Saturday, February 9, 2008
So this is what happiness looks like, New Orleans-style:
I wake up early on Saturday and find that it is a beautiful day. I get dressed, putting on a light jacket, and head out to go vote in the Louisiana Primary. As I stroll down to the International School, my polling place, I notice I'm overdressed for the weather -- it's so sunny it's sparkling and warm, in the 70s. On the walk, I see azaleas and irises and camellias in bloom. And folks used to wonder, when I lived up North, why I wanted it to be Spring in February.
At the International School, I see that one of my polling commissioners is someone I've known for years, but whom I haven't seen since I moved home. I was delighted by this small coincidence, just another example of New Orleans as a small town. After voting (don't ask, it's private!), I walked with Ellen as far as the totally-fabulous Surrey's, where she would be taking her lunch break. (There was a big crowd on the sidewalk, waiting to get in. If you're going to eat there on a Saturday or a Sunday, get there EARLY.) She told me that normally she doesn't work on Saturdays, it being Shabbas, but that serving as a poll commissioner seemed like a spiritual exercise to her. I smiled at that.
When I got home, in an excellent mood, Big Man was up and dressed, and more than ready to eat. I told him it was a perfect Magazine Street day, and he readily agreed. (We'd been talking for months about taking a day where we just walked Magazine.) I ditched the jacket I had on, and we left the house and began walking the 2 blocks to Magazine. The sun was so bright I regretted not putting on any sunblock or a hat, but I thought a little sunburn would be a good price to pay for such a day.
We decided to eat at J'Anita's, whose sign outside said "Breakfast-BBQ-Beer." But it was too late in the day for breakfast, so we ordered coffee and lunch -- the excellent barbequed beef brisket. We loved the feel of the place, the little history on the menu (telling how the owners, a married couple, had run a barbeque trailer in Mid-City after Katrina and had ended up with this little place, named after the husband's parents), the local art on the walls, the tiny courtyard in the back. The owner, Craig, came out and passed some time with us, very friendly and personable. The check was amazingly cheap and we overpaid. In a good mood, we continued down Magazine.
We popped into every antique store we passed (Big Man enjoys this as much as I do, so don't think he was forcing himself), class to kitsch, vast hodgepodges of real antiques, semi-antiques, used furniture, and absolute junk in prices from the affordable to the astronomical. Shopkeepers were friendly and chatty. We all agreed that this weather, this kind of day, was one of the best reasons to live in New Orleans. (On this trip, we skipped all the dress shops -- that's going to have to be another Magazine Street day with my sister.)
At Jackson Avenue, we crossed the street and headed back in the direction of our house. We went into Stein's Deli at the corner of Jackson and Magazine, and got some good ol' Philly-style Italian cold cuts and cheese and reminisced with the counter men about good times on 9th Street in the Philadelphia Italian Market -- one of the things we miss most. Swigging from a bottle of Italian soda water, we continued on the other side of Magazine. We came upon a little store called Prince Michael's Chocolates, which I had heard about, so we went in. A small glass counter held handmade chocolate truffles, including a plate labelled "Chipotle Cinnamon Truffle." A youngish woman was in the back, working on something, and called out to greet us. I said I had heard good things about her shop, and that we wanted to try the chipotle chocolates. She laughed. "I'm making more of them right now," she said. "Here, try them" and she held out in cocoa-encrusted hands two halves, one for each of us, and we opened our mouths and took them straight from her hands, like communion.
First there was a burst of intense and rich dark chocolate flavor, then the taste of cinnamon arose, then it finished with the heat of the chipotle pepper. "Oh-my-God," breathed Big Man, when we could finally speak. "I bet you hear that more often than a Bourbon Street hooker," he told the owner, and she laughed again. "I do, I really do." We purchased 2 of the heavenly little truffles and, noticing that she made her iced coffee with COFFEE ICE CUBES, ordered that as well. (Why hasn't anyone else thought of that?? It's brilliant!) While the owner made our coffees, we chatted with her. She told us that the shop was a lifetime dream for her and her brother, Michael, but that he had died before it opened, and in his honor, she had decided to name the shop after his nickname. We offered our sympathy, complimented her on the beautiful shop and her wonderful wares, said we'd be back, and headed back out into the sunshine, armed with fabulous iced coffee.
A stop at a bank-turned art gallery revealed wonderful colorful works by a local black artist, portraits of Mardi Gras Indians, jazz musicians, and perky fleur de lis (of course!). We visited tiny Sophie Wright Park, admiring the statue by New Orleans artist Enrique Alvarez. Since we both needed a restroom, and being across the street from J'Anita's, where we had started the walk, we crossed over. While Big Man headed to the restroom, I ordered a beer -- and got a long explanation from the young waitress about not having a liquor license yet, but she could let me have one of the owner's beers for a "donation." I got a nice cold Abita draft, and license to use the rest room. Craig, the owner, came out and saw us, and we had a long conversation about music and food -- 2 of New Orleanians' favorite subjects.
Beer and conversation finished, we crossed back over to the world-famous Jim Russell Music store and spent a very pleasant half-hour browsing through stacks and stacks of vinyl and cassettes and CDs (and even 8-tracks!). The current owner sat on a stool near the front door, near a big glass jar labeled "Jim Russell Roof Fund." She told us that Katrina had damaged the roof of the building, revealing something that no one had known: that there had been a fire some time in the 1800s, and that instead of actually repairing it, in those days they had just created another roof on top of the fire-damaged one. Katrina's winds blew holes in the second roof, revealing the damaged roof beneath. She said she had leaks all over the place. Even though we didn't buy anything (on THAT trip!), Big Man put some bills in the jar.
Our last visit was to the Bali Shop in the fabulous tropical triangle building at the junction of Magazine and Sophie Wright Place. The shop was filled with furniture and accessories and sculptures from Bali and Indonesia, beautiful stuff. Big Man noticed a wondrous carved bed and as we walked to it, the owner came out of a little office. I asked her, "Is that an opium bed?" (I had heard about them and read about them, but I don't think I've seen one before.) "Yes, yes!" she said delightedly, "Opium bed! Yes! It's beautiful, come see!" She was so enthusiastic about her lovely merchandise, we were charmed. We looked at everything and wished we had a place for a $43,000 carved and painted opium bed.
We walked home from there, a little tired, a little sunburned, sated and happy. When we sank down on the couch in the living room, we looked at each other and said, "Wasn't that great??" And Big Man said, "I am so happy we live here" and I had to agree.
So that's what happiness looks like, on an early Spring day in New Orleans.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Mardi Gras Report: Normal for Us
Ash Wednesday 2008
Today I had a conversation with Big Man that sort of underscored a truism about New Orleans. He was going on and on about something he's recently discovered about life in the city (doesn't matter what, it could be almost *anything*), and my reaction was something like, "Yeah, that's normal for us." And Big Man exclaimed, "That happens all the time! I mention something about New Orleans that is unusual or wonderful or crazy, and some New Orleanian always says with a shrug, 'That's normal.' " This Mardi Gras we all got back to "normal for us" or, as my son's parain the poet likes to say, "back to abnormal."
A week or so ago, the humor columnist for the Times-Picayune reported that the guy who delivers his bottled water had left him a printed card, detailing the parade, float, side and location he -- the water delivery man -- would be on. Since the card was printed, you have to assume that the water guy left this same info all over his route to all his other water customers -- which means that he had to be prepared for dozens and dozens of people hollering his name on the parade route, expecting to be showered with Carnival booty. Gee, spending extra hundreds, even thousands, of dollars so that you can throw to even more people than you already were going to? Normal for us.
Going back several days ago, on the Friday before Mardi Gras, I accompanied my sister, her stepson and his wife, and a friend of theirs to a T-shirt shop Uptown on Magazine Street that they knew about but we didn't. (They had apparently found it on the Internet.) The T-shirts were all New Orleans-themed, but with a twist -- they were certainly NOT your normal tourist fare. There was a shirt that promoted "Ruffins for Mayor" and one with a silhouette of a Venetian gondelier with the logo "New Orleans -- we're not going anywhere." There was a white shirt that was dyed to look as if stained a dirty brown halfway down, with a red arrow saying "It was up to here." (Check them out yourself at "http://dirtycoast.com") All the T-shirts were self-referential (self being New Orleans, of course) with a great deal of wit, and good design as well. They also sell doormats/floormats that are replicas of the beloved New Orleans Sewerage and Water Board meter covers in various colors, which we all oohed over. Normal for us.
That night, there were four parades, counting the one that had gotten rained out from a few nights before. It was also the night of my sister's Cook-Off Party, which this year was a gumbo contest instead of red beans. (My sister says that after 20 years, she's over every possible permutation of red beans.) I spent part of that afternoon helping her glue representations of gumbo pots onto her old red beans trophies to use for the winner and runner-up. People started arriving about 4:30 pm, and with all the parades and so on, the party did not end until 2 am. As we sank exhausted into chairs and sofas, we all agreed that four parades in one night was just too much. However, agreeing on that did not mean that we did not feel obligated to be out there, hollering and jumping and waving our arms, and then hauling away bags and bags of beads and stuffed animals and god knows what all. Normal for us.
