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| 21 September 1993 |
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| Cheryl B. Horton 6420 Orleans Avenue New Orleans, LA 70124 |
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| Re: Current Events |
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| Dear Cheri: |
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| WHERE IS IT? |
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| The Great Crested Flycatcher is slightly larger than a cardinal and slightly smaller than a jay. Its tail, back and head are ruddy, and its breast is the color of lemons. In its woodland habitat, it will sit high atop a tree, usually on a bare twig, and sally forth to snatch unwary insects that wander too near. Its call is distinctive: whooit. |
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| On Sunday afternoon, I might have encountered this delightful bird in the field had I not gone to the Saints game. With four minutes left in the first half, I thought the impossible had occurred. I thought a Great Crested Flycatcher had found its way into the Superdome. I was watching Hoby Brenner tumble into the end zone with a Wilson pass, but other fans, apparently not distracted by the action on the field, seemed to be calling my attention to a flycatcher -- a flycatcher in the dome. The stadium resounded with a chant: "Whooit, there it is."
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| I turned to my brother, seated next to me, and pleaded, "Where? You heard a Great Crested?" But Jean ignored me and continued the chant, gyrating his hips and moving his hands and arms as if he were stirring a cauldron. On my other side sat an unlikely birder: a beer-bellied man wearing a beer-stained yellow T-shirt depicting Ricky Jackson erupting like an embryonic alien from a huge fleur-de-lis. To his left danced his mate in a rather more stylish white and gold blouse hand painted with sequin-studded fleurs-de-lis. Little Saints helmets dangled from her ears. In unison the couple was croaking, "Whooit, there it is." |
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| I decided against asking them about the bird and scanned the dome with my binoculars. My search was in vain, but across the field I spotted a banner, draped at the terrace level, proclaiming: WHOOIT, THERE IT IS!!! |
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| Anderson kicked the point after, things quieted, and I tried my brother again, "There is what?"
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| He giggled, nodded, and said, "Whooit, there it is." |
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| "What? What is there?" I persisted. |
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| "You know. Whooit, there it is," he replied. |
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| "No, I don't know. What is there? And where is it?" I asked. But my brother lost interest in my questions and began recounting Brenner's touchdown with the fellow seated in the row below ours, the fellow with the gold and black pom-poms taped to his baseball cap. |
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| Next Sunday's game is a sellout, and it will be televised at 3:00 p.m. Perhaps I can convince Denise to go to the spillway and bird in the morning. I may even hear the Ovenbird's call: teacher, teacher, teacher. If so, I'll put the question to my wife: "Who dat, who dat, who dat say teacher, teacher, teacher?" |
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| AT LOOSE ENDS |
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| I'm not sure I can cope with the news Of the man and his wife and the knife, Of the rape and the tale that ensues, Of the couple's disrupted home life. |
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| After drinking a few he came looking for love, And his wife's ardent NO he ignored so says she. After having his way, he climbed down from above, And he slept with no dreams of catastrophe. |
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| Into kitchen she strode and returned with a blade. With a flick to his flesh into hands came his glans, And while driving away she flung gobbet in glade, Where it stayed till she phoned in her plans. |
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| In the weeds it was found and then dunked into ice. Then to doctors it went to be sewed to the bump That was left on the man who had paid a dear price For the pleasure he got in exchange for a stump. |
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| I first heard of this tale via fax, Which was sent by my wife, who's topnotch. Ever since, it's been hard to relax, While I sleep with my hand on my crotch. |
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| More Later, |
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| David J. L'Hoste |
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| DJL/djl |
| cc: Bernard A. Horton Russell B. Ramsey Denise F. L'Hoste Paul D. Cordes Adrian C. Benjamin, Jr. Julie Yoedicke Mrs. Dennis D. Boudreaux Adrienne Hammer |