New Orleans Diary-October 28th

My crew doesn’t really get mentioned in these dispatches and it’s time to remedy that . Michael Pajon has run my studio for the last 6 years — he is steady as the rain  and has head off many of the near disasters I tend to bring on myself  with my lovely  dispostition– Mike knows when to pour oil over troubled water — he has saved the life of more than one art dealer– because  if I killed everyone of these motherfuckers when the impulse occurred to me — I’d be doing life many times over. Mike knows when to hand me the phone and when not to — he knows how to expertly hang an exhibition– how to catalogue , document and  jpeg all of my work– he is the best. He also knows when to speak the sometimes unflattering truth to me. He is also an amazing artist– Who has grown  from a green art-school graduate to a mature artist with his own language and a whole lot of ro0om to run — it has been edifying watching  become the artist he is — He is the goods.
Damara Kaminecki has been with me 3 years– she is  Tattooed, wry, smart as a whip , and all about  making things — She is a Chicago kid from Logan Square who has no tolerance for bullshit or a lot of talk — she is about the work– She does a good  job keeping my perpetually ADD ass on task– which is no easy job — I am easily distracted and have the attention span of a housefly– Damara likes Metal  and punk– her   combinations of printmaking and collage are breath-taking– I have a few of them and  like Mike — the speed with which her vision and work grows is exhilarating — I am fortunate– these two have been amazing friends as well as first rate  staff.

When Mike arrived at the  space for our installtion he sent me a text :

Needs paint — no big deal….

5 minutes later there was another text:

Needs lights…..

5 minutes later yet another text :

Dead Guy in the middle of the room — we’ll have to work around him….

Our installation is in a defunct (or maybe not so defunct) funeral home on north Rampart street in the Treme– the most musical part of New Orleans– the Treme is the neighborhood which gavve us the Boutte family — a few generations of this city’s finest  singers — including my favorite singer– the great John Boutte– who will be singing at the opening of my installation on Saturday night– he and Paul Sanchez and the great New Orleans trumpeter LeRoy Jones.
The wonderful writer David Simon, who gave us ‘The Wire’ and ‘Homicide; Life on the street’ is  wandering around the Treme  for a planned HBO project about this musical neighborhood… it will start shooting in the spring  and word is it will feature the great Wendell Pierce , who played ‘Bunk’ on the ‘Wire’.
I’m staying at the ‘W’ hotel in the warehouse district  and it is exciting bumping into the other Prospect 1 artists — my old pal Fred Tomaselli, chewing Nicorette a mile a minute– the marvelous New York painter Amy Silman  who I gushed over — I SO want one of her paintings — the funny and brilliant Monika Bonvicini– it’s like they found every trouble-maker in the art-world  and put us all in one big  sandbox .
I’ve been eating everything in sight–  pork ribs at Couchon, Catfish at Mother’s, Oysters– well– everywhere– and Austin Leslie’s fried chicken at Jaques Imo’s… I’m eating like a pig — biscuits and gravy– it’s endless….

more later

New Orleans Diary# October 20th–’The Devil’s Music#3 (The Dirty Business of Dreams)

I go back to New Orleans at the end of this week — to install my work for the biennial — it is just in time as the weather in Chicago  has gone gray and rainy and cold — I actually love autumn here– football weather– it is my favorite time of year ; though this year, for lots of reasons — it’s just sad.

The Biennial gives me great hope  though — I’ve never been in one before– at the age of 50 this is exciting. When I think of Biennial’s — I think of the younger ‘cutting-edge’ type of artists– I’ve always conducted my career in the margins– I’m the most not -hip artist on the planet. I feel like the fat girl at the prom — I’m lucky to be here. I’ve never worked harder for a show  and I feel like there is so much more at stake here than a  mere art show– The cultural vitality of this city will be on display and to have been able to have been part of this amazing show  has been the crowning moment of an odd and circuitous career. The city of  New Orleans  has come to mean much more to me than I ever expected ; sometimes it feels as if I can be part of the saving o this holy place– I can maybe save my unholy ass… it is the deal I’ve made with my own devil. It is the place in the world where I can face my own failures and look them in the eye . It is a human place. You can hurt here. You can heal here. You can find your own dirty grace here.
A few entries ago , I spoke of my disdain for Bourbon street and the asshat behavior that typifies a night  on this mile stretch of Sodom and Gomorrah– several people wrote me back  and spoke of the giddy excitement they experience wandering Bourbon, and told me to chill …. Well… Okay… it’s not like I haven’t padded a few g-strings with sweaty dollar bills there myself; and I have nothing against  tits — I’m all for tits — big ones, small ones– from Pam Grier to Twiggy– I am just fine with tits– love ‘em. And though I no longer drink , I am fine with other’s imbibing–  hell; I’ll hold your hair while you puke. So , , truth be told ; I have no big issues with  the debauchery that takes place on bourbon– perhaps I’m  a bit churlish because I no longer get to participate .
When my parents went to New Orleans in the 50′ and the 60’s , they loved the Quarter and  particularly Bourbon street — it was the bourbon Street of Al Hirt back then –a man outsized in his appetites and sound — He played that big Dixie horn sound ; all strut and dizzy joy– his  hit ‘Sugar Lips’, hung on him as a nickname for years as did ‘Jumbo’– Big Al loved the ponies , as he started playing the trumpet professionally at the age of 16  at the  horse racing track– Big Al had  huge appetites for many of the things one finds on Bourbon street– He had a friendly rivalry with his Pal Pete Fountain — the two of them often serenading each other from the doorway of their clubs, while the other was playing a show….Big Al never  considered himself a ‘Jazz trumpeter’ per se, first and foremost he considered himself a  musician of many varied disciplines. The ‘Round Mound of Sound’ left us in 1999; he died of liver failure– there is a statue of him in the french Quarter– when you walk by give Big Al a nod and a smile.