One of that night's parades was Muses (rescheduled from rainy Wednesday), and my favorite float paid tribute to the way we New Orleanians have now embraced the fleur de lis as the sign of our rebirth and renaissance. This year's Muses' theme ("Muses Night Fever") took old disco tunes and rewrote them for the Crescent City today, and this float was covered with large and small flashing fleur de lis, and was entitled "We Are Fleur de Lis." Sung to the tune of "We Are Family," the next line was "I got all my symbols with me." The riders threw various permutations of fleur de lis (stuffed, jeweled, glittered, blinking, on beads, as medallions, etc.), and the crowd went wild trying to catch them, because we're all about fleur de lis now. My son's parain caught a gorgeous fleur de lis necklace and refused to trade with me, despite my offer of 10 to 1. But when the parade was over and we walked back to my sister's, he handed it to me. Fight over and beg for throws, refuse to give them up, and then just as easily, pass them on. Normal for us.
The next day, Saturday, I was driving back to my house from seeing the day parades Uptown at my sister's, using back streets to avoid the traffic and the ongoing parades. As I got to the traffic light at the corner of Jackson Avenue and Carondelet Street, the light changed and I stopped. It was another warm and lovely Carnival day, and my windows were rolled down; through the air came the sounds of traditional Mardi Gras songs from somebody's outdoor speakers. Bobbing my head to the music, I looked around and saw, catty-corner across the street, 2 little black kids, a girl about 10-12 and a boy about 6-8, probably her little brother, each of them holding toy spears, the kind often handed down from parade floats, especially to kids. To the sounds of the music, they alternately were marching, as if in a band, and then dancing, boogeying down hard, shaking their little booties almost down to the sidewalk, and then straightening up and marching again, all in time to the music. Practicing to be in a parade. It made me smile, and I wondered if this could be happening anywhere else. Normal for us, though.
Big Man and I attended the MOMs Ball Saturday night (MOMs stands for Mystics, Orphans, and Misfits) after last year's forced absence. I will not go into great detail here about that ball (I think I need a lot more anonymity for that!), but I will say that the requirements for costuming at that event are indeed strict. Big Man and I are never at risk, but three stories emerged concerning this year's MOMs. My sister (who was in the court this year as one of her close friends, a local attorney, was king) witnessed a young couple's despondency on being refused admittance to the ball. They had been told that the young man was not wearing a costume -- he had on a top hat and a tux jacket over shorts and running shoes. (The young lady was not in jeopardy, as she had on a spangled top, a tutu skirt, fishnet tights, a mask and a feathered headdress.) My sister eyeballed them, instantly assessed the situation, and pronounced judgment, directing the girl to give her tutu to the boy. Voila! Instant costume, and the couple got in. A local newspaper columnist reports in this morning's Times-Picayune that he saw a young man in a "lame cowboy outfit" get refused entrance that same night; that young man's problem was solved by simply removing his pants, whereupon he was allowed in. The third situation concerned a young man we saw who was completely naked, except for black body paint (the MOMs theme for Groundhog Day was "Show Us Your Shadow"); apparently being naked in body paint IS a costume, and he was let in. Normal for us.
On Sunday I spoke to my son in Atlanta. He was, of course, miserable homesick -- it's a hard weekend for a New Orleanian to be away, even if they love where they live, as my son does. He related to me that he and some friends had eaten Saturday night at a new New Orleans-style restaurant that had opened in his neighborhood. Like all children of the Crescent City, he was a little leery of a restaurant so far away from home proclaiming itself to be "New Orleans-style." He told me, "But then, Mom, I saw on the menu right under the listing of their po-boys, it said, 'We only use Leidenheimer's French bread.' Mom, I was so happy I wanted to cry." I understood that, although apparently his friends didn't. REAL bread from home, from the good folks whose old commercials used to say "Leidenheimer's -- that's French for bread!" Of course that could make you choke up. Normal for us.
Mardi Gras dawned early for Big Man, who got home from the Bourbon Street nightclub about 3 am and then had to leave 6:15 am to get to the Irish Channel Corner Club for the Mardi Gras morning march. It was a great honor that he was asked to march with the Paulin Brother Brass Band in this 90-year-old Carnival tradition; an honor for any newcomer musician to the city, but especially for a white musician. As it was, for Big Man to be the only white player in a brass band called the Paulin BROTHERS is quite a sight and caused a great deal of comment as they marched and meandered around the Channel before taking their place behind Zulu and in front of Rex. Big Man says they were feted in old Irish Channel bars that didn't even look open but were perfectly viable neighborhood establishments. No outside signs, of course. Normal for us.
Being thus left alone on Mardi Gras, I got up around 8 am and dressed in my costume and mask. I filled my folding grocery basket with parade supplies: sandwiches, sausage slices, cheese, Zapp's potato chips, potato salad, olives, ice gel packs, napkins and plastic cutlery, toilet paper in a ziplock bag, bottles of hand sanitizer, plastic grocery bags to use for trash and throws, purse with wallet and lipstick. I made myself a tall ICED Irish coffee (it was hot and muggy, though thank goodness the wind was blowing) and walked down to St. Charles, approximately 6 or so blocks from my house. I admit I was feeling a little blue about it, having to spend Mardi Gras Day by myself. Little did I know.
When I got to the corner of Euterpe and St. Charles, Zulu was going by. (I had already missed Pete Fountain's Half-Fast Marching Club.) Euterpe was blocked by a line of trucks, the one closest to St. Charles filled with a black family, the young matrons of which were wearing two bras -- one underneath and then another over the top of their tank tops. It was a look. They were New Orleanians, living since Katrina in Dallas; as I would later discover, they had to work the next day back in Texas, and had worked all day Monday. They had driven like fiends through the night to get to this spot to watch Zulu and spend Carnival Day at home where they belonged, and right after Zulu they had to make a mad dash back. Another family had to leave before the trucks after Rex, since the father had to work in Mississippi that evening, but they had made the trip to enjoy as much of Mardi Gras as they could. Normal for us.
The area around us was all families, black and white and Latino, most with full ice chests, many with barbeque pits and smokers (and one giant propane grill), almost all with various kinds of chairs. I was immediately welcomed, and given a place for my chair and rolling basket. As the day went on and the parades rolled, I was offered food and drinks. I proffered what I had brought, and we all shared the throws that showered down on us. Somebody noticed I didn't catch a Zulu coconut and then made sure I got one. (I was a big hit with my bottles of hand sanitizer, since you can't wash your hands on a parade route.) I have spent too many Mardi Gras days with family and people I already know -- I had almost forgotten the warm and wonderful instant community that springs up for Carnival. My new friends cheered with me as Big Man went by with the Corner Club and the Paulin Brothers. I was NOT alone on Mardi Gras -- I was with friends who took care of me and spent quality time with me. Normal for us.
This morning's news reports on TV and in the newspaper tell us that it was not just a good post-Katrina Mardi Gras-- it was a great Mardi Gras, surpassing those of the pre-storm years. Mardi Gras is officially back to normal -- normal for us, that is. And that's not just a good thing, it's a blessing.
Today I had a conversation with Big Man that sort of underscored a truism about New Orleans. He was going on and on about something he's recently discovered about life in the city (doesn't matter what, it could be almost *anything*), and my reaction was something like, "Yeah, that's normal for us." And Big Man exclaimed, "That happens all the time! I mention something about New Orleans that is unusual or wonderful or crazy, and some New Orleanian always says with a shrug, 'That's normal.' " This Mardi Gras we all got back to "normal for us" or, as my son's parain the poet likes to say, "back to abnormal."
A week or so ago, the humor columnist for the Times-Picayune reported that the guy who delivers his bottled water had left him a printed card, detailing the parade, float, side and location he -- the water delivery man -- would be on. Since the card was printed, you have to assume that the water guy left this same info all over his route to all his other water customers -- which means that he had to be prepared for dozens and dozens of people hollering his name on the parade route, expecting to be showered with Carnival booty. Gee, spending extra hundreds, even thousands, of dollars so that you can throw to even more people than you already were going to? Normal for us.
Going back several days ago, on the Friday before Mardi Gras, I accompanied my sister, her stepson and his wife, and a friend of theirs to a T-shirt shop Uptown on Magazine Street that they knew about but we didn't. (They had apparently found it on the Internet.) The T-shirts were all New Orleans-themed, but with a twist -- they were certainly NOT your normal tourist fare. There was a shirt that promoted "Ruffins for Mayor" and one with a silhouette of a Venetian gondelier with the logo "New Orleans -- we're not going anywhere." There was a white shirt that was dyed to look as if stained a dirty brown halfway down, with a red arrow saying "It was up to here." (Check them out yourself at "http://dirtycoast.com") All the T-shirts were self-referential (self being New Orleans, of course) with a great deal of wit, and good design as well. They also sell doormats/floormats that are replicas of the beloved New Orleans Sewerage and Water Board meter covers in various colors, which we all oohed over. Normal for us.
That night, there were four parades, counting the one that had gotten rained out from a few nights before. It was also the night of my sister's Cook-Off Party, which this year was a gumbo contest instead of red beans. (My sister says that after 20 years, she's over every possible permutation of red beans.) I spent part of that afternoon helping her glue representations of gumbo pots onto her old red beans trophies to use for the winner and runner-up. People started arriving about 4:30 pm, and with all the parades and so on, the party did not end until 2 am. As we sank exhausted into chairs and sofas, we all agreed that four parades in one night was just too much. However, agreeing on that did not mean that we did not feel obligated to be out there, hollering and jumping and waving our arms, and then hauling away bags and bags of beads and stuffed animals and god knows what all. Normal for us.
