Knotty and Nice in New Orleans

A typical New Orleans Street.

Knitting is knotty, but no one is naughty in New Orleans, Louisiana.  If anything is racy, it is happening at the Fair Grounds.  If anything is innocent, it is happening on Ursulines Street.  If anyone is happy...well, that could be anywhere between Hollygrove and Holy Cross.

A bed and breakfast visit on Esplanade Avenue

A fictionalized account of a typical day on the 2200 block of Esplanade Avenue, New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S.A.  Everything is familiar except the ending.  In New Orleans, nobody asks anybody to stop singing.  Everybody encourages everybody else.  Everybody follows the lead of the muse.


New Orleans is for lovers of the good life.

Ode to New Orleans.

A face made for radio, an outfit made for Mardi Gras.

Walk down a New Orleans street and you will see people tending their own business, which is none of yours, part of an inscrutable communal body and spirit.  Faith, hope, and charity keep New Orleans running, along with talent, gumption, tenacity, mendacity, tradition, and lessons learned from the school of heart knocks.  New Orleans runs on its own fuel, ask anyone who has sniffed the fumes.  You can live the high life in New Orleans, but only after you’ve scraped the bottom.  Not every shooting star burns out.  Some of them land in the Sixth Ward, the Seventh Ward, the Fifth Ward, or the Third Ward in New Orleans, Louisiana.  Where there are bitches, there are riches.  Where there are hens, their eggs are like gold.  

Everyone smiles every day in New Orleans, a city where blessings are counted and curses ignored.  Every street in New Orleans is an Esplanade Avenue.

Destination Unknown

Once again, I study this video to distraction and gather meaning from it:

How do you seem to be saying something, while saying nothing at all?  Tell the story like a music video.  Start with bland words, then match them with with ambivalent, sexy, symbolic visuals.  Trust me, it can work.  Work the risque but keep it subtle, the way this video does 2:01 into it.  It is all, or it is nothing at all.  Life is either or both.  Every day is better when a marching band is involved.  Good editing is a blessing.

This is opera.

Adventures in citizenship

I was getting ready to leave Iggy's, on Rampart Street, when the phone rang.  Someone had left their keys behind, and Lyle, the bartender had found them.  He asked if anyone was leaving, otherwise he would have sent the keys in a cab to the Bywater neighborhood to deliver them to their owner.  I was leaving.  Though the Bywater is in the opposite direction of my house, I volunteered.  It wasn't too far out of my way on the motorcycle, and I rarely travel down there, so this instantly qualified as a good deed and an adventure.

"Where is he?" I asked.  "At Markey's.  It's a block uptown from the corner of Desire and Royal Streets," was the answer.  I said I could find it, and I took the keys.  The whole errand took about twenty minutes out of my way, but it was in my way.  It was something I should do.

I went down St. Claude Avenue to Desire.  I turned right and crossed Bourbon, Burgundy (pronounced bur-GUN-dee) and Dauphine (doe-FEEN) Streets until I reached Royal.  I turned right again and found Markey's Bar, which is a long shotgun building that looks, to my eyes, like it should be condemned.  Inside, it was a spotlessly clean showplace that would be a welcome respite for the ruling class in a world-class city, like Indianapolis, or Des Moines, or Chicago.  Gritty on the outside, squeaky clean on the inside.  The kitchen smelled good, but I had already eaten.  I found the keys' owner and delivered them.  "Oh, man, they sent you!  You didn't have to to this, baby," he said.  "Can I buy you a drink?" he asked.  I said no.  I was headed homeways, which is always bestways.

I would never have gone into the Bywater except for this errand.  I discovered this beautiful place, and I passed many that I've ignored in the daylight, but were hopping at night.  It was an adventure, and I saw New Orleans in all its pulsing glory.  I didn't stop for a drink.  I used the restroom, and then left, motorcycling homeways along unfamiliar streets whose names I know well from further uptown.  

A good deed is a good adventure.  That is what people should do every day.  When I got home my wife said I was smiling like a cat who swallowed a canary.  I was.  I still am.  I have been to Markey's.

Big Freedia

I'm told Big Freedia (pronounced Frida) is going to be on the Jimmy Kimmel Show tonight.  I won't be able to catch it.  If you aren't able to either, here is a Big Freedia video.  The skyline is New Orleans.  If you've been here long enough, you know where the exterior shots were shot.

