Boogie avec le Marquis le Marquis’ Intimate Diary

“Night In NOLA” THURSDAY, 24 JANUARY, 2001, NEW ORLEANS
Imagine you lived in New Orleans for four or five years, off and on, and you know everyone in town, for it is the kind of place where every social circle is interwoven eight times over like some complicated, in-bred family’s genealogy, and everyone knows everyone else by (at most) one degree of separation. Cousins, the lot.

You might think that’s a frightening thought — claustrophobic — too incestuous — rife with tiresome social politics and all that, but some way, somehow, New Orleans in its infinite laissez faire, laid-back attitude doesn’t care, and therefore any small-town, Peyton Place-ish dramas are thwarted.

Every night is a homecoming. Every night is a family reunion. Every night is the last night of your life and bids that you live it with the reverence and exuberance that such a momentous occasion should warrant.

Last night was, quite simply, a Night in NOLA.

Yesterday, I was exhausted from the night before, bartending till 4am. William and I were hanging out at my house, half-talking, half-napping. I had a couple vague assignations that I might or might not honour.

Wednesday early evenings at the Shim Sham Club for The Marcy Hours, usually from 6 – 8ish. Meet a small côterie of friends for our Algonquin hour. This event serves as calisthentics for the evening to come. Light cocktails to loosen the mind, and quick banter to sharpen it.

A stepping stone to get on to the real evening’s activities.

I had tentative plans to meet one of my Dear Readers (who had the good taste to sign my guestbook — have you? I reply to those, y’know…) who happens to live here and was attending a gallery opening. I get a great deal of guestbook signings and emails from you lovely people, but you always seem to live in Australia, Amsterdam, Alberta, and that’s just the A’s. So of course when I receive the occasional communiqué from someone local, I have to meet them, because chances are, I already have, or I know them by that proverbial one degree of separation.

My Dear Reader, Angel had already mentioned in one of her emails that Susie K. would be singing at the opening. There’s our one degree, already discovered, for I’ve known Susie K. for years. She taught me how to make a coffee martini. I’ll never get through with thanking her for that bit of intelligence.

So I’m at home, somewhat napping. Dreading getting up and going to the French Quarter. Ahh, but it’s Marcy Hours and it would be a shame if I miss it. Force myself into some odd outfit. Drive downtown.

Patti and the rest of the Shim Shamettes are all at the club doing a photo shoot for Playboy in the back theatre as promo for their burlesque troupe.

As chance would have it, Patti tells me, “Marquis! I’m going to this art opening at Zeitgeist later. You have to come with me. It’s a book-binding art thing. MatJames has a book there. Other people. So don’t leave, okay?”

Of course not. One does not say no to a gorgeous woman being shot by Playboy.

While waiting, I am growing weary. Wanting to duck out and go home and sleep, once again. But I stick it out.

We drive uptown to the gallery opening. I burst in on a rockstar-looking guy in the toilets. “Sorry,” I say and close the door, wondering whom I know who knows him. Sure enough, five minutes later, Patti says, “Marquis, this is Roxy. He’s just out from California…”

Because the genealogy interests me, later I ask her, “How do you know Roxy then?”

“Oh, I met him the other night when Shannon got shot in the ass riding her bike near my house. The cops were questioning us on my porch.”

“I seeeee… How’s Shannon doing?”

“It hurts when she laughs. She laughs a lot.”

A friend approaches Patti. Patti says, “Hey, did you see MatJames’s book?” She shows it to her friend.

Friend: “That’s the guy who does all the art in your house, right?” Patti concurs. “I really like that one painting with the poem on it.”

“Oh, that’s mine,” I say, and the thought returns, even though I don’t personally know everyone in town, I’ll bet I know a lot more people than I think I do just from living here, breathing here, noticing details, visiting galleries and others’ houses. This woman is also an artist, Patti tells me. Though I hadn’t met her, something tells me I’ve probably seen her art.

I’m growing weary again, still wanting nothing more than to go home.

Patti: “Would you drive me home? And can we pop into the Matador really quick so I can say happy birthday to Punchy?”

This is so precisely in the wrong direction from my house. I agree to take her.

Park on Decatur Street. “Wait, let’s go say hi to Genevieve at the Abbey first.” But of course.

Passing The Hideout: “Oh my god! It’s Dean!” We run in and find Dean bartending, Bobby W. hanging out, and so we sit down and have many drinks with them. (picture of me, Patti, Bobby W.)

Patti is outlining some of her upcoming glass projects to me on napkins. Eventually, Mick comes in. He was photographing the book-binding opening earlier. I think, this is how it works: if you see someone you know out, chances are, you’ll bump into them in at least three other establishments before the night is through.

Mick joins us for drinkies. His girlfriend is Shannon who was shot in the ass. I did not know this, but I am not surprised. We laugh about the tragedy. Because this is how you deal with tragedy in this whore of a town: you laugh at it. Somehow, laughing keeps tragedy at bay.

He pulls out his own bound book of stories he had written. I didn’t know he could write. Patti bids me eagerly to read a couple of pieces that she enjoyed. I do so, and am frankly amazed. His voice and stories sum up subtle and unique angles of what it’s like to live in New Orleans.

You will soon be seeing a short story or two by Mick in “Suffering Is Hip” Magazine.

Suddenly, it’s midnight. I have now been out for six hours when I had originally not wanted to be out at all, and then decided on “just a quick troll around town.”

That’s the way it works in NOLA.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

To understand New Orleans is as difficult as picking up wet pasta off linoleum.

Visit the Marquis’ Crush o’ the Week. Sorry, lads, she is already married.

“DJ, SAVE my life!” Wanna feel like a Marquis? Download the music he’s listening to. But do it quickly. This mp3 will be erased at the next diary entry. TODAY: Some quintessesntial New Orleans — Big Maybelle Smith, gettin’ all catty n’ shit: “Gabbin’ Blues” (2.4 MB)