New Orleans Diary Oct. 11th–’The Devil’s Music#2 (And She had Red hair)

There is a not so good movie from the 80’s called ‘Great Balls of Fire’– it features Dennis Quaid, with a  bad dye-job ,trying  mightily to embody Jerry Lee Lewis– he mostly fails; but not for want of trying — it was a good faith effort– I actually don’t know of anyone who could  adequately portray ‘The Killer’– the human volcano  who cut a swath across the history of Rock and Roll that still stands — nobody ever tortured a piano  like him– he was the devil incarnate with a greasy blonde pompadour and a reckless  swagger….In the film; Jerry Lee and his doughy cousin Jimmy Swaggart are peaking through the window of a brothel in Louisiana watching a piano player  pound away with sinful abandon in a style that came to be known as ‘whore-house piano’– they are little boys– Jimmy  looks at Jerry aghast and says “Jerry Lee…. thats the devil’s music…..” and Jerry Lee looks back at him , his eyes as wide as plates, and he says “Yeeeahhhh……….”.
And the die is cast. One of these young men will define Rock and Roll, and burn through it’s history like a comet. The other will endure a life of  self-imposed penitence; afraid of what he wants and how to ask for it, the weight of religious guilt dogging him for all of his days. It is kind of an enlightening moment in an otherwise ordinary film.
New Orleans is as much the Devil’s town as it is anybody’s. Despite the  always totemic presence of Catholicism; girls still shake their cake in front of Saint Louis Cathedral– and people make out with abandon in every part of this city. It is a destination for honeymooners of every age. In the Crescent City Men make ouut with Men , Women with Women, Transgender people with both– and it’s all okay. Every once in a while ; when I am in a men’s room with a rubber machine, I take out my Sharpie -marker and write ‘Gee, this gum tastes funny’ on it….

I like the libertine nature of this city — all of uptight America  stops right outside the city limits — it isn’t gross like Las Vegas– it’s just free … your free to think and be whatever the hell you want here– this isn’t McCain’s or Palin’s America– this is more like the framer’s of our Constitution wanted , I think : do whatever the hell you want — just don’t hurt anyone else. I said a long time ago in this diary that New Orleans was built to a human scale . and it was — it was also built for human appetites and desires and wants and needs. It was built for humans . It was built imperfectly. and all the more beautiful for being such.

New Orleans Diary, Oct. 7th: ‘The Devil’s Music #1

There is this song I love to listen to; blasting in my iPod, when I walk around new Orleans late at night . It is by the ‘Twilight Singers’ and their  incomparable  songwriter Greg Dulli– it is called Number Nine– and it is about a guy bargaining with the devil for his ninth life — how often  I have felt like I am on my 9th  incarnation myself?– more than once– it is a thunderous, tender, ferocious, and ultimately  oddly intimate song about mortality — it serves as the coda to the  masterpiece ‘The Twilight Singers sing Blackberry Belle’ — without a doubt , one of the greatest records I’ve ever bought. The song Number Nine is actually a duet with the great Mark Lanegan  from the Screaming Trees– it is one of those songs that just makes sense walking around  the Crescent City  when night is having its way with the city — and you. I recently got a No.9 tattoo  and its significance is two-fold– my late friend Steve Griff would always tell me “Tread lightly brother– you and me are already on out 9th life”… and he would laugh that funny greasy laugh of his — man , I miss that guy… The other  definition is it will always bring to mind New Orleans’ 9th ward — where I’ve met some of the most remarkable people I’ve ever known ,and will continue to.
My friend keith Calhoun was in Chicago last week and I had the opportunity to introduce  him to a real Chicago steak– a big bone-in medium-rare motherfucker, cooked by the peerless John Hogan who could  cook your shoe and make it delicious. I felt like i had to represent for Chicago — given all of the amazing food in  New Orleans. Keith was impressed . Over the course of the night ; keith shared the story of Michael Knight, Freddie Hicks, and a man known only as ‘All-Night Shorty’; who, by all accounts are 9th ward knock-around guys– men not unknown to the New Orleans  law -enforcement  community. During Katrina, Keith tells me, these 3 men saved over 500 lives in 5 days — with a row-boat (a pirogue– whatever that is)–a pry-bar,a generator, and a chain-saw.
This story has largely gone unnoticed– You see the cable networks were busy describing our fellow citizens  as ‘Refugees’ and less charitably:’looters’– the coverage  Katrina got from mostly cable news , still pisses me off– it was tantamount to the pornography of grief– Fuck Fox, Cnn,Headline News — all of them — they owe this city an apology.

New Orleans Diary: October 4th- ‘Irish Rosary’

It’s fall now . My favorite season — there is a tree in my neighborhood with leaves that have turned to a fire-yellow, the only one like it on the block . it is sublimely beautiful. In Chicago ; you live all 4 seasons  and autumn is without a doubt , the most beautiful . The city becomes more spare and  simple — things pare down to prepare you for the cruelty of winter– the 5 or so months of gray layer-cake skies and mounds of malignant slush . In the past year , I’ve  been spared some of the winter’s brutality — I’ve been in New Orleans– where they describe 55 degree weather as ‘bitterly cold’….. yeah. Last year i was there in December and my dear friend and dealer Mark Bercier met me in the Quarter for oysters — it was 50-ish degrees  and mark had on a winter coat and a knit hat and was still shivery. he apologized for the  ‘brutal cold’ — I think I was wearing a light sweater, and could not help but laugh at what my friend thought of as cold . In Chicago when it’s 20 out ; we say it’s getting cold….anything above 30 in December is considered absolutely balmy.
This one is another love poem . Nobody loves  or hates like the Irish ; and in New Orleans there are a ton of Irish people — it’s odd– I never thought of  the Crescent City as an Irish enclave — how wrong I was– I’ve met  a bunch of Irish there who’ve been there for many generations — lots of them have that odd  Brooklynese-style accent that is endemic to some parts of the city — in particular– the Irish Channel–  a great many Irish still immigrate to New Orleans after one visit–  The flinty Aidan Gill , who owns two of the finest shaving shops in New Orleans is  originally from Dublin — the Irish feel a great kinship with this place– it is no wonder– the joyful language of music and  free-flowing  alcohol are not  unattractive to  that mossy rock full of drunks.
I took my last drink on October 5th 1983. Tomorrow will be 25 years since I had a drink . I am always aware of my alcoholism in New Orleans.  It is a city of casual alcoholism; meaning down there it is one of the more savory character defects one can have. One can actually smell  it in the air when walking around the Quarter — I stay way the fuck away from Bourbon street — in fact I don’t think i’ve walked it once in the last year– it is too full of the trouble I used to get in. 24-hour bars — girls showing their breasts for beads–Christ…. let me count the ways I can go to jail on THAT street. It is also the one street i don’t enjoy in new Orleans — on any given night it is full of frat-boys  stumbling around snot-flying drunk  in pursuit of ‘girls gone wild’ types — it has come to  be everything that New Orleans ISN’T about to me. none of the spirit and grace of this holy city is to be found on Bourbon street — avoid it like the clap.
My parents went to Ireland in the 80’s — i remember my mother coming back with this emerald-green rosary that she worked pretty hard praying for her atheist son. I am 50 years old and in some really vital ways — my mother is STILL raising me– she is wise and full of understanding  for  me and my contrary nature. She kept my father from killing me. In the years I was working hard to become an artist ; my mother was the one who believed I’d make it. Even when I didn’t . Earlier , this year I had a show at the Cultural Center in Chicago — it almost didn’t happen– I did the show because I wanted my mother to see it — this one was for her — and I wound up being very happy I did it– many good things, sad things, and  unfortunate things happened in my life during the course of that show.  My mother was there through all of it.

