Quimby lives! Rob Ford, the Falstaff-by-way-of-Marion-Barry mayor of Toronto, has confessed to smoking crack, saying that it occurred “probably in one of my drunken stupors.”
Oh, you dear, dear man. All of Louisiana salutes you! We know greatness in a dirtbag politician when we see it.
Speaking of colorful public figures, I was informed on Saturday that Jerry Norvelle has died. Jerry was a delightful wino who lived in the Spanish Town neighborhood of Baton Rouge, and insisted on being called “The Governor.” The Guv would have made Truman Capote look like a defensive lineman by comparison. When I lived in Spanish Town in the early 1990s, you’d see him walking like a stork on speed through the neighborhood, wearing denim short-shorts, a white sun hat, and Jackie O shades. He’d stop to talk to you, and you’d realize he was drunk as a skunk. He made you laugh, is all. A total character. After I moved away, I heard from my former upstairs neighbor that The Governor had sobered up, and had lost all his joy. He was a different person. Unfortunately for The Guv, but fortunately for the neighborhood, he fell off the wagon. I don’t know what The Governor’s liquor status was at the time of his death.
Honestly, I figured The Guv must have died ages ago of a frazzled liver. He had many friends, I understand. I saw one of them on Saturday, a former neighbor of mine, who told me that only a couple of weeks ago, The Guv walked into an establishment downtown where former Gov. Edwin Edwards was holding court. Somebody made a point of introducing them. When Edwin introduced himself as “the real Governor,” that did not sit well with The Guv, who, I am told, let him have it.