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.

How I met the Surly Writer

Everyone who knows me will attest that I am a sucker for a pretty face.  That isn't how I met Michelle Hickman, however.

In the usual, whim-driven serendipity that seems to rule my life, I was introduced to Michelle quite by accident.  Through channels as obscure and baffling as how I usually learn about anything, I was informed of a woman who had never received a Christmas card over the course of her life.   I'm no fan of Christmas and most of the Christmas cards I've ever received have been given a cursory glance and then ended up in a stack alongside my cluttered inbox.  I figured someone else should have the opportunity to do the same.  Besides, who doesn't like mail?  I love real mail, especially from strangers.  As much as I am a hermit, I enjoy learning about new people.  The die was cast.

I didn't use a Christmas-themed card.  I just took one of my usual cards, probably from a box I bought at the Boston Museum of Fine Art, filled its blank spaces with good wishes, and mailed it off to remote Pennsylvania.  The recipient's address was the intriguingly named Fenneltown Road.  I'm a big fennel-eater but I never knew it grew in the Keystone State.  I'm still not clear where Fenneltown is, but it seems like a slice of Heaven in my mind's eye.  Some people may disagree.

Since then, the admirable and esteemed (in my opinion) Michelle Hickman and I have continued an on-again-off-again, infrequent correspondence.  I learned that she is the Surly Writer (her blog is here) and that she and I both enjoy a dedication to crafting written words.  She now lives in a big Pennsylvania city, enduring all the travails that await a country girl in a crowded, impersonal metropolis.  She writes fractured fairy tales.  Maybe she lives a few of them, too.  These stories have a legion of fans that admire her creativity and ability to tell a tale well.  I admit I am not so much a fan of her fiction as I am of Michelle herself: her drive, her stick-to-itiveness, and her fortitude.  She has talent and a promising career ahead of her.

Though we don't correspond as much as we may, I am pleased and honored to count Ms. Hickman as one of my acquaintances.  When I drove my motorcycle from Boston to New Orleans, Michelle was a regular reader and commenter.  My reports from that journey and her comments are collected in the sidebar to your left, about midway down the page.  During that week, after I had spent ten or twelve hours astride my Little Ninja, propelling and steering it along highways and byways, it cheered me to know that Michelle was following my progress after I unpacked for the night.  What is an author without an audience?  What is a nomad without a fellow traveller, even if she is only seeing the passing landscape vicariously?  No man is an island.  History requires witnesses.  My history is personal and Michelle was my witness.

Will we continue our correspondence or drift apart?  Predicting the future is a difficult business.  I still owe Ms. Hickman a letter.  It's my turn and I promised one would be forthcoming soon.  The card is out and still blank, its envelope is addressed and stamped, lying idle next to my cluttered inbox.  It is time to put pen to paper and send her some real mail.  Who doesn't like mail?  I know I do.

A tip of the fedora to Michelle Hickman of Fenneltown, Pennsylvania.

Best wishes to her and many happy Christmases to follow.
--WK

Gentlemen prefer New Orleans

Diamonds may be a girl’s best friend.  Ladies speak highly of pearls as well.  Gentlemen prefer New Orleans.

No matter his vice of choice or his fancy, a gentleman prefers New Orleans.  Redheads, blondes, brunettes... coquettes, matrons, schoolmarms... librarians, debutantes, shop clerks, attorneys... dark, light, pale, dusky... calloused, polished, silky, hearty, demure, boisterous, shy or crafty... blue-eyed, green-eyed, gray-eyed, brown-eyed, doe-eyed, flinty-eyed... soft or coarse... dull or sharp... no matter his choice of vice or fancy, a gentleman prefers New Orleans.  

Diamonds may be a girl’s best friend, but New Orleans, a city that glitters and sparkles during all hours of every given day, is full of Gulf oysters plump with pillows of succulent and slippery meat.  A man may talk to a woman’s cleavage rather than look her full in the face.  The hand is quicker than the eye and beauty is both fleeting and permanent.  Look around.