I think one writes love poems in the hope that they find a destination….a person to wear them — to breathe them in — to swoon over them ….. this one is a love poem

New Orleans Diary: September 30th- ‘Irish Channel Emerald Moth’

Irish peasants fleeing  starvation in the 1840’s and 50’s wound up on Adele street  in New  Orleans. They remembered the bodies of their countrymen laying on the sides of wagon paths dead; with grass-stains around their lips , from eating grass to stave off starvation. To them new Orleans was the promise of the New World with its  abundance of foodstuffs and work– dangerous construction work — but work none-the-less– The Irish helped dig the industrial canal , along side germans and African Americans.. The Irish quickly found work as blacksmiths, bricklayers, and draymen– and of course , eventually as cops, politicians, and saddle -makers . like many new immigrants , the irish were considered “expendable” and later were conscripted into the confederate army often to fight against their own families who fought for the North. The Irish also died by the hundreds due to recurring epidemics of Yellow Fever, and Cholera. So when people  chat you up about ‘the luck of the Irish’–  ask them ‘What fucking luck?”.
I stay next door to the Convent of the Ursulines at the Richeleiu  hotel. One night while having a cigarette outside the hotel — a pleasant older woman stopped  in her tracks and said : “Young man … that is so awful for you… you should be more  careful with the body god gave you”, while pointing at my Camel straight.  I smiled at her; being referred to as ‘young man’ at the age of 50 was just funny to me.  I told her that I was neither young nor unaware of the dangers of smoking ; I also told her I didn’t believe in god and that minding your own business  helped insure one’s health as well. She stepped a little closer and told me that she had taught many young men like me– wise-asses, who had all of the answers.
She informed  me that she was a sister of the Ursulines order… I told her that she was quite a handsome woman for being one of the brides of Christ. She  said  matter-of-factly that there were many beautiful nuns. I told her that the ones I remember from Chicago  all looked  like  Yogi Berra with breasts…. She smiled against her will … and we had a conversation about New Orleans and faith and my lack thereof… and against my will i found myself liking Sr. Agnes… I am a rock-ribbed non-believer, but I enjoyed this conversation– she looked through a book of my art and informed me that I was not a very good Atheist– I told her I was also a lousy Catholic — meat on Friday,mortal sins, venial sins, and lust in my heart , out the wazoo…. She told me that she dated a boy like me …. once. I told her  if he was a boy like me — then once was ALL it might take. I also added ‘You little temptress you’…. She  smiled a kind of wistful  smile and said ….”he was exactly like you”, she wished me a good night and took my book with her.  I’ve run into her a few times since then and  we’ve  begun an antagonistic friendship. She reminds me that the great fire of New Orleans stopped short of the Ursulines convent– a century ago– rather  than mess with  the sister’s of the Ursulines order. She told me that I might keep that in mind. Young Man.
I asked her where she was from — She told me  right here– the Irish Channel.

This one is for her.

New Orleans Diary: September 25th - ‘The Spotted Cat’

On Frenchmen street , in the Marigny , there  is R&B at DBA, Jazz at Snug Harbor, and gut-bucket blues at The Spotted Cat– it is the kind of place  one expects to have a dirt floor– it is a holy dive  where some of the best guitar-blues guys in New Orleans cut their teeth — including the brilliant , if troubled, Anders Osbourne. It is the kind of place where it’s not uncommon to see guys taking furtive nips from a pint to augment a good beer buzz.
There is a gentleman who lives in the old folks home nearby who I only know off as ‘Uncle Lionel’– and those who actually know him refer to him merely as the Uncle– he often  can be seen strolling Frenchmen street , wearing his bowler hat ; on the arm of a curvy young woman or two , making his circuit   of music venues that line Frenchmen– He is a legend — one of the best second line drummers in the history of New Orleans– those who’ve seen him play swear he invented it — and young women still find the Uncle quite handsome , even well into his eighties — My friend John Boutte  once remarked ;that  as  a young man “Uncle Lionel …. got more pussy than Sinatra”.
I love Frenchmen street — when I think of this city as a bohemia — this is the street I think of– it is not a hipster enclave — right around the edges it can still be plenty rough — but it is  steeped in an ‘otherness’ that is like a bright light– you never know who you’ll see  trolling this amazing street.
There is a great gay bookstore on Frenchmen that is owned by the wry and witty Otis Fennell, who is a fountain of information about the city and books about the city. He is tall and rail-thin and resembles a slightly slimmer  Chris Cooper– he was  such an amazing resource for me in learning about the city — always quick to point out  the good stuff — in fact– he pointed me to a couple of books about the fascinating life of Louis Armstrong– it is a treasure  trove of information about the nascent Jazz age– and who knew that Armstrong was such a prolific  writer of letters?…. Otis has been an amazing ambassador for New Orleans — generous of spirit; he is always  willing to help people understand  this place .
I’m trying to shut out the noise as I get closer to the New Orleans Biennial, Prospect 1– I sometimes worry that people will be too distracted  by the  election  to pay attention to the revitalization of this city– they shouldn’t –  I also worry about whether President Obama will be equal to  the framework of hope people have imposed upon him. He is the symbol of much — and no human being on earth could be equal to the need and want in America right now. I haven’t been watching the cable news lately — for me — politics  are about the fungible element of power– and there is only so much power– and watching  people  eviscerate each other in pursuit of it, makes one despair of the species.

