Silliness, A State Of Grace

"Entertainment and art are not isolated."

-Martin Kippenberger

When I came to New Orleans to live, I decided that I was going to do without cable television. I had cable TV in my last apartment in Florida, and realized that when I was at home, the TV was on constantly. I had about 700 channels and never found anything worthwhile to watch. I rarely read books or magazines, I have an enormous CD collection that was barely ever explored or listened to. Since I began this rather daring "experiment", I am pleased to say that I always have something to read, my periodicals do not get backed up and the pleasure of having music on in the background is infinitely better than hearing the hacksaw voice of Rachel Ray, ever.

I still enjoy some visual entertainments, however. I have a Netflix account that really gives me my money's worth. I receive television series from time to time, but the difference is that I choose what I want to watch and when. Some episodic series are very addictive. For instance, I just concluded the fifth season of Nip/Tuck. The depravity is staggering...This of course does not hold a candle to the fabulous melodramas and comedies that appear live on stage any given day of the week at 1239 Marais Street. I am speaking of the improvisational antics of myself and my glamorous houseguest.

We constantly entertain each other. The common goal of everyday life is for one to crack the other one up. Sometimes costumes and mouth props are employed to great effect. We enjoy each others well-developed sense of the absurd and general silliness. The entertainments typically commence with the tiniest drop of alcohol, savored in such pristine amounts as though it were the last of Aunt Pittypat's fine Madeira. There is much singing and our unique harmonies fill the air. These occasions I shall here on out refer to as musicales. We frequently hold musicales in my kitchen while waiting for dinner to be prepared or a delectable dessert to be pulled from my lovin' oven. During one such musicale, I prepared a cherry pie. As there was Southern Gospel crooning from the surround-sound, we adopted a Plantation theme. I don't think that antebellum house-workers ever had such fine, golden grilles as we do. So flashy! What a strange reality we inhabit. Seriously. By the way, the grilles were extravagantly bestowed upon us several Christmases ago by our dear sister Gyps, who was often in attendance for past musicales. Gyps, as you read this, please know that there is no earthly way of displaying our gratitude. The grilles really are a gift that keeps on giving.

One day, as Kevin returned from work, he was greeted by none other that Little Edith Beale, The Worlds Greatest Danseur.

Unfortunately, no genuine photographs exist of this instance, but you get the idea. Imagine, a chenille throw and a t-shirt improvised as a head scarf can create enchantment. As Hallowe'en is fast approaching, and is a well loved and eagerly anticipated holiday in New Orleans, you, dear readers, should be absolutely beside yourselves with the maddening thrill of seeing the New Beales of Grey Gardens in a very tasteful photographic essay. More to come! You'll have never dealt with such staunch characters!

A more recent musicale saw a loving tribute to Sister Wendy, the beloved bucktoothed British nun/art historian. She had a very profound effect on us when we watched her eloquently explain important artworks in galleries and museums world-over. See how we appear to explain important artworks in my home?
We realize that this is a rather obscure reference, but those in the know will no doubt be touched by this moving series. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

It is non-stop, madcap fun. I imagine that our musicales and theatre were quite similar to how the world entertained itself before the advent of radio or television. Generations of people world over sang, danced, performed morality plays and struck interesting tableaux for the sake of fighting ennui.
From shadow puppetry projected by firelight onto cave walls to Live! With Peaches and Toenisha! Frankly, Cox Cable can suck it...

Post-Decadence Blues

"I have always thought of sophistication as a rather feeble substitute for decadence."

-Christopher Hampton

As Southern Decadence has come to a close, and my vacation time shrinking by the minute, I am experiencing that post-event let-down that I can only equate with how one feels the day after Christmas. After all the planning, preparation and anticipation, it ends before you've even realized the joy of the day itself and you ask yourself, ala Peggy Lee, "Is that all there is?"

Don't get me wrong. I had a wonderful weekend! I embarked on a lovely romance with a handsome Texan (wink wink), took in a parade with my glamourous houseguest and Angelique, and really got an eye-full of what gives this beloved holiday it's name. It truly is the Greatest Show On Earth for an avid people-watcher/voyeur like myself. Cocktails go down and inhibitions be damned. This city does that to people.There is literally something for everyone to enjoy on this most festive of weekends. For my readers who weren't in attendance for the spectacle, I render a Decadence Diorama:

Miss Rikki Redd looks stunning in her ensemble for the day. Feathery!