Serpentine New Orleans winds along the banks of the mighty Mississippi River.  It spreads inland along tortuous blocks sandwiched between dry ridges and moist canals, levees and sink holes... the lay of the land is less solid than it seems.  A day in New Orleans has made sinners out of nuns and it has made saints out of sportsmen.  A gambling man bets his life when he sets foot on New Orleans’s pavement.  Watch your step.  There are potholes and hurdles along the walkways that parallel New Orleans’ neutral grounds.

Baubles and bangles and buckles and beads catch the sun’s rays as it sets behind the East Bank.  No deposit is safe.  Shifting soils continually settle and resettle.  A visitor to New Orleans never knows where he or she stands.  A citizen feels more confident while being just as lost in the moment.  New Orleans is an continuously unfolding present.  There is never more than the weight of the past and future balanced on the fulcrum of this second.  There is never less than the chance to lose oneself in the parade that is New Orleans.  

Ladies love New Orleans.  Gentlemen prefer it.

Is New Orleans a woman missing an eye?

"A meal without cheese is like a beautiful woman with an eye missing." -Jean Anthelme Billa-Savarin.

Some would argue that what is missing adds savor to what is there.  Like a bald woman who doesn't need silky tresses to be seductive.  There is something to be said for self-assurance and confidence being the most attractive attribute an individual or city can possess.  New Orleans has that in aces and spades.

I don't eat a lot of meat but I do eat my share of cheese.  Unlike the Chinese, I do no find it a barbarian food.  I don't think of it as a condiment but I also don't mind eating it on a Triscuit.  Some people eat omelets for breakfast, I eat a few crackers topped with cheese.

"A country producing almost 360 types of cheese cannot die." -Winston Churchill.

New Orleans is a town that loves to eat its meat.  There are meat markets on every other corner.  They are corner grocers carrying the usual selection of canned goods and pre-prepared meals but what they are proud of and what they advertise on their signage is their selection of fresh meat.  Meat in all its forms be it beef or pork or poultry, all kinds and all cuts.  Chicken Mart on the corner of Simon Bolivar and Jackson Avenues advertises its wares with an LED sign:  "Turkey necks: 30 lbs @ $25.99!  Tilapia: 25 lbs @ $30.99!  Pork hocks: 30 lbs @ $24.99!  Fresh cuts @ reasonable prices!  Chitlins: 30 lbs @ $17.99!  Beef ribs! Pork ribs! Spare ribs!  $25.99 - $35.99!"  New Orleans runs on affordable meat.

Some New Orleans-specific variations:
"A po'boy without dressing is like a beautiful woman with an eye missing."
"A city producing almost 360 types of po' boys cannot die."

Devil or Devi? New Orleans.

Misunderstand the distaff gender in New Orleans at your peril.  There are plenty of strong women on the streets even if they show no outward signs of masculinity.  You'll see your bearded women and your tattooed women, the same as you'll see your bearded and tattooed men.  What sets New Orleans' women apart from those found elsewhere in the world?  Spunk, and I don't mean jism.  I mean comeuppance.  I mean pride.  I mean self-assurance.

New Orleans is home to supported housewives picking children up after after school activities and of single mothers raising children alone on a skimpy income that barely affords daycare.  Family is everything in New Orleans, no matter how narrowly or widely defined.  In a city where everyone calls everyone else "baby" there is a sibling bond that defies definition trading in common, toss-away parlance.

New Orleans' women are dashing and daring.  They may not dash about on daredevil motorcycle rides in short skirts,  but they pursue the thrill of the chase.  They take risks.  Living in this most glorious of cities is a chance in a bag that may or may not swell your purse.  New Orleans' women know this, they measure the prospects and plant their belongings and get to work.  It's serious work.

It is better to be a woman than a man, all evidence and testimony to the contrary.  It's been said that women are the niggers of the world but in a chocolate city, sweets come in all colors and flavors.  Creed, class, and orientation count for naught in the nougat.  Well, class counts for something more than caste.  In New Orleans, if you can carry your convictions with ample bearing you will win the day no matter your sex or your starting point.  Money never stinks.  Attitude sometimes does.  Success is the sweetest smell of all.  If you can make it in New Orleans, you should be able to make it anywhere, even in Manhattan.

In New Orleans, women are king.

