Dancing with Myself

When Transvestites Go Bad

When the lower Garden District isn't safe, none of us are.

NEW ORLEANS — Robyn Lewis, owner of Dark Charm fashion and accessories for women, represents the first line of defense for the Magazine Street shop owners. She is the first to see [the gang of transvestites] come strutting in their pumps down St. Andrew Street, the bewigged pack of thieves who have plagued the Lower Garden District since May.

Like an SOS flare, Lewis grabs her emergency phone list and starts calling.

“They’re coming,” she warns Eric Ogle a salesman at Vegas, a block down Magazine Street. Ogle, who was terrorized by the brazen crew two months earlier, alerts neighboring Winky’s where manager Kendra Bonga braces for the onslaught.

Soon every shop owner in the 2000 block of Magazine Street has been alerted.

Sarah Celino at Trashy Diva eyes the door, ready to flip the lock at the first sight of the ringleader’s pink jumpsuit and fluorescent red wig.

“They’re fearless,” said Ogle. “Once they see something they like they won’t stop until they have it. They don’t care, they’ll go to jail. It’s really gotten bad. You know it’s ridiculous when everyone on the block knows who they are.”

The transvestites first appeared in March when they raided Magazine Street like a marauding army of kleptomaniacal showgirls, said Davis, using clockwork precision and brute force to satisfy high-end boutique needs.

Next door at Winky’s, Bonga heard people screaming inside Vegas, then saw a blur of cheap wigs and masculine legs in designer shoes streak past her door.  “They’re all very skinny and very flamboyant,” Ogle said.

This story was quoted wholesale from the New Orleans City Business paper and was written by Richard A. Webster, a very good writer and gifted story teller.  When I first posted this article, I thought the link to his column was sufficient credit.  I no longer think so.  Too many times, links go bad, so to speak.  It's better to keep the credit with the work.

Hat-tip: 

Minor Wisdom

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Gumbo

Last Saturday night, my traveling companion and I ate at Cochon, a current, hot, favorite restaurant in N.O. I wrote a little about it in my previous post. I didn't mention our second round of food there: gumbo. More specifically, black-eyed pea and hamhock gumbo. Don't worry, I never heard of such, either. We sat next to two Cajuns from Lafayette, and we talked about it. Cajun One and I agreed that just because you use a roux when you make a soup from black-eyed peas and hamhocks, that don't make it a gumbo. Cajun Two said that Cajun One and I were too limiting in our definition of gumbo. Then my traveling companion interjects that, technically speaking, real gumbo required okra. Of course, Cajun One and I had a fit. No it don't. Okra is a choice. If you use okra, you don't need to file powder, a substance made from ground sassafras leaves which, sorta kinda, thickens the broth and, to my mind, makes an ordinary soup a gumbo, unless of course, you're making the soup from hamhocks and black-eyed peas. My problem with the "gumbo" served at Cochon was that it tasted too strong of hamhocks. I'm also very sensitive to the taste of salt, and if you add salt to a stock made from hamhocks, it's going to be too salty.

I was very attracted to Cajun One. He had a charisma about him that made him very attractive. He was the kind of man that if he couldn't be your best friend, you'd hope he lived next door, or just somehow knew for some reason. He was somewhere between 50 and 60, goodlooking --I wouldn't have called him handsome, just attractive, full head of hair, and the most pleasant of accents. I was afraid if I were anymore friendly in my reaction to him, he'd have thought I was coming onto him. Cajun Two saw exactly how attacted I was to his friend. It made him nervous. We didn't stay long enough to get in trouble or to embarrass anyone.

One last thing about Cochon. We also had fried boudin balls, and they weren't anywhere near as good as mine. In fact,, the only thing we had that was better than mine was the crawfish pie. I've never done piecrust all that well.

Oh, by the way, we're in Miami Beach now. I'll talk about it later.

Remembering New Orleans

Thank god there's a place left in America where a guy can get have a few drinks and find comfort in the arms of a stranger. In that respect, New Orleans hasn't changed.

Walking down Bourbon Street Saturday afternoon brought a lot of things home. First, there's the smell. There ain't nothing like the smell of sour garbage. No siree, nothing like it. I'm here with an old friend who now lives in Monroe, Louisiana. We made it to several of the old haunts.