New Orleans diary: September 20th -  ‘St. Roch Moth’

 Ike, the hurricane, missed New Orleans and ravaged parts of Texas instead. While one might think  the Crescent City would breathe easier — it’s really not the case . people there are asking themselves just how many times they can evacuate. it is difficult and expensive to have to haul ass for every potential hurricane. There are those who think that at some point New Orleans should just factor the water in and make itself some liquid thoroughfares like Amsterdam or Venice– have the city adapt… and there  might be a lot of sense in that point of view — neighborhoods like the lower 9th and east Lakeview were built ON wetlands, and , it seems, nature  is trying to reclaim them. The neighborhoods on higher ground — what the locals refer to as the ’sliver by the river’  are part of New Orleans original charter and were built specifically because they were on higher ground — the rest of these communities came much later……

I’ve been inspired by the people of this city –  by how proprietary these citizens are about their history — their story, their buildings and neighborhoods, their food , and their music. When I first started coming back  here  there was this urgency about safe-guarding what was left after Katrina , and trying to fortify and rebuild. One of the stories  one doesn’t hear often enough is about the plane-loads of college kids who came down here to help rebuild — the Common Ground kids  who are , to this day , making a difference in the lower 9th and other neighborhoods around the city.
My first trip back ; I’d sent out a missive that declared ‘ The south is a place of beauty , words,  colors, and absolutely no mercy’– how wrong I was– The marvelous writer Allison Glock  sent me an e-mail telling me that ;”The south was positively awash in mercy”. And she was right — and it was in front of me , but i didn’t recognize it — You see , one of the mistakes you can make in seeing the aftermath of such devastation  is thinking your anger and the pain of those who suffered this loss , are the same thing– they are not. Their losses and pain are real ; and your indignant pose is, more than  likely , blind arrogance.

There are real life lessons to be learned  in this city — new kindnesses to lavish on our fellow citizens– many  times over the last 18 months , i’ve seen the citizens of this city  hand a bag of take-out food to people less fortunate, I’ve witnessed people stop their cars to give elderly people a ride in the rain, or some respite from the heat. I’ve witnessed  a generosity of spirit, and a thousand acts of random kindness. I’ve been witness to a city, reclaiming its will, its spirit, and its soul.

Promiscuous Stories

I’ve been reading lots of books about the south , in order to better understand new Orleans ; which in many ways isn’t the south, or even America — and in other ways — it is completely the south– it is an odd place that way . One of the books I’ve come across is ‘Beauty before Comfort’ by Allison Glock– GET THIS BOOK– it is the best , and sharpest thing I have read in years — it is a lot about how we sometimes allow our landscape to define us — it is palpably about place determining how we become who we become and: it knocked me out– you can order it from amazon– hell — I’ll buy it for you — but read it .
‘Beauty before Comfort ‘ is Ms. Glock’s memoir of her  grand mother Aneita Jean Blair– who is too radiant  for the hardscrabble place  she was born to ; and this book is about how she navigates — and sometimes fails to– that place.  This memoir is sharply and lovingly and unsparingly written– it’s worth mentioning that this was a New York Times notable book– and I don’t know I missed it when it first came out — but it is SO worth your time — the harsh working -class world of West Virginia comes alive in this book in a way  that is so palpable ,, you feel like you’ve been there — even if you haven’t– read this.

This new piece   was made for a collection of Jonathan Lethem stories that will be adapted for the stage by The Plagiarist’s — a fine  and fearless Chicago Company….

it also hangs pretty well as a New Orleans piece and I will include it in the Biennial– one of the lovely things about  this city  is how utterly easily stories pass from person to person to person — adding a little embroidery with each telling– words are as colorfful as confetti in this city and stories are a special kind of currency– a currency of goodwill and shared experience.
It gets harder for me to leave New Orleans every time I go — i have a dear community of friends there  and have made new ones — The amazing and heroic Garland Robinette who fights the ignorance and corruption everyday on the radio and then goes home and paints these  marvelous rendered-in-the-fire-of-the-spirit paintings, his lovely wife Nancy Rhett and their wonderful daughter Charlie. My dear friend Bess Carrick who drives me around this place and teaches me who’s who and what’s what– she is sardonic, skeptical, searching and brutally honest — she also has a heart as big as the sky.  Rob Clemenz, Paul Sanchez, Rick DuPlantier, John Boutte, Raine Bedsole…. and the cast of other remarkable New Orleanian’s who’ve not surrendered…..Keith Calhoun, Chandra McCormick, and Dan Cameron — who enrich this place culturally  and know that  the creative spirit is what will make this place  take flight…….

bless them all

New Orleans Diary: September 11th

” God invented the Irish so he’d have someone to talk to all day….”
Bob Cocoran – Cab -driver, New Orleans

Bob has about 6 or 7 teeth ; he says that nature didn’t think he needed more . He has to usually drop me off around 2 in the afternoon: “Two is when I knock-off to get my drink on– I pick-up the wife at  Four and  I have to be fortified for that…. Woman gets on my last nerve.”

Bob is one of the ‘never-lefts’ ; people who visited New Orleans and never left — and I could easily become one of those– it is one of those places where one can heal from one’s failures– or successes , for that matter — sometimes  the one thing holds hands with the other. New Orleans is ‘easy’– but it is never simple. It is a place of complicated stories and near-greatnesses.  I like walking the city late at night and on this trip it’s been ghostly and empty– sad in a way a great love song is sad — on a couple of occasions I’ve run into the National guards men who’ve politely reminded me that there is a curfew– On my iPod there is a heart-breaking  soul chestnut by James Carr:’The Dark End of the Street’ that is so apropo  for this city right now . My friend and  business guy Robert Chase flew back to Chicago last night and said there were only 7 people on his flight.

The woman who cleans my room at the Richelieu hotel , Triva Russ, was evacuated  for Katrina to Centerville Tennesee, 3 years ago — she is a life-long resident of Uptown , and she has two grown sons , both of who continue to live in New Orleans,  her oldest works “at the hospital in  East Jeff”, meaning Jefferson Parrish , she came home as soon as she could  because  she felt, as a life long  domestic worker,  she had to ” Make ready the city, for people to come back”.  In Triva, I can see the distant mirror of my Great-Grandmother, Nana, who lived to be 104, who was a  domestic worker after immigrating from Ireland . She was one of those brave women ; who at the age of 17  took passage to the U.S. to escape the grinding poverty  of tenant-farm life in  the west of Ireland.

Every morning when I’m here, Triva  Russ makes ready my room and we talk about New Orleans– Triva makes sure I know that I know its best for  a man to “Stay away from that foolishness in the quarter, with all that drinking and  easy women”. I always assure her that I am grateful to her for  helping me avoid such temptation ; and that I shall not sully myself with  drinking and gently reminded her that there actually  is no such thing as an ‘easy woman’. She laughs and says “True That”.

I ask her why she has stayed  and her face becomes luminous with a smile and she says “There isn’t  anywhere else, young man”.

True That.

Part of what makes so much sense to me here  is the community — the aggregation of artists, musicians, writers, poets and story-tellers whose narrative is so  linked that one artists story is– in whole cloth –also part of another’s .  We all get to know each other pretty organically here — I met Paul Sanchez through the writers Chris Rose and Colman DeKay, and through Paul I met John Boutte and the artist Rob Clemenz— and on and on and on — I met a great many artists through Dan Cameron — Mia Kaplan and Skylar Fein– the generosity and goodwill is an ongoing  prayer-wheel of kindness in this city– we have all become part of each other’s story — and this city is  the great and generous quilt we’ve  been added to.

more later…

New Orleans Diary: September 10th

” You gotta’ know stuff , to do stuff….”