New Orleans is a world-class city, irreplaceable.  It is a cut above any haberdasher or tailor could conceive; too many measurements by half.  The globe will still spin without brass bands.  Macroeconomic rules will be in play if no one joins a local, second line parade. New Orleans would collapse without its female citizens.  New Orleans would be poorer without the labor and delivery its female citizens bring to bear on the city's fabric and pulse every hour of every day.

You don't have to know a beautiful woman to appreciate one.  You just have to see her.

I'm not a woman but I'm glad there are plenty of them in New Orleans.  Without them the city would crumble to silt.  Say what you will, there are no she-devils in the Crescent City.  There are angels in our midst.  Gentlemen ignore this fact at their peril.  In a city so succulent and seductive, so lush and flush with temptations, it is New Orleans' women that keep the city on the straight an narrow.  Testosterone leads it astray.  New Orleans' women are more than estrogen in the tonic.  They are the tonic, the spark and the sinew; the muscle, the conscience, the moral standard, the judge and the jury.  They are the ethereal fizz and the psyche.  Don't cross a New Orleans woman.  You'll live to tell the tale but no one will call you Ishmael.

Gentlemen, considered yourselves warned.  Walk softly where angels have trod before you along every sidewalk, in every aisle, and around every public space.  If you feel safe in New Orleans, it is because of the will of its women.

'nuff said.
WK

2112: We've taken care of everything

An iconic image from my adolescence.

The number 2112 holds a lot of meaning for me.  It is the name of an album (when albums were platters made of vinyl cut with tiny grooves) by the love 'em or hate 'em, Canadian rock band Rush.  I read that Rush is the thinking person's rock music and that is partly true if your thinking runs along the tracts of Ayn Rand's philosophy.  There aren't any love songs to speak of or ballads in Rush's songbook.

Please click the soundtrack to listen to while you read:


I have nothing but praise for Ayn Rand.  You are free to leave comments on that statement and they won't be deleted.  There you have it: I enjoy and agree with the ideas in Atlas Shrugged and The Fountainhead.   I am a curious hybrid.  My favorite authors are Walt Whitman, Herman Melville, and Ayn Rand.  Make of that mix what you may.  I admit Ms. Rand has the heavier hand when it comes to plot and a poor ear for character's names.  I mainly enjoy her books for the monologues.  I read the other two for the whole book.

As a much younger man, almost a proto-man, I listened to the album 2112 over and over while I toiled in my makeshift painting studio in my parents basement.  I had it on cassette tape and learned all the words, without the benefit of liner notes, through repetition.  I can sing all of side one from memory to this day.  I need cues for side two.  Though I have a CD of the album I rarely listen to it anymore.

I remember thinking this was a very deep piece of musicianship.  It's a concept album.  Side one tells a story progressing through each track.  In a totalitarian world a man discovers a guitar and learns to express himself, learning in the end that self-expression is against the collective norm that keeps society humming along.  He commits suicide in the end just before the world is liberated for free-thinkers.  Heady stuff and the stuff that makes teenagers thrum with self-justification.  I don't think it's a bad lesson.  I never seriously considered suicide.

The number 2112 reappears in my life from time to time, probably because I am sensitive to it.  The emblem above (without the lettering) is emblazoned on the Littlest Ninja's windscreen.  Twenty-one twelve.  It rolls off the tongue, beautiful alliteration; one word, two words, two numbers, four numbers, one number.  I am not a numerologist.  I think that field contains nebulous arguments inside of arguments, none of which can be proven and none of which are relevant.  

I bought a house today.  My address: 2212.  So close!

New Orleans is not a totalitarian state.  I am not rebelling and I don't feel that I don't fit in.  I am sinking roots, happy to be a permanent citizen, happy to be able to enjoy and participate in the life of this great city.  No thoughts of suicide in the Crescent City.  The crescent moon is waxing not waning and I bask in its glowing light.

Cheers all.
WK

If New Orleans were a woman

Nancy Sinatra

I had a dream last night.  I don't really know any current celebrities.  I think John Goodman lives in New Orleans or at least he has a love for the city (who doesn't?).  An actress lives here, I think her name is Susan but I don't much about her beyond her relationship with the chopper mechanic Jesse James.  I only know that because it was in the paper and, as a motorcyclist, I'm vaguely aware of Mr. James though I have little interest in choppers.  My Littlest Ninja is good enough for me.

