An Ode to Jezebel

R.I.P., Jezebel

 
As I return from my 10 days away I realize the clock is ticking on my life returning to "normal".  If I had the energy and a little more money I might just travel the globe and check in with work just to pay the bills.  Maybe someday.

I've been afforded a chance at freedom that I haven't had in 19 years.  After a long life, my dog passed away last month, finally making her way to doggie heaven.  It was a tough thing to put her down, but it was time.  She was overcome with dementia and lack of bladder control.  Poor thing didn't know where she was or who she had become.  At that level, all dogs narrow their "tunnel vision" lives even further.  Sleep, food, poop, snack, pee, poop again, food, snack, pee, sleep.  And they're not particular about where they do any of those things.  Such is the life of our dogs that we feel guilty at letting them go.  But they have truly "passed on", way before their bodies have given up the ghost.

I started noticing changes in her spirit and actions probably 2 years ago.  As she got older, she became more unpredictable.  That was probably the most frustrating part for me.  I never knew when she was ready to pee or poop, or if she was hungry or was about to throw up.  I doubt she knew much as well.  It just came up out of nowhere and she responded as best she could.  My parents visited last year and I remember my mother commenting on how Jezzy's personality had seemed to vanish.  The changes had been so gradual that I hadn't noticed it as much as she did.

I don't blame Jezzy for what she did in these last years.  In some ways, I blame myself.  By prolonging her life beyond when it was satisfying, I think I probably gave her a little pain.  But she was so hard to read.  Never, and I mean NEVER, did she complain or whimper about anything.  I had gotten her when she was 6 months old from an animal shelter, and it was obvious by the way she jealously guarded her food that she had had to fend for herself out there in the mean streets of Dayton, OH.  Jezzy was tough as nails, even for a small dog of less than 20 pounds.  She would take on dogs bigger than her if they dare touch her treat or food.

I like to think her feistiness was a reflection on me.  They say a dog takes after her master.  I always admired her enthusiasm.  When she was younger she would chase after squirrels with such reckless abandon.  No matter how many times the leash would go taut and her neck would jump back, she still thought it was "way cool" to just chase after that fuzzy creature.  I often wondered what it would be like if she actually caught one.  I seriously doubt she would have eaten it.  Something tells me she just liked chasing after animals with herky-jerky movements like squirrels.

I do recall one time when she slipped through her collar while chasing a squirrel.  She didn't shed much, so her hair would grow and I would absent-mindedly forget that her thick neck was all hair.  So sometimes the collar would get caught up over one ear or she would just struggle out of it at the most inopportune time.  This time, she sprang out of her neck trap and headed right for a small tree whilst the squirrel was starting to climb.

The squirrel was fah-reeking out and climbing as fast as it could.  It got so nervous that it fell out of the tree and landed on the ground next to the sidewalk, probably no more than 10 feet from me.  Jezzy was ready and took off.  Of course, what could the squirrel do?  Well, find the nearest shelter and hide.  That happened to be my wheelchair!  I'm not sure there's anything worse than seeing a wild animal charging straight at you.  Better a squirrel than a rhino, I always say.  I was frozen.  Before I knew it he had jumped between my legs and hidden below my wheelchair.  I looked down on the side of my wheelchair just in time to see the squirrel scoot through the wheel spokes on the other side and head to safety.  My dog had taken a wrong turn and circled the wrong way.  Somehow the squirrel had been able to calm himself long enough to decipher where freedom beckoned.

And that, my friends, was about as close as Jezzy ever came to eating a squirrel!

I find myself stopping now when I hear a slight noise, thinking it's her getting up from a nap.  Or maybe I catch myself in the morning getting up to take her out for her morning constitution.  She will always be with me and now I can remember the good times when she was a happy dog, full of life and excitement at the prospects of a new day.  I thought I had gotten over my loss, especially with my trip to New Orleans and the obvious advantages of not having to care for a sick dog.

But at home, buried in my pile of unopened mail, was a letter from the Animal Welfare League of Arlington.  A former neighbor in Virginia had donated some money in the name of Jezebel.  And all those thoughts and emotions of my doggie came rushing back as if they had been lying dormant in the back of my brain for these past few weeks.