Phillip — Counter-man at Camellia Grill

I learned a lesson about trying to eat a beignet  11 hours after you buy it — Don’t– they’re meant to be eaten  piping-hot  with a Cafe au Lait at Cafe Du Monde– not in your hotel at 2 in the morning. I also  ate the best cheeseburger to be had in New Orleans at it’s most historic diner — the Camellia Grill in Uptown– I’ve been  going there for 30 years– for the longest time they had a waiter there named Harry Tervalon  who had a smile and opinion for everyone and  everything — Mr. Tervalon worked at the Camellia for 30-plus years– he would talk baseball, politics  and most memorably his childhood in New Orleans– I was heartened to see a framed picture of the young  Mr. Tervalon today ; and saddened to be informed that he’d died  shortly after Katrina– he was funny and gracious and full of goodwill. he has several successors behind that counter now… a young man named Phillip who has a thick Irish Channel accent and dispenses pearls  of wisdom like the one above for the price of a cheeseburger– working the counter at the Camellia  is its own kind of theater — the counter men are  quick with a  anecdote or euphemism or well-worn patois about ‘gettin’ your grub on’ and ‘giving your body some Loooooove’ as they slide  a plate of chili-cheese fries in front of you , that is best described as a heart-attack on a platter– Cue-ball, the other counter man, thinks that consuming a cheeseburger as big as your head is tantamount to giving your body some love. Obviously — these are my kind of guys.

My friend Robert Chase and  I watched a plus-size  gal eat an omelette , a plate of  chili-cheese fries  AND a cheese burger– she was impeccably dressed and had two small children; and this was an after church treat for her kids–  as she was leaving Cue-ball looked me in the eye and said ” There is nothing more beautiful than a happy fat woman”; and he was as serious as a heart-attack — I nodded  and ordered a heart-attack on a plate.

The military presence  is  visible in every part of the city — I was all over the city  today and  everywhere there were young, scrubbed, National Guardsmen shambling  down streets toting M-16s, having coffee at Cafe Du Monde or gathered in small groups , smoking cigarettes and talking only to each other– I feel bad for them in that  nobody much talks to them  and  they seem like they feel unwelcome– I nodded at one guy when I walked by him  and he seemed surprised and then nodded back– it is an uneasy thought for the people who live here — One of the things I overheard in the Marigny tonight was “Where were these fuckers when we really needed them?”– the  presence of the Guard seems to be  an evocation of  the help  our fellow citizens did NOT get 3 years ago. It feels like salt in a still open-wound for many here.

Aidan Gill runs the finest Shaving Shops in New Orleans — he is a thorny, witty, Irish guy who has not a hair out of place– I got my usual shave in his shop today– hot towels, shaving oil, Hot  Truffit& Hill lather– the whole  deal — the shave was given by  a lovely, bosomy beauty named Sarah Graham  who also sold me a badger-brush shaving kit– one very much like my father had. I asked her how they got the badger to hold still while they yanked its belly-fur off ; and Ms. Graham stated , in a voice as sweet as southern honey, they probably harvested this fur post-mortem  ” because they are creatures of  obstreperous temperament”– meaning: they are  mean little  motherfuckers who’d like  nothing more than to claw your nuts off. I don’t feel bad about them cacking badgers — It’s not like we’re running out  of badgers.

I was driven around the city today by the dentally challenged Bob — who told me to go ahead and smoke in his cab — but if we got a ticket , I’d have to go the 25 bucks. I agreed and bob drove us around the emptiest New Orleans I’d ever seen– many  restraunts and clubs are closed — including all of the Starbucks stores– Bob told me that he had evacuated for Gustav to Knoxville  Tennesee and  as he had done for Katrina — Bob is 60-ish and rail-thin with a damn-near ZZ Top beard — and he , like many in this city, is shell-shocked from the recent panic  from the most recent evacuation– Bob usually drinks lunch and his  regular watering-hole  in the quarter , is closed until after whateve happens with the next storm– ‘Ike’– Bob is weary  and scraping for business as the city has been a cemetery as far as business goes. Bob Chase and I decided to hire him to drive us for a couple of days — we don’t care if he drinks– in fact the more he drinks — the more exciting the ride is– I shouldn’t be so cavalier about that — really– don’t drink and drive– you might spill some.

New Orleans Diary: September 8th

There is a cufew in the French Quarter — I never thought I’d live to see that — by 2 a.m. everyone must be off the streets– in other parts of the city it is 10p.m..

It is odd here  right now — a great many people are still not back from the mandatory evacuation  for  hurricane Gustav– the mood in new Orleans is just that — a mood .
People are jumpy and testy and I can kind of read their minds — this ennui is an awful reminder of the devastation of 3 years ago. No one here believes that New Orleans will be rebuilt to the way it was anymore — there is a listless recognition  that they must enjoy what is left of that place– that memories are at once comforting and  cruel in equal measure .
Gustav  was a  demonstration of what the citizens of this holy place now know : Nature has the ass over us. It can take us whenever it wants .

Of course Nature doesn’t ‘want’ anything — it just is ; and in Nature there is no right or wrong — there are only consequences.

I flew in this morning and the city was practically empty– lots of  National Guard walking around with M-16’s and it was eerie — watching the military casually policing an American city — when it got dar ; squad cars drove around with their lights flashing , but without a siren — this is an under-policed city — there are not enough of cops and this demonstration was  to let the  bad guys know that they are around. With a great deal of the city’s population only making their way back — burglary and opportunistic break-in type  crimes are a worry.

There is a new cynicism about the political process here — Gustav is a reminder of just how much is still fucked-up from Katrina– how little  the lives  of the destitute have changed for the better. Many have left the city — those who’ve stayed  want to scream everytime they hear some gas-bag  ask “Why don’t they just leave?”. A true citizen of this city can  no more leave this place than I could leave Chicago — I’ve actually tried. New Orleans isn’t like anywhere else– even if one wanted to — one couldn’t find another place that is actually like this place.

A walk around New Orleans underlines  an idea of this city as our covenant with the old world– Spain in architectural amber, France in a sepia photograph, the Carribean, etched  into the  faces  of passersby — it is a city of cultural relics and promises and secrets. A Rosetta stone of the American melting pot– A place where the melting pot , actually melted. When I bum around the Irish Channel and here those  almost- Brooklyn accents I relize why — at one time they were Brooklyn accents — many of the same guys who dug the subways  in New York — also dug the industrial canal . The same  american promise of jobs , and a better life lured the irish and a myriad of other ethnicities to New Orleans — like every other great city: New Orleans was as much a promise, as a place.