One of that night's parades was Muses (rescheduled from rainy Wednesday), and my favorite float paid tribute to the way we New Orleanians have now embraced the fleur de lis as the sign of our rebirth and renaissance. This year's Muses' theme ("Muses Night Fever") took old disco tunes and rewrote them for the Crescent City today, and this float was covered with large and small flashing fleur de lis, and was entitled "We Are Fleur de Lis." Sung to the tune of "We Are Family," the next line was "I got all my symbols with me." The riders threw various permutations of fleur de lis (stuffed, jeweled, glittered, blinking, on beads, as medallions, etc.), and the crowd went wild trying to catch them, because we're all about fleur de lis now. My son's parain caught a gorgeous fleur de lis necklace and refused to trade with me, despite my offer of 10 to 1. But when the parade was over and we walked back to my sister's, he handed it to me. Fight over and beg for throws, refuse to give them up, and then just as easily, pass them on. Normal for us.
The next day, Saturday, I was driving back to my house from seeing the day parades Uptown at my sister's, using back streets to avoid the traffic and the ongoing parades. As I got to the traffic light at the corner of Jackson Avenue and Carondelet Street, the light changed and I stopped. It was another warm and lovely Carnival day, and my windows were rolled down; through the air came the sounds of traditional Mardi Gras songs from somebody's outdoor speakers. Bobbing my head to the music, I looked around and saw, catty-corner across the street, 2 little black kids, a girl about 10-12 and a boy about 6-8, probably her little brother, each of them holding toy spears, the kind often handed down from parade floats, especially to kids. To the sounds of the music, they alternately were marching, as if in a band, and then dancing, boogeying down hard, shaking their little booties almost down to the sidewalk, and then straightening up and marching again, all in time to the music. Practicing to be in a parade. It made me smile, and I wondered if this could be happening anywhere else. Normal for us, though.
Big Man and I attended the MOMs Ball Saturday night (MOMs stands for Mystics, Orphans, and Misfits) after last year's forced absence. I will not go into great detail here about that ball (I think I need a lot more anonymity for that!), but I will say that the requirements for costuming at that event are indeed strict. Big Man and I are never at risk, but three stories emerged concerning this year's MOMs. My sister (who was in the court this year as one of her close friends, a local attorney, was king) witnessed a young couple's despondency on being refused admittance to the ball. They had been told that the young man was not wearing a costume -- he had on a top hat and a tux jacket over shorts and running shoes. (The young lady was not in jeopardy, as she had on a spangled top, a tutu skirt, fishnet tights, a mask and a feathered headdress.) My sister eyeballed them, instantly assessed the situation, and pronounced judgment, directing the girl to give her tutu to the boy. Voila! Instant costume, and the couple got in. A local newspaper columnist reports in this morning's Times-Picayune that he saw a young man in a "lame cowboy outfit" get refused entrance that same night; that young man's problem was solved by simply removing his pants, whereupon he was allowed in. The third situation concerned a young man we saw who was completely naked, except for black body paint (the MOMs theme for Groundhog Day was "Show Us Your Shadow"); apparently being naked in body paint IS a costume, and he was let in. Normal for us.
On Sunday I spoke to my son in Atlanta. He was, of course, miserable homesick -- it's a hard weekend for a New Orleanian to be away, even if they love where they live, as my son does. He related to me that he and some friends had eaten Saturday night at a new New Orleans-style restaurant that had opened in his neighborhood. Like all children of the Crescent City, he was a little leery of a restaurant so far away from home proclaiming itself to be "New Orleans-style." He told me, "But then, Mom, I saw on the menu right under the listing of their po-boys, it said, 'We only use Leidenheimer's French bread.' Mom, I was so happy I wanted to cry." I understood that, although apparently his friends didn't. REAL bread from home, from the good folks whose old commercials used to say "Leidenheimer's -- that's French for bread!" Of course that could make you choke up. Normal for us.
Mardi Gras dawned early for Big Man, who got home from the Bourbon Street nightclub about 3 am and then had to leave 6:15 am to get to the Irish Channel Corner Club for the Mardi Gras morning march. It was a great honor that he was asked to march with the Paulin Brother Brass Band in this 90-year-old Carnival tradition; an honor for any newcomer musician to the city, but especially for a white musician. As it was, for Big Man to be the only white player in a brass band called the Paulin BROTHERS is quite a sight and caused a great deal of comment as they marched and meandered around the Channel before taking their place behind Zulu and in front of Rex. Big Man says they were feted in old Irish Channel bars that didn't even look open but were perfectly viable neighborhood establishments. No outside signs, of course. Normal for us.
Being thus left alone on Mardi Gras, I got up around 8 am and dressed in my costume and mask. I filled my folding grocery basket with parade supplies: sandwiches, sausage slices, cheese, Zapp's potato chips, potato salad, olives, ice gel packs, napkins and plastic cutlery, toilet paper in a ziplock bag, bottles of hand sanitizer, plastic grocery bags to use for trash and throws, purse with wallet and lipstick. I made myself a tall ICED Irish coffee (it was hot and muggy, though thank goodness the wind was blowing) and walked down to St. Charles, approximately 6 or so blocks from my house. I admit I was feeling a little blue about it, having to spend Mardi Gras Day by myself. Little did I know.
When I got to the corner of Euterpe and St. Charles, Zulu was going by. (I had already missed Pete Fountain's Half-Fast Marching Club.) Euterpe was blocked by a line of trucks, the one closest to St. Charles filled with a black family, the young matrons of which were wearing two bras -- one underneath and then another over the top of their tank tops. It was a look. They were New Orleanians, living since Katrina in Dallas; as I would later discover, they had to work the next day back in Texas, and had worked all day Monday. They had driven like fiends through the night to get to this spot to watch Zulu and spend Carnival Day at home where they belonged, and right after Zulu they had to make a mad dash back. Another family had to leave before the trucks after Rex, since the father had to work in Mississippi that evening, but they had made the trip to enjoy as much of Mardi Gras as they could. Normal for us.
The area around us was all families, black and white and Latino, most with full ice chests, many with barbeque pits and smokers (and one giant propane grill), almost all with various kinds of chairs. I was immediately welcomed, and given a place for my chair and rolling basket. As the day went on and the parades rolled, I was offered food and drinks. I proffered what I had brought, and we all shared the throws that showered down on us. Somebody noticed I didn't catch a Zulu coconut and then made sure I got one. (I was a big hit with my bottles of hand sanitizer, since you can't wash your hands on a parade route.) I have spent too many Mardi Gras days with family and people I already know -- I had almost forgotten the warm and wonderful instant community that springs up for Carnival. My new friends cheered with me as Big Man went by with the Corner Club and the Paulin Brothers. I was NOT alone on Mardi Gras -- I was with friends who took care of me and spent quality time with me. Normal for us.
This morning's news reports on TV and in the newspaper tell us that it was not just a good post-Katrina Mardi Gras-- it was a great Mardi Gras, surpassing those of the pre-storm years. Mardi Gras is officially back to normal -- normal for us, that is. And that's not just a good thing, it's a blessing.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Big Man Plays Maple Leaf!
Sunday night being off time for both me and Big Man, we decided to make it a busman's holiday by going out to hear music after the parades last Sunday. (There were 2 daytime parades on Sunday, January 27th: Krewe of Carrollton and Krewe of King Arthur; the sun broke through and shone on both parades, and a good time was had by all.) After checking the copious listings for live music in the city (on a Sunday night!), we settled on the Maple Leaf Bar Uptown on Oak Street, where blues guitarist Walter "Wolfman" Washington was playing in a trio with drummer Russell Batiste and keyboardist Joe Krown.
Other than plans to hear great local music, we had an ulterior motive for the choice -- Big Man is acquainted with a saxophonist who played for years and years with Wolfman, and the sax man has been trying to introduce the two to each other but the timing never worked out. Big Man thought he could introduce himself at the gig, mentioning the sax man's name. Seemed like a plan.
Getting ready to go, I found to my chagrin that I'm not as young as I like to think. The accumulated physical pressure of all the walking at 7 (count 'em, *7*!) parades since the first (rainy) one Friday night had blown my weak ankle (broken in a bad fall in 2001). Whether I liked it or not, and believe me, I didn't, the only way I was going to the Leaf that night was with a cane like an old lady. Geez.
The first set was advertised as starting at 10 pm, which we didn't believe, so we drove around looking at houses, trying to kill time, and finally parked across the street from the Leaf at about 10:10 pm. Entering, we were told the cover was $5 each, that the music would start in about a half-hour (so much for the listing in the paper!), and that the crawfish were out back. We looked at each other -- crawfish? We don't know nothin' 'bout no crawfish!
Parenthetical aside: Where else in America, or anywhere for that matter, can you go out, dressed casually, to hear really good live music on a Sunday night? And if you could, would it be a mere $5 a person? And even if, improbably, both of the first two were true, where else in heaven's good name could you get free boiled crawfish too? Only one place in the whole wide wonderful world, this place, this beloved old girl, this dear old wounded city. What a gift it is to live here.
