Mais! Last week, I wrote a little post about some of the ways we talk in South Louisiana. The response was ridiculous. And by ridiculous I mean amazing. That post was passed around like a bottle of Strawberry Hill in a minivan full of high-school girls going to an Opelousas bonfire in 1990. (I need to work on that analogy). The craziest thing is that with all the page views and over 250 comments, everyone — with one exception — was NICE. That doesn’t happen on the internet very much.
Thank yall for all the comments and for being so damn polite.
But I’m not writing a follow-up post in a shameless attempt for more blog traffic. I’m writing a follow-up post because I’m embarrassed by how much I missed — and at least one thing I got wrong.
People sometimes ask me about my days as a small Cajun boy in South Louisiana. They seem to be under the impression that we rode alligators to school while wearing no shoes. That’s just about the silliest thing I’ve ever heard. Of course we wore shoes. Alligators have pointy backs.
A little Monday morning jam for you. My cousin Nasen posted something about Rockin’ Sydney’s “Don’t Mess With My Toot Toot” on Facebook this morning and I had to find the song and give it a listen. It’s early yet, but I imagine that entire side of the family plus over half of Ville Platte will comment on his status.
Nasen was probably too young to remember this part, but I have a memory of a bunch of little coonasses walking the grounds of Chicot State Park in Louisiana. Chad, the oldest of the boys, had a huge 1980s jambox perched on his shoulder and we walked around, sweating Deep Woods Off, listening to this Zydeco song like we were the baddest things in the park. Because we were.
Breakfast this morning was a smoked sausage and egg biscuit at Jim Neely’s Interstate Barbecue. In the Memphis airport. Now, of course, you’re thinking, “Airport. Doesn’t count.” Well, let me tell you. Jim Neely his own damn self was in there checking on things, holding court with customers about the Food Network, barbecue, running restaurants and his nephew. Good enough for me. Continue reading “Things I’ve Eaten Today”→
This will make sense only to those of you who read Gawker, but after repeated queries I figured I’d just make it clear here. I am not the Gawker blogger known as Cajun Boy (aka the former commenter known as Cajun Boy in the City).
I read Gawker every day. They’re kind enough to link to my work stuff from time to time and they’ve gently mocked me in the past. But I don’t write for them. Even if I wouldn’t be fired for doing so, I don’t have the energy to contribute and, compared to their regular writers, I’m practically Newt Gingrich when it comes to politics. I’m also entirely too egotistical to write for any site and NOT use my real name. After all, I have a novel coming out in December. (The First Annual Grand Prairie Rabbit Festival’s official release date is Dec. 29.)
I know nothing about Cajun Boy other than he nabbed a great name. He seems like a nice enough guy and has his own blog, too.
Why are my uncles and cousins drunkenly wrasslin’ over a pineapple, I found myself thinking not very long ago. And why is my other cousin dancing with a mop while standing in a laundry basket?
Most of my family lives in South Louisiana and they’re Cajun through and through. Even when the crew from Ville Platte invades Face Book en masse, as they’ve been doing in the last couple of months, they bring their style to social media. Continue reading “It’s a Family Tradition”→