The Belle Of Carroll County. Twangy!

Fantasia in Yellow. Booby!






Some cute Maritime Bears. Grrrrrowly!

Fruit Stripe Gum Panties. Chewy!

Southern Decadence '09

Welcome to New Orleans, Y'all.

Have An Eggroll, Mr. Goldstone

"You do not sew with a fork, so I see no reason that you should eat with knitting needles."
-Miss Piggy

It wasn't until my glamorous house guest arrived in New Orleans that I rediscovered my affinity for Chinese food. Of course, I'm speaking of American-Chinese food. We've been averaging one delivery from Golden Wall on Canal Street a week. After an evening of debauchery and over-indulgence French Quarter style, nothing is better that the sweet, sticky, crunchy, salty promise that awaits you in styrofoam containers from the local Chinese take-away.

Thursday evening, Kevin and I set about the most cherished of alcoholic past-times in the Vieux Carre: The Bar Crawl. We began our evening at home with a pitcher of Sweet Tea cocktails and moved on from there. Several stops on our tour and a few hours later, we arrived at home and patiently awaited the man on a bicycle who would deliver our much anticipated repast of General Tao's Chicken, Vegetable Lo Mein and Crab Rangoon. I had also requested an order of Honey Chicken for something to pick at during the week. It wasn't until I tasted the "Honey" Chicken that I let go of any lingering denial that what we were eating really wasn't that bad for you. It tasted like breakfast. Kevin attributed the golden flavor of the "Honey" Chicken to the undeniable fact that the crispy fried nuggets of boneless chicken thigh were, indeed, practically drowned in pancake syrup. And by pancake syrup I mean artificial maple flavored corn syrup. I was staggered. I've always been aware of the copious amounts of corn syrup used to flavor my favorite Chinese dishes, but this was an affront to everything I believe in. Obviously, no honey is used in this preparation and I have a strict aversion to any type of pancake syrup that isn't marked Pure Grade A Maple Dark Amber. I felt completely deceived and was horrified that I couldn't stop eating what reminded me of sub-par chicken and waffles. Which are, by the way a glorious example of the Soul Kitchen, provided that you ordered chicken and waffles and were expecting chicken and waffles.

Whenever I savor Chinese food, I often think about an all-you-can-eat buffet located in a dingy strip mall, anchored by a Big Lots in St. Petersburg, Florida known as Good Fortune Buffet. My sisters and I used to take the journey to this establishment frequently to have a cheap, tasty meal and a few laughs at what we called Hard Livin' Buffet. Oh, the place was a beautifully appointed palace of over-laden steam tables tumbling over with anything you could possibly want to eat. The standard American-Chinese offerings were your best bet. The Lo Mein was delicious, as were the variety of dumplings, both fried and steamed. This place also featured a carving station, Mongolian BBQ, pizza and spaghetti and a build-your-own sundae bar, all under an enormous, sparkling crystal chandelier that just reeked of class and refinement. All for $10 a head. Can you imagine? I recall the Honey Chicken being exquisite at this place, bathed in real clover honey that was genuinely regurgitated by real bees

The best nights at Hard Livin' Buffet were the ones that offered all you can eat crab legs as part of the buffet. I remember an evening when the salty crustaceans were available, we sat next to a table of absolutely enormous ladies who were prepared to get jiggy with some legs. They had a food-service sized can of Old Bay Seasoning on the table, and it was surrounded by monkey dishes of drawn butter, or artificially butter-flavored grease. I was not surprised when they returned to the table with what appeared to be the entire steam tray of crab legs piled on their plates, because obviously, these women were serious about what they came for. Oh, the indignity they suffered on subsequent visits to the buffet line before the crab legs were replenished! I remember observing one lady who physically grabbed one dining room attendant after another inquiring about the ETA of the next truckload of crab legs. Not receiving a satisfactory response to her inquiry, she noisily sucked her teeth and carefully picked a crisp green bean from a nearby steam table with her four-inch acrylic fingernails.