Yeh, she is gone, but I'll always have my memories of her and the good times we had.  She was a precious thing and a gift from God.  I will never regret having her or going through the pain of losing her.  Life is full of happiness and sadness and we must always take the good with the bad.  Without both, you don't appreciate the significance and richness of life.

Godspeed, Jezzy.  I hope you are in a better place.

Your grateful owner,

Todd Cox

Don't Let the Sun Beat Down on Me

 


Cigar Factory, 415 Decatur St., New Orleans


Here I sit in a laundromat near my hotel, cleaning clothes in a building without air-conditioning.  A good sweat is not a bad thing, I guess.  My New Orleans trip is coming to an end today.  I travel Northeast to Laurel, MS to see my relatives. 

Although I planned on hitting Frenchmen Street last night for live jazz, I was too wiped out from the afternoon excursion to go.  The oppressive heat is non-stop, forcing me to look for sidewalks on the shady side of the streets.  I believe I got baked and fried yesterday like a chimichanga enchilada. 

I hit the trail early afternoon, making my way from my hotel, on the fringe of the French Quarter, down to Decatur Street (about 8 blocks).  I stopped by my favorite cigar shop in town and got some hand-rolled cigars.  The Cigar Factory has on-site rollers that work constantly, usually with a fat cigar in their mouths and Cuban salsa music playing in the background.  The area near the entrance is wide open, with tables and chairs lined up for patrons to relax and smoke.   It's a cool atmosphere and one I would recommend if you are a cigar-smoker and happen to be in New Orleans. 

As Kramer (from Seinfeld) would say, "I've imported some Cubans!"

My favorite smoke there is the Tres Hermanos (Three Brothers) line of cigars.  A nice full-bodied cigar that's not overwhelming.  Lots of rich flavor without being too peppery.  Cigar tastings are becoming more and more like wine tastings, with the tasters envisioning blackberry, pepper, oak, rose petals, etc..  As with wine, I have no clue where they get these ideas for flavors.  I like to think of a good cigar as a combination of flavors where the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.  I'm not sure my palate is able to discern each individual flavor and figure out their origin.  And to be honest with you, I'm not sure I care.  Taste is really all that matters.

I pulled up to one of the empty tables, lit up one of my purchases and continued my reading of the book "Dracula" (on my Kindle phone app).  Francis Ford Coppola's movie version of Dracula was pretty close to the original material, so I'm enjoying the anticipation of scenes to come.  It seems somewhat appropriate to read such a book in a town known for it's love of the mystical and mysterious.




Boiled crawfish pot filled with whole onions, peppers and spices, outside Montrel's

 Soon I was off and rolling down the sidewalks toward Jackson Square, opposite Cafe du Monde.  I pushed through the French Market, sampling the food wares as I went (the hot sauce counter was sweaty ordeal!).  I happened upon a restaurant that was in the back of the market called Montrel's.  They had an outside table displaying some of the entrees, such as jambalaya, crawfish etouffee and seafood creole.  Next to that was a kettlepot filled with crawfish and whole veggies.  It smelled divine.  On the other side of the display table was the guy seating patrons.  He was a natural-born salesman, and with my eye as big as saucers and my beak dripping with drool, I was easy pickings.  He still did his spiel, coming around his lectern and saying, "We gunna do ya right, my friend.  We been here lots of years and we know how ta cook da gumbo!  Nice and cool inside.  Plenty of tables."

Crawfish Bisque at Montrel's

I graciously accepted his invite and headed into the cooler confines of Montrel's.  One thing about most New Orleans restaurants, the bread is the key to everything.  It either compliments your meal or is the main course (as in the Po Boys).  Much like France, the quality of bread is high.  This place was no exception.  They brought some homemade bread soaked in butter and garlic.  It was like a not-as-sweet version of a beignet.  Melted in my mouth.  Yum! 

The first course (after the bread) was Crawfish Bisque, which was awesome.  Reminded me of the She-Crab Soup I used to have when I lived in Northern Virginia.  Shelling a crawfish is a messy task, and one that I was not doing well at.  I couldn't bring myself to suck the head and I made sure I didn't actually eat the eyeballs.  A lot of work for very little meat, but the taste was unique and flavorful.

