Oh Christ, It’s This Asshole Again
I was supposed to be on an Amtrak train back to NOLA from Texas right now. As a hopeless Richard Linklater fanboy, the idea of waiting until the middle of August for Boyhood to open in New Orleans made me ill, so I decided to journey across state lines to see it (it’s already showing in Austin and Houston.) But at 6am on Saturday morning Amtrak called to say that the train I was scheduled to take to Texas had been cancelled, foiling my plans. That said, I suppose all the thinking about the film I’ve done of late has led to me nostalgically reflecting a lot about my own boyhood. And, as Don Draper once noted, nostalgia “takes us to place where we ache to go again.” So this morning I went to one of those places.
Some background: When I was growing up in Chauvin, one of my favorite things to do was to go crabbing in the bayou by simply taking a long piece of string, tying something bloody to the end of it (chicken parts, the remains of a filleted fish, etc.), and tossing it into the water. As soon as the line became tight, indicating a crab had latched on, I’d slowly pull the line in and plop the crab into a 5-gallon bucket. Occasionally, we’d cook up the crabs I caught for dinner, but more often than not I’d leave them in the bucket for the local raccoons to feast on later. Usually a little after sundown they’d come out and converge upon the bucket containing the crabs and it was a cheap form of entertainment watching them — especially the young, inexperienced raccoons — attempt to get the crabs out of the bucket without getting pinched. So I went back to the spot where I caught so many crabs way back when on Bayou Petit Caillou and caught a few more. I left my haul in a cheap ice chest I picked up at a nearby gas station so that the raccoons of Terrebonne Parish can feast again tonight. You’re welcome, raccoons of Terrebonne Parish. You’re welcome.