Nawlins
It was another six hour flight, but we arrived in New Orleans (“Nawlins”) to the locals, on Sunday, March 20 at 5 pm; with just enough daylight to pick up our baby blue Toyota Camry and drive to the St. Pierre hotel. It was to be our first real family vacation since Europe in 2003; mostly due to the fact that we’d all been in different places with different schedules. Both my brother and I were pleasantly surprised at the way my Mom and Dad were getting along so well…we’d found the silver lining to my Dad’s unfortunate luck at work; adversity had brought the two of them closer together.
The air in New Orleans was noticeably more humid than California’s dry smoggy air, and it smelled differently, too. For one thing, everyone smoked anywhere they pleased-in restaurants, in malls, at the airport. This would make it difficult for me because my Mother and I made a deal that I would smoke only six cigarettes a day since I couldn’t quit. She’d hold onto my packs for me until I got the psychological help to defeat my demons and clean up my life. I felt guilty about asking my mom for my six cigarettes for the day, and guiltier still when I had to ask for just one more.
One thing she did say that made sense, though, was that I worked so hard to be in law school to become an attorney, but I couldn’t ever really be a good attorney until I took care of my physical and mental health as well. As it is, the six cigarettes a day are just enough to keep my addiction alive; and perhaps even worse than having as many as I pleased.
During our first day in New Orleans, we had our first encounter with Burbon Street, the infamous location for the Mardi-Gras and all night flesh-fests. Burbon was a 5 minute walk from our hotel, and instantly, there was the unmistakable sound of a crowd feeding on itself. We’d caught the tail end of Mardi-Gras, and insecure girls desperate for attention found solace in bearing their tits in socially acceptable Burbon fashion. Instantly, Karl hated the scene and withdrew deep inside himself; the only part of him still functional, his ever-searching ears for the sound of true straight-up jazz.
The entire city seemed to be crammed into this little space; the place reminded me of an old circus whore walking around openly with her pimp and tricks as she gurgled out sex sauce from her beaten lips. I was instantly joyful as an old worn heel hit the back of my calf and rolled off onto the sidewalk; a couple looked at the heel, smiled at me, and I smiled back.
We chose an old Creole restaurant with a live band that sang in the ancient Creole-French language while TV screens in the background featured the distraught Amber Frey and pictures of the convicted Scott Peterson; which I found more interesting than the band itself. Me and my father’s sole purpose then became to photograph everything that moved.
Because there is a 3 hour difference, I found it hard to get up the next day, but barely made it to the 10 am breakfast at the hotel and made a friend of Clarence, one of the hotel’s staff. He was an industrious black man missing half his front teeth The next day we explored what is known as ‘The French Quarter,’ went to America’s Oldest Cathedral, and down Royal Street, filled with art galleries and old antique shops (which my mother absolutely loves). If there is one thing that can characterize my mother besides being an MD, and a strict mother, it is her love for antiques.
On the way to one such shop, a walking tour stopped right next to us and the guide explained that this was the very building in which Tenessee Williams lived and wrote his famous play Streetcar Named Desire. In reaction to Karl and my baffled expressions, a tourist shouted, “See what you can learn for free?” Because we were deterred from taking a picture and acting like tourists in front of a group of tourists, Karl and I would later spend the rest of our trip looking for this exact location.
Another search that was taking place was Karl’s search for venues that played free jazz similar to the likes of Charlie Haydin, Ornette Coleman, and Dizzy Gilespie. We encountered a group of musicians who were gambling in front of the Oldest Cathedral in America, foaming at the mouth in an effort to hold onto their winnings. One of them came up to me and said, “Now I know what I want for Christmas.” The others chimed in a chorus of agreement. I sat there wondering if this was the customary greeting.
Finding out Music is Blind
We took the sky blue Camry and went to the Homus House (Sugar Mansion), a plantation of old-a remnant from the deep south’s history. It was the same basic tale: European explorer finds a plot of land on which American-Indians had already settled, turned the place into a sugar plantation and built a mansion on so many broken backs. The tour guide, (a very friendly lady who told us all we were too thin and berated me for not ever learning to cook) told us that the last time the land was sold it went for a mere half a million.
The garden had several charming statuettes
We found a jazz club later that evening called Dana’s where my brother exchanged contact info with the handsome saxophonist and I took a picture of the wet concrete outside our hotel, St. Pierre’s, of my initials embedded onto the sidewalk with a plastic spoon.
A day later on my Mom’s birthday, she wore an airy skirt and announced that she felt pretty that day. I thought she was ravishing. I presented her with my gifts, a novel entitled ‘Revenge of the Middle Aged Woman’ and Lancome’s very pricey ($80) bottle of Rejuvenating cream. We did mostly nothing but get lost this day and end up at Riverwalk where I replaced the Addidas Superstars I left in Orlando with a new pair, and had dinner at the Quarter Square, a local restaurant that served the best food in New Orleans.