Shrimp Jambalaya at Montrel's

 The jambalaya was made with rice, onions, Andouille sausage and shrimp, among other ingredients.  There was a creole red sauce poured over it.  The sauce saved the dish.  You know when you order Shrimp and Broccoli from Chinese takeout and it has 4 shrimp in 5 lbs of food?  Yeh, that was the case here as well.  It could've come with more sausage and shrimp.  But the thing I loved about the dish was the fact that the sauce was not spicy at all.  It allowed each person to adjust the spiciness as they saw fit.  The restaurant had a big bottle of Crystal's Hot Sauce on each table, so I proceeded to drown my dish in the sauce.  Now it was just about right!

For dessert I had Pecan Pie, which I remembered from visiting my Grandma in Texas.  She made the best.  This version had a nice vanilla/sugar flavor, maybe with a touch of caramel.  A little runny for my tastes but maybe that's the way they server it down here.

I left the restaurant very satisfied, pulling out my second stogie and lighting it up.  Then I started making my way back up through the Quarter to my hotel.  The sidewalks are cracked and bumpy, so I am constantly looking down to make sure I don't sink my wheelchair into something.  At one point, I tried to traverse a section of sidewalk that had a craggy section of sidewalk missing.  And just like Evil Knievel over Snake River Canyon, I missed the far edge and ended up stuck in the hole, with my front wheels jammed against that same edge.  A lady stopped by and was nice enough to help me out. She proceeded to almost dump me out of my chair, like it was a wheelbarrow, since my front casters were stuck!  But we worked it out and I was on my way, profusely thanking the lady for stopping to help.

By the time I got back to the hotel I hit my room and jumped on the bed, completely wiped out.  Any dreams of a late-night sojourn to Frenchmen Street were gone the moment my eyes closed and my body began to cool.

Two Beaded Necklaces and My Clothes are Still On

Bourbon St., New Orleans - Wednesday, June 15, 2011

As the old saying goes, "When in Rome, do as the Romans do."  So it was that I felt compelled to make the trek to the Mecca of party animals everywhere, Bourbon Street.  Having spent most of my vacation cash, I knew I wasn't going inside any of the bars.  But I also knew there was no charge for observing.

I checked my wallet and found one $5 bill.  I decide to save it for laundry day tomorrow and promised myself not to spend it at the party cess pool I was diving into.  It was an unbreakable oath that I swore to myself.

Once I hit Bourbon Street, the money was gone in about 5 minutes.  You see, I was thirsty.  It had been another hot day and I had just pushed 6 blocks from the hotel.  On this street, it's not just food that's "To Go".  You can pretty much drink anything as long as it's in a plastic cup.  I had no choice.  It is a well-known fact that one must perform this rite of passage in order to stay on the street.  That's my story and I'm sticking to it!  I was given a beaded necklace as well, so that's $5 well spent.

I'm still not quite sure what the allure of Bourbon Street is.  The warm wind was blowing down the street and I detected the distinct odor of stale beer mixed with cat piss and vomit.  Now that's attractive!  New Orleans was recently voted in some poll as the dirtiest city in America (tied with Philly for first).  Since I'm in a wheelchair, my hands quickly became dirty from pushing on the street.  I'm not sure I want to know what's in that dirt, but I'll bet it contains the DNA of a few rodents. 

The sounds coming from the bars reminded me of the opening scene in "Touch of Evil" (Director's cut).  Charleton Heston's character walks with his wife down the street, the music changing as they walk by each bar.  That's what it was like rolling down Bourbon Street - the music jumping from R&B to Jazz to Country and to Zydeco.

I traversed the length of the street, from St. Anne to Canal Street, receiving another necklace by a man on the street (free of charge).  At Canal Street I turned around and headed back.  Part of the way back down, I was handed a "God Loves You" pamphlet from a guy with a severe stuttering problem.  He then noticed I was in a wheelchair and he proceeded to give me another one, labeled "You are Extraordinary".  He kept attempting to say something to me, all the while pointing at me and my wheelchair.  Yeh, I got the point.  I didn't realize there was a tract especially for us gimps!  So exciting.

Shortly thereafter I was semi-accosted by a drunken, dancing lady with no teeth.  I made the mistake of making eye contact with her.  Drunken, dancing ladies are like tigers, they can smell fear.  She was gumming a straw connected to some mysterious concoction, pausing periodically to take a breath.  I engaged her in conversation, noticing at least 5 rubber bracelets on her right wrist.  She proceeding to explain in disjointed English that "this one is Radio Shack, this one is Live Strong, this one is the Army"...and so on.  I didn't know Radio Shack made rubber bracelets, although I decided not to press her further on the subject.

