From the American Heritage Dictionary:
Lagniappe derives from New World Spanish la ñapa, “the gift,” and ultimately from Quechua yapay,
“to give more.” The word came into the rich Creole dialect mixture of
New Orleans and there acquired a French spelling. It is still used in
the Gulf states, especially southern Louisiana, to denote a little
bonus that a friendly shopkeeper might add to a purchase. By extension,
it may mean “an extra or unexpected gift or benefit.”
Lagniappe, people. Best collection of charity links are over at the Daily Fug, bless their shriveled little tar hearts. And Webs is donating 10% of yarn purchases to the Red Cross through September 10.
Fuck Bush and his vacation, fuck Rice and her goddamn shoes.
I've only been to New Orleans once, one steamy long weekend almost ten years ago in August. I still remember the wilting heat; the smell of coffee, cayenne and gardenias; the sound of blues harmonica and guitar; drinking bottle after bottle of Blackened Voodoo beer, and walking back to the hotel at dawn with a battered copy of It Catches My Heart In Its Hands.
Young In New Orleans
by Charles Bukowski
and at night walking the streets for hours,
the moonlight always seemed fake
to me, maybe it was,
and in the French Quarter I watched
the horses and buggies going by,
everybody sitting high in the open
carriages, the black driver, and in
back the man and the woman,
usually young and always white.
and I was always white.
and hardly charmed by the
world.
New Orleans was a place to
hide.
I could piss away my life,
unmolested.
except for the rats.
the rats in my small dark room
very much resented sharing it
with me.
they were large and fearless
and stared at me with eyes
that spoke
an unblinking
death.
women were beyond me.
they saw something
depraved.
there was one waitress
a little older than
I, she rather smiled,
lingered when she
brought my
coffee.
that was plenty for
me, that was
enough.
there was something about
that city, though:
it didn't let me feel guilty
that I had no feeling for the
things so many others
needed.
it let me alone.
sitting up in my bed
the lights out,
hearing the outside
sounds,
lifting my cheap
bottle of wine,
letting the warmth of
the grape
enter
me
as I heard the rats
moving about the
room,
I preferred them
to
humans.
being lost,
being crazy maybe
is not so bad
if you can be
that way:
undisturbed.
New Orleans gave me
that.
nobody ever called
my name.
no telephone,
no car,
no job,
no anything.
me and the
rats
and my youth,
one time,
that time
I knew
even through the
nothingness,
it was a
celebration
of something not to
do
but only
know.