Later on, this party was joined by a young lady, approximately 13 years of age. I learned that she was a beloved niece to these women. The young girl was painfully thin and looked upon the table with such disgust drawn on her face that I could only imagine that she either didn't care for crab legs, or she was completely appalled by her Aunties eating habits because she refused even a morsel.

So, despite my disappointment in Golden Wall's deceitful practices, I am not throwing in the towel on Chinese food. I'm not even considering giving up on them either. Who else is going to bike a mile into the Faubourg Treme from Canal Street bearing a basket of crunchy, sweet, salty and slurpy goodness? I just won't order the Honey Chicken again. Unless, of course, I am hankering sub-par chicken and waffles. It's nothing that a bottle of Crystal hot sauce won't fix.

Don't Worry, He's A Vegetarian

ANGELIQUE IS AFRAID OF HUGE RABBITS

Where Beauty Lives In Memory

"I was just a little past eighteen, when I came to New Orleans. I'd never been beyond my home state line."

-Dolly Parton, "My Blue Ridge Mountain Boy"



It's true. I was just a little past eighteen when I came to New Orleans. Seeking escape from another family holiday, a friend of long ago and I set out to the Crescent City the day before Christmas Eve in 1992. We rented a car, loaded the cassette player with a mix-tape that contained every song in my collection that even mentioned New Orleans and hit the road. We arrived in this much fabled city around dawn. After a charming breakfast of fried pork-chops and red beans, we set out to find accommodations. We ended up at some run down hotel on Tulane Avenue with a drained pool and were led to a room two-doors down from one that had been completely blackened and burned out by a fire. It didn't really matter, we were young and exhausted from a journey that should have taken 9 or 10 hours but had stretched to 14 due to a stop in Tallahassee, (my friend was a former student at FSU), and a rather embarrassing but memorable visit to a rest area outside of Mobile, Alabama where a pair of my teal green underwear were left urine soaked and slung over a toilet seat. Before your minds begin to wander to some watersports fueled fantasy, let me say that it was completely innocent and devoid of eroticism. Abandoning the underwear was the only practical thing that I could do.



We entered the hotel room that care forgot with it's double beds and greasy handprints on the wall and went to sleep for a few hours before entering the decadent world of New Orleans. Our first stop was Lafayette Cemetery in the Garden District. Recently, I revisited that old City of the Dead and found it in such shocking disrepair. It had sunk into something far beyond the stately gothic elegance that I first encountered on my inaugural trip to the city that I now call home. A lot of the beautiful black ironwork that surrounded the tombs was gone, perhaps looted and sold for scrap. Grassy areas away from the paved banquettes of the cemetery that I recalled had become soft mud pits after a recent rain. The cemetery still retains some of it's gloomy charm, but beauty lives in memory, I suppose. Across the street, we stumbled upon what looked to be a shop set up in the first floor of a house. I don't recall the name of it, but we entered and were greeted by an astonishing assortment of occupied birdcages, as well as the proprietor clad in a green silk dressing gown. He seemed so surprised to see us, almost as if we just walked into a private residence. "Oh my!", he said. "Let me put on some coffee!" My companion and I looked at each other with curiosity and soon were served some very strong coffee and packaged cookies that were so hard, real effort had to be employed to consume them. He chatted with us and told us of some places to visit while in town. We bid our unusual host a fond farewell and departed the shop. We were never quite sure of what was for sale in there.



Upon entering the French Quarter for the "first" time, I was struck with a sense of extreme nostalgia and melancholy. I had been here before. I astonished my travelling companion with my basic knowledge of the Quarter. "Put that map away! I know where Dumaine is!" Eventually we found a shop, not much more than a closet tucked away in the side of a building where an old black lady would swear over a peice of felt, some old bones and herbs, douse it with oil, tie it up and pass it to you into your right hand. I had ordered a gris-gris from her for my friend Sean, for his happiness. I think I paid ten dollars for it. I presented it to him upon arriving home and told him to place it under his bed. All he ever said about it was how nice it smelled while he banged boys who weren't me on top of his sheets. Shortly afterward, he relapsed into alcoholism and checked himself into some form of treatment. I never saw him again. I don't think the gris-gris had anything to do with that, however. At least I hope it didn't.

