New Orleans in August--A Dark Hole

First off, I apologize for thus far only blogging about the Westbank. I couldn't help it. I guess the muse comes in many forms...

August is a dark hole. I knew it would be, though I tried to counteract its inevitable effects with thoughts about how this year, August was going to be great, and there were all these things to look forward to. But this is no local tale of hamartia or hubris. It's very simple: August is a shitty, shitty, shitty month--as Martha Washington was a hip, hip, hip lady, man,--and there's nothing you can do about it.


(The Dark Hole, New Orleans's zodiac sign for August.)

Inside the dark hole, I found: a $350 Entergy bill (impossible, right?), tickets from the N.O.P.D., smoldering heat, no money, a drinking problem, bad decisions involving the opposite sex...

Thus far, I've tried really hard not to get all heavy and woeful and indulgent and full of shit about oh New Orleans, and oh we suffer and we drink and we're so intense, but sometimes August just does it to you.

What up, Chris Rose. Oh wait, I forgot, you got happy and you got just about as boring as fuck to read as when you were all really really broken-record depressed. Or maybe you're just laying low during these sad-bastard months.

I didn't mean for that to sound malicious...want to go to Mae's some time?

At least Mae understands The Apostrophe, unlike some people.

My housemates, co-workers, friends, everybody, are all grumbling about the malaise. I feel especially bad for those who have just moved here, suffering and misdiagnosing their pain.

"I feel like I am swimming around in water, my head is all foggy and drowning," says Frances Beck of Montgomery, Alabama.
"That's the dark hole," I say.
"I've never had such a bad August."
"Welcome to New Orleans," says Betsy.
"Nobody warned me about this. I wish somebody had told me so I could have planned for it."
"There would have been nothing you could have possibly done to mitigate these hellish circumstances."
"I exercise every day and I still am in a funk."
"Exactly."
"I guess I'm going to go to the coffee shop."
"The coffee shop won't help you!" We call as she goes out the door.

And so on, we mope around the kitchen, poking at noodles, or lie strewn across the sofa like dirty laundry. At least the peeper is gone, and we can let light into our dark cave.

And at least I have had fun talking about The Dark Hole. It's been a good excuse for just about everything, and it makes me laugh. There is always humor lurking deep inside in the abyss. A deep stillness, and then a crystal-clear chuckle.

I think I just figured out how the world will end.

"What should we do?" I ask Betsy.

Our eyes meet, and we agree: LET'S GO TO MAE'S