Oddments
The other day at work, I just happened to look out the window with enough time to glimpse an upright taxidermy alligator being moved down the street via repurposed skateboards. I have no idea from whence the 'gator came, no clue as to where its eventual destination was, but it took an entire crew of people to navigate it down the cracked and uneven sidewalks of the French Quarter. Maybe fewer people would have been required if the chosen method of conveyance had not been skateboards. The world may never know.
In most people's lives, I think, an instance such as that might have gone unnoticed. Or maybe, it's something they might have noticed, filed away as odd, and maybe even reflected on, from time to time, as a sort of “weirdness litmus test” in their lives. “Is this odder than the alligator incident?” they might ask themselves.
For me, however, weird things happen all the time. All the time. And I notice most of them. I think partially this is because, having established a history of making note of unusual things, I subconsciously keep and eye out for them now, as the notion that I may yet one day write a best-selling memoir is practically always tickling at the back of my mind. Also, I think, I'm a magnet for Odd.
One day at work last year, just before Mardi Gras, I was opening the store, and I think it was a Saturday. It was slow outside despite the time of year and the gorgeous early springtime weather, and we had WWOZ blasting away on the radio. The DJ that hour was playing a sort of “best of” compilation of some of the area's incredibly talented Brass Bands, and the music was upbeat and vivacious and made me want to dance, even at 9 in the morning. A few minutes into one particular song, I paused, and looked up at the radio, which was a weird thing to do. Why do we tend to look intently at something when we are trying to hear something better? Its not like we listen with our eyes. What I was trying to listen for, and what I ultimately discovered to be correct, was whether or not the energetic piece of music currently being played was, in fact, a wordless, brass-instrument covered version of Lady Gaga's “Bad Romance”. It so was, and it was so awesome.
But that's not the whole of this story. The tale gets better. Because I was looking up at just the right moment, I saw with my eyes something even stranger than what I heard with my ears. Together, the experience sums up so much of what I love about living in New Orleans: as I looked up, I noticed a young man ride by on his bicycle. On the sidewalk. The man was wearing a pom-pom bedecked, obviously hand-made knit cap of the gloriously ear-flapped variety that appeared very much to be of the sort that Jayne's mother might have made for him, on Firefly. The man on the bicycle was also wearing a skirt, but not just any skirt: a tattermedallion patchwork confection of gypsy-punk glory, full and voluminous and absolutely baffling as to how the gentleman in question was managing to ride a bicycle while wearing it and not getting it caught in the gears.
There's more.
Because the man in a skirt and a ridiculous knitted hat also was wearing, on his shoulder, a kitten. A tiny, meowling, white fluffball of a very young kitten, perched on the man's shoulder as if it were king of the kitten world, and wearing a small, obviously handmade harness that was attached to the man's backpack. It was just about the most oddball and adorable thing ever.
Also, both of the bike's tires were flat.
That's the French Quarter for you. But the weirdest, most wonderful, most amazing thing I have memory of is far better than either of those stories, and it happened right outside my own front door.
It was early February 2010 and I was ill. I had caught a mild strain of what was probably influenza, and had been laid up all day and the day before with the usual symptoms: fever, chills, body aches, wracking cough and absolutely no energy at all whatsoever. I was misery personified so far as I was concerned, when after a while, off in the distance, I heard a sound. It might have been a car horn, or a radio. Whatever it was, it was loud enough to catch my attention by far away enough that I couldn't discern what it was. You know how it is when you hear something you just can't place, however: you stop what you are doing, you turne your hear in the direction of the sound, you tune out everything else, and you listen. You really listen. After a few seconds, I heard the sound again. It sounded like a marching band. There is a high school not terribly far from my apartment, I though. Maybe the band is practicing for a Mardi Gras parade. Not sooner had that thought crossed my mind, than another one surfaced: the sound of the band was coming closer. Maybe it was going to march by my house!
I was feeling unwell, but liked the idea of seeing a marching band, so I threw some clothes on and headed toward my front door, where I was greeted by something awesome: there was a marching band outside my door all right, but not a high school marching band. It was a mis-match, hodge-podge band of musicians, wearing various interpretations of “band attire” from over the years: vintage drill team jackets, ancient drum major hats, etc. Those who could not scrounge up “band attire” had opted for a vintage look in general: the girls wore skirlts and hose and heels, the boys wore slacks and arm garters. It was wonderful.
And then, what followed the first band was even better: a cluster of people with R/C controllers in hand, maneuvering around the potholed street tiny radio-controlled cars, each decked out with tiny strings of battery-operated strings of LEDs. Behind the R/C cars were another group of people, each dragging behind or pushing ahead teensy, tiny floats, like regualr Mardi Gras floats shrunken down and made miniature. Some floats were on custom-built chassis, others were simply Radio Flyer wagons given new use for the occasion. The people dragging the tiny floats also had tiny throws, so that I cause a tiny string of beads and a large plastic pearl glued to a fragment of oyster shell, and my neighbor acquired a miniature King Cake.
Following the tiny floats was another band, much like the first. They disappeared down the street, and the Tiny Float Parade was over. Suffice to say, I was considerably cheered up by the experience.