My dream didn't contain Nancy Sinatra.  That would have been a nice dream, not that this dream wasn't nice.  It was set in New Orleans, after all.  Celebrities seem to like New Orleans.  They don't cause much of a ripple in the atmosphere and I suppose they enjoy that.  It is a pain in the neck to be recognized everywhere you go.  

In my dream I was walking down Dauphine Street just past where it intersects with Toulouse Street.  My companion was this woman, the woman of my dreams:

She bears a remarkable resemblance to the lady of the house.

She's appeared in my dreams before, usually sipping coffee in Cafe du Monde or sometimes I bump into her (in my dreams) at Ms. Mae's or Lucky's or at the Roosevelt Bar.  I glimpsed her once dancing at the Rock 'n Bowl and one time I saw her going to the ladies room at the Saturn Bar.  I've never known her name so I asked her last night (again, in my dream).

"Why must you ask such a thing?" she sighed.  "Why must gentlemen always know my name?  It's a terrible bore.  Like finding flowers on my doorstep or anonymous poems in my mailbox.  I'll tell you and then you'll tell me it's a beautiful name for a beautiful woman.  My name doesn't make a difference.  I am what I am and I am not a Rose."

I got down on one knee and begged.  I offered her a dollar.  When that didn't work, I offered two dollars.  When that didn't work I took the ring off my index finger, the ring I bought last August with the fleur-de-lis.  She held the ring in her hand and and held it up to her eye, looking at me through the void where my finger usually is.  She was scrying me.

She shook her head and her hair floated as if a breeze had just wafted off the Mississippi River.  She sighed.  "My name is Calliope Terpsichore St. Roche," she said.  "Now we are going to reverse direction and go to Tropical Isle where you are going to buy me a hand grenade."

She handed me back my ring and it seemed shinier than when I had given it to her.

Then I woke up and went to work.  

Just because I love women.

It's not New Orleans specific.  But, as I've said recently in another context, every woman is beautiful.  I am neither Casanova nor Villanova but I appreciate the distaff sex.  I'd rather spend eternity on a desert isle with a woman than with a person with a tail between his legs.

Opposites attract

Daneel Playspot puts one in the mind for turtle soup.

A lovely couple and stylish couple who look half their age was dining at the Autumn Moon Chinese and Vietnamese Restaurant on Prytania Street across from Touro Infirmary (they have a website).  The meal was nothing exceptional but it was welcome.  It was nothing fancy and held no surprises, just wholesome nutrition simply prepared and presented.  Neither she nor he could ask for more.

At dinner's end the chipper waitress brought two fortune cookies along with the bill.  The lady diner opened hers and said, "Oh. I must have gotten yours."  Her companion cracked his cookie open and read the fortune.  "Maybe you're right," he said, "I seem to have gotten yours."  They exchanged slips of paper.

Both read aloud, "You have a magnetic personality."

They both had the same lucky numbers too:  3, 23, 34, 56, 76 19, and 88.

The Whalehead Pledge

A mural on Magazine Street.  The top was painted by convicts under the supervision of the Sheriff.

I'm recently moved to New Orleans, just this past June, and I really have no knowledge of this wonderful city I now call home.  

This blog used to be called just "Whalehead King," my nom-de-guerre, when I lived in New London, Conn., a place I called home for twelve years.  I'm from Connecticut originally, a state with roughly the same population as Louisiana packed into an area that has less square footage than Jefferson Parish.

I lived in Boston, Mass. for three years prior to moving to New Orleans.  During that time, this blog was called "The Dot Matrix!" because I lived in Dorchester, Boston's biggest neighborhood which is commonly referred to as "Dot."  I was a'swim in the matrix of events and trends and local politics around a few square blocks of my home where I spent much of my time.

This blog is now called "Excelsior! New Orleans!"  Moving here, I feel like I am trading up from Boston.  Bean Town and I haven't lost any love on each other.  It is a beautiful city and a pleasure to stroll around in warm months.  I was never a good fit there, however, for reasons described in this blog's archives for those who choose to trawl through them.

I don't have a trademark unless you count my rambling prose and the image of Yippee the Whale who appears in the upper right of this blog: A Five-Star Whale Production.  Whalehead King, however, does have a pledge.

