For those of you who read Nude Nuns and Other Peculiar People, you may recall I
chronicled observations about numerous people in a manner some might describe as
unkind mockery. In such cases, I used a pseudonym to lessen the likelihood of
getting my ass kicked, but this has turned out to be an imperfect device.
And so, it came to be on the Saturday night before Mardi Gras at Patrick's Bar Vin
in the French Quarter retribution came a calling. Nevin and I arrived at 5:45
for a pre-dinner beverage. It was not crowded, with only about 10 people
present. We ordered a glass of wine, took a seat on one of the leather settees,
and waited for our companions. Then Nevin said, "Did you notice who's sitting at
the end of the bar? Pat!"
And sure enough, it was. Fortunately, her back was to
me delaying a potential pummeling. Pat, not her real name, made her first
appearance when NNAOPP was published and then later in subsequent Mardi Gras
stories. To recap, I first met her about 20 years ago. When introduced, she
greeted me warmly, walked over, and gave me a full body hug. She was about my
height, displayed an impressive pair, and was quite striking. My enchantment was
short lived, once she spoke in a voice reminiscent of Robert Mitchum
talking/singing "Thunder Road." To this day, her gender remains a mystery, but
over the years she revealed herself to be a bit of a mooch and an annoyance.
A few years ago, Patrick, owner of Bar Vin and the subject of one of the stories
in Ordinary People Who Aren't, told me he gave Pat a copy of NNAOPP, and she was
powerfully perturbed by the portrayal.
I will say she has aged far better than I have. Her back was to us but she still looked quite stunning whilst sitting at
the bar chatting with a guy two stools removed who looked like Larry the Cable
Guy. She was wearing a backless black gown with matching opera gloves that rose
above her elbows. I contemplated leaving before being discovered, but that would
not have been particularly manly. So Nevin and I just drank, chatted, and waited
for our companions.
Somewhat later a large, 50ish man with a pencil thin
mustache wearing an ill-fitting tuxedo joined Pat. I presumed him to be her
companion for the evening, and two conflicting thoughts went through my mind.
One, Pat could easily disembowel me on her own, but it would get even uglier
with help from Mr. Tuxedo. Two, she has undoubtedly done the calculus. A
confrontation with me would require an explanation which might foil her evening
plans.
When Pat and her date turned to leave the bar, they passed by, recognized
my companion and host, whom she greeted warmly. I received an icy stare but was
spared a painful pounding. And off we went to Arnaud's for more drinks and a
delectable dinner.
Mardi Gras continues to be a total hoot. We dined Thursday at
Mr. B's and sat at a table next to four attractive young women, who were
noteworthy for spending their entire time together taking pictures of themselves
or otherwise glued to their phones. We continued our traditions with a lengthy
Friday luncheon with friends and the Rib Room followed by drinks at Patrick's
where people were lined up eight deep trying to get a drink order filled. We
enjoyed the company and costuming of fellow revelers. In a crowd of people
dressed like sequined Campbell Soup cans, I'm thinking I may have to upgrade my
navy blazer garb.
My host's second-story apartment is located catty-cornered
from the most photographed building in the French Quarter. There is nary an ad
featuring NOLA that doesn't include this iconic structure. It's quite common
venue for picture takers. It's also the perfect intersection for musicians and
street performers. Unfortunately, it's also a common locale for microphone-aided
street preachers. Friday we were in bed around 11p, and I had to listen to
threats of 'eternal damnation' as I sought slumber.
Saturday was quite chilly,
but sunny. At precisely 12:29p Nevin and I opened a bottle of Abita and set
forth to share our bounty of beads from the balcony. At 12:30 we were the
beneficiaries of our first flashing. What a country! All we do is declare that
those ladies willing to expose themselves to complete strangers have come to the
right place and Voila!
Judy and I binge-watched the show "Treme" this winter and
enjoyed it immensely. It's set in the Vieux Carre and is comprised of two thirds
music and musicians and one third kind-of-a plot. So, I was more attuned to the
street musicians this year on my walk arounds. Talented musicians abound. An
eight-piece Zydeco band plays/dances just down from our balcony by the front
door of Rouse's grocery store. They are really good, and I find their music most
pleasing. I have often pondered the economics of such a group. A local friend
and member of our Friday lunch group explained that I need not worry how they
put food on their table with the following story: "I long admired the music of a
woman who played clarinet in a doorway on Royal Street. She is a world class
musician. I approached her one day, and said, I'd like to hire her to play at a
dinner party at my house. She replied, 'You can't afford me. I can't afford to
miss an evening on the street.' "
Saturday's wanderings took me down Royal past
Bienville when I heard an extraordinary voice singing a country song. The voice
blended the best of Vince Gill and Alan Jackson. I made a right turn at
Iberville and saw a small person standing on top of a beat-up van at the
intersection of Bourbon. He had an orange Rastafarian hair do, and he was the
surprising source. The young, tiny black man, was singing into his mike and
playing a guitar with a dog cradled betwixt his arms atop his guitar. A crowd
was gathered listening to this remarkable act. He also had a trombone on a stand
nearby which he would periodically play in an amazing display of showmanship.
