I Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans

James Booker, scratched from the race.
Out of his skull, yet the most far out, frantic, wailin', jumpin' keyboard player on this green sphere.
Professor Longhair, in his final sweet sod pad.
Rompin', trompin' New Orleans original.
Big Chief Bo Dalles, hung up by the big rain.
Beautiful boy diggin' the scene his daddy lay down.
Charles Gandolfo, swooped off the satellite Mardi Gras Day, 2001.
Sweet, charming, disarming Creole gentleman. My Vodou art inspiration.
Big Mac
The swingin' and swayin'est, jumpin' and leapin'est, riffin' and goofin'est piano man alive.
Snug Harbor
Beautiful, exotic Sylvia, Empresario Jason, Little sprout Theloneous Sebastian. Suite Jazz.

And, striking, fearless artist Sally Mae; the crawfish-praline-bourbon-urine-laced heavy air; the street hustlers; tap dancers; gumbo, jambalaya, red beans and rice; chickory coffee and beignets; hypnotic, soulful, breathtaking music; leering, fat, sweaty men in seeksucker suits; corrupt cops; hard drinkers; Fats, Clarence "Gatemouth" Brown; boozy, older women, lipstick astew, shamelessly flirting with younger men; go cups; slow talkers; French Afro-Carribean sensuousness; the writers; the artists; the shabby gentility; the leisurely pace.

Our last tryst was too long ago.