Ok, seriously this is the last time I will chime in with a wistful anecdote related to Clayton Cubitt’s images of New Orleans. But I think it’s important to note that I used to go to Buffa’s Bar by myself once a month on Sunday mornings and that it was the single most lovely ritual I’ve ever developed. I would go alone at 9 am, sit at the bar with a giant book, and eat eggs and biscuits and smoke cigarettes and drink bloody marys made by Anna, the initially surly, exceedingly sweet bartender who shares my name. This woman ruined me on bloody marys. It took her about 10 minutes to make one for all the crap she put in there (celery salt obviously, pickled okra and green beans, olive juice?) and she would groan and look pissed when you asked for one, but then I’d just flatter her by saying how hers were the best I’d ever had. She would smile, just a little bit, clearly flattered.
See you in one week, my beautiful freaks.
Jesus annoyed, trying to walk on water but getting his foot stuck in the BP oilspill, above the bar at Buffa’s, New Orleans
