I don't post on here much anymore...

Drifted away from Tribe.

I'm cool with Tribe, but wow, guess I just spend more time elsewhere.

All the "down for maintenance" notifications kind of turned me off.

Glad to see it's still around, though.

I always wanted to play in the Minor League...

Well, not really.

But this morning I wore my Louisville Bats hat and t-shirt on a trip to the free health clinic. While waiting for my appointment in the lobby, a woman asks me, "Excuse me, do you play for the Bats?"

I reply with some sarcasm, "Oh, yeah. Brian Lopez, #74, I play shortstop."

She exclaims, "I thought you looked familiar! Hey, Rico, come over here," she waved who I assume is her son- no older than 7- to us and says, "Rico, this is Brian Lopez. He's a famous baseball player! You like baseball, don't you, tell the man."

He nods enthusiastically and says, "Hello, Mr. Lopez."

While the Minor League probably doesn't pay its players exceptionally well, I imagine they do have some health care that tops the free health clinic. But neither the woman or the child question that.

We talk for a minute about baseball and then I'm called in for my appointment. I felt initially kind of bad that I didn't clear things up and confess, that no, I'm simply wearing Bats merchandise and in fact my skill when it comes to baseball sucks goat balls.

But fuck it, I made their day. And that kind of made my day too.


louisville.bats.milb.com/index.jsp

Rest In Peace, Antoinette K-Doe

Antoinette K-Doe, the irrepressible widow of rhythm & blues singer Ernie K-Doe who transformed the Mother-in-Law Lounge into a living shrine and community center, died early Tuesday after suffering a massive heart attack. She was 66.

"It was her personal mission to keep his memory alive," said Ben Sandmel, who is writing a biography of Ernie K-Doe. "But she also did so much for the community. It's a huge loss for the whole musicians' community of New Orleans."

Born Antoinette Dorsey, Mrs. K-Doe was a cousin of rhythm & blues singer Lee Dorsey. She had known Ernie K-Doe for many years before they became a couple around 1990.

At the time, the singer's best days were far behind him. After a string of hits in the early 1960s, most notably "Mother-in-Law," his career, and life bottomed out. By sheer force of will, she helped him return to the stage and transform himself into an icon of eclectic New Orleans. The couple married in 1994.

"She had him on a short leash," Sandmel said. "She cleaned him up and opened the lounge to give him a place to play."

Ernie K-Doe died in 2001. But thanks to his wife, he maintained a schedule of public appearances via a life-size, fully costumed, look-alike mannequin. Mrs. K-Doe referred to the mannequin as "Ernie."

As the mother hen of the Mother-in-Law Lounge, she presided over one of the city's most diverse, funky-but-chic watering holes. With its vibrant, larger-than-life exterior murals and adjoining gardens, the Lounge stood out on an otherwise rough stretch of North Claiborne Avenue.

As the Ernie mannequin looked on from its corner throne, Mrs. K-Doe served a mix of neighborhood regulars and hipsters from across the city. The Lounge was a favorite haunt of such non-traditional musicians as Mr. Quintron, the Bywater avant-garde keyboardist, inventor and marching band impresario.

The Lounge badly flooded in the wake of Hurricane Katrina's levee breaches. In advance of the floodwaters, Mrs. K-Doe dismantled the mannequin, stored the pieces in plastic bags, and stowed them in an upstairs closet. In the months after the storm, she revived the Lounge with the aid of an army of volunteers and financial support from contemporary R&B star Usher.

Mrs. K-Doe suffered a minor heart attack during Mardi Gras 2008, but recovered. On Thursday, she rode in the Muses parade with the Ernie mannequin. She served as the honorary queen of the Cameltoe Ladysteppers marching organization.

Today she had planned to don the traditional Baby Doll costume and parade through the streets of Treme before returning to the lounge for what is always a busy day. She helped revive the tradition of the Baby Dolls marching organization, and was happy to see others take up the mantle.

Michelle Longino, a founder of the Bayou Steppers Social Aid and Pleasure Club, received Mrs. K-Doe's blessing to costume as a Baby Doll and come out with Mardi Gras Indian Big Chief Monk Boudreaux on Mardi Gras morning.

"She told us that we needed to be proper Baby Dolls, not nasty Baby Dolls," Longino said. "Today we're going to call ourselves the Antoinette K-Doe Baby Dolls in her honor."

Around 3 a.m. Mardi Gras morning, Mrs. K-Doe awoke in her apartment above the Mother-in-Law Lounge and complained of feeling hot, said Gary Hughes, the husband of her adopted daughter, Jackie Coleman. She went downstairs and apparently suffered a heart attack on a sofa in the lounge.

