I'll Be Spooning Roaches for at Least Another Year

I saw him there by the door, poised to wreak terror upon my soon-to-be-slumbering body. He tried to blend in with the wood floor, but the sickly reddish sheen of his wings gave him away.

The chase began when I sprayed him once with Raid, hoping the dose was caustic enough to penetrate his disgusting frame and fry his insides. I took my eyes off of him once, when he lunged from the curtain in my general direction. When I finished screaming like a little girl and cowering behind my French door, the bastard was gone.

This is New Orleans -- so are the grits with herbs and garlic, the afternoon deluges, the poison caterpillars, the toxic and delicious snowballs, the 13-year-olds with guns, that choking small-town feeling, delicious panama hats, jazz fest tourists, Southern conservatism, female pastors, The Mother In Law Lounge, and, of course, that girl with the curly hair.

I wouldn't say I wouldn't trade it for anything, I think I'm proud to call it home, I guess you can say there's no city like it -- but mainly, I'm still here, and ain't that something?

Am I Moving Back to NYC?

Probably not, though you never can tell.

Situations Move Fast in the Big Easy.

It's been a while.

So much can happen in a month or so. This city can push you every which way if you're not careful.

I was in my first rain storm the other night. This rain wasn't in sheets, it was in curtains - heavy velvet ones. I nonchalantly called a cab, not knowing I was lucky it would even show, and not thinking to roll my pants up to my knees before exiting the bar.

Sewers here are mere decoration. They hang out ironically as the waves of rainwater lap high above them reaching stoops and rolling over lawns.

I felt the waves slapping the bottom of the cab to the tune of my swearing driver as we gurgled past the hospital.

I was grumbling indignantly about the city's inability to come to grips with water when I saw a cop stroll out of the emergency room doors, foot poised to step off the curb, only to realize no curb existed.

He looked down, surveyed the hospital's brand-new lake, and walked back inside.

I smiled the rest of the way home.

The Next Morning

Party’s over. But the city seems okay with that.

Two young men in their party suits walk home, to-go-cup still in hand, as the sun and a breeze slink up from the Mississippi.

The bum that usually takes in a huge visual helping of my ass as I bike past him barely manages a wink. He, along with all the other lechers got more than their fill last night.

My bike hits an empty Southern Comfort bottle, sending it chattering across Frenchmen street, which emanates a smell of piss and crawfish into the morning steam.

The SDT cleanup crews are already hacking away at the trash, but the confetti that found its way onto doorsteps will pay tribute for another week or so.

And if you’re hungover or just a little late to the office today, well ... we’re all in the same boat this morning -- it ain't no thing.

The Photos Don't Lie