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I was walking by the Wildlife and Fisheries building across from the Royal Orleans and it was actually so beautiful outside I found myself almost like a character in a book that I’m writing in my head. I had walked by several young black men, all very, very handsome (the eyes of some New Orleans blacks are so distinctively ethereal it’s hard to describe, they are a lighter shade of brown, entering a gold or green or yellow), and I thought how handsome these young men are and I thought about young black men in New Orleans and how 94% or whatever the percentage was of murders are perpetrated by young black men (and are the victims of said crime as well), but I digress.

My character is a writer, and she is walking in the French Quarter, the weather is beautiful, and she is thinking happily about her life, but in this version, she is introduced to people as the author whose book, “Black Boys Need Love Too,” swept the nation and created a movement where (forget about the million man march these men all turned to the young boy next to them instead of marching away from their problems and said, “Young man, I’m here to be your mentor. I’m here to show you the way” – but I digress again) older black and white and Asian men took the hand of a young black boy and showed him the way.

I ran into two women I see at yoga all the time and one asked me what are you doing here as I was at a panel discussion (Tennessee Williams Festival) on writing about music and the question seemed so odd and so I stammered, “Well, I’m a writer and you know, well what are you doing here?” The one responded, “We’re on the panel.” And then they moved towards the stage.

I stood waiting for the next part, but there wasn’t one.

I’m more inclined next time this question is asked to respond, “I’m a character.” Because I think that might have more of a response than when one writer tells another writer they are a writer.

So I ran into my first love’s ex who is a mystery writer and I said it’s sad about him, dead, hard to believe. She said I spoke to him for ten minutes and it was sweet.

And I had waited by my cellphone but alas he was too close to death’s door to talk by phone. Instead a mutual friend had read him a note I’d written.

Sad, I said. And we parted ways.

I was reading likethevodka and thought oh, this is so familiar. When I first got together with Zsa Zsa as my neighbor calls Tatjana, I thought this is deja vu becuase I grew up with my father who sounded like Desi Arnez times 100. “Why not read the sick-lopedia?” he would ask me. Meanwhile, we have survived into our fourth year of not understanding each other 80% of the time, which we chalk up to three things: 1) language, 2) old ears, and 3) almost four years together.

So we were laughing recently about how Tin, who is being raised bilingual, speaks Crenglish, and he jumbles both languages together in weird ways much like my “babeeshoenineohhairstyleface” coming from my father’s, “Vivir cien años” blessing when we sneezed. Tatjana was telling Tin to take off his underwear – in Croatian this sounds like “skinny gotchee tsa” and so the other day, in his new form of whining (that is killing us!) he whined, “I don’t want to skinny gotchee tsa!”

But then driving home last night from having gone to see Tom and Evan play at the Botanical Gardens, we were commenting on the fact that Evan had snuck in a Salt Peanuts riff on the clarinet for Tin who turned to look at us like, “Did I just hear what I thought I heard?” all excited like and so we said to him on the way home, “Wasn’t it cool how Evan played Salt Peanuts!” and both of us went to hooray but Tatjana said, “Yoo pee” and I said “Yippee.”

“Yoo pee?” I asked. Yes,

You say yoo pee and I say yippee. Oo la la, whatyagonnado?

I was born in 1959 and if you are my age then you might remember the anxiety the Cold War produced in us kids and how I used to have nightmares about a plane crashing into the moon across an inky blue sky and then the world coming to an end. Well, I just got a notice from a kid’s site telling me as a parent how to reduce the anxiety in my child over all the events going on in the world.

But, of course, you will have to unwind me, the parent, from the fetal position to do this as I’m the one all this uncertainty has crept into and turned my mind into a nightmare of vipers and militia beasts vying for oxygen. Let me start my motor 9/11, Federal Flood, divorce, LaLa remodel in post-Katrina times, Sri Lanka, Haiti, Pakistan, Japan (let’s not even mention Iraq, Afghanistan, Libya, Yemen, Egypt), 2008-___ Recession, shall I continue?

Curses to you anxiety and uncertainty. Woe is the adult who can’t find the oxygen mask so that she can succor her child.

Missing Persons report by NOPD

Dugans was described as a Caucasian male, approximately 6’3” in height, slender build and last seen wearing a white long sleeve shirt and blue jeans. Dugans also has tattoos on his right and left arm and a tattoo of “We are the People” on his stomach.

Tin tooks his first ride on a streetcar today with his nanny. Finally, he probably thought, I’ve been saying “streecar!” for ages now.

A person who is 25 years my junior gave me this poem today. I’ve seen it of course many times, but isn’t it nice that someone half my age saw it and thought of me:

“Our Deepest Fear”

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us.
We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?
Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God.
Your playing small does not serve the world.
There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you.
We are all meant to shine, as children do.
We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us.
It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone.
And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.
As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

— Marianne Williamson

I believe these people stole my Obama bumper sticker.

Thirty-seven days to Jazz Fest, but who is counting?

Today begins the Tennessee Williams Festival and this year we’re celebrating his 100th birthday.

Tom McDermott and Evan Christopher have a new CD and they are playing together @ 6PM at the Botanical Gardens in City Park.

Chuck Perkins joins others to kick off some spoken word at One Eyed Jack’s in honor of Tennessee Williams @ 8PM.