Eating Off The Bone, Down Off Decatur Street

I used to go up one little side street off of Decatur Street, back when I was living under the wharf, and I would go into the trash barrel of a certain steak house.

I always imagined their chefs, frenzied and more aware that quick service and volume, volume, volume is the key to keeping the fifty dollar steaks flying off the plates, and in their haste, just whacking the best meat off of every side of beef that comes in off the refrigerated truck, from the butcher who also farms the special steer, feeding them a proprietary diet that is worth at least one half of the five stars that the restaurant might garner; and then just tossing the remains into a pristine, heavy plastic bag, as sterile as the whole five star kitchen.

There is no time to be picky, when you are making a hundred steaks a night, and the carcasses I would find in these trash cans, right on the side of the fancy place, out of view, as trash aspires to be, would be laden with the best damned beef in the world; just ask that restaurant, or Google it.

And, I would stand there and stuff my face with raw fillet mignon. It melted in the mouth and seemed to mix with whatever was in my stomach in such a way that evoked thoughts like: Let there be some skeezer under the wharf when I get there, sleeping on my cardboard; if he's anywhere near my size, he won't be sleeping there long...

And, I remember the one time when a person of some kind saw me and gave some kind of shriek, but then, it was almost as if she thought, well, it is guaranteed disease free beef, slaughtered that morning and some of the best cuts of it.

If she had negotiated the potholes in her heels to come over to me and implored me to stop, telling me that it was never necessary for a human soul to sink so low in station, and maybe even extending a twenty dollar bill towards me, with the order that I use it to "get something to eat," I think I would have said:
"Lady, believe me, if there was even a hint of anything wrong with this meat, I wouldn't eat it. This is absolutely delicious!," and then I would have, of course offered the rich lady a choice chunk of it...

More Soul Searching

But, it just recently occurred to me that I no longer do that, and it made me wonder if I have "lost" something, through 4 years of living in an apartment. Something that is vital to my soul...?

That is just the kind of "ego" that everyone from Jesus to EcKhart Tolle is talking about.

"Daniel, I thought you had a place, and were getting better on the harmonica, and had a stove and everything. Your clothes look clean, what gives?"

"Here, taste this..."

Now, dear reader, you might wonder why I don't just purchase a really good cut of steak at the Winn-Dixie and then just eat it; in the privacy of my place, even...

I just wouldn't trust the meat, that's why. I would want to cook it. Meat can have e-bola and whatever...

I would screw up my interview questions at the plasma place, when it came to the mad cow disease question...

No, that would be pretty nasty, buying a raw steak from a supermarket and eating it, no thanks...

As an asterisked item to the above account, I was drinking at that time, and at the hour it happened ...let's see, the steakhouse closed at 1 AM...I estimate that I would have been between twice and three times over the legal limit....
So, I wonder if, unless I can go down there and eat raw steak out of the trash perfectly sober, and having disassociated myself from my ego so that I felt no shame, no sense of sinning, then I will wind up drinking again.

By starting to drink again, I believe I would be subconsciously setting myself up to eat raw fillet Mignon right off the bone, down off of Decatur Street in the French Quarter. I know I want it...


Now there is a blues standard just waiting to happen: "Eating Off The Bone Down Off Decatur Street..."

I believe the cross street was Toulouse Street, if I'm making any one of you hungry...

Wednesday Night At The Uxi Duxi

Which one is unstable...?

The Uxi Duxi hired two new employees, to replace, on the surface, the one Erin who had quit and then had changed her mind, but then was told by the Uxi Duxi that, because of her having done that (for the second time, in Uxi's defense, according to Nathaniel, the manger) she has been deemed "unstable," by the establishment.

This is something that disurbs me, being old and set in my ways. I had gotten accustomed to Erin being at the Uxi almost every night...to oversee my blogging; while I slugged down kratom and used the wi-fi.

Yes, old and set in my ways and no longer venturing to taste of the red blood of life, perhaps. This worries me too.

I just got off the phone with my mom. I told her of the problems with my phone, and how it will, at times heat up in my pocket to the point where it is almost uncomfortable on my leg and that the battery will become depleted through that and how some mornings, after charging the phone all night it will have accumulated a charge of only 29% and used this as a way to explain why I was calling when it would be almost 9 PM there. I need to strike when the iron is hot and take advantage of a time when the thing charged up to 100% due to the way I finessed the charger into the jack...

Otherwise, I hesitate to call. This is because it seems out of sorts to not have a long conversation with someone you haven't spoken to in a long while.
That might be more offensive than not calling; to call and then cut it short as if five minutes was enough to catch you up with the other person, with you apparently not caring much more past that...

So, now when my phone comes on, I can go ahead and call mom, just to tell her I love her and that I got the most recent pictures she sent, type of stuff.

The latest picture, that I will post when I remember to bring it to Uxi, was of me when I was right around 30 and was playing a guitar at a religious service at the jail where I had been locked up. That was where I met Ben Lambie, who has fallen off of the radar of this blog, but who stayed with me briefly when he visited.

I still think of the guy occasionally, perhaps every time I use the coffee maker that he bought for me when he stayed briefly.

Ben turned out to be one of the most "unconscious" people I have ever encountered, after not seeing for years.

I don't mean that as a put down, but he spoke in catch phrases, one of those guys who has conversations like:
"Hey, man. How's it goin'?"
"Not bad; wouldn't do any good to complain, ha ha..."
"Yeah, I hear you. Same shit, different day..."
"Yeah, same shit, different day..."
"Well, I'm gonna jet; I'll catch you on the flipside,"
"Later, bro...Don't do anything I wouldn't do..."
"Ha ha; Be good or be good at it, ha ha..."
etc.