After some very peppy pep-talking from Spike, I got back on the horse and applied myself. Donna from Chez Nous had sent me a Facebook invitation to the block party and parade-watching action at Markey’s in the Bywater, so I invited Matt and Kerri, since they had never seen a parade in New Orleans before.
They picked me up in a cab and we got some beers. Fortunately, it was a beautiful day, a bit colder than the Saturday parade but still—the crowd, the costumes, the band playing on the porch of the house across the street, people dancing in the street. Didn’t feel cold.
The parade was wonderful and Kerri was charmed by it—the walking crews equally charmed by her. (Note to self: stop going to parades with cute blondes.) I picked up some beads on my own, sime pity beads from Kerri, a green-and-white garter, a lucky green coin or two and the inevitable silk flowers. After a few hours of this and my forcing Matt to dance with me, we cabbed it to Blacksmith Shop and from there to walked to the Funky Pirate to see Big Al.
Kerri loves Big Al. Loves-loves-loves him; she told me about him last year but I never made it up to see him. (The Funky Pirate is on Bourbon Street, at the beginning of the thick of it.)
The place is big and divey, with tables and a long bar down the side. Big Al and the Blues Masters crowd onto a small stage, behind which is the courtyard with tables and a vending machine. It was downright cold by that time. We sat at the bar near the door to the courtyard.
When I say “crowd,” I mean it. Al Carson weighs in at around 550 pounds and does. Not. Move. Then again, he doesn’t have to. Dude is sex on a stick, but it’s all in his face, his voice and his performance. Kerri requested her favorite song and pressed an extra greenback into her contribution with whispered instructions. Apparently, after his centerpiece number, “Strokin’,” he chooses a girl from the audience to carry around the tip bucket for him. She did not want to be that girl.
“Strokin’” is as dirty as it sounds, a mid-tempo blues with lots of let’s-call-them-narrative talking parts in between. It lasts about 15 minutes and is the nastiest, most entertaining time you’ll ever have hearing about a 550-pound man have sex. We were drunk and exhausted; I walked home and they headed to the Marriott on Canal.
Turns out, by the way, the poor pair did take a carriage ride and got stuck with the “OVUH on your left” guy. They should have asked me.
It occurs to me that when I came out last March, I worried about not speaking to anyone but pigeons and bartenders. Among pigeons, I count no acquaintances, but I can tell you the names of maybe 100 retail and hospitality workers, and only two lawyers. It’s like the exact reverse of D.C.
