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Mardi Gras
Today (Feb. 12) is Mardi Gras, and a perfect day for it too. Several years ago, when I attempted more eager participation in the festivities, Willie Mays was grand marshal of the Zulu parade, but it rained that day and I never got to see Mr. Mays. Willie Mays was the "Say Hey Kid," and the epitome of professional baseball in my early youth. He would catch fly balls in the outfield in spectacular fashion, practically trademarking the over the shoulder football-style catch. And he could hit home runs. He and I share the same birthday, month and day but not year, and as a kid that, in my mind, made us practically blood brothers. This year I have yet to participate in Carnival unless you count Saturday night when I walked all of 300 feet from here and from the far sidewalk watched a bit of the Endymion parade, which is the only Krewe using the Mid-City route. Even the "Mid-City" Krewe moved to the Uptown route this year. I got to see grand marshal Jason Alexander, who played the character "George" on that popular TV series, Seinfeld. In fact his float stopped right at the intersection of Rocheblave and Canal, and in that way--possibly the Budweiser in one hand and Jameson in the other was affecting my thinking--he and I became blood brothers. I understand he enjoyed the float riding so much that he hitched a ride as an anonymous masked rider on the back float of the Bacchus parade the following night. Nicholas Cage was the grand marshal, up front. I didn't see it. It was an Uptown parade. Cage has been in town for awhile, bought one of the Esplanade mansions around the corner from the vacation home of his uncle, Francis Ford Coppola. Cage has recently been directing a movie around here and is seen at nightspots in Fabourg Marigny, wearing lots of leather and Bono-esque eyeware surrounded by a possee of escorts also decked out in leather. I thought he was pretty good in Raising Arizona, but I'm not sure about the rest of it.
So, I just got back. I walked down Canal to the fringe of the Quarter and watched half of the Zulu parade from the corner of Iberville and Basin. A Japanese tourist asked me "where was the parade with bare boobs." I told him he would have to cross the parade route, which is not impossible but takes a little confidence, and head seven blocks or so to Bourbon St. It is not a parade down there but bare boobs are often shown. I think he had heard that girls raise their shirts at passing floats to get better beads and this does happen but probably more on the Uptown side of the route. Once the parades get downtown the crowds are 90 percent, or more, black, and although I have not done extensive research on this, it is my feeling that black girls are a little more conservative about showing their bare breasts in public. The Bourbon street crowds are predominately white. It was a good day for standing on the street. I was scared at first because some of the teenagers from the nearby Iberville projects project an image that is scary, and it's not all bluff. Some black cowboys on horseback clopped by in front of the house just now. The Zulu parade disbands a few blocks from here, at Galvez and Canal. No one blocked my driveway for either Saturday's Endymion or today's Mardi Gras festivities, which is heartening. Not that I'm going anywhere
No Motives, No Suspects
When I returned from Dallas--I was very good there and improved on recent behavior by not losing patience with my mother who through no fault of her own is losing small pieces of her mind and large chunks of her short term memory--I was pleased to find my New Orleans residence intact and apparently not victimized by any sort of unlawful invaders. Some of my newspapers--those that were not used by my housesitter to line her cat's litter box--were rolled up neatly by my pallet on the floor. I glanced at headlines for a few minutes while a few blocks from here one man grew angry enough to kill another man.
An older brother had brought me to the Dallas airport while it snowed and snowed and snowed. It had been snowing steadily for seven hours but it would not stick to the ground. My mother was suspicious that we, my brothers and I, were conspiring to gang up on her and force her into an old folks home. We were conspiring no such thing but since she brought it up, one brother and I talked about it at length over lunch at an all you can eat Sushi Bar on Greenville Ave., the day before I left in the snow; the day before one man pulled a gun from his pocket in the 2500 block of Palmyra, here in New Orleans. I like Sushi okay. The red snapper really did taste like raw fish.
Another brother, he lives in Kansas, was in town, coincidentally, on business (or so he said. I suspect he is a government agent), and he was doing my mother's taxes when I arrived by cab on Saturday. The TV was on, loudly (we've agreed to leave my mother alone on the issue of a hearing aid), and first thing I see--ignoring my mother who is saying to me "look who's here," and my brother, who may be a government agent, and is the one mom is referring to as being "here,"--is Hollis Price on the free throw line sinking two for the fourth ranked OK Sooners. "Hey, I know that kid," I said, and go on to explain how I followed him in high school all the way to the state championship game in Lafayette, Louisiana three years previous. It was actually his first off the bench teammate, Eddie Green, whom I was following, but truly, who cares? My mother, who is purely kindhearted, said, "oh, reallly?" My brother, practiced at the art of deception (which is a line from a song, right?), said, "Oh yeah?," and went back to form 1040A. This was four days before the "incident" on Palmyra.
My 84-year-old mom had organized 20 years worth of my correspondence from Austin, Brenham, Yoakum, and Liberty TX, NYC, Great Falls, VA, Eugene OR, Seattle, Bushy Fork, NC, and New Orleans, and it's not that much, into a couple of folders, which I read through to kill the time. Some of it fueled memories which made me tired to think about it. It's all in that dresser I was going to pick up with my truck during Christmas, but didn't. As it turned out, I learned this over Sushi, my mother spent Christmas alone. Kind of defeats the purpose of having six children, 15 grandchildren, and 3 great grandchildren (and she started late), I am thinking. I must spend Christmases in Dallas from now on. Maybe it was a lack of Christmas cheer that caused the one man on Palmyra to shoot the other man three times in the head, point blank, leaving him a lifeless sack of flesh in the middle of the street, while I unpacked from my trip to Dallas. By the time I drove by an hour and a half later on my way up Dorgenois to Tulane, the street was empty, and quiet. There was no evidence of life, or death
The Happy Wholesome Addendum
The thing I didn't tell you about the wounded French woman whose baby was murdered by a New Orleans inner city youth was that the events of that day changed her life. You would say how obvious is that? and I would concede pretty obvious but what she did in response to her loss is what haunts me and is the reason for this addendum. She stayed behind. While her husband continued with his plans to move abroad she stayed here in New Orleans for over a year and joined local groups which address the issues that contribute to such crimes as the one which rocked her world. And she lectured and looked for meaning where there is none and she cried at night making ghastly sounds that no one heard and at some point, with or without that popular emotional concept known as closure, she moved on, geographically, away from here. I never knew her but I cannot forget her. I've never felt her pain, to the degree she must have felt pain, yet I sometimes tear up when I think about her. And unashamedly I write about her and the rest of it to get it out of my system, for my own damn good, because once I started writing about such things I find not writing about it too painful, and counter-productive to that happy and wholesome carefree life to which I aspire.