The only thing lacking was him singing and tromboning simultaneously. I stayed
for the length of his set and tipped generously.
I then ambled down Bourbon
Street for a few blocks and turned right on St. Louis. It was my good fortune to
pass by just as a Treme Brass Band was exiting Antoine's. They presumably were
hired by a bunch of handsomely-dressed people who followed them out of the
restaurant. They stopped and performed a five-song Dixieland set for the pleased
passersby. I followed them as they then played and strolled over to Touche's, a
bar with which we are familiar. What a great day for this music lover.
Lunch at
Galatoire's on the Thursday before Mardi Gras is a highly prestigious venue.
Seating spots are auctioned off for charity, and it is 'the' place to see and be
seen for the local gentility. This year $200,000 was raised, or $1,000 per seat.
Friends attending report that Patrick was present and working the crowd and met
some ladies at the bar. He somehow thought it would be a good idea to bring in
the Naked Cowboy for their amusement. This particular fellow is a street
performer attired in a skimpy speedo, cowboy boots and hat, and guitar. He was
formerly buff, but I saw him a few days later on the street harassing some
ladies, and observed he now has a paunch and man boobs. It was not pretty.
Galatoires is an elegant, white table cloth restaurant. Waiters wear crisp
tuxedos, as do the back waiters and runners. The general manager of the
restaurant did not think the presence of a street hustler was appropriate on
this particular day and had him thrown out. Then he took out his ire on Patrick.
Speaking of tuxedoed waiters. While dining at Arnaud's on Saturday night, we
were served by Charles, who has been a fixture at this fabulous restaurant for
decades. My host has mastered the art of concentrated patronage, and we are the
beneficiaries of being seated at one of the finest tables and served by Charles
and his crew. He started us off with an Amuse-Bouche course of olive tapenade
infused with jalapeno. While thanking him for this lagniappe, he said it was his
pleasure to serve such distinguished guests. I mentioned we are probably on the
low end on the distinguished scale of those he has served. He reluctantly
agreed, and then pulled out his cell phone to show him photographed with Taylor
Swift taken the previous weekend. He reports she is a nice, down to earth
person, although well protected by two giant bodyguards.
We enjoyed a
serendipitous Sunday morning. First, we dined on Eggs Stanley at Stanley's on
Jackson Square. This is a dish of poached eggs on Canadian bacon and English
muffin surrounded by a mound of delicately fried oysters. I hold the Hollandaise
to preserve my figure. It's delicious. We walked from the restaurant just as
worshippers were emerging from the services at St. Louis Cathedral stopping to
shake hands with a priest who appeared to have the trappings of a bishop. We saw
a lone lady walking down Pere Antoine Alley towards Royal, being escorted by a
large sheriff's deputy holding an umbrella for her. She was impeccably dressed,
and we wondered what the story was. Later, the deputy came back our way, and I
inquired, "Is that someone famous?" He looked around and said, "Sort of. She
owns the Saints and the Pelicans and is probably the richest woman in NOLA."
From there we went to the home/studio of Isabelle Jacopin, an across-the-street
neighbor of our host. Her place was cluttered with dozens of works in progress
and finished paintings. I learned she spends six months in NOLA and six months
in Limeuil, a tiny town east of Bordeaux. When she mentioned it is in the
Dordogne District I asked if she'd ever heard of the books written by Martin
Walker about Bruno Chief of Detectives set in the fictional town of St. Denis.
She brightened, and replied, "Limeuil is the real St. Denis, Bruno is based on a
real person who still lives in Limeuil, and Martin Walker is a dear friend who
was here a few weeks ago." She said she will tell Martin that she met one of his
fans from Kansas.