This blog will contain only clean and wholesome, if idiosyncratic, information.  Even when it deals with adult or distasteful subjects, you will never read anything that would make your great-grandmother blush.  I neither regulate nor eliminate whatever subject happens to catch my fancy on any given day but I do ensure that it is fit for public consumption.  The goriest and hoariest details are included by implication and no parent need worry that Junior will be learning how harsh the real world is by visiting these pages.  I call it as I see it and live it, and I generally have a sunny, if jaundiced, disposition.

My New Orleans experience may not be yours.  I am a Nutmeg Yankee (which means a born and bred Connecticut native) and my presuppositions are probably very different from those of someone from elsewhere in America or the world, even someone from Rhode Island, which is Connecticut's tinier neighbor.

In all, I am enjoying being a citizen of this wonderful city or New Orleans.  I cannot and will not choose to live anywhere else.  I made the right choice when I saddled my motorcycle and took the back roads from Boston to New Orleans to make a good life worth living.  If my observations seem askew, they are.  I am a stranger in a strange city that speaks a different dialect and has customs that leave me blinkered about what just happened.  I am enchanted, enthralled, and feeling effervescent every morning I leave my apartment.

The Whalehead Pledge:  To be true to one's roots while adapting to one's surroundings is the best a person can do.  Connecticut's official state motto is: "Qui Transtulit Sustinet."  You know what that means?  "He (or she) Who Transplants, Sustains."  It pairs up nicely with Louisiana's motto: "Union, Justice, Confidence."  I weld my identity to New Orleans'.  I treat everything I contact with an open mind and wait long, scratching my head in puzzlement sometimes, before I pass fair judgement.  I seek to understand rather than dismiss.  I am confident that moving here was the best decision I have made in the four-plus decades I have been alive and I am sure tomorrow will be better than yesterday.  I believe in New Orleans' promise.

'Nuff said for one day.  It may be enough said on this subject for the rest of this blog unless I think of a better way to say it.  Words are tricky things, describing as much as they leave out.

Cheers! and with a handshake,
WK
Thank you for making me feel like I am home.

Barack Obama eats at Parkway Tavern

I read in the newspaper today that the sitting President ate lunch yesterday at Parkway Tavern and Bakery.  I don't blame him.  We go there fairly frequently, so frequently that the woman at the register and I know we share the same last name though we may be only very distantly related.  There are a lot of Kings in the world according to phone books but I rarely ever meet one.  Interestingly, all the other Kings I've met are either African American or hail from the Caribbean.  My own surname hails from upstate New York, a town you've never heard of south of Buffalo.

Since I first spent extensive time in New Orleans, I've been a Parkway fan.  I still can't eat a whole regular sandwich and the woman at the counter knows that my wife and I like it cut in half so we can share.  I'm partial to the reuben, but the barbeque beef also finds a soft spot in my stomach.

I was thinking of going to Parkway for lunch yesterday but I opted instead for Bud's Broiler.  I know, the food isn't exactly in the same league but I admire any place that's open twenty-four hours as the City Park location is.  I also think Bud's serves the best hot dog in the city, which is what I ordered:  #9 without onions.

The lady of the house was reading the newspaper this morning and asked if I had already read it.  Of course I had.  It arrives promptly at 3:30AM every day.  I admitted I had considered Parkway for lunch yesterday.  "And you didn't say anything?  I would have taken Parkway over Bud's Broiler any day!"  I know.  That's why I didn't mention it.  I was hankering for a #9 without onions.

Maybe I should have shared my thoughts.  Then in the course of a single week I could have bumped into  two White House occupants.  It doesn't bother me too much because I got to rub shoulders and elbows with New Orleanians rather than Washingtonians yesterday.  Nothing wrong with that, nothing wrong with that at all.

I have to admit that now that the colleges and universities are in session the tenor of the clientele at some of my hangouts has changed.  I won't say if its better or worse.  Let's just say I'm getting old.

Falling underpants

I've wasted a lot of time at the Institute for Official Cheer but I never wandered through this gallery.  It's amazing.

