Fa ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra

Well, it’s Christmastime once again. The trees are all decorated nicely, the stockings are hung on the mantle, the eggnog is spiked, and, in some parts of the world, the Christmas cakes are filled with laxatives (I believe that is Australia).

Personally, though, I love this time of year. To me, starting around October and going through early January – it the best time of the year. Some of the reasons why I love this time of year are: snow; two of my favorite sports – football and basketball; family; listening to Christmas music on the radio ad nauseum; eating chocolate covered cherries ad nauseum; friends; sending goofy Christmas cards; the cool, crisp autumn air that fills the skies while a multitude of reds, oranges, and yellows blanket the countryside; Oktoberfest; apple cider; pumpkin pies; turkey and dressing; Yule logs (whatever the hell they are); heavy traffic; Christmas lights; bourbon balls; bourbon whiskey; listening to the Chinese sing “Deck the Harrs” on A Christmas Story; New Years Eve parties; sitting at home with your loved ones watching the ball drop; watching two fat ladies fight over a toy in a department store; getting the finger from two girls in a mall parking lot as I continually circle around the same four aisles in a miserable, failing attempt to park my car…well, the last two aren’t really positive things; the latter did happen to me once in Louisville, though.

I had a very happy and normal childhood, and while we weren’t knocking the bank vaults down with our savings and checking accounts, you would never know, because it wasn’t all about expensive presents or who could get more stuff - it was about sharing with your loved ones and enjoying time together. Sure, I won’t lie and say I didn’t enjoy my bike I got one year or all the wonderful things my parents bought for me, but now as I am older and I recollect memories from Christmas’ past, I really see the true meaning of it all. I can really see I was one of the fortunate kids, though; even in my small town, there were kids who had it bad – really bad. Even now, I feel a small amount of guilt as I open presents on Christmas morning, knowing others have nothing to share. That is why I do what I can for others less fortunate - in my community and abroad. Still, I could do more.

I feel blessed to have a wonderful and ever-increasing group of family and friends around me now, including ones in the blogosphere. So, in the spirit of the season, let me make a toast:

To my longtime friends and those I’ve just met recently, I wish you all a safe and happy and wonderful Christmas and holiday season. May your today be better than yesterday and your tomorrow be better than both. Sláinte!

P.S. Don’t flip people the bird too much this holiday season (unless it is me accidentally cutting you off in traffic, then go for it).

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Update on Queens and Crescents

My website, http://www.barrysouthers.com , is about half ready. The webmaster is creating several layouts for me to decide on, and, after that, it should be up and running within a few weeks. I will have a link to my site on my blog and vise versa. I will keep you posted!

Currently, I am looking over the proofs of my book. It is quite exciting! So, to allow all of you to get a sneak peek of what is to come, instead of writing I am posting an excerpt from Queens and Crescents:

He walked down toward a long string of white taxicabs parked along the exit of the airport. He stopped at one of the cars and watched as the cabbie got out and opened the trunk. He looked curiously at Sean as he silently filled the trunk with Sean’s luggage, then moved around to the side and opened the right rear door and waited for Sean to move. As he got closer to the cabbie, Sean noticed a sickly sweet aroma of stale alcohol, cigarettes, and sweat. The cabbie closed Sean’s door and walked around the front of the cab to get in on the driver’s side.

“Where you need to go, young man?” the cabbie asked.

“Um,” Sean mumbled back, fumbling through his itinerary papers in his shirt pocket. “344 Camp Street.” He felt a little foolish for not being prepared when the cabbie asked him where to go.

“Ah, the Queen and Crescent, eh? Very nice place, my man. Not in the Quarter, but very close.” The cabbie pulled out of his spot and flipped on the meter.

Sean was impressed. There must have been hundreds of hotels in the greater New Orleans area, and yet that guy knew exactly where the place was simply by the address alone.

“Yes, sir, the Queen and Crescent,” Sean replied. “I’ve never been there before, but the pictures I’ve seen are lovely.”

“No need to call me sir; I work for a living. Mr. Boudreaux’s the name.”

“Okay then, Mr. Boudreaux it is.” Sean quickly glanced up at the rearview mirror and noticed Mr. Boudreaux’s worn, yellow eyes looking back at him.

Mr. Boudreaux was a short, thin, graying black man. He had been born and raised in New Orleans, and except for a four-year stint with the Army, he had been there all his life. The stale smell Sean noticed was correct. Mr. Boudreaux had been a chronic drinker and smoker for years. Sometimes he would indulge himself with generous portions of Bacardi rum and coke while checking out the g-stringed dancers at some of the local “gentleman’s” clubs around town. Mostly, though, he drank alone in his three-room carriage house located outside of town.

The air conditioning in the taxicab was obviously not working, and that, coupled with the fact that you could cut the humidity outside with a knife, made Sean’s sweat glands work overtime. He wiped sweat from his forehead yet again as he turned to view the sights from the cab’s back window.

“How far is it to the hotel, sir… um, I mean, Mr. Boudreaux?” Sean hoped it would not be too far, especially since Mr. Boudreaux’s driving skills were somewhat questionable at best.