The Last Love Song

This is  a new piece for the ‘Chapel of Love Poems’ for the New Orleans Biennial, Prospect 1, — there was a mention of it in TIME magazine this week( the one with that asshat McCain on the cover) and they used one of my Mardi Gras pieces –  I actually impressed my kids with this– We’re breathing a big sigh of relief in light of the aftermath of Gustav — while it wreaked some havoc ; it could have been far worse and there is some comfort in this I guess– While I am heartened that this storm didn’t do more damage ; I couldn’t help but think of my many friends there who had to evacuate– and mentally revisit  the  ferocious ennui Katrina left in it’s ever-widening wake. I’ve tried not to be cynical about all of the boo-hoo the politicians are NOW pitching about New Orleans — it’s about fucking time– they are making promises and I hope the body-politic of this holy place  holds these leaders to their promises  of aid and goodwill — I did notice  that Governor Jindal seemed to be WAY on top of this  as did Mayor Nagin — I have no great love for either of these guys — but; credit where it is due — they performed admirably in this crisis– I’m a fan of Mary Landrieu and her brother Mitch , who I was pulling for when he ran for mayor of New Orleans– they  come from a long line of political reformers , going back to the days of Huey Long….

The Biennial is almost here — it is going to be a big deal — Dan Cameron, Ylva Rouse, and the rest of that crew have moved  heaven and earth to pull this off and they’ve galvanized a whole community arround the city of New Orleans. I’ve gotten to know a bunch of artists I’ve admired for a long time  because of this — I’ve met Wangechi Mutu– who is  one of my favorite artists in the world– I also got to meet the amazing photographer Deborah Luster; whose collection ‘One Big Self: Prisoners of Louisiana’ is one of  the most heart-wrenching and memorable collections of portraits you will ever see…. i met the installation artist Monica Bonvicini , who is brilliant and funny  and enthusiastic and way easy on the eyes.

The nexus of all of this goodwill is of course Dan Cameron  who has this  furious love for the city of New Orleans  and it’s artists, its music,  its food and its stories. This  big show  features the whole city of New Orleans as an art gallery — in every neighborhood  in the Crescent City — there will be art and artists. You’ll be tripping over  the bastards. I SO wish somebody would do this for Chicago — We have an Art-fair run by guys who far more conversant in the leasing of retail space than they are about Art …. or people for that matter.  It would be nice to have a Biennial here  just to  show the dealers here a thing or two about  putting ideas about the cultural relevance of Art forward. Rather than hustling the endless product. The Art world in Chicago is run like a Presbyterian bake-sale– a garden-party circle-jerk for  the  crowd that thinks dollar-bills are the same thing as brain cells.

This new one is a love poem and there is no small amount of heartbreak in it.

Pink Lady Love Poem

I’ve been following the news for the past few days — McCain picked a Milf-y  no-name Governor from Alaska  for  Vice president– One must wonder about Mr. McCain– he seems terminally angry, self-destructive, and very much a creature of the last century. There is a grinding contrariness about him– plus — he is even older than Reagan– at 72– he would be the oldest white guy we ever  elected– when my Dad was 72 , we didn’t let him fuck with the TV remote, much less run the country….the more I look at McCain — the more I see an America that doesn’t exist anymore — if it ever did–he is one of those ‘might makes right’ anachronisms we would do well to abandon… I think he tries to be an honorable man ; but  I don’t want him to be President.

I despise politics and politicians– one of the reasons I love New Orleans so much is that none of my friends down there like politicians either — I REALLY dislike the fuckers– even the good ones  get coarsened by the  continual  round-robin of hand-job rhetoric  spewed on the cable news outlets– Every time I look at Fox, or MSNBC, or CNN– I despair of the species — every night  — a daisy-chain of partisan douche-bags  come pimping the endless product– the product in this case being their guy……..spare me.

I always ask myself what any of this shit has to do with public service?…….

I’m voting for Obama– he feels like he is for real. In the opening of his  address on Thursday — he gave voice to the despair and heartbreak of New Orleans and it’s citizens.
He inspires me . As cynical as I’ve become about politicians — and I honestly hate the fuckers,  he feels like he has kept his decency intact– he reminds me of the good Bobby Kennedy– the one who spoke  of those who live behind the billboards– the one who addressed the poverty-stricken of this country  with respect and empathy and compassion.

I’m drinking the Obama Kool-Aid.

He gave a stirring speech at Tulane University not long ago where he addressed the  issues surrounding  the revitalization of New Orleans — he spoke in a clear , coherent voice about what we as Americans owe each other– as citizens, as neighbors , as brothers and sisters.

I hope the citizens of New Orleans hold President Obama to this . I hope the Gustav misses the Crescent City.  I hope my friends are safe. I hope if this gets worse — they have the good sense to get the fuck out of the city ( I mean YOU  Mark).

This one is another love poem .

Pink Lady’s are an odious cocktail comprised of Gin ,Grenadine, and egg-whites. 30 years ago , I knew a prim and pert strawberry -blonde who would leave heel-marks on the ceiling after 3 of these.

Twilight Love Poem

Richard Thompson can write heartbreak songs– bitter, acrimonious,  and full of heart and recrimination ,in equal measure. His album ‘Rumor and Sigh’ is one of those records …. My pal Steve Earle writes gorgeous ,elegiac,  and resonant love songs — maybe better than anyone  right now — Writing a good love poem almost always involves  the losing of the very subject itself. One doesn’t pen a good love poem — one bleeds it.

These are best written at night , when you are alone–  when you are  listening to Al Green or Steve Earle  or Richard Thompson, or Lou Reed’s ‘Magic and Loss’ or ‘Satellite of Love’, or Janis Joplin’s ‘Cry Baby’ or the Stones ‘Mermory Hotel’……

I don’t think anyone ever wrote better love poems than Neruda  or Paz….. or Kenneth Patchen…their poems fill you with light and air and promise — ——-the sonsofbitches.

One of my ‘chapels’ in the New Orleans Biennial, will be a chapel of love poems — I’ve written a bunch of them lately ; and New Orleans is that kind of place– earthy,musk-laden,  and full of flesh and the weaknesses therein — and where ever there is lust –  be assured the heartbreak is right on it heels– Whenever someone tells me they are in love I think to myself –’You poor dumbfuck — good luck surviving it’.