I don't know how you feel about women with their underpants inexplicably around their ankles.  I tend to vote in favor, but I understand if that's not your bag.  As a painter by training (I recently picked up the brushes after a long hiatus, New Orleans does that) it never occurred to me that there may be a market in pictures of embarrassed women.  I don't see why not.  It's practically an industry standard in all other media.

What I like about New Orleans women isn't just their sauciness.  I admire their strength and resilience.  I admire their pluck.  Being a man isn't all it's cracked up to be.  It's good, don't get me wrong.  There is something to be said for wearing pants, as the above picture proves.  New Orleans, the most seductive of cities, has both a soft spot and a pedestal for the women who call it home.  The sexes are equal without arguments or regrets.

I haven't seen any embarrassed women during my short sojourn in the Crescent City.  I haven't seen any women take any guff either.  Women shouldn't take any guff.

A tip of the fedora to James Lileks for celebrating the work of the artiste Art Frahm.

Alright is enough

As a painter who subscribes to the school that a painting is done when it is good enough, I enjoyed this article about Harvey Pekar.  I don't want to seem like a Pekar devotee, because I'm not.  I've always been aware of him and his work has always been in my peripheral vision but I can't say I've read much of it.  I doubt Harvey made a dollar off me.  Maybe seventy-five cents in royalties.  This, of course, is symptomatic of a problem that plagues artists of whatever medium:  nobody will pony up the cash even when they are told its good.  Not enough flash for mass distribution.

Tonight, I'll be watching the film that jumped off the library shelf the other day when Harvey Pekar passed to the great beyond.  This isn't a New Orleans-specific post, or even one that goes back to my New England roots.  I've never been to Cleveland, Ohio.  I have been human though.  Isn't that what art is about?  Expressing and explaining the human condition.  I like to think that most days.  Those are the days I'm not just trying to churn something out to make a buck.  Brother, can you spare a dime?

Sticker symbolism

People have been asking me, "What are those stickers on the side of the Littlest Ninja?"  If you are new to the Dot Matrix, the Littlest Ninja is my motorcycle, a 250cc, 2006, blue Kawasaki Ninja.  Formerly the Littlest Ninja this side of the Charles River.  Now the littlest on the East Bank of the mighty Mississippi.

Here's what the Ninja looked like in Boston.  New stickers now, visible here.

This isn't entirely true.  The 250cc Ninja is Kawasaki's most popular bike.  I see them all over New Orleans.  I saw a few in Boston, but less often.  I always find it amazing to read that this is a best seller because every asks me about it, mistaking it for a larger 500cc.  "I didn't know you could get a 250!"  You can.  It costs about $3000 and gets 75mpg.  It's a nice commuter bike and it's very forgiving.  You can handle the twistys and keep up with larger bikes as long as you aren't racing.  Sometimes I think about trading up, but for the minimal upkeep and expense, I'll take my Littlest Ninja.  So far, so good.  I've gotten more than my money's worth.  It's got 22,000 miles on the odometer and it purrs like a kitten getting it's ear scratched when I pull on the throttle.

So, what are the stickers about?  On the right hand side from front tire to rear, they are:  One of Coop's voluptuous devil girl stickers, not the naughtiest of them but risque nonetheless.  The one on the right side is clothed in pink lingerie.  The one on the left is a mirror image except nude with one nipple showing.  There are also three flags on the right faring.  One is German, one is Connecticut, one is Louisiana.  This represents the composition of my household and where we now call home.  The Louisiana flag replaced the Massachusetts state seal over a year ago.

On the right side is the aforementioned naked lady.  Why devil women in states of undress?  These tend to get a lot of attention when I'm stopped in traffic.  Young men will hang their heads out the window and say, "I like your sticker."  I reply, "That's how I like 'em: big and naughty."  Not really but close enough.  There is also the logo for Air Hamburg Airlines, a carrier you probably never heard of.  I've never flown Air Hamburg except in my dreams.  On the Littlest Ninja, it often feels like I'm flying when I'm not stuck in traffic.  I like to think I am going to exotic locales, islands in the North Sea, for instance, even if I'm just headed to the supermarket.  That is an adventure of its own in its way.

So now you know.

