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Krewe du Vieux Soldats: Fading, fading… January 20, 2008

Posted by The Typist in Carnival, cryptical envelopment, Dancing Bear, Krewe du Vieux, Mardi Gras, New Orleans, New York, Rebirth, We Are Not OK.
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This morning’s exchange of emails among the New Orleans bloggers who march in Krewe du Vieux:

Me, 9:32 am: Subject Line: Ughhhhhh Message: Who turned on the sun?

Maitri, 10:10 am: Just woke up. Hobbling around kitchen in search of coffee and bloody marys. Oy.

Karen, 10:20 am: My fallen arches are killing me.

Peter, 11:29 am: My feet are still cold and my legs are in need of an amputation or something.

Kim, 11:41 am: Can ya’ll please keep your voices down? It’s making my head hurt.

On another note, my last blog post was perfectly prescient: two years running now I’ve managed fabulously drunk and I managed to not find several of the bloggers in a space of a few thousand square feet. That tiny space was packed, however, with the skimmed cream of New Orleans insanity. I tried several times to get back to Mama Roux’s table to try to cadge a jello shot and find Kim, but it was simply impossible to squeeze back there. (I finally got one from my co-worker, L.H.; questioning him and his charming wife still didn’t uncover the secret of how two newcomers to New Orleans managed to get into MR).

Peter, Grace, Lisa, Ashley and his bride looked fabulous in their seersucker robes and cocktail hats honoring Lafacadio Hearn. I also never managed to squeeze my well-lubricated body into C.R.A.P.S’ tight cranny (now cut that out, filthy minded old sot), and so I never did see Matri, either. I did see Ray, who walked with C.R.A.P.S. as security. Bec of New Orleans Slate marched with us and shared our throws since she rejoined our Krewe at the last moment when the captain sponsored her to march. (Hurray for Billy). She’d been out of circulation mostly taking care of her husband after his terrible accident involving his mule and carriage.

I lost my flask of Absenthe somewhere early along the parade route. (Dude! I’ll give you a hundred dollars if you drink the greed shit in that bottle in the street). This was probably a good thing, as a little absinthe goes a long way. Thankfully d.b.a was close to hand, and in spite of their sociopatheic manager-cum-bouncer we finished up the night with a raft of good German beer. I didn’t know a single name on the band list but spent an hour or more scrunched up at the front of the stage and had a blast. It was all good.

Hey, Mr. Blakely: I found your cranes October 20, 2007

Posted by The Typist in Cranes, cryptical envelopment, Dancing Bear, Debrisville, Katrina, New Orelans, New Orleans, New York, NOLA, Rebirth, Recovery, Remember, Toulouse Street, We Are Not OK.
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Cranes Over Ground Zero

I found them towering over Ground Zero, what our esteemed mayor once referred to as “a big hole in the ground”.

Thoroughly Modern Monk October 15, 2007

Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, Dancing Bear, New Orleans, New York, NOLA, oddities.
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Last night in Time Square, I saw a monk in full saffron and purple, head neatly shaven, walking into the Olive Garden carrying nearly half a dozen shopping bags with an Old Navy the outermost with a visible label. I tried to get the camera and run him down, but my wife and daughter thought better of it.

New York, like San Francisos (and New Orleans for that matter) has its compliment of professional or sem-pro oddballs haunting each places most public spaces, but New York so far seems to have a higher compliment of genuine, accidental oddities of the human species.

I seem to have gotten a handle on navigating the city mostly due to a remembered fragment of lyric: “New York, New York/It’s a helluva town./The Bronx is up/And the Battery’s down” which enables me to remember which train to get on. It helps that I can seem to get to just about anyplace I want on the Yellow line trains, and there’s a stop right outside my hotel at Harold Square (Broadway and 32nd). I have to get my daughter up to see Columbia tomorrow, but I’ve stared at the map long enough to figure out the main transfer point, the equivalent of DC’s Metro Center, where we can hop onto the red trains uptown.

If you’re wondering why I was near an Olive Garden, remember I’m travelling with kids and seem to keep tossing off 20 dollar bills like a drunk float rider unloading the last of his throws at the end of Canal Street. I’ve reconciled myself (or at least keep repeating to myself) that this is not an eating vacation. (This is not an eating vacation. This is not an eating vacation. Ok, that’s enough for now).

Today I will get into one of the recomended deli’s. And will make reservations this time for Carmine’s for my pasta and sauce obsessed German-Irish-French clan. I have to eat something decent, because tomorrow night is shows and I suspect I will stuff some Subway or something in the kids before we head out rather than try to squeeze in a proper meal, since the girl’s curtain time for Wicked is 7:30. Matt and I passed on that in favor of Spamalot.

Ok, enough postcard drivel. I need to get myself some coffee and a proper bagel somewhere