Big Man bought me an Abita and himself a diet Coke, and we walked through to the patio bar in the back, where the pool table had been covered with a sheet of plywood which was topped with the detritus of a crawfish boil: small boiled crawfish, chunks of corn, small new potatoes, a few mushrooms, heads of garlic, halves of lemons (and oranges! never saw oranges in a crawfish before; take note for future reference), and lots and lots of picked-over crawfish shells. A few folks were standing around, peeling crawfish, sucking heads, picking through the debris looking for something, like the few pieces of hot sausage that were left. Seeing us arrive, someone said that another pot was boiling now and should be out soon, and noticing my cane, brought me a chair. (Maybe this old disabled lady routine is not all that bad.)
We picked and ate crawfish for a while, and then wandered back out to the main room, where the trio was slowly arriving and even more slowly setting up. Then an overwhelming aroma of fresh hot crawfish assailed our nostrils. Even though we had eaten a perfectly good dinner before arriving at the Maple Leaf, we hustled back to the crawfish pool table (another chair being provided for me by a young man calling me "sweetheart"), and ate some more. Everyone at the table agreed that the crawfish were early and way too small, almost too much trouble to eat, as we ate and ate.
Finally, in the general neighborhood of 10:45 pm or so, the band began to strike up a tune, and we went back to the tin-ceilinged main room, which was much more crowded than it had been earlier. I got a seat on one of the benches that line both sides of the room (again, the old disabled lady routine). The crowd was the usual Maple Leaf bunch: college kids, Baby Boomers, a few older folks, a few looking like their IDs hadn't been properly checked (but maybe that's just me -- 21 year-olds look so darn babyish!). The trio did not react much with the crowd; there were few announcements of song titles and such. They just stood up there on that little little-bitty stage and played their hearts out, tight and hot and New Orleans-inflected.
The first hour fly by, and the set ended before we knew it. Big Man followed the musicians outside to Oak Street to introduce himself and pass a few words, see if he could sit in. I stayed inside -- no point in me limping out there. Big Man popped back in to say that the sax man's name had been the right entree and he was going back to the car to get his horn, since they had invited him to sit in for a tune or two. He came back in with the small gig bag and began to discreetly warm up against the side wall with the mouthpiece and trumpet.
The trio came back on and played about 2 or 3 tunes, and then invited Eric to the stage. The remaining mike was behind Russell's drum kit, so Big Man stood back there, and played like he had been rehearsing with them. He blew sweet and pretty, and hot and high, and he added a little somethin' behind Wolfman's vocals. Wolfman and Joe Krown exchanged looks while Big Man blew, and the crowd responded to him with claps and cheers. He was a hit!
When the song finished, Big Man took a little bow and started to leave the stage. But Russell Batiste told him to stay (his actual words, I believe, were, "Don't go, man!") and Big Man ended by playing the rest of the set with them. Modestly, after every song, he made to go, but each time was prevented by a member of the trio.
At the end of the set, Russell Batiste asked Big Man, "Do you know 'Secondline'?" Big Man pointed down to where I was sitting, and said, "My wife's a native -- she MADE me learn it!" And then he proceeded to blow that old familiar start to "Secondline" -- BADA BAAAH-DA! And I and a few other people hollered back HEY! But Russell didn't think it got a big enough response, so he made Big Man blow again -- and again. But each time, it was only a few of us giving the response -- the crowd was obviously mostly out-of-towners who didn't know any better. So Russell gave Big Man the go-ahead and they went on to play the whole song, which the crowd danced to wildly and cheered and clapped when it was done. Joe Krown made a point of thanking Big Man and introducing him by name to the crowd, almost as if he had been a real member of the group.
As they began packing up to leave, the members of the trio made sure to get Big Man's contact info, so it's not impossible that he could, sometime soon, play the Leaf for real, and not just sitting in. But even so, it was a great time and it felt so good to see my Big Man on the stage of the Maple Leaf!
Other than plans to hear great local music, we had an ulterior motive for the choice -- Big Man is acquainted with a saxophonist who played for years and years with Wolfman, and the sax man has been trying to introduce the two to each other but the timing never worked out. Big Man thought he could introduce himself at the gig, mentioning the sax man's name. Seemed like a plan.
Getting ready to go, I found to my chagrin that I'm not as young as I like to think. The accumulated physical pressure of all the walking at 7 (count 'em, *7*!) parades since the first (rainy) one Friday night had blown my weak ankle (broken in a bad fall in 2001). Whether I liked it or not, and believe me, I didn't, the only way I was going to the Leaf that night was with a cane like an old lady. Geez.
The first set was advertised as starting at 10 pm, which we didn't believe, so we drove around looking at houses, trying to kill time, and finally parked across the street from the Leaf at about 10:10 pm. Entering, we were told the cover was $5 each, that the music would start in about a half-hour (so much for the listing in the paper!), and that the crawfish were out back. We looked at each other -- crawfish? We don't know nothin' 'bout no crawfish!
Parenthetical aside: Where else in America, or anywhere for that matter, can you go out, dressed casually, to hear really good live music on a Sunday night? And if you could, would it be a mere $5 a person? And even if, improbably, both of the first two were true, where else in heaven's good name could you get free boiled crawfish too? Only one place in the whole wide wonderful world, this place, this beloved old girl, this dear old wounded city. What a gift it is to live here.
Big Man bought me an Abita and himself a diet Coke, and we walked through to the patio bar in the back, where the pool table had been covered with a sheet of plywood which was topped with the detritus of a crawfish boil: small boiled crawfish, chunks of corn, small new potatoes, a few mushrooms, heads of garlic, halves of lemons (and oranges! never saw oranges in a crawfish before; take note for future reference), and lots and lots of picked-over crawfish shells. A few folks were standing around, peeling crawfish, sucking heads, picking through the debris looking for something, like the few pieces of hot sausage that were left. Seeing us arrive, someone said that another pot was boiling now and should be out soon, and noticing my cane, brought me a chair. (Maybe this old disabled lady routine is not all that bad.)
We picked and ate crawfish for a while, and then wandered back out to the main room, where the trio was slowly arriving and even more slowly setting up. Then an overwhelming aroma of fresh hot crawfish assailed our nostrils. Even though we had eaten a perfectly good dinner before arriving at the Maple Leaf, we hustled back to the crawfish pool table (another chair being provided for me by a young man calling me "sweetheart"), and ate some more. Everyone at the table agreed that the crawfish were early and way too small, almost too much trouble to eat, as we ate and ate.
Finally, in the general neighborhood of 10:45 pm or so, the band began to strike up a tune, and we went back to the tin-ceilinged main room, which was much more crowded than it had been earlier. I got a seat on one of the benches that line both sides of the room (again, the old disabled lady routine). The crowd was the usual Maple Leaf bunch: college kids, Baby Boomers, a few older folks, a few looking like their IDs hadn't been properly checked (but maybe that's just me -- 21 year-olds look so darn babyish!). The trio did not react much with the crowd; there were few announcements of song titles and such. They just stood up there on that little little-bitty stage and played their hearts out, tight and hot and New Orleans-inflected.
The first hour fly by, and the set ended before we knew it. Big Man followed the musicians outside to Oak Street to introduce himself and pass a few words, see if he could sit in. I stayed inside -- no point in me limping out there. Big Man popped back in to say that the sax man's name had been the right entree and he was going back to the car to get his horn, since they had invited him to sit in for a tune or two. He came back in with the small gig bag and began to discreetly warm up against the side wall with the mouthpiece and trumpet.
The trio came back on and played about 2 or 3 tunes, and then invited Eric to the stage. The remaining mike was behind Russell's drum kit, so Big Man stood back there, and played like he had been rehearsing with them. He blew sweet and pretty, and hot and high, and he added a little somethin' behind Wolfman's vocals. Wolfman and Joe Krown exchanged looks while Big Man blew, and the crowd responded to him with claps and cheers. He was a hit!
When the song finished, Big Man took a little bow and started to leave the stage. But Russell Batiste told him to stay (his actual words, I believe, were, "Don't go, man!") and Big Man ended by playing the rest of the set with them. Modestly, after every song, he made to go, but each time was prevented by a member of the trio.
At the end of the set, Russell Batiste asked Big Man, "Do you know 'Secondline'?" Big Man pointed down to where I was sitting, and said, "My wife's a native -- she MADE me learn it!" And then he proceeded to blow that old familiar start to "Secondline" -- BADA BAAAH-DA! And I and a few other people hollered back HEY! But Russell didn't think it got a big enough response, so he made Big Man blow again -- and again. But each time, it was only a few of us giving the response -- the crowd was obviously mostly out-of-towners who didn't know any better. So Russell gave Big Man the go-ahead and they went on to play the whole song, which the crowd danced to wildly and cheered and clapped when it was done. Joe Krown made a point of thanking Big Man and introducing him by name to the crowd, almost as if he had been a real member of the group.
As they began packing up to leave, the members of the trio made sure to get Big Man's contact info, so it's not impossible that he could, sometime soon, play the Leaf for real, and not just sitting in. But even so, it was a great time and it felt so good to see my Big Man on the stage of the Maple Leaf!
Monday, January 28, 2008
Parading and Raining
Last Friday evening, January 25th, was supposed to be the first night of "real" parades in Orleans Parish. ("Real" in terms of full-size floats, marching bands, an array of throws, and so on; Krewe du Vieux may be the official first parade of Carnival, but it's not "real" in the sense above.) Unfortunately, it was a rainy day and got no better as darkness fell. The weather pros on TV tried to make the best of it -- "the front may quickly move through," "it may not rain all night," and the like -- but the fact of the matter is, it was raining all day, and it was planning on raining all night.