“Not too much further, young man, not too much further.” Sean heard the cabbie laugh, as if he could almost feel his uneasiness from the driver’s seat. He looked up at the rearview mirror to see the cabbie’s yellow eyes looking at him once again. “There’s no need to get in a hurry in N’awlins.”

Sean was enthralled with Mr. Boudreaux’s definite Cajun dialect. He heard many people speak that way on television, but it didn’t do it any justice at all. He found the way Mr. Boudreaux spoke, as well as Southerners in general, to be quite hypnotic and intimidating—something about the way they pronounced every word very slowly and nasal, as if every word had some sort of grandiose meaning. They didn’t just talk, they spoke, and those words represented knowledge, which is quite the opposite of the typical stereotype of slow-witted buffoons with three teeth and tobacco spittle encrusted on the corners of their mouths.

“Where are you from, young man?” Mr. Boudreaux asked. Sean noticed how the cabbie always grunted and snorted after he spoke. “I’m from Oregon…a little town called Cottage Grove, located about twenty or twenty-five miles south of Eugene,” Sean said. Mr. Boudreaux laughed again as he looked back at him, which made Sean uncomfortable yet again.

“That’s my name, young man—Eugene.” He laughed.

“Eugene Boudreaux, the one and only.”

“Ever been to Oregon?” Sean asked.

“No, no, no, never been. California’s the closest I’ve been. Very nice place, though, I hear.”

“It is…a nice place, I mean. This is my first time in New Orleans,” Sean said, wiping the sweat off his face with his hand.

“Well, what do y’know, I got me a N’awlins virgin in my car today!” he laughed. “You are gonna love it here, young man. We got anything an’ everything a young man could want, and even a few things you wouldn’t want. The finest hotels, the best food in the world, and the women, oh, the women! Young man, we got some of the finest women here that you’ll ever lay your eyes on.” Sean could tell Mr. Boudreaux was grinning simply by the elevated tone of his voice. “The finest indeed. You come down here alone, did you now?”

“Well, um…yes. I haven’t done very much for myself lately so I decided to treat myself to a trip, to get away from it all for a few days. I hear there is some fabulous architecture in this area,” Sean said, feeling a little foolish. I mean seriously, who comes to New Orleans to enjoy the architecture? He waited for the cabbie to laugh but he never did.

“Oh, yes, and that too. Everything you could want. But I’ll be surprised if you do much sightseeing while you’re down here, though.” The cabbie paused. “One word of advice for you, young man. Don’t go away from the French Quarter too far, unless you’re looking for trouble. You do that and you’ll find it, or it’ll find you, whether you want it or not.”

Sean made a mental note of that. Don’t be stupid and get lost in a big town two thousand miles from home. You’ll do nobody any good if you’re dead.

“Any more good advice?”

“If you looking for food, Mulate’s is hard to beat. Won’t cost you much, and the food’s good. Damn good. Brunch at Court of Two Sisters is popular and damn good, too. Now, if you looking for music, go to Tiritina’s, on Napoleon. Any type of music you want to hear, especially the blues. That’s what we’re known for down here, you know? The blues, and jazz.”

Mr. Boudreaux began scratching his head as he paused to think. “And if you’re looking for women, you got to check out the Gold Room. Be careful, though; some places down there on Bourbon Street have more than meets the eye.” He finished the instant they drove up to the Queen and Crescent, turned off the meter, and then put the car in park.

While they were getting the luggage out, Sean asked, “Mr. Boudreaux, excuse my naiveté, but what exactly do you mean by ‘more than meets the eye’?”

Mr. Boudreaux snickered as he sat the luggage down close to Sean’s feet. “Just be careful around the beautiful ones, the tall ones. Their beauty may fill your eyes and their voice your ears, but they may not be all they seem. They could be dangerous, very dangerous.”

Sean felt a chill run down his spine. “Dangerous? How? You mean they might be men?” he asked.

“No, no, no, young man,” the cabbie said as he laughed. “Although you gots to watch out for them, too. Just be careful. You never know where a beautiful woman may lead you, or what they might make you do. Men have fought wars over the love of a beautiful woman, young man. I have fought my share of wars, too, you know.” He paused and placed his hand on Sean’s shoulder. “Just be careful is all I’m sayin’. Just be careful.”

Sean felt more confused now than before, and was sorry he had asked for clarity. Whatever the cabbie meant, he was adamant about it. Sean smiled gingerly before leaning over to pick up his luggage. After he paid the fare, they shook hands.

“Let me be the first to welcome you to N’awlins.” Sean smiled as he watched Mr. Boudreaux get in the taxicab and wait for his next fare. As he turned to face the hotel, he noticed the beautiful design of the building. Since he had taken an ancient architecture class in college, he had an interest in the way buildings were shaped. He walked toward the lobby entrance and noticed a group of women laughing as they exited the doors.

“Hi,” whispered one of the stunning beauties as she walked past Sean. She gave him a sexy smile. Sean caught himself gawking as they moved away from him. What a fool! I have not been here five minutes and I have a beautiful young woman saying hello before I enter the hotel lobby, and I don’t say anything back! Stupid, stupid, stupid! He shook it off and paused for a moment to regain his composure before going inside.

He would not think of architecture again for the entire trip.