I go back to New Orleans on the 6th and I’m looking forward to it — it has become my other city — a place where I  can shut out the noise. John McNaughton — the marvelous  film director says it best : ‘Chicago is my wife …. New Orleans is my mistress”. In New Orleans , you can wake up at noon and nobody gets in your shit about it ….. because they aren’t awake yet either. I love sitting at Cafe Du Monde at 3 in the morning with my miscreant pals and watching  the night parade of  the drunken human family walk by …. I haven’t written much about Cafe Du Monde yet …. I  have kind of been saving it… I spend time there everytime I go to the Crescent City — I go there at all times of Day — during the day a lot of older  Asian women work there  with a kind of genial efficiency — and at night a bunch of Tulane girls and pretty Creole women work there — but always the show is New Orleans itself  and the people who need this place– Beignet’s are good for soaking up the night’s intake of alcohol  and the Cafe au Lait will help you  sober up a bit– or function as a stop-gap between  drinks . I love  how you can be alone in a crowd at this place and just watch — every strata of New Orleans society  does the twilight perp-walk  past the  Cafe Du Monde– you notice lots of couples on their honeymoon there — the poor bastards don’t know what they’re in for yet– they believed all of those love songs they heard……..

Good for them.

New Orleans # 54

Steve Griff      1956–2008

He was a funny motherfucker– after a few  imported beers at Fitzgeralds; no plus-sized woman was safe — he would pull them onto the dance floor wearing his  ‘Stevie Ray Vaughn / Zorro’ hat and dance like an unstrung Orangatang– he loved Texas BBQ, drawing skulls (even more than I do), and zaftig girls.

Steve loved life….. His favorite city in the world was New Orleans — before  he left us ; he made a crazy colored rendering of a Jazz funeral — and it is full of the profane swagger and joy of that place — Steve was  to come with us for the New Orleans Biennial — he was part of the exhibition crew  here ; meaning everytime we had an event — i.e, a book-signing,  an institutional show , a performance — Steve was a vital part of these events — So … we’re bringing his ashes to New Orleans– some of his ashes, anyway.
The last few years of his life  Steve made an astonishing body of drawings — he didn’t really show us many of them — he was waiting for the ‘Working Studio’ show that we will still have on September 19th– Steve’s friends Dmitry Samarov and Julie Murphy will be part of that show as well.
This has been a hard week around here –  This studio is very much a family– complete with the bickering , the annoyances, the raucous comraderie and the love. Losing Steve Griff  has been a heart-breaking and  bitter passage in the history of this place. Things were just getting interesting for Steve — he had a new and amazing group of drawings to share. He had just quit a job he’d hated after 30 years and was beginning to sell his drawings at a brisk pace– The depression and addiction was behind him…. Life is good and not fair at all.

This piece is about Steve; and the essence of him that we will leave in New Orleans. It is said when these ‘Witch Moths’ enter a home– someone  dies. I guess they were right.

Fuckers.

New Orleans #51

I go back to New Orleans next week to see where my installation for the Biennial is going to be — I’m determined to make one of the rooms a ‘Chapel of Moths’– it occurs to me that Moths are almost always ….sad — in many cases  breath-takingly beautiful , but always, always sad. I wonder why there is such ennui and  melancholy about them?– it could be that they’re destructive — how many times  have you seen  ‘moth-eaten’ to describe something — as if they  degrade the idea of time itself?… they also dance into flame — they die trying to get close to the light and the heat …. like all of us .
New Orleans seems a comfortable location for moths — it is an old place ; degraded and somehow also purified by time — a place that becomes ever more luminous  in the human memory– is it the music?– is it the mothsdancing in the nimbus of  the streetlights in the French Quarter? Is it the drunken heat and the sweetness of magnolias on the breeze? Is it the secrets passed from Pirates  and whores in the quiet of  a long-ago courtyard?– it is all of these things — it is walking ghosts and  piano jazz– it is Grace.

New Orleans #48

In his collection  of essays about New Orleans, Andrei Codrescu describes All Souls Day,  in the cemeteries of that town — he says cemeteries are reassuring– that they provide continuity, the dearly departed don’t require as much room as they used to — but they still have an address. The cemeteries are like the town — they swing between opulence and destitution — but always with style. His essay ‘Human Remedies against the Devil’  is required reading if you want to understand New Orleans rather chummy relationship with the spirit world. One of the rewards of  a city this old  is that the dead far out-number the living ,Codrescu observes– and they are attended to by the living– the term ‘Whistling past the graveyard’ originated in New Orleans as a cautionary momento mori for those who survived the civil war . One day , on my last trip, we drove through Saint Louis cemetery No 1, and marveled at the beauty of  the tombstones and above ground graves — in  new Orleans there is a dignity  about death — as well as a profane swagger. On All Souls Day, relatives and volunteers come to the graveyard and white-wash the above ground Mausoleums , clear way dead flowers and leaves , they scrub the stones and sit with the dead  and it is not uncommon to see people talking to  the tombs– it is this  easy and uneasy covenant the living have with the spirit-world in this holy place. A great many of the dead in St. Louis cemetery got that way from Yellow fever, Cholera, and …duels. Codrescu’s marvelous essay informs us that when one sees the word ‘Honor’ on the tombstone, it means that the deceased got his ass dead out of pride. Usually over a woman . It is worth noting that women never get their asses dead out of pride.

Andrei Codrescu’s ‘Mon Amour, New Orleans’ is one of those lovely , funny, sad, elegaic collections of writing that realize the  otherness of this place . I’ve heard Codrescu for years on NPR and have read some of his poems –  he is a sly and witty observer of this city — do yourself and pick up this book .

New Orleans #46

” Black or White, baby…. we all wind up at the foot of Canal street….”

–John Boutte’

At the foot of Canal street , in New Orleans; there are 2 cemeteries : one is called the Oddfellows  and the other is called Greenwood . My friend Paul Sanchez explained this  on my last trip to the Big Easy. He told me that his father was in one of them and John Boutte’s father was in the other. At the foot of Canal street there have been many of the most joyous departures from this life allowed on  earth .  At a jazz funeral , they sing, shake, dance,  and hurl you into the next world with  an unrepentant  strut. If you have to die — die in New Orleans.

On this trip , I met some amazing people — not the least of them an artist named Rob Clemenz– who paints on religious medals– and brings them to life — you can see them at –saintsforsinners.com– Rob , in his previous life  was a Public interest lawyer and he got tired of it — he started painting on the medals in 1987 — and since Katrina , these beautiful pieces have taken on greater definition — everybody I know who has one, finds themselves  touching them  or holding them from time to time– they are something to hold onto– in the face of Katrina , these are talismans of light. I like to think that Rob traffics in human hope.