Two parades were scheduled, Oshun and Pygmalion. I knew Oshun from 16-18 years ago, when the African-themed krewe paraded through Mid-City and had marvelous Barth Brothers designed floats that were self-propelled, and not dragged by tractors, as almost all Carnival floats are, but I was not familiar with Pygmalion, which is apparently a krewe from another area of the city that at some point in the past gotten permission to parade the Uptown route. (Those fancy floats from Barth turned out to be gorgeous in theory but duds in practice -- the enclosed area for the driver in front tended to accumulate carbon monoxide. As far as I know, those floats were only used once and then scrapped forever.)
I had previously made plans with my sister L, who lives just off Napoleon near St. Charles, to see the parade together. (I had originally thought Big Man could join us and then head to work on Bourbon Street, but it turned out that he got an earlier gig and had to miss these parades.) So in the steady drizzle, I was driving from my house in the lower Lower Garden District to my sister's, and I was concerned that I had not left my house early enough to make the start of the parade, so I dialed my sister on my cell. She answered her phone by saying bluntly, "Are you bailing?"
I was outraged. "Bailing? Bailing? How can you ask me that! I'm on my way now to your house -- don't leave without me." She apologized for jumping to unwarranted conclusions, and said she'd wait for me. She also said it was raining pretty hard by her house. I moved my radio dial to a news channel, to check if the parades had been cancelled, but apparently not. I made it to L's house, using back routes to avoid the traffic and barricades on St. Charles Avenue, and the rain had settled to a light but steady drizzle.
Carrying my new purple folding umbrella, purchased just for rainy parade-watching, I entered L's house, where she and her friend R were doing parade preparations -- fixing alcoholic drinks in go-cups. Thus fortified, the 3 of us (L's husband had bailed) walked down Napoleon to the corner of St. Charles -- not our usual parade spot, but with the weather, we did not want to walk as far as our normal parade-viewing place in front of Sophie Gumbel Guild on the corner of Napoleon and Perrier. The parade had just started rolling as we arrived, with the big police van in front making the corner. If you were not from here, you would be surprised to learn that we were not the only ones there -- there was a large less-prepared group under the awning of the still-closed-since-the-Storm Copeland's, other folks with umbrellas, still others with zipped-up hooded parkas. There was also a clump of glum-looking NOPD with rain ponchos over their uniforms.
We took our place at the barricade next to an African-American family, two adult women, several kids. We all congratulated each other on being "real New Orleanians," the kind who come out in the rain for a parade. "It's our duty," L seriously told the group around us, "these krewes can't have a real parade unless we're here. We owe it to them." We all agreed with this -- we were being responsible, accountable New Orleanians, supporting our fellow New Orleanians in the parading krewe, and not crazy, obsessed nutballs standing in the pouring rain to no good purpose.
And it was pouring down rain. Make no mistake -- this was not a mist or a drizzle or intermittent rain, this was a full-fledged downpour. Our hearts went out to King Shango and Queen Oshun in their velvet and taffeta and rhinestone finery; we fervently hoped there were tumble dryers and lots of warm beverages waiting for them at the end of the parade route. As the king rolled by, I remembered the traditional cry of the followers of Shango in the African Yoruba faith, and I hollered, "Shango does not hang!" I do not know if the king heard all of what I said, but he heard his name, and turned towards me and waved his scepter over me in true Carnival style. I waved back.
We felt so sorry for the school marching bands in the parade. They were all wearing rain ponchos or capes, but the rain streaked down their faces. I'm sure they felt miserable, and the $1200 or so that the krewe gave their schools for their participation was surely not enough for how they felt. Oshun's bands were from some of the city's Creole neighborhood schools, and we saw St, Mary's Academy and Xavier Prep, both all girls, both very good and very wet. We shouted encouragement to them as they splashed past us, "Y'all look great! You're so brave! Thanks so much for being here!" Then L, who walked in parades as chaperone in her days as school counselor, began calling kudos to the parents and teachers marching with the bands. "Yay chaperones! Y'all are so fabulous!" earning grateful and appreciative smiles from the sodden grown-ups as they passed by.
Around the middle of the parade, another friend showed up, who we almost didn't recognize, since he was covered head to foot in hunting gear, waterproof overalls and boots, and a camouflage parka with the hood drawn tight. "How much did I miss?" he hollered over the marching band going by, "I couldn't leave my house, because my wife didn't want me to go!" We scoffed at such caution, and explained it, as we do everything we don't like in New Orleans, by saying his wife was not from here.
A band whose bus had gotten caught in traffic finally arrived, and the police in front of us stopped the parade, moved us to the side, and opened the barricades for the young people running from the buses in full uniform, instruments in hand. We hollered to them, "Be careful! Don't run, they're holding the parade for you! So glad you're here!" and the kids flashed grins to us as they rushed by. It was interesting to see how they must have entered the bus in formations, because as they ran, they just formed up perfectly, in the order they exited the bus. As the police moved the barricade back, we thanked them for their service during Carnival, and one officer said bitterly, "Don't thank me -- I wouldn't be here if I didn't have to." (Usually NOPD officers are a little more gracious when thanked at Carnival, but we cut the guy some slack, seeing how wet and miserable he was.)
When the last Oshun float rolled by, we learned that Pygmalion had been cancelled because of the rain, and we went slogged home, where L's spouse cranked up the gas fire logs in their living room. We gathered around with glasses of wine and told Carnival stories til the rain stopped.
We caught a lot of (wet) beads at Oshun, and we believe it was because the krewe members were so glad to have any kind of crowd at all. My sister is right: It was our duty to be there. Carnival is a kind of covenant between the folks on the floats and the folks on the ground. We need each other to be there for Carnival to happen. And last Friday night, in the pouring rain, we both held our end up.
Two parades were scheduled, Oshun and Pygmalion. I knew Oshun from 16-18 years ago, when the African-themed krewe paraded through Mid-City and had marvelous Barth Brothers designed floats that were self-propelled, and not dragged by tractors, as almost all Carnival floats are, but I was not familiar with Pygmalion, which is apparently a krewe from another area of the city that at some point in the past gotten permission to parade the Uptown route. (Those fancy floats from Barth turned out to be gorgeous in theory but duds in practice -- the enclosed area for the driver in front tended to accumulate carbon monoxide. As far as I know, those floats were only used once and then scrapped forever.)
I had previously made plans with my sister L, who lives just off Napoleon near St. Charles, to see the parade together. (I had originally thought Big Man could join us and then head to work on Bourbon Street, but it turned out that he got an earlier gig and had to miss these parades.) So in the steady drizzle, I was driving from my house in the lower Lower Garden District to my sister's, and I was concerned that I had not left my house early enough to make the start of the parade, so I dialed my sister on my cell. She answered her phone by saying bluntly, "Are you bailing?"
I was outraged. "Bailing? Bailing? How can you ask me that! I'm on my way now to your house -- don't leave without me." She apologized for jumping to unwarranted conclusions, and said she'd wait for me. She also said it was raining pretty hard by her house. I moved my radio dial to a news channel, to check if the parades had been cancelled, but apparently not. I made it to L's house, using back routes to avoid the traffic and barricades on St. Charles Avenue, and the rain had settled to a light but steady drizzle.
Carrying my new purple folding umbrella, purchased just for rainy parade-watching, I entered L's house, where she and her friend R were doing parade preparations -- fixing alcoholic drinks in go-cups. Thus fortified, the 3 of us (L's husband had bailed) walked down Napoleon to the corner of St. Charles -- not our usual parade spot, but with the weather, we did not want to walk as far as our normal parade-viewing place in front of Sophie Gumbel Guild on the corner of Napoleon and Perrier. The parade had just started rolling as we arrived, with the big police van in front making the corner. If you were not from here, you would be surprised to learn that we were not the only ones there -- there was a large less-prepared group under the awning of the still-closed-since-the-Storm Copeland's, other folks with umbrellas, still others with zipped-up hooded parkas. There was also a clump of glum-looking NOPD with rain ponchos over their uniforms.
We took our place at the barricade next to an African-American family, two adult women, several kids. We all congratulated each other on being "real New Orleanians," the kind who come out in the rain for a parade. "It's our duty," L seriously told the group around us, "these krewes can't have a real parade unless we're here. We owe it to them." We all agreed with this -- we were being responsible, accountable New Orleanians, supporting our fellow New Orleanians in the parading krewe, and not crazy, obsessed nutballs standing in the pouring rain to no good purpose.
And it was pouring down rain. Make no mistake -- this was not a mist or a drizzle or intermittent rain, this was a full-fledged downpour. Our hearts went out to King Shango and Queen Oshun in their velvet and taffeta and rhinestone finery; we fervently hoped there were tumble dryers and lots of warm beverages waiting for them at the end of the parade route. As the king rolled by, I remembered the traditional cry of the followers of Shango in the African Yoruba faith, and I hollered, "Shango does not hang!" I do not know if the king heard all of what I said, but he heard his name, and turned towards me and waved his scepter over me in true Carnival style. I waved back.