Hughes, who was staying in the apartment at the time, said paramedics arrived quickly but could not revive Mrs. K-Doe.

Today's festivities at the Mother-in-Law Lounge will be in her honor.

"Mardi Gras was her holiday," Hughes said. "She loved Mardi Gras. We're going to run the lounge as if she was here and do it up this one last time for her."

Funeral arrangements are incomplete.

taken from: www.nola.com/news/index....n_mardi.html

getting my hands on self-production, your opionion, please

Just to let you know I'm not dead and really working on my record: I uploaded an instrumental track in progress for the song, "Underdog Rock," which will be on my upcoming album. This is not the final track by any stretch and I'm fairly new to production, so I'm still getting a hang on making beats.

Go to www.myspace.com/donlibido , give the track a listen, let me know what you really think (I have a thick skin).

Thanks ahead,
Brian

sometimes AKA Brian Pelican, Don Libido (R.I.P.), Sir Francis McNasty, or the only Atheist Buddhist Libertarian emcee you know

It’s my birthday today (or, the past month in Louisville, driving in snow and knowing what it means to miss New Orleans)

“When you want to start planning on building your career, family and future beyond next week, how ‘cool’ the city you live in means less to you. Or 'cool' starts to mean ‘Hey, people here don't try to mug me/shoot me/rob my apartment/get drunk and hit my car every 5 minutes!’” – Amy J. (former co-worker and friend, discussing my then upcoming move from NOLA to Louisville, 9/10/08)

Been living in Louisville for just over a month now. Still adjusting to the culture shock (while New Orleans is within the United States, obviously, New Orleans is more the European black sheep of the American family). Missing my regular group of friends terribly. Had thought several times over, now, “What the fuck have I done?! New Orleans is my home. This new land is just fucking strange.”

And by strange I don’t mean bad. Just strange. I lived here for several months back when I was a teenager and thought a life here would/could be nice. And it might still be. But damn I have my moments of fear. I panic. Between wanting to fit in with the new city, but scared of losing my New Orleanian identity. I went native during my fourth year there and scarred my body in my eighth year with a fleur de lis tattoo to mark my lifelong love affair with NOLA. And I find it hilarious that Louisville also claims the fleur de lis as the city logo. Can never escape it, I reckon.

And I write this knowing that, yeah, to a degree I do take New Orleans with me no matter where I live, but not walking those streets these days does bring me down a bit.

Still getting text messages from folks who apparently don’t know that I’ve left:

“What are you up to tonight? I need a drink.”

“I’m fucking drunk. Brian. You douchebag asshole cockeater. Bar?”

“Need a ride to the Bionik Brown tribute show?”

And so on.

My drinking has cut down considerably. I mean, Jesus, in the past few weeks I’ve had a total of about six beers and finished off only a couple 750 ml bottles of Bacardi. That just ain’t right. My average week consisted of a beer or two after work each day and then the weekend binge. But yeah, getting wasted doesn’t interest me anymore. Neither do any of the other habits I once had in NOLA. I don’t think I’ll ever NOT be interested in having a beer or two to relax, but having one of ‘those nights’ that I will forevermore tie to New Orleans is unlikely these days.

Part of this not returning to my former ways is the new domesticated lifestyle I’m living, which includes taking care of a very energetic toddler. Even just earlier this year, if you would have asked me about how I felt about being a dad (albeit NOT the biological father but guardian all the same) I don’t know how I would have responded.

That written, I’ve wanted a son and/or daughter for the past several years now. And today, November 18th, I’m 34 years old. This acknowledgement of aging shapes my perception, my needs and my actions. And the next logical action for a beneficial future was this move to Louisville with my girlfriend and her beautiful and fascinating kid.

And New Orleans is no place to raise a little kid. Fuck it, there, I wrote it. Might think differently if I weren’t broke, but eh…

Living on my own in NOLA, yeah, I could do it, but I was just barely getting by. And my all night adventures there were getting to be a broken record. Though I also felt as if time stood still…or at least time sauntered a bit for me this past decade. For the years of age I feel typing this out, back in NOLA I felt considerably younger most days. I attribute much of this to the lack of age perception held by New Orleanians in general. In other places- at least other places in which I’ve lived- the elderly are racing to death and all ready, happy and shit to meet up with Jesus and spend eternity farting in the clouds. You’re old, well shit, it’s time to die, I guess.

New Orleanians take their time getting to that finish line and frankly, IF that particular finish line even exists is a moot point; enjoy life, it’s short, dahlin’ (as an aside, my Atheism was never an issue in NOLA, here, eh, I think it might be, anyhow…). It was quite common to be at a bar, club, any type of social event and the age range of people there varied considerably. I loved that.