“In order to lead a fascinating life-one brimming with art, music, intrigue, and romance-you must surround yourself with precisely those things.”
Haven't posted here in forever. That usually means things have been good. This time, it means they are excellent. I've fallen in love.
In most people's lives, I think, an instance such as that might have gone unnoticed. Or maybe, it's something they might have noticed, filed away as odd, and maybe even reflected on, from time to time, as a sort of “weirdness litmus test” in their lives. “Is this odder than the alligator incident?” they might ask themselves.
For me, however, weird things happen all the time. All the time. And I notice most of them. I think partially this is because, having established a history of making note of unusual things, I subconsciously keep and eye out for them now, as the notion that I may yet one day write a best-selling memoir is practically always tickling at the back of my mind. Also, I think, I'm a magnet for Odd.
One day at work last year, just before Mardi Gras, I was opening the store, and I think it was a Saturday. It was slow outside despite the time of year and the gorgeous early springtime weather, and we had WWOZ blasting away on the radio. The DJ that hour was playing a sort of “best of” compilation of some of the area's incredibly talented Brass Bands, and the music was upbeat and vivacious and made me want to dance, even at 9 in the morning. A few minutes into one particular song, I paused, and looked up at the radio, which was a weird thing to do. Why do we tend to look intently at something when we are trying to hear something better? Its not like we listen with our eyes. What I was trying to listen for, and what I ultimately discovered to be correct, was whether or not the energetic piece of music currently being played was, in fact, a wordless, brass-instrument covered version of Lady Gaga's “Bad Romance”. It so was, and it was so awesome.
But that's not the whole of this story. The tale gets better. Because I was looking up at just the right moment, I saw with my eyes something even stranger than what I heard with my ears. Together, the experience sums up so much of what I love about living in New Orleans: as I looked up, I noticed a young man ride by on his bicycle. On the sidewalk. The man was wearing a pom-pom bedecked, obviously hand-made knit cap of the gloriously ear-flapped variety that appeared very much to be of the sort that Jayne's mother might have made for him, on Firefly. The man on the bicycle was also wearing a skirt, but not just any skirt: a tattermedallion patchwork confection of gypsy-punk glory, full and voluminous and absolutely baffling as to how the gentleman in question was managing to ride a bicycle while wearing it and not getting it caught in the gears.
There's more.
Because the man in a skirt and a ridiculous knitted hat also was wearing, on his shoulder, a kitten. A tiny, meowling, white fluffball of a very young kitten, perched on the man's shoulder as if it were king of the kitten world, and wearing a small, obviously handmade harness that was attached to the man's backpack. It was just about the most oddball and adorable thing ever.
Also, both of the bike's tires were flat.
That's the French Quarter for you. But the weirdest, most wonderful, most amazing thing I have memory of is far better than either of those stories, and it happened right outside my own front door.
It was early February 2010 and I was ill. I had caught a mild strain of what was probably influenza, and had been laid up all day and the day before with the usual symptoms: fever, chills, body aches, wracking cough and absolutely no energy at all whatsoever. I was misery personified so far as I was concerned, when after a while, off in the distance, I heard a sound. It might have been a car horn, or a radio. Whatever it was, it was loud enough to catch my attention by far away enough that I couldn't discern what it was. You know how it is when you hear something you just can't place, however: you stop what you are doing, you turne your hear in the direction of the sound, you tune out everything else, and you listen. You really listen. After a few seconds, I heard the sound again. It sounded like a marching band. There is a high school not terribly far from my apartment, I though. Maybe the band is practicing for a Mardi Gras parade. Not sooner had that thought crossed my mind, than another one surfaced: the sound of the band was coming closer. Maybe it was going to march by my house!
I was feeling unwell, but liked the idea of seeing a marching band, so I threw some clothes on and headed toward my front door, where I was greeted by something awesome: there was a marching band outside my door all right, but not a high school marching band. It was a mis-match, hodge-podge band of musicians, wearing various interpretations of “band attire” from over the years: vintage drill team jackets, ancient drum major hats, etc. Those who could not scrounge up “band attire” had opted for a vintage look in general: the girls wore skirlts and hose and heels, the boys wore slacks and arm garters. It was wonderful.
And then, what followed the first band was even better: a cluster of people with R/C controllers in hand, maneuvering around the potholed street tiny radio-controlled cars, each decked out with tiny strings of battery-operated strings of LEDs. Behind the R/C cars were another group of people, each dragging behind or pushing ahead teensy, tiny floats, like regualr Mardi Gras floats shrunken down and made miniature. Some floats were on custom-built chassis, others were simply Radio Flyer wagons given new use for the occasion. The people dragging the tiny floats also had tiny throws, so that I cause a tiny string of beads and a large plastic pearl glued to a fragment of oyster shell, and my neighbor acquired a miniature King Cake.
Following the tiny floats was another band, much like the first. They disappeared down the street, and the Tiny Float Parade was over. Suffice to say, I was considerably cheered up by the experience.
“In order to lead a fascinating life-one brimming with art, music, intrigue, and romance-you must surround yourself with precisely those things.”
Haven't posted here in forever. That usually means things have been good. This time, it means they are excellent. I've fallen in love.