Letters Fom Nowhere

Premodernist Life in Postapocalyptic New Orleans

Saturday, November 19, 2005

ARC to the Rescue




I'm upstairs at my computer writing a letter of
congratulations to my friend Sarah Debacher (the
etymology of her surname alone makes her worth
knowing). Sarah has moved back to her marigny/bywater
house and has announced her engagement to a British
expat named Simon (not jewish, but a real nice chap
nonetheless). As most of you know I don't approve of
the institution of marriage. I don't like ceremonies
to begin with, and the idea of seeking the approval of
god, state, family, or friends for what is rightfully
the business solely of the two people in question is
anathema to me. Also, I happen to just come across a
passage of Kundera's "Book of Laughter and Forgetting"
in which he asserts that "Rape is an integral part of
eroticism." While, I'll set aside judgement on that
particular pronouncement, it did prompt the thought
that marriage is rape without the eroticism.

Nonetheless, I really like wedding cake and I'm
genuinely happy that Sarah has found such success in
love. So, I'm in the middle of telling her what food
and liquor to have at the wedding (roast duck, bread
pudding, bushmills, etc) when I hear this guy shouting
through a megaphone out on the street. My first
thought was that it was someone yelling about Jesus,
which I have absolutely no tolerance for these days. I
walk towards the balconey ready to unleash a stream of
profanity, and then I see that its some kind of truck
with flashing lights and the guy is saying "I got...,
We got..."- I couldn't hear what he had, but I was
excited anyway. Secretly, I'm hoping it's an ice cream
truck. But I realize that's not likely, because there
are no children in the city at this point and what
kind of crazy fuck starts up an ice cram truck
business in a half-empty town of drunk hurricane
victims? I get outside and I see this big
ambulance-looking thing with a food-service window on
one side and the American Red Cross symbol painted all
over. Then I hear the mehaphone guy inside the food
ambulance more clearly: "Hot Dogs! We got hot dogs
here!" Like it's a goddamn baseball game! I went up
and got a couple of dogs and a bottle of water (alas,
no peanuts or crackerjacks). I sat down on the porch
with Lenny and we each ate a frank (not bad, but not
Zephyr Field) and I talked to Lenny about what I
thought the Yanks should do in the offseason.

So in case you wondering where all that Red Cross
money was going...

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