The constant cycle of festivals and celebration in general sure helped preserve the youthful vigor, too. Perhaps that even trumps/spawned the lack of age discrimination. I’m writing too much about this now. I’ll focus on what made New Orleans to me in a future essay/blog/book.

I felt some pain getting my Kentucky drivers license and voter registration yesterday (made things official: I now live in Jefferson County and am a Kentucky Libertarian…whoa). The DMV wouldn’t let me keep my old license. Normally I wouldn’t care about keeping an expired license except that this particular one had my old 9th Ward address on it (never changed it from my move in the Bywater to Uptown NOLA in 2006, I have too many precious memories tied to my Poland Ave. address: married there, my reptilian son was buried in that backyard, I lived and died there a few times).

But don’t take this as me throwing in the towel regarding this switch up from my home to what may be a very extended stay in Louisville. Not at all. Louisville is a fascinating city. I look forward to getting involved in the local politics, read up on its history, walk the streets, make friends with those who were born and raised here, etc. I want to soak in as much of this as possible. It’s in my blood to a degree (my mother’s side of the family is here and has been for quite some time). Seems only right to embrace this part of my bloodline’s past.

Plus the University of Louisville, yeah, I’d like to continue my education there.

It started snowing yesterday as I sat with Corinna in a Taco Bell drive-thru off Dixie Highway. Snow is unusual for me. I never experienced it, much. I watched the flakes land on the windshield and kept telling Corinna, “It’s fucking snow! What the fuck!?”

I’m originally from Los Angeles and despite my multiple trips throughout America, I haven’t really faced any snow while driving. Wanted to keep my window down as we pulled away from Taco Bell to get on the highway, but Corinna was freezing.

Snowflakes did not live up to my expectations (seriously, the depiction of snowflakes in cartoons is pure bullshit). All the same I found them interesting. Seriously interesting. Snow is like rain with parachutes.

Later that night- a cold fucking night, I HAVEN’T WORN THIS MUCH THERMAL UNDERWEAR IN MY ENTIRE LIFE- I had to go pick up Corinna from work. Walking out to the driveway I noticed a thin layer of ice on the hood of the car and the window was covered in what looked like simple rain drops.

I get in the car, turn the ignition, turn on my radio and the heat, wait a minute for the car to warm up a bit, and while listening to the new Girl Talk CD (highly fucking recommended, by the way, the music that is, not the rest of this mess) turn on my windshield wipers to rid of the raindrops.

Giant fucking smear is created. The ice and not exactly ice spreads across the windshield like a herpes outbreak on a bad day. I can’t see properly. I get out of the car, curse aloud and wipe the windshield with the sleeve of my Serendipity Project hoodie. Climb back in the car. Switch the CD from Girl Talk to Mos Def. Back out of the driveway and head for the Watterson Expressway (264 East).

On the highway I’m trapped a bit by traffic but not too worried. I’m on the far right lane. To my immediate left is a huge fucking truck. To my front is an SUV, converted to be a cab. Behind me is some compact car. The huge fucking truck signals that it’s getting in my lane, WHILE I’M IN THE SPACE THAT HE INTENDS TO OCCUPY. The SUV doesn’t speed up enough for me to get in front in time and the car behind me doesn’t give me enough space to decelerate. I start honking to show, “Hey, truck driver! I’m right the fuck here, you asshole douchebag cocksuck cunt shit motherfuck!” (and yes, the horn makes that specific sound). But he doesn’t get it. So I do what I must: swerve off the highway to the side and ride some grass as I slow down properly.

My heart races for a few. The car is stopped. I sit there. Mos Def continues his rap unabated. I laugh a bit, though I don’t find anything particularly funny. Turn up the song and get back on the road. Less than a minute later Corinna calls me to check in on my ETA. Give my best guess, hang up and continue my scan for Exit 20.

I just looked at my left wrist. It has a scar from when I rode my bicycle home short bus drunk from Handsome Willys one night and crashed into a parked car. It was about 3 AM or so. Nobody around to catch my antics. Eventually got home and fell fast asleep on my futon…and bled on the sheets (due to leg and arm wounds). Awoke with blood stained sheets and a massive hangover…ah…

Those were the days. But I think some new and interesting experiences await me here.

If Louisville doesn’t work out and returning to New Orleans isn’t an option (and that may very well be, really, the levees ain’t and the fed gov ain’t, either), I have three other American cities in mind to make a move to: Seattle, Philadelphia or New York (preferably Brooklyn). If the United States doesn’t work out: Berlin, Helsinki or somewhere in Australia. If Earth doesn’t work out...

My name is written in my journey.