Currently I am back in Los Angeles on the porch at 12:12 noon breaking my six cigarette rule and having creamless coffee with a side of good old California sunshine.
The air in New Orleans was noticeably more humid than California’s dry smoggy air, and it smelled differently, too. For one thing, everyone smoked anywhere they pleased-in restaurants, in malls, at the airport. This would make it difficult for me because my Mother and I made a deal that I would smoke only six cigarettes a day since I couldn’t quit. She’d hold onto my packs for me until I got the psychological help to defeat my demons and clean up my life. I felt guilty about asking my mom for my six cigarettes for the day, and guiltier still when I had to ask for just one more.
One thing she did say that made sense, though, was that I worked so hard to be in law school to become an attorney, but I couldn’t ever really be a good attorney until I took care of my physical and mental health as well. As it is, the six cigarettes a day are just enough to keep my addiction alive; and perhaps even worse than having as many as I pleased.
During our first day in New Orleans, we had our first encounter with Burbon Street, the infamous location for the Mardi-Gras and all night flesh-fests. Burbon was a 5 minute walk from our hotel, and instantly, there was the unmistakable sound of a crowd feeding on itself. We’d caught the tail end of Mardi-Gras, and insecure girls desperate for attention found solace in bearing their tits in socially acceptable Burbon fashion. Instantly, Karl hated the scene and withdrew deep inside himself; the only part of him still functional, his ever-searching ears for the sound of true straight-up jazz.
The entire city seemed to be crammed into this little space; the place reminded me of an old circus whore walking around openly with her pimp and tricks as she gurgled out sex sauce from her beaten lips. I was instantly joyful as an old worn heel hit the back of my calf and rolled off onto the sidewalk; a couple looked at the heel, smiled at me, and I smiled back.
We chose an old Creole restaurant with a live band that sang in the ancient Creole-French language while TV screens in the background featured the distraught Amber Frey and pictures of the convicted Scott Peterson; which I found more interesting than the band itself. Me and my father’s sole purpose then became to photograph everything that moved.
Because there is a 3 hour difference, I found it hard to get up the next day, but barely made it to the 10 am breakfast at the hotel and made a friend of Clarence, one of the hotel’s staff. He was an industrious black man missing half his front teeth The next day we explored what is known as ‘The French Quarter,’ went to America’s Oldest Cathedral, and down Royal Street, filled with art galleries and old antique shops (which my mother absolutely loves). If there is one thing that can characterize my mother besides being an MD, and a strict mother, it is her love for antiques.
On the way to one such shop, a walking tour stopped right next to us and the guide explained that this was the very building in which Tenessee Williams lived and wrote his famous play Streetcar Named Desire. In reaction to Karl and my baffled expressions, a tourist shouted, “See what you can learn for free?” Because we were deterred from taking a picture and acting like tourists in front of a group of tourists, Karl and I would later spend the rest of our trip looking for this exact location.
Another search that was taking place was Karl’s search for venues that played free jazz similar to the likes of Charlie Haydin, Ornette Coleman, and Dizzy Gilespie. We encountered a group of musicians who were gambling in front of the Oldest Cathedral in America, foaming at the mouth in an effort to hold onto their winnings. One of them came up to me and said, “Now I know what I want for Christmas.” The others chimed in a chorus of agreement. I sat there wondering if this was the customary greeting.
Finding out Music is Blind
We took the sky blue Camry and went to the Homus House (Sugar Mansion), a plantation of old-a remnant from the deep south’s history. It was the same basic tale: European explorer finds a plot of land on which American-Indians had already settled, turned the place into a sugar plantation and built a mansion on so many broken backs. The tour guide, (a very friendly lady who told us all we were too thin and berated me for not ever learning to cook) told us that the last time the land was sold it went for a mere half a million.
The garden had several charming statuettes
We found a jazz club later that evening called Dana’s where my brother exchanged contact info with the handsome saxophonist and I took a picture of the wet concrete outside our hotel, St. Pierre’s, of my initials embedded onto the sidewalk with a plastic spoon.
A day later on my Mom’s birthday, she wore an airy skirt and announced that she felt pretty that day. I thought she was ravishing. I presented her with my gifts, a novel entitled ‘Revenge of the Middle Aged Woman’ and Lancome’s very pricey ($80) bottle of Rejuvenating cream. We did mostly nothing but get lost this day and end up at Riverwalk where I replaced the Addidas Superstars I left in Orlando with a new pair, and had dinner at the Quarter Square, a local restaurant that served the best food in New Orleans.
Currently I am back in Los Angeles on the porch at 12:12 noon breaking my six cigarette rule and having creamless coffee with a side of good old California sunshine.