me, from the billboard" he blushed, trying to contain his pried. "Bizer!" we yelled excitedly. I high fived him in that special way that turns into an awkward verticle handshake, I guess I wasn't quite ready to let go. At this point, my night seemed suddenly to have been magically complete. There was nothing left to do but run home and brag to the tens of people at my house, who, conveniently enough seem always to be sitting and waiting for an exciting story as they accidentally create their own.
