When I lived in New York, whatever mood you're in, no matter how dowdy you look, if you walk down a street alone as woman, there is the inevitable catcall. Some comments are VERY discriptive and at times threatening (some bad stories, I tell ya). Being the kind of person who walks around in La-La land, these can interrupt fantasy world with a screech, to say the least. Of course, there was the friendlier, more polite comment once in awhile. and that was nice. My husband never believed just how rude the comments could get so I made him follow behind me one day at distance far away to suggest we were not together, but still within hearing range of the comments. Let's just say he never doubted again.
In New Orleans, the comments are more polite, for the most part. Example: Last year, I had put on a few New Orleans pounds and was going to the gym ( so I wouldn't die of a heart and lung attack on the soccer field). I was crossing Rampart, and these two men ran in front of the gym's doors, blocking my way and begged me not to go in, claiming that I shouldn't change a thing, it would ruin it all. Well, that was nice and done with humor and flair.
Now:
I had been warned by a bartender friend of mine that venturing out into certain uptown bars is flat out advised against for women, but I thought, pish-posh, I ain't ascared of no boys. But then, I went into one after soccer practice with a few male members of the team. I was one of two or three women in there, max, one playing video poker in such a way that she didn't count.
You know that feeling when you are in a restaurant and there is someone sitting in your "thinking view" (When in conversation, when thinking or listening, I often look over to my right, and in public situations, this often creates unwanted eye-locking moments with the same person over and over again)? Well, it was like my thinking view was panoramic, because if I looked anywhere but in the faces of the two guys I was chatting with, I locked eyes with a man. Then I realized that it was because every man in the room was actually staring at me. A compliment? Can't say it was. My friend, the bartender, says that if a woman walks into his bar, (which he now calls a salami fest, post K) where all the contractors and guys who came into town to work hang out, she is zoomed in on in this competition like survival of the fittest -who can get in a conversation first. Yeesh. I did not realize that it was actually giving me the creeps until I went to go use the ladies room and felt really wierd. I expressed this to my friends and one said that if they weren't there with me, as a "protective shield", if you will, the whole bar would close in.
It's freaky, but really sad for those lonely guys. It's not like I feel threatened, just oogled to the max.
I can say, however, that it is not like that in the Bywater bars or the Circle Bar. I haven't been back to the Saint yet.
Jenne
Amos out
Mid City Missals
Pink Car alert*
If you had passed through the St. Roch neighborhood before the storm, this house would have had a man sitting in front of it, surrounded by his collection, piled high above the foundation line of the house. The look of the collection was reflected in the backdrop that he created for it on his home. Many would have called it trash, but it was his art. Now, all that remains is Cookie Monster and a wonderfully and meticulously painted house. I would like to think that he evacuated with his pile...
Slimbolala is credited with the identification of the disease, I merely found a later example over in an area referred to as Gert Town. My favorite of his examples: The Case of The Potty-Mouthed Car.
The first of my trash pile installments. I stumbled upon two separate piles of mannequin heads in Mid-City one day. It was bizarre to see the huge piles, full of these faces. Strangely drawn to them? See a few more here.
Been feeling a little like this? 
I like to take pictures of things that are in New Orleans windows. This is on my desktop. I don't know who Joel is, but good job, buddy. This picture cheers me up.
