Wednesday, March 16, 2016

NNAOPP Update - February / March 2016



Mardi Gras

A man reaches a certain age when he needs little additional stimuli indicating that his expiration date is nearing.   Occasionally a rude person can't resist the temptation to pile on.  Such was the case at this year's Mardi Gras.  It was little comfort that the harsh words weren't aimed directly at me, but instead at a friend and contemporary, as I was standing nearby.

It was chilly during the festivities, adversely impacting our conventional beads for boobs bartering banter, but our efforts weren't totally for naught.  One exchange, however, was noteworthy:

"It's very simple, you show us your tits, and I give you these lovely beads that may, or may not, have been made out of authentic green pearls from China."

"Oh, I couldn't do that.  But I do want those beads."  (Turning to her male companion and handing her drink to him).  "Should I?"

"Go ahead, maybe you'll blow out the old boy's pacemaker."

While this year's festivities were marred by the moderately nippy weather, it was still great fun.  We enjoyed exquisite dining, fine wines, and the fellowship of old and new friends.  This year we even embarked outside the boundaries of the French Quarter to attend a delightful house party Uptown and to view a parade in the confines of a more family friendly atmosphere.

We caught Uber to the party, even though the surge charge was 4.4 times the normal rate.  The driver was a handsome young man driving a new black jeep.  In casual conversation we learned that he has a regular customer who is a transvestite prostitute who frequents the projects and requests that the driver wait whilst he conducts his business.  We were told that while our Uber chauffeur was in constant fear for his life, the trips were highly profitable.  Sign me up!   

In Nola, uptown is to downtown as Cheryl Tiegs is to Janet Reno.  It's a very nice community.  Owing to my reserve, I often mingle quietly taking in the sights and sounds of my environs.  At our new friend's house party I overheard several conversations each with a similar theme, "I'm living in xyz now, but I can't wait to return to New Orleans."  This contrasted to a party I attended in a northern city, which will remain nameless so as not to offend its inhabitants, wherein the Eric Burden-Animals-like refrain commonly expressed was, "We've gotta get out of this place."


A quick gander easily persuades one of the advantages of living in such a nice neighborhood.  While viewing the Troth parade on Magazine Avenue, near the Whole Food's store on Joseph Street, I met an older lady city sitting on a bench.  I asked if I could join her, as I was tired of standing and dodging the rapid-fire barrage of beads emanating from the floats.  She politely moved over, and welcomed me.  It was sunny and about 60, but she was wearing a Chinese-communist-style head covering more suitable to those actively engaged in the Korean War, but I said nary a word even when her ear flaps fluttered in the gentle breezes like a Cocker Spaniel's ears.  I would periodically return to our friends and fellow partiers at the intersection of Joseph and Magazine, but kept returning to my new Chi-Com friend.  On one such occasion she gave me a toy New Orleans Saints football, she somehow retrieved from the crowd.  I thanked her, and we exchanged names.  Hers was Peaches, although she spurned the conventional two-syllable version, instead choosing eight.

Regrettably, we were not as fortunate as in years past in encountering extremely bizarre people.  I did chat briefly with our transgender acquaintance while entering Patrick's Bar Vin.  Earlier she had emailed our host in an unsuccessful attempt to inveigle an invitation to stay in his apartment.  She greeted me icily, forsaking her usual air kiss, and moved on.  

Patrick's continues to be the most fertile spot for the unusual, not the least being Patrick himself who on one evening wore a black top hat on his baldish pate and a pink velvet sports coat.  It would be difficult for many men to pull this off, but not Patrick.  While drinking a glass of wine innocuously on one of his couches, I sat betwixt a buxom woman dressed like Marie Antoinette and an attractive older woman, roughly my age, wearing all black, as though she was on her way to a funeral.  The latter told me that she used to be a Playboy bunny and once was Miss April 1969.  She explained that the former Playmates now have reunions and such.  One doesn't often think of Miss April getting old.


Banjo

A few weeks ago, Judy returned to KC so I was batching it in Sanibel.  I dined alone at Traders and sat at the bar.  Inexplicably, I chatted with the couple next to me.  They were originally from Rochester and now live full time in Sanibel.  During the course of conversation Bob mentioned he has been into music all his life, and I told him I was an aspiring banjo player.  He became animated and said he had a gig coming up in a few weeks, and a few of the songs he would be doing would sound better with a banjo accent.

A few days later, and after forewarning him of my limitations, I drove to his house banjo in hand.  I was a wee bit nervous.   He has a small recording studio, and he had written the chords for several songs for me to follow.  We went through it a few times trying varying keys, and it wasn’t too bad.  He has a nice singing voice, and this was the first time I’ve tried to play with someone singing.  He would switch from rhythm guitar to piano, and I played some relatively simple rolls.

He liked my version of Blackbird and a few clawhammer tunes I’ve learned, but we basically worked on his songs, all new to me.  

He quickly grasped my lack of music theory and patiently spent some time discussing the logic of chord progressions and the inflections provided by minor chords.  After an hour and a half, he handed me the music to a portion of his song list and said, “Go learn these.  I’ve got another guy coming over.  He’s a retired orthopedic surgeon and possibly the best guitar player on the island.  We’re rehearsing for an upcoming performance at George and Wendy’s.  He used to play lead in a rock n roll band in Minnesota.  I’ve learned a lot from him.  But he hates banjo, so you’ll have to put yours away.  You’re welcome to stay and listen if you want.”  I did, and they were very good, and the guitar guy was quite nice even allowing for his antipathy to the worthy banjo.

A few days later an email arrived saying,

I love your banjo and I think we can do a few songs once we rehearse together.
I would like to iron out the Emmy Lou Harris song to get started.
Let me know when you want to get together.

We subsequently rehearsed three more times and, on Saturday night, provided the background music at the open house of an art gallery.  I'm pleased to say that it turned out pretty well, and no one suffered life-threatening injury.  It was a perfect venue, as few amongst the assembled art lovers paid much attention to us.  We nailed Blackbird, Let it Be, Greenback Dollar, and Belle Starr, but Sweet Home Alabama was a little rough.  (It should be noted that 'nailed' basically means we started and ended at the same time).  One lady kindly said, "You guys sound like the Kingston Duo."  We may have two more gigs lined up over the next month.


Book II

Last weekend I finished a draft of the manuscript of my second book, Ordinary People Who Aren't:  An Anthology, and sent it to my editor.  That sounds a bit pretentious considering my editor is also my brother, and was a former English major at Coe College and, in a case of classic misdirection, instead became the world's best mattress salesman.  His primary claim to literary fame was that the commencement speaker at his graduation was none other than Truman Capote.  In any event, I waited with bated breath for his feedback.  Had he hated the manuscript, I would have been in a pickle.  Fortunately, he liked it and made some constructive suggestions that I will now incorporate.  Judy is now applying her magical editing skills, graphic design guru Frank Addington is helping me noodle through a cover design, and hopefully Book II will soon be ready for public consumption.

I was thinking of buying an ad in the NYT to announce the publishing date, or perhaps I'll just host another wine tasting, book signing event in my driveway.

All the best.
Chuck