We felt so sorry for the school marching bands in the parade. They were all wearing rain ponchos or capes, but the rain streaked down their faces. I'm sure they felt miserable, and the $1200 or so that the krewe gave their schools for their participation was surely not enough for how they felt. Oshun's bands were from some of the city's Creole neighborhood schools, and we saw St, Mary's Academy and Xavier Prep, both all girls, both very good and very wet. We shouted encouragement to them as they splashed past us, "Y'all look great! You're so brave! Thanks so much for being here!" Then L, who walked in parades as chaperone in her days as school counselor, began calling kudos to the parents and teachers marching with the bands. "Yay chaperones! Y'all are so fabulous!" earning grateful and appreciative smiles from the sodden grown-ups as they passed by.
Around the middle of the parade, another friend showed up, who we almost didn't recognize, since he was covered head to foot in hunting gear, waterproof overalls and boots, and a camouflage parka with the hood drawn tight. "How much did I miss?" he hollered over the marching band going by, "I couldn't leave my house, because my wife didn't want me to go!" We scoffed at such caution, and explained it, as we do everything we don't like in New Orleans, by saying his wife was not from here.
A band whose bus had gotten caught in traffic finally arrived, and the police in front of us stopped the parade, moved us to the side, and opened the barricades for the young people running from the buses in full uniform, instruments in hand. We hollered to them, "Be careful! Don't run, they're holding the parade for you! So glad you're here!" and the kids flashed grins to us as they rushed by. It was interesting to see how they must have entered the bus in formations, because as they ran, they just formed up perfectly, in the order they exited the bus. As the police moved the barricade back, we thanked them for their service during Carnival, and one officer said bitterly, "Don't thank me -- I wouldn't be here if I didn't have to." (Usually NOPD officers are a little more gracious when thanked at Carnival, but we cut the guy some slack, seeing how wet and miserable he was.)
When the last Oshun float rolled by, we learned that Pygmalion had been cancelled because of the rain, and we went slogged home, where L's spouse cranked up the gas fire logs in their living room. We gathered around with glasses of wine and told Carnival stories til the rain stopped.
We caught a lot of (wet) beads at Oshun, and we believe it was because the krewe members were so glad to have any kind of crowd at all. My sister is right: It was our duty to be there. Carnival is a kind of covenant between the folks on the floats and the folks on the ground. We need each other to be there for Carnival to happen. And last Friday night, in the pouring rain, we both held our end up.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Krewe du Vieux's "Magical Misery Tour"
Last Saturday night was the first parade of Carnival, the raucous and rowdy Krewe du Vieux. (They're bawdy too -- local TV promoted the parade while warning the unwary of the nature of the satire and costuming. Channel 6 went so far as to advise viewers that the parade was not suitable for children. Didn't matter -- there were New Orleanians in attendance with kids in tow. My dad would have done the same.)
In what was both a tremendous coup and a fantastic honor, my spouse Big Man, in town for his first Krewe du Vieux, was asked by a historic brass band (formerly headed by the man who until recently was the city's oldest jazz musician) to march with them. We dutifully headed off Saturday afternoon to the justly-renowned Meyer the Hatter shop (where we were extravagantly greeted by one of the scions of the Meyer hat dynasty) to purchase a traditional white jazz hat for this very purpose.
(I am amazed and thrilled that the very first year we come home to belle NOLA, it turns out that Big Man gets a gig playing 5 nights a week when many musicians are finding it hard to get work, and on top of that, to walk into town and hook up with one of the oldest and most respected brass bands. It must mean that we are both supposed to be here. Just recently, a new musician friend asked Big Man if it had been difficult to get his wife -- meaning ME! -- to move to New Orleans. Big Man didn't get into all our details, he just said drily, "No, not really.")
I attended the parade with two old friends, one of whom was still celebrating his 60th birthday -- which had officially occurred the day before, but this being New Orleans, we had to keep on going with the festivities. This was my first time seeing Krewe du Vieux in 15 years -- since the year I moved away from New Orleans to begin my ministry in Tennessee. In the manner of New Orleans Carnival, some things had changed a lot and some things had not changed at all.
What had not changed was the Krewe's biting and often hilarious satire of current events (usually but not always local in origin), almost always expressed in sexual and/or scatological terms. As I had remembered, there were a lot of heaving bosoms in tight bustiers or corsets (despite the biting wind!), and lots of flailing phallic symbols and stand-ins, as parts of costumes and decorating the floats.
A couple of things had changed -- floats were MUCH more elaborate than I remembered from the past, and many had animation of some kind (moving parts, twirling wheels, blowing bubbles, etc.). Also, the marchers (members and hangers-on of the various subkrewes that make up Krewe du Vieux) had many more throws than in years past. A lot of the throws were themed, and others referenced old-time (long-lost) "classic Carnival." For example, I got 4 pairs of lovely GLASS beads, which, believe you me, I'll be wearing, and not just during Carnival.
The theme throws were well thought out and very funny. The members of Krewe du Jieux (pronounced "jew" of course) were carefully handing out to favored parade-goers handsomely decorated and painted bagels. These were much sought-after, and I managed to get one. On close examination, the trinket turned out to be an actual, real bagel, painted, sequined, jeweled, and glittered. I think I'll have to spray it good with polyurethane or something to preserve it, and keep it from molding. (I remember a Zulu coconut I got one year that not been properly drilled and dried out and after a while it developed a memorable Smell that required me to do something almost unheard-of for a coveted Zulu coconut -- I actually had to THROW IT AWAY!) By the way, Krewe du Jieux is not the only Jewish group in the parade -- there's also Krewe du Mishigas (which means craziness in Yiddish, although it is alternate/bad? spelling), whose theme this year was warding off the evil eye. Their costumes with giant evil eyes on their heads reminded me of our family group costumes (created by my mother) way back in the day with big eyes on our heads to represent One-Eyed, One-Horned, Flying Purple People Eaters.
Krewe du Vieux's theme this year was "Magical Misery Tour" and apparently all the subkrewes were asked to stick, more or less closely, to using Beatle songs. As always, puns were the order of the night and everything pointed back to goings-on in the city. The mostly-absent mayor was lampooned as "Nowhere Man." The Krewe poked the Road Home program with "You Never Give Me My Money" and contractors dumping piles of debris everywhere got "Why Don't We Put It in the Road." The U.S. Congress -- being of so little help to the region after Katrina -- were deemed "Fools on the Hill" (of course). Everyone trying to rebuild their homes and lives got "All We Need Is Cash" as their appropriate theme song. And so on and on, ad hysterium. (Go to http://www.kreweduvieux.org to read all about it yourself. I'd create a link, but I can't seem to get that darn function working right now!)
Senator David Vitter came in for some unrelenting and well-deserved drubbing for his escapades with prostitutes, and there was, almost predictably, a whole group of marchers dressed as the hamburger-chain mascot Wendy, in honor of the local professional gal with Vitter in her address book and speed-dial.
With all the secrecy that traditionally surrounds Carnival preparations and themes and costumes, even in Krewe du Vieux, it seems that at least 4 of the subkrewes had settled on some version of "Sergeant Pepper" as their theme. There was (naturally) "Senator Vitter's Lonely Whore's Club Band" and for former DA Eddie Jordan, who resigned under pressure for firing every single white employee of the DA's office, there was "Sergeant Eddie's Only Honkies Banned." There was also a "Sergeant Pecker's" -- and we all would have been disappointed if there hadn't.
One subkrewe, the Krewe of PAN, touched my heart with their unusual literary theme, an evocation of 19th century New Orleans writer Lafcadio Hearn, using the same quote that I have quoted in 2 recent sermons about recovery in New Orleans, the one that ends, "But it is better to live here in sackcloth and ashes than to own the whole state of Ohio." The members wore "sacred seersucker" robes as costumes, and flaunted the "sacred fleur de lis." There were references to the peculiar and beloved New Orleans patois ("your mama an' 'em," ) and celebrations of our Creole and Cajun food, liberally seasoned with the "Holy Trinity" (to "allay'all" outsiders, that's onions, bell pepper, and celery -- vital necessities for our kind of cooking). There was more, lots more, but you get the picture. While PAN did not exactly hew to the Beatles-song theme, they were touching and emotional and true to our beloved, wounded-but-wonderful NOLA.
By moving around the Marigny just a little bit, I managed to see the parade 3 times (two of those times, I broke in to kiss Big Man!), and each time it went by, it got a little crazier, a little more chaotic, a little more, shall we say, enhanced by various substances. Despite the cold weather, a good time was had by all. It was a fitting start to the Carnival season.
In what was both a tremendous coup and a fantastic honor, my spouse Big Man, in town for his first Krewe du Vieux, was asked by a historic brass band (formerly headed by the man who until recently was the city's oldest jazz musician) to march with them. We dutifully headed off Saturday afternoon to the justly-renowned Meyer the Hatter shop (where we were extravagantly greeted by one of the scions of the Meyer hat dynasty) to purchase a traditional white jazz hat for this very purpose.
(I am amazed and thrilled that the very first year we come home to belle NOLA, it turns out that Big Man gets a gig playing 5 nights a week when many musicians are finding it hard to get work, and on top of that, to walk into town and hook up with one of the oldest and most respected brass bands. It must mean that we are both supposed to be here. Just recently, a new musician friend asked Big Man if it had been difficult to get his wife -- meaning ME! -- to move to New Orleans. Big Man didn't get into all our details, he just said drily, "No, not really.")
I attended the parade with two old friends, one of whom was still celebrating his 60th birthday -- which had officially occurred the day before, but this being New Orleans, we had to keep on going with the festivities. This was my first time seeing Krewe du Vieux in 15 years -- since the year I moved away from New Orleans to begin my ministry in Tennessee. In the manner of New Orleans Carnival, some things had changed a lot and some things had not changed at all.