But she was just getting started.  The monologue was a massive series of segues.  I picked up mentions of North Carolina, Alabama, the Bill Clinton Expressway, Western Carolina and some river in Arkansas (?).  She kept talking, her eyes fixated on my hair, dancing rapidly back and forth as if looking for some golden treasure hiding within my follicles. 

Having had enough, I saw my chance to escape.  I squeezed between her and the trash can, pushed down a slight ramp and into the street.  My plastic cup of beer was firmly clenched between my teeth.  She still followed, not really slowing down her rhetoric.  I heard her mention she was a volunteer for something as I pushed ahead and escaped through the crowd.

Volunteers of America, be proud.  You were well-represented on Bourbon Street this Wednesday night.  I'm sure I'll see her in the morning on my way to Cafe du Monde, curled up in a ditch and sleeping it off.  Of course, she fits right in around here.  Only in NOLA and NYC would this behavior be considered "normal".

Jobs, Tourism, Email, Food

Had to do the tourist thing.  There was a guy singing gospel songs outside.  Good fun!

Beignet's: Fried dough with powdered sugar (I only ate 2 of 'em; maybe a little of the 3rd)

Here's a poem about the unexpected engine troubles that came up in Montgomery, AL.  Car is now running A-OK, by the way.

The Life Unknown

The best-laid plans

Of mice and men

Are torn apart

Time and again.

But we must take

Each passing change

An act of fate

We must arrange.

To take the bad

And make it good

And relish life

As if you could.

For life gives not

A future known

But one that's all

A sight unshown.

It's up to us

To make the best

Of what life gives

And take the rest.

So if your car

Starts to sputter

And in a fit

You start to utter.

"Oh Holy Cow

What do I do?

It looks as though

My car is through!"

But don't despair

For life is kind

And finds silver

In every line.

The life unknown

Is life at last

The flame in us

That burns so fast.

So take each step

That life imparts

Embrace the mystery

Into our hearts.

And raise a glass

To what life brings

And try to smile

In spite of things.

That's what we learn

From life, you know

To make the best

Of what we sow.

For after all

The troubles seen

I'm still right where

I should've been.

by T. L. Cox

Cajun-grilled catfish stuffed with crabmeat, paired with shrimp
and angel-hair pasta in a creamy creole sauce.  Yummy!!

I met a former co-worker at New Orleans Food & Spirits on the shore of Lake Pontchartrain.  Forrest used to work with me in Virginia.  He is a true Loozzianna boy, raising his family in his home state and loving every minute of it.  The restaurant was just a casual barn-shack building, with a standard bar and dining table inside.  The food was so fresh and tasty.  The catfish was blackened but not overwhelmingly so.  I wish I had a better camera!  I will work on that.

NOLA, at last!

New Orleans cityscape

I am wiped out from the delayed sojourn to New Orleans (or NOLA, as I've heard it called often).  I'll share some picks and a quick story that had me chuckling a little.  By the way, those of you who have read my Top 10 Musings know about the pickup truck driver and his evil ways.  Sure enough, ran into one today that was exhibiting the same dissrespect that I had discussed.  Yeh, I knew there was truth to what I said, but to see it right in front of me so soon after posting that piece of info was interesting.  And yes, I did pass a weigh station and it was, remarkably, OPEN.  



Mobile River Bridge near Mobile, AL



My quick story has to do with my aforementioned lack of car knowledge and how I could easily get screwed over by devious mechanics intent on separating me from my money.  Has anyone ever seen the movie "Office Space"?  It was a movie about the typical office where cubicles are king and every job is incredibly boring.  One of the characters was always being berated for not getting his "TPS Reports" done on time.  These turned out to be basically sheets of nothing that were completely useless.  That phrase from the movie popped up in many water cooler conversations across the country.

Well, I kid you not, I had a mechanic inspect my car's engine using a computer and the readout indicated a faulty Air Flow indicator and a faulty TPS indicator.  OK, now that made me chuckle.  Here I am a gullible schlub when it comes to cars and a mechanic tells me I've got a faulty TPS indicator!!  Well, by gum, that was the problem.  $242 later I was on my way to NOLA.  By the way, TPS stands for Throttle Position Sensor.  Makes sense, since my car was having a hard time maintaining speed.