We went to dinner at Cochon's on Tchoupitoulas Street. If we'd have stopped at the first round of appetizers, we probably would have called it one of the best meals we ever had, but we didn't. We started with crawfish pie, barbequed ribs with pickled watermelon rind, chicken livers on toast, smeared with pepper jelly, and something else. Then we had boudin balls which to my taste were way too salty. Lee wanted to try their potato salad which was spiked with horseradish. Tasted just like potato salad spiked with horseradish which was pedestrian at best.

Faithful readers know I'm not much of a restaurant critic. I either like a place or don't. Cochon was alright. Not great, just okay. I won't remember much about it next week. I make better boudin balls, but I did like the use of pepper jelley with the chicken livers. I'll incorporate that one into my repetoire.

I did make it over to the Cafe du Monde for cafe au lait and beignets this morning--for old times sake. Maybe it's just me, but the beignets used to be smaller and tastier. I was underwhelmed by the memory. I guess when you go back to a whore house you first tried when you were young, you shouldn't expect the whores to be as fresh as they were when you were first there fifty years before.

The unexpected pleasure last night was the trio performing at the bar at the Royal Sonesta. Betty something or another sang Do You Know What it Means to Miss New Orleans and had me in tears. She was a class act.

We're off today for Alabama to see my cousins. I'll fill in the blanks later when the coffee kicks in.

Louisiana

Driving along Highway 190 between Opelousas and DeQuincy, there's a stretch where the highway seems to cut through a swamp, with deep drainage ditches on both sides of the road, making it a very forlorn place.  Along the highway for miles and miles are those little white crosses we have come to associate with shrines marking the spot of someones death, now remembered with a handful of plastic flowers tied to a wooden cross stuck in the ground.  I've always thought they should have two colors of crosses:  one color for those who were killed by drunk drivers, and another color for those drivers who killed someone else.  Maybe a third color signifying those drunks who only killed themselves.

When it comes to drinking, Louisiana has always stood apart from the states around it. In Louisiana, you only needed to be 18 to purchase booze legally, but no one ever asked for ID.   All you really needed was the money or a note from your mama.  High school and college kids came from hundreds of miles to drink and party at the bars and dance halls just inside the border.  There were half a dozen such clubs on Interstate 10 about six miles inside Louisiana from Texas.  There was generally one or two fatalities each week-end. 

The federal government made Louisiana change the drinking age from 18 to 21 or lose highway funding.  They did, begrudgingly.  It's harder than that to change a culture that not only allows but approves to public drinking even to excess.  When I was down there in 1998, my cousin and I went to a drive-through daiquiri shop.  Yeah, just what's needed:  giant slurpees made with rum-flavored everclear.

Anyone who's been to Mardi Gras will remember it for the drunken Bacchanalia that it is.  Mardi Gras is only one such drinking festival.  Every football game becomes an occasion to hang out in the quarter and get drunk.  Getting drunk in New Orleans has been a right of passage for young folk from around the country for generations.  Las Vegas may be popularizing the slogan, "what happens in Las Vegas stays in Las Vegas," but let me tell you what, that's been the operative truth of New Orleans for two hundred years.  New Orleans was where Southerners, Gay and straight, male and female, came to lose their virginity.

Louisiana's on my mind these days.  First, the Abramoffconnection.  Right in the middle of highway 190, just outside Kinner Kinder is the Grand Cousshatta Coushatta Casino.  Lovely place and a grand casino it is.  If you like to drink you can sit at your slot machine and drink for free all night.  This being Louisiana, there's no one to tell you to go home at 2 a.m.  Nor at 3, or 4, or 5.  Usually you run out of money and head for home, along 190, a hundred miles from anywhere.  Sleepy drivers who've been drinking for several hours is the reason for all those crosses along highway 190, but there's also the wildlife.

Ah yes, Louisiana, birthplace of so many of my memories.   

Mardi Gras!

Chris Rose was on the Newshour earlier this week and said "Of course we're going to celebrate Mardi Gras.  We celebrated Christmas, New Year's, so why wouldn't we celebrate our own holiday?"