What had not changed was the Krewe's biting and often hilarious satire of current events (usually but not always local in origin), almost always expressed in sexual and/or scatological terms. As I had remembered, there were a lot of heaving bosoms in tight bustiers or corsets (despite the biting wind!), and lots of flailing phallic symbols and stand-ins, as parts of costumes and decorating the floats.
A couple of things had changed -- floats were MUCH more elaborate than I remembered from the past, and many had animation of some kind (moving parts, twirling wheels, blowing bubbles, etc.). Also, the marchers (members and hangers-on of the various subkrewes that make up Krewe du Vieux) had many more throws than in years past. A lot of the throws were themed, and others referenced old-time (long-lost) "classic Carnival." For example, I got 4 pairs of lovely GLASS beads, which, believe you me, I'll be wearing, and not just during Carnival.
The theme throws were well thought out and very funny. The members of Krewe du Jieux (pronounced "jew" of course) were carefully handing out to favored parade-goers handsomely decorated and painted bagels. These were much sought-after, and I managed to get one. On close examination, the trinket turned out to be an actual, real bagel, painted, sequined, jeweled, and glittered. I think I'll have to spray it good with polyurethane or something to preserve it, and keep it from molding. (I remember a Zulu coconut I got one year that not been properly drilled and dried out and after a while it developed a memorable Smell that required me to do something almost unheard-of for a coveted Zulu coconut -- I actually had to THROW IT AWAY!) By the way, Krewe du Jieux is not the only Jewish group in the parade -- there's also Krewe du Mishigas (which means craziness in Yiddish, although it is alternate/bad? spelling), whose theme this year was warding off the evil eye. Their costumes with giant evil eyes on their heads reminded me of our family group costumes (created by my mother) way back in the day with big eyes on our heads to represent One-Eyed, One-Horned, Flying Purple People Eaters.
Krewe du Vieux's theme this year was "Magical Misery Tour" and apparently all the subkrewes were asked to stick, more or less closely, to using Beatle songs. As always, puns were the order of the night and everything pointed back to goings-on in the city. The mostly-absent mayor was lampooned as "Nowhere Man." The Krewe poked the Road Home program with "You Never Give Me My Money" and contractors dumping piles of debris everywhere got "Why Don't We Put It in the Road." The U.S. Congress -- being of so little help to the region after Katrina -- were deemed "Fools on the Hill" (of course). Everyone trying to rebuild their homes and lives got "All We Need Is Cash" as their appropriate theme song. And so on and on, ad hysterium. (Go to http://www.kreweduvieux.org to read all about it yourself. I'd create a link, but I can't seem to get that darn function working right now!)
Senator David Vitter came in for some unrelenting and well-deserved drubbing for his escapades with prostitutes, and there was, almost predictably, a whole group of marchers dressed as the hamburger-chain mascot Wendy, in honor of the local professional gal with Vitter in her address book and speed-dial.
With all the secrecy that traditionally surrounds Carnival preparations and themes and costumes, even in Krewe du Vieux, it seems that at least 4 of the subkrewes had settled on some version of "Sergeant Pepper" as their theme. There was (naturally) "Senator Vitter's Lonely Whore's Club Band" and for former DA Eddie Jordan, who resigned under pressure for firing every single white employee of the DA's office, there was "Sergeant Eddie's Only Honkies Banned." There was also a "Sergeant Pecker's" -- and we all would have been disappointed if there hadn't.
One subkrewe, the Krewe of PAN, touched my heart with their unusual literary theme, an evocation of 19th century New Orleans writer Lafcadio Hearn, using the same quote that I have quoted in 2 recent sermons about recovery in New Orleans, the one that ends, "But it is better to live here in sackcloth and ashes than to own the whole state of Ohio." The members wore "sacred seersucker" robes as costumes, and flaunted the "sacred fleur de lis." There were references to the peculiar and beloved New Orleans patois ("your mama an' 'em," ) and celebrations of our Creole and Cajun food, liberally seasoned with the "Holy Trinity" (to "allay'all" outsiders, that's onions, bell pepper, and celery -- vital necessities for our kind of cooking). There was more, lots more, but you get the picture. While PAN did not exactly hew to the Beatles-song theme, they were touching and emotional and true to our beloved, wounded-but-wonderful NOLA.
By moving around the Marigny just a little bit, I managed to see the parade 3 times (two of those times, I broke in to kiss Big Man!), and each time it went by, it got a little crazier, a little more chaotic, a little more, shall we say, enhanced by various substances. Despite the cold weather, a good time was had by all. It was a fitting start to the Carnival season.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
New Year Thoughts
It's January in the Crescent City, and many of the city's deciduous trees, having changed color only last month, are now dropping their orange and yellow leaves. The streets and sidewalks are clogged with leaf litter, swirling in today's brisk wind. (In some areas to the east, tornado warnings are in the forecast.) At the apartment complex being (re)built across the street from my house, workers are laying fresh sod. It is so muggy and warm, I am contemplating turning on the a/c at the house, and I'm sure using it in the car. My hair is frizzed out to the nth degree. Welcome to January in New Orleans.
Adding to my list of "things you only hear in New Orleans," I overheard two women talking at my sister's New Year's Eve Party. One said to the other, "I couldn't believe it! It was awful! I called my brother the day after Christmas and asked for his turkey carcass to make gumbo, and he said HE HAD THROWN IT OUT. Can you imagine?" The other woman sadly shook her head, "It's terrible. Same thing happened to me with my neighbor's carcass -- just threw it out. How are we supposed to make New Year's gumbo like that?" They tsked-tsked together over this complete lack of forethought and consideration for the traditional niceties. I don't know how they ended up making their gumbos, but, being New Orleanians, I know they found a way.
Later that night, I headed to Bourbon Street in order to be with Big Man at midnight -- a custom of ours no matter where his gig is for New Year's. The Quarter was packed, but the out-of-towners celebrating in the French Quarter apparently didn't realize they could have parked in the CBD, for my son's parain and I had no trouble finding a free parking space in all the madness. We made our way past the brand-new, elevated, mobile police station, deployed at the hotspot corner of Canal and Bourbon, and through the partying throngs of Hawaiians and Georgians in town for the Sugar Bowl football game (in terms of physical attractiveness, the former have it all over the latter) and pushed our way into the club where Big Man plays. I've never seen the place so crowded. There was some confusion over exactly when it turned midnight, and so the band played "Auld Lang Syne" twice, Big Man and I kissed, and somewhere in there, 2008 officially began.
We held a Jazz Funeral for 2007 at my church, and we laid to rest all the cares and stress of this past year. Fear, anger, worry, grief, pain, rage, despair, bitterness, alcohol and drugs as a way of coping -- everything was put into the casket and symbolically buried, and we second-lined around and through the ruined and not-yet rebuilt church complex. Let us start the new year with open hearts and clean slates. Let us deal with what we have to deal with, and leave the rest to God. What else can we do?
Cautious optimism is the order of the day, and it is how we start this year.
Adding to my list of "things you only hear in New Orleans," I overheard two women talking at my sister's New Year's Eve Party. One said to the other, "I couldn't believe it! It was awful! I called my brother the day after Christmas and asked for his turkey carcass to make gumbo, and he said HE HAD THROWN IT OUT. Can you imagine?" The other woman sadly shook her head, "It's terrible. Same thing happened to me with my neighbor's carcass -- just threw it out. How are we supposed to make New Year's gumbo like that?" They tsked-tsked together over this complete lack of forethought and consideration for the traditional niceties. I don't know how they ended up making their gumbos, but, being New Orleanians, I know they found a way.
Later that night, I headed to Bourbon Street in order to be with Big Man at midnight -- a custom of ours no matter where his gig is for New Year's. The Quarter was packed, but the out-of-towners celebrating in the French Quarter apparently didn't realize they could have parked in the CBD, for my son's parain and I had no trouble finding a free parking space in all the madness. We made our way past the brand-new, elevated, mobile police station, deployed at the hotspot corner of Canal and Bourbon, and through the partying throngs of Hawaiians and Georgians in town for the Sugar Bowl football game (in terms of physical attractiveness, the former have it all over the latter) and pushed our way into the club where Big Man plays. I've never seen the place so crowded. There was some confusion over exactly when it turned midnight, and so the band played "Auld Lang Syne" twice, Big Man and I kissed, and somewhere in there, 2008 officially began.
We held a Jazz Funeral for 2007 at my church, and we laid to rest all the cares and stress of this past year. Fear, anger, worry, grief, pain, rage, despair, bitterness, alcohol and drugs as a way of coping -- everything was put into the casket and symbolically buried, and we second-lined around and through the ruined and not-yet rebuilt church complex. Let us start the new year with open hearts and clean slates. Let us deal with what we have to deal with, and leave the rest to God. What else can we do?
Cautious optimism is the order of the day, and it is how we start this year.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Report on the Public Housing Issue
Despite being unable to return to the City Council chambers yesterday due to other commitments (the minister of our sister church in the city and I had both been at hearings earlier this month, and he had attended the clergy meeting with the newspaper's editors), here's news based on local TV reports, and from first-hand accounts from fellow members of European Dissent:
At least 3 council members had announced publicly that their minds were already made up and would vote for demolition. Two-three council members were considered probably and likely "no" votes by anti-demo activists, and one was thought to be a "swing" vote. Activists had been involved in many public protests before yesterday's meeting -- some of them witty, such as the rehearsed caroling at the homes of 2 council members (complete with home-made sugar cookies iced "1 for 1") -- they were chased off by NOPD; and young people (including one from my church) arrested for camping out at the closed projects in their holiday PJs, with signs saying, "Home for the Holidays" -- as well as more conventional ways of expression.
