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We walk along the still-unrepaired undulations of the sidewalk caused by Katrina.After a rainy night, we have to avoid deep puddles still caused by the aftermath of that now-old storm that rippled the roads around here as if they were tresses that might frizz in Category-5 humidity. The dogs sniff the ground and read the route’s olfactory braille with their wet noses.His endorsement makes non-Klannish white Louisianans weigh their voting choices more carefully, and we are glad to give them something to think about.On my way to this combined Saints Game Tailgate and Orgy of Joy Because a Raging Sexist Pig was About to Get Beat by a Girl, I convinced my Uber driver to register to vote, and because I told him the details of Clinton’s energy policy, a subject close to that man’s heart, he told me he would vote for my girl HRC.The men who were with us checked in on the Saints’ game on their phones once in a while, but we were glued to the screen.Neither male nor female was impressed with Donald Trump’s denial of his support for the Gulf War, nor were we convinced that it was Hillary Clinton who had a temperament problem — and what, he’s an incarnation of the Dalai Lama? His entire career has been based on being rash and quick to anger. Trump’s bringing Gennifer Flowers to the debate with him is proof he actually knows nothing about the thinking of women. Filed under: American culture, Uncategorized — annebabson @ pm Tags: American Experience, Anne Babson, Anne Rice, Aporia, cats, dogs, insects, Interview with a Vampire, Lestat, literature, Louisiana, Magical Realism, Mississippi, New Orleans, Night, nightlife, nighttime, southern culture, southern living, Southern writers, the New South, United States, walking, Anne Rice imagines a man in colonial Louisiana just outside New Orleans converting from human being into an elegant vampire.
Before the birds are up, a timpany chorus of insects click and chatter in what perhaps Anne Rice meant when she said her newly minted vampire heard a “metallic laughter” in the air.
Also, we might wonder what he would expect — that she would burst into tears? Our girl Hillary is like all of us who have had to attend a cocktail party where some woman was there who had tried to take our man. Standing among the cottonwood and oaks, I heard the night as if it were a chorus of whispering women, all beckoning me to their breasts.” I am gradually learning that nothing in New Orleans is entirely what it seems, and yet nothing at all is purely fictional.
He might as well have handed her the election with that single mean-spirited gesture. Writers here, Anne Rice and others like me, don’t need to make anything up, really, so much as press record like the interviewer in .
The crowd hooted and hollered when Hillary laughed at the lies falling out of the sad old man’s mouth, and when he insulted her personally, we all gasped, and the ladies of color shouted in unison, “Oh, no he didn’t!
” But her simple remark, that while he was out on the road bloviating, she had not only prepared for the debate but had prepared to be president of the United States — well, that was worth the price of pizza alone.
We encounter a few mammals other than ourselves, and they, too, take on mythical qualities.