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