My hotel's inner courtyard





Top 10 Road Musings - Next 5

Click here for the first 5 of the Top 10.

I left Montgomery, AL today at 4pm, heading towards New Orleans.  My car's ambient temperature gauge read 104 degrees.  I would guess the humidity was 100%, but that would mean it was raining.  So I'll go with 99.99% humidity.  Thank God I got the A/C fixed last week! 

I hit I-85 and quickly set the cruise control.  The 5-hour journey was in full force when the car started slowing down, then speeding up back to the set speed.  It kept doing this repeatedly, enough for me to begin to worry.  Now I could put my entire car knowledge on a cocktail napkin (I know there's a battery and spark plugs and some kind of engine thingie), so I decided to head back to my last hotel and call it a day.  OK, let's be honest, I could put all my car knowledge on a postage stamp.

So, New Orleans will have to wait at least another day.  Tomorrow I'll get up real early and hit the local auto shop, bending over and touching my ankles and praying my $10,000 credit line is enough to cover whatever expenses the mechanics dream up.  They could tell me my car's flux capacitor needs replacing and I would probably believe them. 

Now, on with the countdown...

 6.   The quickest distance between 2 points is not always a straight line
 7.   Two is bad, but three is good
 8.   Your government at work: The perpetually-closed weigh station
 9.   What item is used the least in most cars?
10.  20 is the magic number



The quickest distance between 2 points is not always a straight line

Yogi Berra once said, "If you come to a fork in the road, take it."  I'd have to say I get a similar feeling when I come to a loop freeway around a city.  Downtown freeway traffic is the worst: poor drivers, slow speed limits and hotly-contested lane positions.  Loops usually have posted speeds 10 to 15 mph over the city's, along with fewer cops to slow you down.  Having said that, I fully expect to get a ticket tomorrow on the first loop I take.  It's not polite to diss the road gods. 


Two is bad, but three is good

Highways with only two lanes going each direction are the bane of the road warrior's existence.  You've got slow cars in the left lane and slower cars in the right.  There's no place to pass.  Most of the time, these highways are rural and therefore contain fewer exits to weed out the Yugos and Ford Escorts.  Pickup truck drivers poach the left lane and never leave.

So you just gotta wait it out, realizing every minute at or below the speed limit is a minute added to your trip time.  I've had recurring road trip daydreams where my car has retractable stilts.  I push a button and "Bam!", the car elevates and the wheel base widens.  I gun it and race over the unsuspecting cars, quickly resuming my desired trip time as I leave those cave dwellers in the dust.

Or maybe my car sprouts helicopter props and I soar over the cars and gracefully land a mile ahead.  It's advantageous to have a child-like imagination when driving in these conditions.  That's when you wake up and realize your cruise control is set at 45 mph on a 65 mph highway.  Oy vay.


Your government at work: The perpetually-closed weigh station

I realize we all believe that our government is the most efficient, smoothest-running operation in all of the world.  OK, maybe not the whole world, but at least in America, right?  Harumph!  In all my road trips I think I can count on one hand the number of times a weigh station was open.  What a great use of our tax dollars.  At least they've found a good use for those stations.  They make great parking areas for cop cars.


What item is used the least in most cars?

For some reason, no one seems to use their car's cruise control.  Is it too difficult to figure out what the "Resume" and "Set" buttons are for?  Is the automotive technology beyond the grasp of the average driver?  It's like going to the movies and everyone's waiting in line outside of the theater while five computer-ticket kiosks stand unused inside.

The worst troglodytes are what I call the "Rubber Band" drivers.  They come screaming past you then pull over in front of you.  Then they slow down.  I then pass them on cruise control and pull over in front of them, maintaining the same speed.  They then pass me and then slow down...  Well, you know the rest.  Arrrgghhh!


20 is the magic number

I've had my fair share of speeding tickets over the years.  One thing I've learned is not to go 20 or more miles per hour over the speed limit.  In most states that's the lowest speed for aggressive driving tickets.  They're usually at least $100 more than normal speeding tickets.  Yikes!  The day I get pulled over for going 21 mph over the speed limit is the day the cop will ask me "How'd you get that hand print on your forehead?"  Doh!

