OPWA Update
Mardi Gras
I can't imagine the real George
Washington looking any more authentic than the guy I encountered at the Rib
Room on Mardi Gras evening. He had
blue eyes and was tall, about 6'2", exactly replicating the legendary
figure. Naturally, he was coiffed
with George Washington hair and wore his Revolutionary War general's outfit,
including the familiar colonial period tricorne hat.
I approached him and said,
"Thanks for your service."
And he laughed.
This was one of the best Carnival
seasons in recent memory. Patrick,
the famed owner of Patrick's Bar Vin, recapped at our Galatoire's luncheon on
Ash Wednesday, "The crowds were down a little bit, but everyone seemed
much more civilized." We all
agreed.
One shouldn't mistake 'civilized'
for 'somber'. From the perspective
of our balcony on Royal and St. Peter our crew could attest that public nudity
ran at uncommonly high levels.
Both Lundi Gras and Mardi Gras days were sunny and warm contributing
mightily to the festive mood and the scantily clad celebrants.
My favorite street performer this
year was a tall, hirsute young guy wearing a low-cut evening gown. He stood on the corner of Bienville and
Royal pontificating nonsensically using a stand-up microphone. Nary a soul paid him any heed. I circled back about 15 minutes later
to join a newly formed crowd listening to him sing, badly, the title song from
the movie Frozen. "Let it Go,
Let it Go." For some reason it just made me laugh.
My favorite costume was of a
couple wearing potted plants on their heads growing what appeared to be
marijuana. The label 'potheads'
was unnecessary.
Our Friday before MG luncheon was
predictably excessive. Eight of
us, along with a smattering of sporadically appearing guests, shared several
rounds of cocktails and fifteen bottles of fine wine over a six hours
period. The Rib Room staff was
already greeting early dinner guests when we finally ambled out for further
refreshments at Patrick's. It was
almost Hemingway-esque.
Old People
Late Monday afternoon I espied a
large group of old people (roughly my age) coming our way. They were attired in loose fitting,
shiny sweat suits and white tennis shoes, and they stayed close together not unlike
a school of fish. I presumed they
had been temporarily paroled from a tour bus on Decatur, thus requiring that
they hoof it several blocks to reach our venue. We were dispensing beads generously, and the geezers
greedily grasped the idea of free stuff.
They resembled guppies at a fish
farm feeding as they gathered beneath our balcony with their arms held up like
zombies. "Give me the yellow
one," demanded one. We
graciously accommodated their rude pleadings in the hopes they'd move on
quickly.
Homeless
Unfortunately, the good weather
greatly increased the presence of the homeless. I commented on the incongruity of beggars all having one or
more dogs and the attendant responsibility of more mouths to feed. I naively thought it must be a sign of true
doggy devotion, a sympathy enhancement technique, or just added warmth whilst
slumbering in a cold alleyway. My host explained, "Au contraire my foolish
friend. Those dogs serve merely as free get-out-of-jail cards. The cops won't arrest someone with a
dog, because then they have to find someone to take care of the canine
companions." Now you know.
Christians
A new group of Christians
appeared this year. In the past
one could predictably count on seeing and hearing a group of middle-aged men
marching carrying signs listing the many categories of people headed directly
to hell. One of their number would
shout loudly into a portable microphone declaring the same. They are small in number and
universally ignored as they spew their vile admonitions.
This year, however, a new group
of younger Christians made their presence known. On Sunday, about 40 young adults lined our street for over
three hours. They were attractive
and reasonably hiply attired. Many held signs offering free hugs. Most of their number formed a gauntlet
through which all passersby were encouraged to enter. Whereupon they received hugs, high fives, whoops and
hollers, and general well wishes.
Needless to say, such wholesomeness was not totally conducive to our
principal balcony pursuits, but it was better company than rappers or kids
drumming incessantly on plastic barrels.
Later that night, we returned to
our apartment from an evening of music listening on Frenchman Street and
observed the same, or similar, group of young people. They had set up free face-painting tables, continued to
offer free hugs, and they had a DJ playing music and organizing line
dances. There were over 200 people
dancing on St. Peter's between the body painting kiosk and Pat O'Briens.
Over the years I've become
acquainted with the body painting guy and his barker so I stopped to chat. They bemoaned, "These kids are
just killing us. But they're so
nice it's hard to hate them."
I told the body-painting guy, who happens to live in Hollywood,
CA that he was now famous due to a letter to the editor that was printed in a
recent WSJ. I showed him a copy
from my iPhone. He said he missed that particular issue but was pleased, and
said he remembered the encounter.
The WSJ Editor
1211 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10036
Re: Jerry Cianciola's 3/10/15 article
"What to Do If Your Child's First Love is Art
Reading Jerry
Cianciola's article "What to Do if Your Child's First Love is Art"
reminded me of an encounter at this year's Mardi Gras celebration in New
Orleans. A body-painting kiosk is
situated in an alley across the street from my host's apartment. It appeared to be a slow day, so I
chatted with the weathered 50ish artist decked out in a doo rag and black
leather who paints women's torsos all day. It was sunny and warm, and nearby Pat O'Brien's emits an
endless stream of alcohol-impaired young women. The paucity of customers was puzzling, and I inquired
why. He replied wryly, "If
anyone tells you to paint within the lines, do it. I'm what happens to those that don't."
Charles Wells
Mission Hills, KS
And that's the news from here.
Sales of OPWA are now at 712 and
NNAOPP at 1, 550, leaving me several hundred copies short of 'beating
Melville', but I will persist.
Charles A. Wells, Jr.
3317 W. 68th Street
Shawnee Mission, KS 66208
816 289-1924
Author of: Ordinary People Who Aren't: An Anthology and
Nude Nuns and Other Peculiar People
Available at:
Rainy Day Books, 2706 W. 53rd Street, Fairway, KS