I celebrate Mardi Gras.  It's important to me.  Always has been.  It's part of my Louisiana heritage.  I don't even think about it, it's just something I do.  I threw a big party last year, but I'm taking this year off.  That doesn't mean I don't celebrate.

Tomorrow, I'm making a king cake and a big pot of duck and sausage gumbo for work.  My staff is hosting an afternoon social on Monday for the newest justice and her staff.  Today I cooked the duck for the gumbo and made a compilation cd of Mardi Gras party music.  It totally rocked!  Anybody that wants a copy, just let me know.  I'll be happy to loan you one of my personal copies.  Wink.  Wink.

I'm so funny about recipes.  I believe in them but never follow them.  I have used the same recipe for duck and sausage gumbo for 30 years.  I couldn't find it.  I went online and searched.  I found plenty of recipes, but none of them even approximated my recipe.  I found one on the L.A. Times website, but it's the most awful, untested recipe that you'll ever encounter.  I don't really need a recipe for gumbo, I just like to have someone else's opinion. 

For the king cake, I'm doing a devil's food cake from a mix that has a praline type sauce and then is covered with whipped cream.  I'll write Happy Mardi Gras in purple icing on the top and put a decoration or two on it, and then slip a plastic baby in one of the pieces.  Works for me.  I don't know if you've ever had a New Orleans style king cake, but they're not very good.  They're basically a sweet dough pastry with yucky sweet icing dyed purple, green and gold--the Mardi Gras colors.  Mine will be ever so much better. 

Happy Mardi Gras, all.

 

There are Plenty of Heroes

The good folk over at BlondeSense decided to do some direct aid intervention to help the folks and critters evacuated out of New Orleans and the surrounding parishes.  BlondSense is a group blog.  Some of the writers I am more familiar with than others.  The writer of this entry, Anntichrist S. Coulter, is quick witted and sharp tongued. Go and read her report from the front lines.

Thanks, Canada

"I guess nobody knew we were here," said St. Bernard Parish Councilwoman Judy Hoffmeister, who on Wednesday recalled being trapped on the roof of a building, awaiting rescue, on the night of the storm. "Why wouldn't somebody say, 'Where's St. Bernard?' "

At first, the only rescuers on hand were the residents and officials of St. Bernard Parish. Two days after Katrina hit, a team of Canadian Mounties from Vancouver showed up to help, and a sprinkling of officials from neighboring parishes paid visits, but it would be days before there was any sign of assistance from the U.S. government.

"I'm saying, where's the Department of Defense?" said parish Sheriff Jack Stephens. "The Canadians can show up, but the Department of Defense can't get to St. Bernard Parish?"

The military eventually made food drops from helicopters, and locals insisted soldiers leave with a load of evacuees every time they landed. 

But 17 days after the storm, the resentment still runs deep.

This used to be Bush Country.  Used to be.

Those Mounties were from Vancouver to boot.  Thanks, eh?

Good Reading

Dear America,
 
I  suppose we should introduce ourselves: We're South  Louisiana.
 
We  have arrived on your doorstep on short notice and we apologize for that,
but we  never were much for waiting around for invitations. We're not much on 
formalities like that.
 
And we might be staying around your  town for a while, enrolling in your
schools and looking for jobs, so we wanted  to tell you a few things about us. We
know you didn't ask for this and neither  did we, so we're just going to have
to make the best of  it.
 
First of all, we thank you. For your money, your water,  your food, your
prayers, your boats and buses and the men and women of your  National Guards, fire
departments, hospitals and everyone else who has come to  our rescue.
 
We're a fiercely proud and independent people,  and we don't cotton much to
outside interference, but we're not ashamed to  accept help when we need it.
And right now, we need it.
 
Just  don't get carried away. For instance, once we get around to fishing
again, don't  try to tell us what kind of lures work best in your  waters.
 
We're not going to listen. We're stubborn that  way.
 
You probably already know that we talk funny and listen  to strange music and
eat things you'd probably hire an exterminator to get out  of your yard.
 
