La, la, la…. I love riding my bike through the Marigny on days like this…. La, la, la…. Hey, Mrs. Leblanc…. Yes, bitch, I’m waving at you–even though you cussed me out last week at Big Daddy’s in front of half a dozen drag queens because you said I was ruining your video poker mojo…. La, la, la…. Yes, gutterpunks, I’m smiling at you–even though you ruined Flora’s years ago. Seriously, people: bathing is not a crime, but I’m moving patchouli to the Controlled Substance list…. La, la, la…. Aw, lookit that poor stray dog–is he wearing a collar? Maybe I should call the SPCA–but not the one in Jefferson Parish…. Hey, wait a minute! What the #$%@? What’s that thing up there, mounted on the telephone pole? Kit, enable macrozoom…. Now, go in closer…closer…. Well, I’ll be damned.
A surveillance camera. In my neighborhood. I’m not quite sure how to feel about that.
Frightened? Not exactly. As a predominantly residential neighborhood on the edge of a commercial district, the Marigny has always been a little dicey. I got used to that decades ago.
Violated? If it were mounted outside my bedroom window, and if New Orleans had the police force to monitor it, maybe. As it is, not so much.
Safer? As if. Having a camera in the neighborhood and having a working camera in the neighborhood are two completely different things.
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