A tale of three cities

Nothing much to report today.  It was a day involving onerous bank errands.  Let's just say I have nothing kind to say about Capitol One.  New Orleans and Boston don't have any banks in common, unfortunately. If you think that America is losing its regional characteristics, you can look at the banking industry.  I don't know if there is a single nationwide bank, but there don't seem to be any Boston Harbor-Lake Pontchartrain connections.  Even Bank of America, which has a name that would make you suspect otherwise.

Anyhow, I was reading up on the Lower Ninth Ward and that led to reading about celebrities that have ties to New Orleans.  There is a chain of connections here.  I was first led to Brad Pitt, who is known for supporting the Crescent City post-Katrina and building new homes in the Lower 9th.

I don't really follow Mr. Pitt's activities and he and I don't seem to have much in common except one thing:  Both our beards contain more salt than pepper and neither of us seems to be able to sprout a real robust bush of facial hair.

I never saw the film, Interview with the Vampire, though I did read the book as a pre-teen.  I found the whole thing fascinating though I don't recall any of the homosexuality or androgyny for which this series has gotten some notoriety.  I haven't reread it since then.  Brad Pitt played Louis in the film adaptation and that linked me to reading about Anne Rice, who is a native New Orleanian and who set the novel in this city.

Anne Rice looks a lot like someone I once knew, also a writer, but perhaps more importantly, one of the drivers of downtown New London, CT's revitalization.  I lived in New London for ten years, hence the "Whalehead" moniker.  New London is Connecticut's Whaling City (not to be confused with New Bedford, MA).

While New London is only a fraction the size of New Orleans (5 square miles, 26,000 inhabitants) the two places share a few traits.  Both inspire loyalty.  New London was a source of inspiration for me, charming me and priming my creative juices.  Nothing against Boston, where I've spent the past three years, but the Athens of America has left me lukewarm most of the time.  If you are interested in learning how I thought of New London, the Dot Matrix archives prior to June 2007 contain plenty of examples.  My style and persona have changed but my admiration for New London and its citizens has not.  Be warned that the Matrix used to have a black background so some of these articles may not be very eye-friendly.  They are, in my opinion, worth squinting at and some are more legible than others if you keep scrolling down.

Will I be content playing my small role in New Orleans?  I expect so.  While it is the scene of terrible tragedies it is also the setting for unbridled celebration.  Like New London, it is a city of opportunity, a place where people live life to its fullest, a metropolis of the mind as much as it is made up of timber and brick and asphalt.  New Orleans, like New London, is more than a museum, it is a city of love as well as tears.  Boston is everything you've heard.  I enjoyed my sojourn in my Dorchester neighborhood and I've enjoyed the cultural attractions Boston has to offer.  I enjoyed eating baked beans for breakfast and baked beans as candy.

I'm back in Boston for a few weeks at month's end.  While I won't be entirely cutting the cord, I'll return as a Nutmeg New Orleanian.  I'm not expecting as much culture shock moving 1500 miles south as I did when I moved 100 miles north.

The Iron Bride of Dorchester

There's a new reality show on a cable network called WZMY (MY TV, get it?).  I don't have cable, so I can't comment on the quality of the programming, but they apparently reach 2.4 million homes in eastern New England so maybe you've watched some of their shows.

They have a show that's in its second season called Iron Brides (TM).  Brides compete to win a videography package for their wedding worth $9,000.   The new episodes hit the air on Saturday, April 24 at 2:30 PM.  It might be worth marking your calendar if it's supposed to be raining this weekend.   All of Season II's contestants are from Massachusetts.

Even though I won't be watching the shows as they are broadcast, I'll have someone record them for me.  It should come as no surprise who I'll be rooting for...none other than Dorchester's own Eileen Weir!  Though I disagree with her favorite restaurant, I agree with her choice of neighborhoods.  The website doesn't say how many episodes it will take to decide who wins the $9000 prize but one thing's for sure: Dot Rats prevail.  I'm sure Eileen is going to give that Rebecca from Sandwich a run for the money.

Thanks to Hollywood East Connection for bringing this to my attention.  Anyone want to meet on Saturday afternoons at Tom English's to cheer Eileen on?

Peter Lorre review

For reasons that aren't always clear to me, the Dot Matrix has an affinity for Peter Lorre.  We can blame it on a past interview with Dorchester resident Laurie Masters.