Jazz is more popular in some quarters of the city.  Bounce is bigger in others.

Ursuline Concord

Our Lady of Prompt Succor, hasten to help us!

From Hollygrove to Holy Cross, New Orleans glows.  The city radiates a magical aura from the bend in the river to Pontchartrain Park.  The sun rises in the east, a flower blossoming.  The sun sets in the west, locked away in a tomb.  If you can get from the West End to the Lower Ninth Ward in an evening, you will be back again the next day.  Desire is a state of mind that has nothing to do with Florida, but plenty to do with sunshine and retiring from the concerns of the workaday world.  

Sweat it out with Sweetheart.

Our Lady of Prompt Succor.  Sweetheart statue.

As we like to say in New Orleans, "Our Lady of Prompt Succor, hasten to help us."

If ever there was a city that could help itself, it is New Orleans.  The ties that bind a community together are tight.  Superhuman vision, and a finely attuned ear, make all the difference between a comedy and a tragedy.  Five times out of six, if there is a funeral, there is sure to be a parade.

Out of the bunker.

Cheryl Blossom: Lifeguard.

My life bears no resemblance to two thirds of the plot lines in the typical Archie comic book.  In New Orleans, though surrounded by water, there is no beach.  The few people who swim off the batture... the current carries them away forever.  There are no lifeguards in New Orleans.  There is no drama.

Another day in New Orleans

Is it right or is it wrong?  It is too close to call.  While I often go about my daily routine to the tune of Yaketty-Sax, I can't say that this song is appropriate for all occasions, except when it is.

A day in the life of Whalehead King.  Balaenius Rex!, 

Roscoe Conklin "Fatty" Arbuckle.

Roscoe Conklin "Fatty" Arbuckle

They called him "The Prince of Whales."

I believed the champagne bottle story of his downfall until recently.  Like many things, it is more complicated than a telling anecdote.  Everyone has a story, but we don't always write it ourselves.

He had a real name, and it wasn't Fatty.  Rest in peace, Mr. Arbuckle.

Think outside the bar

Stylish barstool

Consider the perfect barstool, and think outside the bar.  The perfect barstool looks right, and works right, in every setting.  The kitchen, the family room, the hallway, the living room, a backless barstool adds playful formality to any room in your beautiful home.

Today, like every day, is morning in America.   A sunny kitchenette is a happier place with backless barstools in the breakfast nook.  Kids love to swivel while they eat their cereal, and backless barstools prevent slouching.  

Good posture is improved by the perfect barstool.  Doctors recommend backless barstools for senior citizens, toddlers, day laborers, computer programmers, and surly adolescents who can benefit from better posture.  There are many barstools to choose from, in many, many styles.  There is one barstool that is perfect for you.  You need a backless barstool.  

Scandinavian style

A simple stool fits right into country decor, as easily as it does beside modern, Scandinavian design.  Clean lines, never go out of style.  A simple stool need not be simple.  Modern engineering can elevate a stool to a higher plane.  State-of-the-art, hair-trigger hydraulics combine with frictionless bearings to provide maximum comfort.   Sometimes, you can mess with perfection, and it delivers the same.

When you sit on a backless barstool, you are sitting in style. 

A chrome barstool looks good in the kitchen, for sitting at the counter with a cup of coffee, chatting with a neighbor.  A backless barstool with classic, cherry veneer is at home in the living room, one in each corner for when a guest needs a rest.  A swivel barstool is perfect for parties, where lively conversations come from every direction.  A perfect stool is the center of attention.

Sit here

Wood, tubular steel, and wrought iron are the barstool materials of choice.  Bare seat barstools are made for men made of stern stuff.  Upholstered seats provide just the right amount of cushion, and they are made of a variety of luxurious materials.  Lustrous fabric in a rainbow of colors, or rich leather tanned like mink, there is a fit and a finish that will match your beautiful home, and make it just right. Every day is a party when you think outside the bar.

New Orleans Voodoo

People walk down Esplanade Avenue every day.

New Orleans: a living, breathing city in which miracles only seem to blossom spontaneously.  The brass band marching down Barracks Street this evening has prepared for months for this unscheduled parade.  Only the uninformed are caught unexpected.  Only the neighbors come out to join in.