Despite months of organized protests and private meetings with council members and the editorial board of the Times-Picayune newspaper, city officials acted totally unprepared yesterday morning for the large crowds of both pro-demolition and anti-demolition representatives who descended upon City Hall for the vote by the City Council on whether or not to approve permits for the demolition of the Big 4 closed-since-Katrina public housing projects. (With all they knew in advance, it would have been much better and less provocative if the meeting had been moved to a much larger venue.)
It did not take long for the council chamber to fill up with spectators, while something more than a hundred or so (maybe as high as 200) people were unable to enter, and began chanting outside. Inside, one white council woman, responding to calls to "resign before recall." sarcastically waved and blew kisses, which led a few protesters (who apparently had skipped the nonviolence training required of anti-demo protesters) to attempt to jump the barrier separating the spectator area from the council. There was something of a melee, and 2-3 protesters were arrested, after a struggle with police that made the national news. The council was adjourned for things to clear up for about 45 minutes.
Back outside, in heavy wind and rain (tornados were feared but did not materialize), the locked-out chanting protesters were confronted by nervous NOPD, who shut a barred iron gate to keep protesters out of the sheltered porte cochere between a court building and the council chamber. The crowd pushed back, and the police responded with mace or pepper spray (reports differ) and tasers. One young woman went into seizure. Several people (numbers unclear at this point) were hurt. Police reported that protesters had punched a deputy, but this is not shown on the TV video and is disputed by spokespeople for the protesters. About 6 people were arrested for disturbing the peace. Once all the protesters had left, either going to seek medical treatment or shelter from the weather, the NOPD unlocked the gate and announced piously that anyone who wanted to enter the council do so.
When order was restored inside the council, individuals were allowed to testify, first pro-demo, then anti. Pro-demos included "the usual suspects" (white neighbors, developers, etc.) but also many former residents, who spoke of the horrendous conditions at the " 'jects" even before Katrina. (That is true -- one issue, hardly addressed in the media, is why the agencies involved were allowed to let the sturdy buildings deteriorate and be a haven for rodents and roaches, let alone drug-dealing and crime.) Equal time was given to both sides, and the antis were well-spoken, passionate, and, for the most part, reasoned. Pleas were made for a compromise -- a 60-day moratorium instead of an up or down vote right then and there -- which many protest leaders thought had been worked out with the 3 council members thought to favor denying or delaying demolition.
But in the end, after 5 1/2 hours of testimony, all 7 council members, black and white, voted for demolition. (Interestingly, one black council member, who had been thought to be anti-demo, was near tears as she made her public statement before the vote.) The council averred that deals had been struck with HUD to replace demolished units 1 for 1, and to reopen units in some of the undemolished projects for homeless and displaced New Orleanians. (None of this in writing, however. Most council members spoke of hopes, dreams, and reliance on HUD's promises and assurances -- nothing concrete.) What seemed clear was that the minority black council members had been pressured with visions of further racial rifts in New Orleans if the vote split on racial lines -- and sure enough, all media reports after the vote trumpeted the council's new "unity."
There are some avenues left to be explored, but right now, it seems the demolitions will go on. Like many New Orleanians of good will, I am of 2 minds -- we've got over 12,000 homeless folks right now, many of them working, and we've got thousands of New Orleanians living in the diaspora, longing to come back to the only place that will ever really be home. And some of the projects are sturdily built, garden-style apartment blocks that could be renovated into nice places to live. BUT the 'jects were indeed havens for crime, drugs, violence, rodents and roaches, that warehoused generations of poor families. Mixed income would be perfect, but only IF it's on on higher ground and IF there truly is 1 for 1 replacement and IF "affordable housing" is tied to income with provisions to alleviate the hardship of big up-front deposits, and IF the new units are as well-built as what is being demolished. Lots of big ifs.
Don't let what's being shown on TV or in the NY TImes photos keep you from visiting. What's happening over public housing is not happening everywhere, and not all the time. And no one here, least of all the poor or working poor, is served if on top of everything else, we start losing visitors and the money they spend. There's still lots that both skilled and unskilled volunteers can do here, and when you're finished working hard, there's great food and wonderful music to refresh your body and soul. Even a diminished and wounded New Orleans is a great place to be, and I urge you and your congregations to get involved with us.
At least 3 council members had announced publicly that their minds were already made up and would vote for demolition. Two-three council members were considered probably and likely "no" votes by anti-demo activists, and one was thought to be a "swing" vote. Activists had been involved in many public protests before yesterday's meeting -- some of them witty, such as the rehearsed caroling at the homes of 2 council members (complete with home-made sugar cookies iced "1 for 1") -- they were chased off by NOPD; and young people (including one from my church) arrested for camping out at the closed projects in their holiday PJs, with signs saying, "Home for the Holidays" -- as well as more conventional ways of expression.
Despite months of organized protests and private meetings with council members and the editorial board of the Times-Picayune newspaper, city officials acted totally unprepared yesterday morning for the large crowds of both pro-demolition and anti-demolition representatives who descended upon City Hall for the vote by the City Council on whether or not to approve permits for the demolition of the Big 4 closed-since-Katrina public housing projects. (With all they knew in advance, it would have been much better and less provocative if the meeting had been moved to a much larger venue.)
It did not take long for the council chamber to fill up with spectators, while something more than a hundred or so (maybe as high as 200) people were unable to enter, and began chanting outside. Inside, one white council woman, responding to calls to "resign before recall." sarcastically waved and blew kisses, which led a few protesters (who apparently had skipped the nonviolence training required of anti-demo protesters) to attempt to jump the barrier separating the spectator area from the council. There was something of a melee, and 2-3 protesters were arrested, after a struggle with police that made the national news. The council was adjourned for things to clear up for about 45 minutes.
Back outside, in heavy wind and rain (tornados were feared but did not materialize), the locked-out chanting protesters were confronted by nervous NOPD, who shut a barred iron gate to keep protesters out of the sheltered porte cochere between a court building and the council chamber. The crowd pushed back, and the police responded with mace or pepper spray (reports differ) and tasers. One young woman went into seizure. Several people (numbers unclear at this point) were hurt. Police reported that protesters had punched a deputy, but this is not shown on the TV video and is disputed by spokespeople for the protesters. About 6 people were arrested for disturbing the peace. Once all the protesters had left, either going to seek medical treatment or shelter from the weather, the NOPD unlocked the gate and announced piously that anyone who wanted to enter the council do so.
When order was restored inside the council, individuals were allowed to testify, first pro-demo, then anti. Pro-demos included "the usual suspects" (white neighbors, developers, etc.) but also many former residents, who spoke of the horrendous conditions at the " 'jects" even before Katrina. (That is true -- one issue, hardly addressed in the media, is why the agencies involved were allowed to let the sturdy buildings deteriorate and be a haven for rodents and roaches, let alone drug-dealing and crime.) Equal time was given to both sides, and the antis were well-spoken, passionate, and, for the most part, reasoned. Pleas were made for a compromise -- a 60-day moratorium instead of an up or down vote right then and there -- which many protest leaders thought had been worked out with the 3 council members thought to favor denying or delaying demolition.
But in the end, after 5 1/2 hours of testimony, all 7 council members, black and white, voted for demolition. (Interestingly, one black council member, who had been thought to be anti-demo, was near tears as she made her public statement before the vote.) The council averred that deals had been struck with HUD to replace demolished units 1 for 1, and to reopen units in some of the undemolished projects for homeless and displaced New Orleanians. (None of this in writing, however. Most council members spoke of hopes, dreams, and reliance on HUD's promises and assurances -- nothing concrete.) What seemed clear was that the minority black council members had been pressured with visions of further racial rifts in New Orleans if the vote split on racial lines -- and sure enough, all media reports after the vote trumpeted the council's new "unity."
There are some avenues left to be explored, but right now, it seems the demolitions will go on. Like many New Orleanians of good will, I am of 2 minds -- we've got over 12,000 homeless folks right now, many of them working, and we've got thousands of New Orleanians living in the diaspora, longing to come back to the only place that will ever really be home. And some of the projects are sturdily built, garden-style apartment blocks that could be renovated into nice places to live. BUT the 'jects were indeed havens for crime, drugs, violence, rodents and roaches, that warehoused generations of poor families. Mixed income would be perfect, but only IF it's on on higher ground and IF there truly is 1 for 1 replacement and IF "affordable housing" is tied to income with provisions to alleviate the hardship of big up-front deposits, and IF the new units are as well-built as what is being demolished. Lots of big ifs.
Don't let what's being shown on TV or in the NY TImes photos keep you from visiting. What's happening over public housing is not happening everywhere, and not all the time. And no one here, least of all the poor or working poor, is served if on top of everything else, we start losing visitors and the money they spend. There's still lots that both skilled and unskilled volunteers can do here, and when you're finished working hard, there's great food and wonderful music to refresh your body and soul. Even a diminished and wounded New Orleans is a great place to be, and I urge you and your congregations to get involved with us.
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