We dance even if there's no radio. We drink at  funerals. We talk too much
and laugh too loud and live too large and, frankly,  we're
suspicious of others who don't.
 
But we'll try  not to judge you while we're in your town.
 
Everybody loves  their home, we know that. But we love South  Louisiana with
a ferocity that  borders on the pathological. Sometimes we bury our dead in
LSU  sweatshirts.
 
Often we don't make sense. You may wonder why,  for instance - if we could
only carry one small bag of belongings with us on our  journey to your state -
why in God's name did we bring a pair of shrimp  boots?
 
We can't  really explain that. It is what it is.
 
You've probably heard  that many of us stayed behind. As bad as it is, many
of us cannot fathom a life  outside of our border, out in that place we call 
Elsewhere.
 
The only way you could understand that is if you  have been there, and so
many of you have. So you realize that when you strip  away all the craziness and
bars and parades and music and architecture and all  that hooey, really, the
best thing about where we come from is  us.
 
We are what made this place a national treasure. We're  good people. And
don't be afraid to ask us how to pronounce our names. It  happens all the time.
 
When you meet us now and you look into  our eyes, you will see the saddest
story ever told. Our hearts are broken into a  thousand pieces.
 
But don't pity  us. We're gonna make it. We're resilient. After all, we've
been rooting for the  Saints for 35 years. That's got to count for something.
 
OK,  maybe something else you should know is that we make jokes at
inappropriate  times.
 
But what the hell.
 
And one more  thing: In our part of the country, we're used to having
visitors. It's our way  of life.
 
So when all this is over and we move back home, we  will repay to you the
hospitality and generosity of spirit you offer to us in  this season of our
despair.
 
That is our promise. That is our  faith.

Chris Rose
Times-Picayune

I believe with all of my heart that good will come from this conflagration.  Some day soon the Big Easy will be that once again.  Of course it won't be the same.  Change is inevitable.  New Orleans is not the city I once knew back in 1977, the last time I lived there, anymore than I am the man I was then. 

What can we do to help New Orleans clean up and revitalize?  First, let's demand that our government have a proper attitude about its role in our lives.  Despite the way Bush and the GOPers think that all the government is supposed to do is just keep the trough full, its real reason for being is to serve us, to coordinate our interactions, to keep order, to respond to our changing needs of it, and yes, too often, it's supposed to rescue us from both natural and man-made calamity.  Bush looked a bit dazed yesterday when he accepted responsibility for the comedy of errors which were the first two weeks.  Perhaps he is connected now.  I seriously doubt it.  However, New Orleans's recovery does not depend on Bush. 

It depends on the people of New Orleans and us.  We need to keep giving money.  Give to whichever organization gets your attention.  Give often.  This problem is going be be with us for years.  I'm proud of you folks who gave money to help get some of the critters out.  I'm also proud of the millions of people who volunteered to take people into their homes.  I'm proud of my cousin who opened his home to his sister and her family.  Well, he didn't actually open his home, she broke in, but he said it was alright after the fact.

New Orleans will be back.  She has made hertself too valuable to the entire country.  I doubt most Americans have a clue as to how much commerce is conducted at that port.  The tourist magnet, the French Quarter, is intact. And just as America needs New Orleans's port, so will the boys and girls of Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, Tennessee, Arkansas need to find a place to "sew their oats," so to speak. For over 200 years, New Orleans has been the place where boys and girls, men and women, men and men, lose themselves in alcohol, music, and good food, and get laid.  Oh America, we need at least one cheap, tawdry and sinful city, don't you think? 

 

What Missed Bullet?

Bush says he thought New Orleans missed the bullet.  Okay, but what about Mississippi?  Not one single newspaper thought Mississippi missed the bullet.  Here's a few pictures of Bay St. Louis, Mississippi, before, during and immediately after Katrina went through.  Who's the administration trying to blame for this? 

He is undoubtedly the worst President we've ever had.

Just When You Thought It Couldn't Get Any Worse

New Orleans is broke.  "The city is bankrupt, the last payroll was the last cash we had," said Nagin, looking and sounding exhausted. "We have no money. ... I can't even make payroll for my police and fire [personnel]."  C. Ray Nagin, Mayor of new Orleans.