Next stop was to the home of Patrick's lady friend who is
moving to a smaller place and wanted to give some of her wigs to our host's
wife. We walked to her beautiful home on Burgundy and got the grand tour along
with some wigs. The house is over 300 years old, but beautifully remodeled. On
the few occasions when I've been a guest in someone's home in the French
Quarter, I'm always amazed. The exteriors don't do justice to the elegance that
hides behind modest facades. The wigs were crazy fun, and we journeyed back to
the apartment.
Here are some things about Mardi Gras that I find annoying:
Prospective bead recipients rudely snapping their fingers demanding same.
People
who drop their beads, which break, then demanding a replacement.
Street
preachers with microphones shouting at their detractors.
Guests on our host's
balcony who do not observe our bead dispensing protocols.
Here are some things I
find funny:
Naked people.
People who pick up dirty beads from the street, place
them around their neck, and then find themselves sporting an extreme case of
ring around the collar.
The uniformity of the outfits worn by counter culture
kids. The Marine Corps offers more variety. Outrageous costumes.
Walid is the
driver we've come to use an almost all occasions requiring a car. He's an
interesting fellow, and one can always learn a lot about NOLA by chatting with
him. On the ride to the airport, I asked, what happened to his Toyota Sienna. He
explained, "The transmission shot craps, and it would have cost $3,500 to fix
it. The car had 555,000 miles, so I concluded this may be the end. NOLA streets
are terrible, so I figure more bad things would happen, and I leased a new car.
I got $2,000 for the carcass from another limo operator who wanted it for
parts."
The new NOLA airport is great. I can only hope the new KC airport is as
nice. The best part is the food kiosks include local favorites Café DuMonde,
Lucky Dog, and Central Grocer, along with the ubiquitous national brands.
I've
now been signed up to ride in next year's Toth Parade. It should be a new and
fun experience. Mardi Gras just keeps getting better.
Wickenburg
I had lunch a
few weeks ago with a good friend I hadn't seen in years. Jim had been the CEO of
hospitals in Bisbee, AZ; Ripon, WI; Prosser, WA; and Wickenburg, AZ, and I was
privileged to work with him in each locale. We reminisced about interesting
people we knew and good and bad events that have withstood the test of time in
our memories.
Then Jim said, "Do you remember Xyz? He is looking to kick your
ass. I ran into him a few years ago at a charity golf tournament at the Copper
Queen, and he's still mightily pissed about that story you wrote about him in
Nude Nuns."
I replied, "I used the pseudonym Marvin. How on earth did my book
find its way to him?"
Jim, "You did, but you named the town and he was the only
hospital CEO that town had for 25 years."
Me, "Oh that!"
In case you've an
interest, and you haven't memorized every vignette in NNAOPP, here's one of the
many stories that may get my ass kicked:
Marvin*
Sierra Vista is a relatively
large community located on the eastern edge of Cochise County and is home to
Fort Huachuca, a U. S. Army base. One of the most distinguishing characteristics
of the town was the perpetual smoke emanating from the nearby mountain range, a
consequence of the continual forest fires ignited by illegal immigrants seeking
warmth as they trekked northward from the Mexican border.
Marvin* was the CEO of
the Hospital. I first met him when Jim and I traveled to Sierra Vista to discuss
a joint venture between their hospitals. Marvin's secretary escorted us into his
office where we were seated and offered refreshments. I had been in over 400
hospitals and had worked with a wide variety of CEO's, but little prepared me
for Marvin. His office was a shrine to Emmett Kelly, the man who created the
"Weary Willie" character known to clown aficionados by his signature act of
cleaning up for other performers by using a broom to sweep away the pool of
light from the spotlight. Dozens of paintings, photos, and memorabilia paid
homage to Kelly and other famous clowns including Red Skelton. We politely
inquired about his collection, and our host launched into a passionate
dissertation on his love of clowns. It was mildly creepy, and this hobby seemed
out of character for the gruff ex-Marine.
He was also an industrial strength
hard ass when it came to negotiating. His bargaining mantra was, "I win, you
lose, and, by the way, go f'_k yourself." After a reasonably futile meeting,
Marvin looked out the solo window in his otherwise darkened office and saw
something that prompted him to tell us the following story:
"You see my parking
spot out there? For several days in a row one of the docs on the staff decided
he would park his SUV in my spot. He did it knowing it would piss me off. The
third time he invaded my space, I called a couple of maintenance guys and told
them to jack up the doc's vehicle, remove the wheels, hide them, and then drop
it down on blocks to its original level. They did as instructed and left. Later
in the afternoon when I knew the doc would be leaving, I called them to come to
my office, so they could see the results of their handiwork. The doc was a
pompous shit knuckle and got into the driver's seat not noticing a thing. We
watched as he started the engine, shifted into reverse, put his right arm around
the top of the passenger seat, looked back, and hit the accelerator. Obviously,
nothing happened, so he gunned it and still nothing happened. We were rolling on
the floor with laughter, as he got out to survey the situation. Once he realized
what happened, he glanced at my window and flipped me the bird. I returned the
favor. We didn't get along all that well."