Top 10 Road Musings - First 5

Everyone's heard the saying "It's not the destination, but the journey that counts".  There's a reason that's a cliche.  It's true.  I dig the road and seeing new things and living new experiences.  Nothing charges my batteries (yes, I'm part Cyborg) better than a good ol'-fashioned road trip.  Here are some of my observances about the journey.  I'll let someone else "wax elephant" about the destination.

1. Truckers own the road.  The rest of us are just renting.
2. Pickup truck drivers:  PEE-YOU!
3. Cats are smarter than dogs.
4. What do freeway towns of similar size have in common?
5. Road shoulder warning tracks are great for I-Pods.

Click here for the next 5 of the Top 10.



Truckers own the road.  The rest of us are just renting.

One thing that can be said about truckers:  they know what they're doing on the road.  They stay away from the passing lane unless necessary.  They usually return quickly to the right lane after passing.  Truckers sometimes perform essential functions, like blocking any pooper-snappers trying to squeeze in out of a temporarily-closed lane.  The average car traveler needs to learn road etiquette.  What better teacher than the truck master?  Yes Sensei, wipers on, wipers off.  One word of caution:  if you can see the whites of the trucker's eyes and he's driving partially on the shoulder, DO NOT attempt to mimic him in any way.   It would probably involve taking large quantities of amphetamines and depriving yourself of 3 days sleep.  Not recommended. 


Pickup truck drivers:  PEE-YOU!

Unlike truckers, a pickup truck driver (PTD) pays no attention to the road rules.  He stays in the left lane of a 2-lane highway even when the right lane is open and cars are breathing down his neck.  In fact, any whiff of tailgating sends the PTD into a stubborn stalemate.  A gun rack in the cab increases his road arrogance.  A gun rack in the cab holding a loaded gun ensures the PTD thinks he is going the maximum speed allowed by any internal combustion engine.  Sure, he'll move if any jet-propelled funny cars happen on by, but that's about it.  Or more simply put, the gun-toting PTD doesn't give a rat's rump what anyone thinks.  So macho, testosteroni-fueled PTD's with decked-out pickup trucks are to be avoided at all costs.  I say to you, Mr. Pickup Truck Driver, "You stink!"


Cats are smarter than dogs.

Have you ever seen a cat lying on the side of the road on any major freeway in America?  I know, never, right??  There's probably more stray cats in the U.S. than dogs and yet, they've learned through years of hereditary thoughtfulness to avoid asphalt as if their life depended on it (of course, it does!).  I swear I've been driving in the middle of nowhere and seen a dog lying crumpled on the side of the road.  Where did it come from?  How did it get there?  I have to conclude that dogs are just dumber than cats.  That's the only explanation.  Yeh, I'm a dog-lover.  But loving a dead dog is a lot sadder than owning a live cat.  Fido + rotten intuition = freeway doormat.


What do freeway towns of similar size have in common?

Every large freeway town has a Martin Luther King, Jr. Drive and a highway loop identified by a 3-digit number, usually ending in a "5".
Every mid-size freeway town has a billboard that begins with "Have you been in a car accident?  Call the law firm of..."
Every small freeway town stopped counting at "2" for the number of lanes for their roads and at "1" for the number of lanes over each bridge ("One-lane bridge" is the most common phrase seen in these towns).


Road shoulder warning tracks are great for I-Pods.

I-Pods are a God-send for those long road trips.  You can put your entire CD collection on a gadget that takes up less space than a car ashtray.  But unless you've had the fortitude to create every possible combination of playlists before you left, you're usually stuck searching for the perfect song.  Unfortunately, I love ZZ Top and the I-Pod's Artists listing is in alphabetical order.  Ugh.  Adding that band's music to a playlist in a speeding car is like trying to macrame while riding a unicycle.  The I-Pod's scroll wheel is slower than a turtle with one leg, especially when you've got 1,000 artists to scroll through!  I think this is why AC/DC is my preferred classic rock band. 

The road shoulder warning tracks (you know, the ones that sound like you're driving on the railroad tracks - thumpa thumpa thumpa whump whump) come in handy.  If not for those lovely warning bumps I would've driven my car onto a golf course by now!  But I know if I was parked on the 9th hole I would be happy 'cause I'd be jammin' to "Sharp Dressed Man" by then.