Every year during Jazz Fest a guy in The Garden District puts up a display on his porch, in solidarity with the event.
New Orleans is not a big city — these days it contains only about 350,000 souls, most of whom seem to believe that they’re part of one big neighborhood, at least during times of festival, and there are festivals in New Orleans most weeks of the year.
Augustus St. Gaudens’s great statue of Sherman, Fifth Avenue, New York — one of the things about the city I miss the most.
[Photo © 2012 Huger Foote]
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Jim Russell’s, on Magazine Street in New Orleans. There are a zillion LPs in this shop, but so disorganized that searching for anything becomes a bewildering chore. I picked up a couple of musical soundtracks, which I’ve yet to test on a turntable, but felt that there must be even finer treasures lurking on the shelves — it was just too much work to find out.
Still, it was wonderful to be surrounded by so much vinyl, and the chaos had its own kind of charm.
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. . . with elephants.
A magical photograph by my sister Libba, recording a magical moment at Governor’s Camp in Kenya in the 1970s.
Shallow focus . . .
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With Bill and Adrienne at Fat Harry’s on St. Charles Avenue in New Orleans, streetcar in background . . .
Oreana, Nevada in 1867.
O’Sullivan worked for Matthew Brady and Alexander Gardner during the Civil War and took many classic images of that conflict. After the war he traveled with various government-sponsored expeditions into the far West, recording the American frontier just as the Transcontinental Railroad was poised to open it up for expanded settlement and exploitation.
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Sensacional!
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No civilized home should be without this stunning Blu-ray edition of The Seachers and the means to play it on a large-screen television. It’s as close as you will probably ever get, these days, to seeing a pristine Technicolor print projected in a theater — which is to say as close as you will probably ever get to one of the greatest works of art created in America and one of the greatest performances (by Wayne) ever committed to film.
Bill, Paul and Adrienne outside Commander’s Palace in New Orleans, just a couple of blocks from where Bill and Adrienne live. A visit to this legendary restaurant, where you find the apotheosis of creole cooking, should be a life goal for anyone who has not experienced it.
Let’s step inside and have a cocktail before ordering . . .
Now, after the meal, we can pass through the kitchen on our way out — traversing sacred territory . . .
How fine it was, a meal to remember, as always at Commander’s Palace.
If you’ve been following the tales of the Saturni, you know that they will stop at nothing. Here an infected libido proceeds from sly, delirious arousal to full-on erotic nightmare. The Saturni can make your wildest dreams come true, then turn on you — posses and consume you in absolute horror. If Poe had written this story, he would have burned it. A. P. Bowman has no such scruples.
You can buy the story for 99 cents here — Devil’s Trumpet