I’m so New Orleans that I wake up at the asscrack of dawn to jets flying into Louie Armstrong only to find myself deprived of coffee and chicory, so I hop on my bike and ride on down past the Audubon Zoo (where they all axe for you) to the nearest PJ’s where I trip over a pothole the size of Al Copeland’s ego and only hang on by the threads of beads hanging from a nearby oak tree. It is at that point that I realize I have a case of swamp ass so vile even Troy Landry wouldn’t hunt there, and that only a nectar cream snoball with condensed milk can fix – but my favorite snoball stand has weird hours and Zack’s Famous Frozen Yogurt closed down years ago, so I just glisten like a diamond in 100% humidity while, at the same time, trying my hardest to avoid being drenched by the random torrential downpour that will last 10 minutes, tops. It’s now getting to the hours between 9 and 3 where it’s almost too hot to exist, so I tie my bike up to a fish sculpture and get in my car, taking notice of my Mr. Bingle antenna ornament and New Orleans: Proud to Swim Home bumper sticker and drive up the Prytania Expressway to avoid construction on St. Charles down to a corner store where I pick up a 99¢ Big Shot cream soda and a Hubig’s Pie on my tab. A tourist outside asks me where she could see some jazz, and since I don’t know traditional directions, she gets confused when I tell her to head towards downtown and head lakeside once she passed the Esplanade ridge. I give her a crawfish from my pocket and bid her adieu with a guttural chant of “Who Dat” to which she responds with “Roll Tide” and a flash of her chest. She gets no beads in return. The day being halfway over, it’s a perfect time for a cold drink or a coke, either of those two being interchangeable for any beverage, but being so New Orleans, I need a beer, which brings me down to Schwegmann’s to pick up a dix pack of sixie, one of which I share in my conversation with the girl at the check out counter because she asks how my mom an’ dem were doing since we last saw each other at the neighborhood St. Joseph’s Altar, and coincidentally again on Super Sunday. By the time I’m good and tipsy, I toss a quarter to the Roman Candy man and strike up a conversation about the good ole’ days of Huey P. Long and all the great things he did for the city when he reminds me that a man named Moon was truly the best politician to come out of our great city, to which I reply Dollar Bill Jefferson is da real MVP of corruption. The day’s coming to an end, so after catching the sunset out at the Fly for the 100,000th time since Spring, I say goodnight, and until tomorrow, where I’ll do it all over again.