How's the young Ms. Masters doing? you ask.  She's moved to East Boston so I've lost touch with her.  I'm certain all is well though.  She's a bright girl with good taste and Eastie is as fine a neighborhood as Dorchester.  Some might say more so but I'm not one of them.

If you are interested in a review of the movie from which today's illustration is culled, it a hoot from someone who apparently thinks Mr. Lorre smoked too much.  I've quit the cigarettes, myself.  I smoke a pipe instead.  Peter Lorre also smoked a pipe, though not exclusively.  I recently drew a picture based on a photo of him holding a pipe.  I'll post at this site in the next week or two. I'm very lazy when it comes to scanning things.

I was a little bit slower at work than usual today.  I was employed in my usual foot dragging and feigned incomprehension, but I was yawning while I was doing it.  Cubby, the mail jerk, shouted out over the cubicles, "Hey, WK!  Ya seem out of sorts!  Whatsa matta?  Hungover?"

No, Cubby, I wasn't suffering from a katzenjammer even though I had been enjoying adult beverages only a few hours earlier.  I attended a party on Taft Street last night and, since it was within walking distance of chez King, I was able to stay until the festivities petered out to nothing since I didn't have to rely on the MBTA to get home.

No one was shot, no one's finger or ear was bitten off, there weren't any fisticuffs.  In fact, there weren't any arguments and I didn't hear one cross word or cuss word until I beelined my way homeways along Dot Ave where a couple of cabbies were arguing in front of the Ryan Playground.  It was good, clean fun, the way people entertain themselves in Dorchester.  Lacking many nightclubs or any movie theaters, Dorchesterites tend to make their own fun wherever they congregate.  Unlike many New Englanders, the people of Dorchester have a reputation for being warm, even on the last day of March, the butt end of winter.

While I was sluggish this morning, it wasn't because of the ample social lubricants that were served.  You know, when you're dancing at a Dorchester party you burn all the alcohol out of your system even if you're just running on fumes the next day.

Dot manners

Dorchester gentlemen are known all over Boston for their savoir faire.  Sometimes though, some mealy mouthed schlub from another neighborhood shows up and does his best to spoil Dot's well earned reputation.  Good women know Dorchester men are the pillars upon which Boston is held high.  They make attractive mates not just for their good looks but for their virtuous dispositions.

So I was at the Harp and Bard this evening when some pie-eyed rake who had a few too many Bud Lights under his belt leered at one of his fellow patrons and commented, as a kind of introduction, "You have nice breasts."  His Hyde Park accent was unmistakable.  If you closed your eyes, you would picture a young man who may grow up to be mayor of this city once he learns his manners.

The TVs didn't suddenly switch to static, but the conversation around the bar did come to a standstill.   In the sudden hush, one of the old timers at the corner by the lottery ticket machine spoke up.  "Stop right there, chum," he commanded.  "There are ladies present, as you obviously know.  We expect you to behave accordingly."  The rake glared and the other older gents at the corner stood up and shifted on the balls of their feet.  "Apologize," the old timer commanded, "Apologize and make your way home.  We don't cotton to tomfoolery or tom catting around Savin Hill."

The malefactor mumbled his apology and stumbled out onto Dot Ave, presumably to hail a cab.  A delegation from the corner made their way to the young woman's bar stool.  Tom doffed his cap and said, "On behalf of all of us, ma'am and the reputation of good men in Dorchester and Hyde Park, heck the reputation of all the good men in Boston, I offer my most sincere apologies and I promise such a rude compliment will never again be heard here in this room. It is plain to all who can see that your beauty comes from your eyes."

Thoroughly embarrassed by all the attention, the young woman thanked the dignitaries and asked them to return to their seats.

A tip of the fedora to Percy Trout for today's illustration.

Dot keeps secrets

Overheard in Mission Hill outside the Harvard School of Dentistry at lunch hour today:  "I don't see any pretty girls around here anymore.  This part of town is going to the dogs.  You couldn't swing a dead cat in October around here without hitting a babe."

Ladies, your secret is safe.  We won't reveal your address.  Dorchester welcomes, it kisses, it embraces, it holds, it nurtures, it protects and it enables.  No matter what though, Dot doesn't tell secrets.  Smart women live in Dorchester.