A Carnival Jangle

I don’t know much about where you are, but where I am, I can tell you a thing or two about the heat right now. The thing being: it’s hot. Mighty hot. The sort of hot where you pile your hair up off your neck and sit in your skivs and wish you possessed a Homer Simpson gracelessness that might allow you to put a floatie, a few cans of beer, and a thousand ice cubes in your bathtub. Or bust open a fire hydrant and take a cool swim in the street. Or maybe even invest in air conditioning.

But no, instead this mind thinks, naturally, that there are places even hotter. Which leads this mind, naturally, to think of New Orleans, for one. Which then leads it to think of times when New Orleans isn’t at all hot, but a bastion of revelry. Except that of course February in New Orleans isn’t that any longer, except maybe for those nubile young things who, after too many plastic-cupped mudslides, mug their stuff for videocameras. But then the mind thinks of times when it probably wasn’t quite like that. And that leaves us with Dunbar.

Pump some of your air conditioning my way, would you?

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