Even as a  stone  non-believer– the humanness and goodwill of this work touches me.
I continued my ongoing conversation with the great New Orleans Mardi Gras historian , Henri Schindler. The grace-note of any conversation with Henri is that  not only does he know a lot about Carnival– he knows a lot about  a lot more than that — he told us a funny-sad story about meeting Tennesee Williams– about the wariness of the great playwright; and one got the idea that for all of his accolades, he was not a man who was comfortable in his own skin.  Henri’s great gift is that he remembers  and relates details– a conversation with him is invariably a history lesson  and a  view  into an old, more  civilized world.

Mr. Schindler was kind enough to allow  cameras into his home.

There is a documentary being made about my work– it has been shooting since around October. It’s being made by the film director and screenwriter Steven Conrad. While we were in New Orleans ,Steve filmed conversations with a bunch of my friends there and got a really good look at the city — I think this place got in his heart pretty fast.

I don’t know a single person in New Orleans who did not know someone who died in Katrina– even now– almost 3 years later– sometimes,  without warning , people will breakdown. A man told me on Rampart street one night that the only thing remotely like it was visiting a country that had lost a war– he said  “Yeah…. that’s what it’s like… It’s like we lost a war”. As present as it is though– the anger and sadness can’t ever overtake the joy. People like the gifted singer and Songwriter Paul Sanchez won’t let it happen . We got there  on a Saturday night  when Paul was singing at DBA , on Frenchmen street– the added bonus was he had trumpeter LeRoy Jones with him– one of  the true jazz greats of New Orleans.  Sanchez is one of those rare human spirits that includes the audience in his performance , weaving every story and song together with a luminous and loopy New Orleans narrative– one feels like a guest in his home rather than part of the crowd. I ran into Dan Cameron there; who is curating the New Orleans Biennial, Prospect 1– who will bring 100,000 people to New Orleans over the 11 week run of Prospect 1– Dan is an amazing and genial guy, who, has become a fan of both Boutte and Paul Sanchez — On Saturday nights , I usually know where to find Dan.

My friend Bess Carrick usually drives me around New Orleans — she has a sardonic  side and is very funny — she can also drive while  drinking a smoothie and eating a bowl of cereal at the same time — I’ve seen her do this– she has introduced me to some remarkable people in the lower 9th and she knows her city well– and loves it dearly. My other friend of 20 years Laurie Williams is the poet I wish I was. Laurie always refers to New Orleans as ‘She’ and  has gotten me to think of the city as a  woman– which seems appropriate– It was Laurie’s letters that made me go back to New Orleans– and at some point — if it is okay with her — I will quote from them– they are beautiful in the way rain on a window is– you just see the world through them differently. In Laurie’s letters the Oak trees were the city’s  guardians– its returning birds, the bringers of lost souls– she has been a huge influence on my work for a long time.

Lost souls were what I was thinking about when I made this one… hope you like.

New Orleans #45

The night cometh in which we take no note of time, and forget that we are living in a practical age which mostly relegates romance to printed pages and merriment to the stage. Yet what is more romantic than the Night of the Masked Ball– the too brief hours of light, music, and fantastic merriment  which seem to belong to no century and yet to all?’

–Lafcadio Hearn

‘The Dawn of Carnival’– Inventing  New Orleans

In New Orleans people look forward to Carnival all year — children like it more than Christmas . I am intrigued by the masked balls and parades and feel that despite history’s inexorable march forward– they have never been able to ‘Americanize’ this place– nor have they been much able to domesticate it .

It is a city of nonconformists. Individuals. Rebels.  It is a city that has no desire to be like every other place — I have a friend that says that there are only 3 real cities  in America — New York , Chicago, and New Orleans– the rest of it is fucking Cleveland.

New Orleans  is a city of Ghosts. Celebratory and otherwise. I have learned much readin the great Henri Schindler’s histories of Carnival– his recounting of this holy and mythical place– a place with past neighborhoods like ‘Storyville’– which was mostly populated by ‘Houses of ill-repute’– Characters like Marie Leveaux– voodoo queen and Barnum -style huckster. Earl Long; brother of Huey who once liberated himself from  the nut-house by firing the judge who put him there . Places like the Napoleon House– which was actually built for Napoleon to live in — he just had one more little  skirmish to deal with at Waterloo….

Mostly , Carnival is the thing that wakes up the child in us– makes visible the imperishable apparitions of our collective imagination.  It is the place in this country where we are able to wander through the looking glass as adults and imagine other possibilities for ourselves.

New Orleans #43

“Put this in your cranium…for further cogitation….”

–Dr. John

The Faubourg Marigny, or just Marigny, is a really cool neighborhood just below the French Quarter. It’s most famous residents were  the great jazzman Jelly Roll Morton and Blues singer Lizzie Miles — it is also the place I go to hear John Boutte and Paul Sanchez sing everytime I am lucky enough to be in town when they are working — Paul sings there on Thursday nights and John is there on Saturdays– it’s pretty easy — they sing at a place called DBA, on Frenchmen street . On Friday and Saturday night, Frenchmen is a magical melange of music and smells from restraunts like the Praline connection and Marigny Brassarie. I have a ritual …. I leave the Hotel Richleiu and walk up Chartres past a coffee place on Decatur called En Vie– it is an interesting place to get an espresso — it is where most of the trans-gender people hang out– I had a conversation with  someone who had a goatee and better tits than Pamela Anderson one afternoon. She said that New Orleans was the one place on the planet she didn’t feel marginalized. She also knew a lot about  the Marigny– In the early part of the last century it was a neighborhood where white-creole men  placed their mistresses (usually women of color) , this living arrangement was referred to , in the day, as ‘placages’.

Today the Marigny is the artists enclave that the French Quarter used to be– a celebratory kind of party place without the drunken frat-boys — There is a very cool gay bookstore on Frenchmen run by and interesting guy named Otis Fennell who can find you practically any book on the history of New Orleans. Walking down Frenchmen  you might run into Snooks Eaglin who plays there often , or Harry Shearer who lives there when he is not in L.A. You may also run into Rocket and Lulu ; the accordion and violin duo I wrote about before , who play Romanian dirges for a donation — they are pretty goth girls who are not from New Orleans,but, like everyone else are drawn there to be part of the otherness .

the Marigny is also where the raunchy and irreverent Krewe de Vieux parade starts every year. At the hear of the Marigny is Washington Square Park, which is also bounded by Dauphine , Royal, and Elysian — I love this neighborhood because there is no one kind of resident.  Frenchmen street is full of what is possible in this world. It is a place with an imperishable imagination .