Tag Archives: tunes

Yeah, you right!

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I spent yesterday strolling the garden district (hoping to run into Anne Rice so I can kick her in her fat crotch). So many mansions, each more elaborate than the next. I mean, servants quarters and a mercedes being buffed in the drive kinda fancy. It got pretty hot, so there was nothing else to do but sit on the porch of a great hotel, having fried catfish and mint juleps.

In the evening we went to Mama K-Doe’s, which is a bar and shrine set up for the legend Ernie K-Doe “Emperor of the Universe”, by his wife Antoinette. K-Doe is like the Little Richard of New Orleans. this place is packed with memorabilia- from a life sized dummy of the Emperor himself to his drivers license and cell phone. Then we zipped over to another bar to see the Treme Brass Band. Think Louis Armstrong singing “Gimme My Money Back”. It was really great. Their bass drum player is Uncle Lionel Batiste- he is 71 and very sharp with an eye for the ladies. At intermission he came to my table and offered me his autograph- he drew me a little picture of himself with his drum! Did I already say it was really great? I mean really really great? At one we went to still another bar to see Sun Pie and the Louisiana Sunspots. They played cuban african, blues, and Zydeco music. Really Great! I wolfed down black bean and chicken quesadillas and the accordion sang! (hee, the drummer was from the band War. You know, Why Can’t We Be Friends?) Did I already say it was really great?

Shake it!

-xo

ps. today I am having dinner at Paul Prudhomme’s restaurant. Nothing to do in this heat but have a mint julep and bake on the deck for a while until suppertime. Where I will have a vast quantity of tasty food, whose contents I will detail to you (this being a BLOG and all).

When the levee breaks…

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The wild and beautiful sprawl of New Orleans made me quickly forget the Ugly Americans I was surrounded by en-route. Ok, I did not exactly forget them (they talked loud, dressed loud, and even smelled volubly) but my culture shock dissipated. New Orleans. Right. There was a bit of flooding here- the rising Mississippi. The cabbie mistook me for a local because I went straight from the airport to a bar. The Half Moon. It was not exactly in a ghetto, but a ramshackle part of town. I have never seen such a variety and splendor of Shacks. In the evening, I went to the French Quarter to see a local band extravaganza- they were a mixture of Tom Waits, southern gothic and carny music- with a pump organ, standup bass, violin, walkie talkies, megaphones, and a rubber fish. The singer dressed like an old fashioned undertaker with mad hair and a john waters moustache. It was full, beautiful, and melancholy music followed by stamping and howling. Amazing. I rambled the narrow streets of the quarter, eating spicy food, drinking bourbon and glimpsing the river. Then my friends took me to Snake and Jake’s Christmas Tree Lounge, which was really a pressed tin shack covered in christmas tree lights.

Welcome to the Last Bohemia!

-xo from the Road

The Ship Song

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It just goes without saying that a Nick Cave show is a rad thing. He flailed and growled and punched the air with his fists. He tickled the ivories. Not quite the same without Blixa, medicine though. Who else murders a guitar with that kind of grace and contempt? Still, it was a great show and hallelujah we all did cry. Then it was up the gangway for the glitterati party. The word “honored” was stamped on my forearm upon entrance. The boys from the band were all there, besuited and besotted. I did not get Nick to cha cha with me, sadly. But it was really an amusing evening, downing Kuba Librés with Conway Savage and spinning around the deck poles. Alexander Hacke put on Slayer. I passed my catalogue around in the bathroom. Fancy!

xo

It must be jelly, cuz jam don’t shake like that

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My friend Jim has informed me that its peanut butter jelly time, as they say.

Tonight its Lambchop on toast. I am going to wriggle into a slinky something for the Nick Cave show. Then to an after-party. Its on a boat. See, I told you I would not be averse to a cocktail on Nick’s yacht. I wish you could come, Lickety, you have such a way on the docks! My only goal for the evening is not to get so drunk that I am falling down and acting like a retard. Like most Saturday nights.

xo

The Forceps Is Introduced

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Do you like songs about dental practice and the “Impossible Dream” of a well-made shirt? Do you love Telly Savalas? Thats only the beginning, kats and kittens. It’s all in Here.

My pal j.o.writes “I think my favorites might be Tableau of a Bladder Operation or 1966 American Lung Association Flu Jingle, but really they all have a special place in my heart.” Thanks j.o.!

Linoleum!

smooch

These are a few of my favorite things

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lambchop

Steele’s favorite hobby might be bouncing the pectoral muscles of his well-oiled torso, but he is a man of culture, too. The other day we went to see the Malevich show at the Guggenheim. Which day? Wednesday, the free day!

Steele

I was trying on dresses at the Chinese shop down the street. He does not have a changing room, but he set a wooden screen in the middle of the shop for me. I happened to be wearing stockings and garters as I slung my dress over the top like a james bond villainess. People were swanning in and out, to buy tea or ask for change for the tram. I have a feeling I should have gotten paid for this.

I am feeling underrated, underappreciated. Except by the panhandling punks in front of my door. They trail their sticky pink-eye up and down my body as they holler for change and snigger for me to take them with me. I tell ’em to fuck off and sing the happiness song to myself:

“Whenever I start to mope and pout

And there’s nothing left in my soul,

I check the toilet paper and if we’re out

I buy another roll!”

oh! Here is something else that really makes my day. Flopsy mopsy and some hardcore midgets! Rockin’!

smooch

Happiness Song

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lambchop

Am I the only person that imagines, when i walk past a hair salon, that the stylists are turning their heads and wondering who my hair designer could be and are gagging to have a crack at my locks? I hoist my pixie nose in the air and march on by, as if to say “No! Never!”

Vanity is truly a consuming hobby.

My darling Stu sang me the Happiness Song because he hates to see me all mopey trousers.

“Whenever I’m feeling down and blue

And sorry for myself

I get some staples and some glue

And I’m happy as an elf!”

smooch

Round Three!

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lambchop

I feel worse than a cold plate of clam sauce, sickness as my cold has regrouped and is knocking me about for a third time. But I am really just plain angry. I have been making a prince valiant effort to continue working in my studio. And in addition to the fabulous sundry cocktails, salve I have been taking vitamins and drinking vegetable juice. In other words, treatment I need this like I need a bra with three cups. Or a prosthetic nose or a Shania Twain record.

I am reminded of the latter because one of my housemates has wretched taste in music. And as the native english speaker of the house, I am often called upon to translate song lyrics of such noteworthy talents as Incubus. After one round of a song that contained the line “it goes round and round and round. like an existential carousel…”, I left the room telling her these things were not meant for earnest contemplation.

smooch

You Shriek

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lambchop

These guys are really brilliant. And no human should be without their new album, site Unreal Cities. I am listening this very minute to their snazzy cover of Burning Skies. Also a killer version of Flock of Seagulls “Wishing”.

I had a soggy weekend that bled into this week. Two acquaintances of mine have turned into a regular Stella and Stanley show, ask complete with bottles being thrown out of windows and throat searing shrieking. People like this should not really exist outside of film. But if they must, I am of the opinion I should not know them. I know no woes- I have really large sunglasses and am trip-trapping gaily along shoving pieces of chocolate caffeinated gum into my mouth.

smooch