Rowdy Taoists Downtown.

A rowdy Taoist tourist.

A few minutes after midnight, there's a pleasant ruckus coming up the street.  No sight is more cheerful than a group of chums, stumbling arm-in-arm, singing boisterous Taoist drinking songs.  They usually don't head home this early, so it's doubly nice that everyone on the block is still up, and can join in.

I saw it on Urquhart Street.

Carriage Ride Through The French Quarter.

Saint Joan of Arc, pray for us.

“I need to have a car,” she says.

I ask why.

“I need to pick my granddaughter up from school” she says, “then I need to pick up my son from his school.  Then I need to pick up my daughter when she gets off work.  Then I need to take her to babysit her boyfriend’s children.  After that’s all done, I have to get here, to work.”

She is telling me this as we take a carriage ride through the French Quarter.  She is driving the mule, so she is in charge.  It was quite the tour.  We passed by the statue of Saint Joan of Arc.  I don't remember much else.

What I saw today in New Orleans.

Walking back to my office, a bicycle built for two passed.  Then a bicycle built for four.  Then more.  It was a parade of people propelling themselves forward in tandem, all their muscles working together in concert on a frame.  The wheels turned on their spokes.  The pedals circled in humid air.


This is what I saw en route to City Hall.  Most parades pass by Perdido Street.  

Walk Like a New Orleanian.

O Mighty Isis!

There is a temple to Isis in New Orleans.  Isis.  The Egyptian goddess.  The one who brings floods to the Nile every year when she weeps over the death of her husband, Osiris, Lord of the Underworld.  


Egyptians will be happy to tell you that they are not Arabs.  They are Egyptians.  They are Africans.  They still keep their traditional calendar.  Just as our months are named after Roman deities, and our days after Scandinavian ones, Egyptians name their months and days after their own ancestral traditions, older than anything else around aside from the mountains, and the sea, and the sky. 

New Orleanians will be happy to tell you that, while they are dyed-in-the-wool Americans, their city is a world apart from the rest of the continental United States and Alaska.

City Park Eel Expose, New Orleans, LA

City Park eels.

An excerpted preview from a profile I'm writing after spending a lot of time in City Park on assignment...

How does one eel man let another know that trouble may be afoot?  

Marcel explains. “We’ve got a system for ourselves.  See this here?  This ain’t no dog whistle.  It’s a penguin call.  You know there aren’t any penguins in City Park, right?  If you ever hear a penguin, that means an eel man has spotted a park ranger.  All spears are hidden.”

A revision under advisement

New London's Poetry War Continues Halfheartedly.

Regular readers may recall that I published a "poem" about New London recently.  A passenger pigeon arrived on my porch with a slip of paper tied around its left leg.  "WK- We have to talk."

I dialed up a certain, reserved frequency on the shortwave, and an interesting tete-a-tete ensued.   Never one to engage in fisticuffs or foul language, and certainly not the kind of gentleman who would do anything untoward to a lady's reputation, I decided to let revision be the better part of valor.  Every hint of incriminating evidence has been removed.

With a tip of the fedora to the stars in New London's firmament.  If there is a spirit to New London, it plays the harpsichord in a Bank Street basement, telegraphing its intent across the cosmos.  A rising tide raises all schooners, no matter which way the flag blows.

Mare Liberum,
WK

Another link to the original post in question.

A Secret Under Wraps

A Drinking Town. 2011.

“I know a secret,” the girl under the streetlight on North Rampart Street said.  She asked me if I wanted to learn it.  My curiosity was aroused.

Stopped in my tracks by this spontaneous, feminine apparition, I felt a fertile animal magnetism that made me think twice and then thrice, in quick succession, as to what course of action to take.  The dice rolled snake eyes, so I asked the young lady to show me her secret.  

Her long, bare legs started walking as she swept her head to indicate that I should follow her.  She led me to the Friendly Touch Bar on Touro Street.  She insisted she needed to wet her whistle before we got down to business. Six hours later, we left the Friendly Touch and parted company, exchanging business cards, followed by a handshake.   

A city that is alive is full of stories.  Some of them are told.  Most of them are secrets.