So, should I someday be beaten to a
pulp by an unknown assailant or disappear altogether, be on the lookout for a
guy with the pseudonym of Marvin who was once the CEO of the hospital in Sierra
Vista, AZ.
Musical Instrument Museum
Judy and I spent a perfect day recently at
the Musical Instrument Museum in Phoenix. I can't say enough good things about
this venue. I usually tire quickly of viewing even the most amazing exhibits,
but not at MIM. Guests are given headphones and a receiver that plays music or
commentary related to most of the exhibits. It's just grand. Some of the
displays took me down memory lane, particularly those related to band
instruments and how they are made. Exhibits featured factories in Elkhart, IN
bending brass sheets into bells, tubes, and the multitude of shapes that would
become saxophones, trombones, tubas, and trumpets. As readers may recall from
other earlier missives, my Dad was a professional musician, then a high school
band director, and then a salesman of band instruments. When we first landed in
KC in 1953, Dad worked for McLain Band Instruments with a store on Walnut St.
right next to Jenkins Music Store. I loved our visits to the store, particularly
the repair shop, inhabited by a Dewey Wielert and a bunch of other old German
guys who had an amazing array of tools and could fix anything.
For a brief
period of time I played the alto saxophone. I was several degrees below
terrible. To suggest I lacked promise would be a gross understatement. However,
I did learn how to play "Sentimental Journey" poorly, and I did briefly
participate in the Prairie Grade School band. I still recall hanging Dad's
saxophone and case over the handlebar of my bike and painfully banging my knee
with every turn of the pedal.
What amazes me now as I reflect on this bygone
vignette, is that I was in possession of a relatively rare, professional quality
Selmer saxophone. Before Dad died in 1996, he donated his personal instruments
to the Selmer Museum of Musical Instruments. One of Dad's friends and former
students, Gene Rousseau, was a professor of Saxophone at the University of
Indiana and held a PhD in that discipline. After Dad's death, Gene played a
concert benefit in his honor at which time I learned/heard how truly beautiful
the sounds of a skillfully played saxophone can be.
Augie
Son Ben reports that he
and three-year-old Augie were walking to Bagelsmith, their neighborhood deli,
one morning, when out of the blue the wee tyke asks, "Daddy, do you fart at the
office?" After stifling his laughter, he replied, "Not often."
Golf
My brother
Bill and I were playing a round at McCormick Ranch in Scottsdale recently. We
happened to be paired with a young pro golfer playing his practice round two
days in advance of the Monday qualifying tournament where one hundred golfers
would compete for the 3 or 4 open slots for the upcoming Phoenix Open. Justin
(Kim) is 24, lives in southern California, played on the golf team at UNLV,
graduated, and qualified for the Korn Ferry Tour last years. He was a terrific
golfer and a delightful companion.
After being introduced by the starter, I
asked Justin, "Do you want me to just leave you alone, or can I pester you with
questions?" He laughed and replied, "Feel free to pester. This is not a pressure
round for me. I've never played this course before so I'm just trying to get the
lay of the land."
Justin played the 7285-yard tees, shot five under par, and
only missed one green in regulation. On a 599-yard par 5 he reached the green in
two. Each of his drives were long and down the middle. He said, "I usually land
the ball about 295 yards with a 10-20 yard roll out." It was a treat being in a
foursome with such a good golfer. As a bonus, Justin consistently offered words
of encouragement to Bill and me throughout the round. "Great shot Bill! You're
killing those drives."
Here are some of the tidbits I learned from my pestering:
PGA professionals usually only play two tournaments before replacing their
wedges. They hit balls with such club speed that the grooves wear out quickly.
Korn Ferry players (the level just below PGA) typically replace clubs every six
months. He knew he had a chance to make it in the golf world at the age of 14.
"I realized I had really good feel for putting and chipping." He works out with
weights every morning, maintains a strict diet, and uses a 7-iron for 186-yard
shots.
Epilogue
On the following Monday Justin shot three under par for a 14th
place finish, three strokes away from getting one of the qualifying spots.