After enjoying some of the raucous nightlife that the French Quarter has to offer, we took our leave of this grand city on Christmas Night. Watching it disappear behind the rented car, I promised to return for visits and perhaps someday become part of it. I moved to New Orleans a little over a year and a half ago. Of course, familiarity has blurred the lines of the past and the present. I often experience a strong sense of deja vu when I hear the click-clack of a mules feet on the streets or smell the richly perfumed air carried on a delicate breeze. Reason tells me that these are such common sensory experiences encountered daily, that I may not be remembering a previous existence in a time long, long ago in New Orleans, just acknowledging the rare beauty of details that are so special and so specific to the place I call home. Sweet, sweet home.

The Way You Wear Your Hat

"Shabby gentility has no characteristic but for it's hat."

-Oliver Wendell Holmes

Since summer began it's cruel, damnable hostility in the Delta, with it's beating rays and unforgiving glare, the days I am not sequestered in an air-conditioned environment, I am wearing a hat. This hat was selected in a handsome shop in the French Market known as Latin's Hands during the Creole Tomato Festival. It certainly makes sense for one to wear a hat in this climate. I sincerely believe that it keeps the wearer at least ten degrees cooler as well as adding a bit of fashionable mystique. The hat I chose suits me well. I had tried several different styles from the typical pork-pie that the Quarter hipsters don to a faux-fedora that reminded my companions for the day of the late Truman Capote. Although I admire the deceased Southern writer very much, I don't want to look like him, especially during that sad, post Studio 54 period. I chose a hat that is made of tightly woven palm leaves with a wide brim and a dark band. A prosperous Delta planter might be pictured wearing a hat like this. More on that later.



I never believed myself to be a so-called "hat person". My head is too big. Everything I put on seemed to look perched on top of my head. The proportions were incorrect. I was told a few months ago that there is a psychological block that one must tear down in order to comfortably wear a hat. This is true. I tried on a few until I found the one for me. I wear it at an angle to the left which might suggest that I was out to impress the ladies, but I can assure you, I'm out to impress everyone.

It's funny how hats have the ability to influence perceptions about the wearer. Last Wednesday I was having cocktails with an aquaintance who regarded my hat as very provocative of the romance of the Old South. He conjured images of frosty mint juleps sipped on a sweeping verandah while happy darkies sang in the fields. I could hear the mistress of the plantation saying, "Finish your juleps now, gentlemen. There will be no more liquor served until after breakfast!" Although, that is certainly not the life I live, I cannot help but identify with that image. Then I remember, it is just a hat. No one is cutting cane. I have a set of silver julep cups, but they are not likely to contain a bourbon cocktail. I live in an apartment that in no way resembles Gerald O'Hara's Tara. I will admit that I have a fondness for negro spirituals, however. Unfortunately, I still get Truman Capote references.

Admittedly, any hat I have ever worn has had a Southern fancy to it. It has been a long hallowed tradition among my dearest friends that Easter be celebrated with the wearing of fantastic chapeaux that rival any found in an upscale haberdashery in the city. Mine were always wide brimmed numbers that were worn to the side, reminiscent of Dolly Levi's in Thornton Wilder's The Matchmaker. Or, more likely, Gene Kelly's Hello, Dolly! My only requirement in the design of these Easter hats was that, not only should they be beautiful, but they should also tell a story. They became fantasies of hydrangeas and ladybugs, honeysuckles and hummingbirds and a particular favorite which I called "Berry Festival" which featured a feather butterfly perched atop a toppled berry container, full of mischief and quite pleased with himself.


I look forward to Easter every year for this reason. Not only does it give me an opportunity to wield a hot-glue gun, but it provides an avenue for creative expression. My hat this past year was inspired by one I saw in a window on Royal Street that carried a $325.00 price tag. I re-created this chapeau for literally $17.00. Albeit, I wasn't using the same quality of materials, but the effect was the same, as well as the sense of satisfaction I derived from feeling like "Hey! I can do that, too!"

I've decided that in creating future Easter bonnets, I will be going for more realism than whimsy. If sheared rooster feathers and magnolias are good enough for Uptown ladies, they are more than good enough for me.