A silly piece of business really. Pure theater. Sanctioned unreality. Interactive fantasy. With music breaking out on every Royal Street corner. But that’s why you go. As you have thrice before. A couple of times in conjunction with a convention in the advertising profession. An alternative silly piece of business in itself.
The whole Mardi Gras subculture is fascinating to say the least. Perfectly sane adults donning masks and wearing outlandish costumes? Especially the locals, who are members of krewes. Which are social organizations who flaunt their allegiance through endless streams of parades. Or streams of toilet paper, from one krewe in particular, the Tucks. Their King, standing above an enormous toilet, along with his minions, spoofs the gilded thrones of other major carnival monarchs. One has to love such mischievous whimsy.
The Krewe of Rex King is a particular target of the Tucks, as he is often referred to as the King of Carnival and traditionally receives a key to the city from the New Orlean's mayor.
When I was last there, the Rex King was a gentleman named Hardy B. Fowler. In real life, a CPA and Director of Hancock Holding Company with its 37 billion dollars in assets. He epitomized for me, the incongruent insanity of Mardi Gras. Wherein this paragon of finance, now in full regalia on this throne, had morphed into an unglued adolescent playing dress-up? Is this a man you’d want managing your assets?
Of course the festivities will have begun long before you arrive, starting on January 6 (Twelfth Night), with the procession inspired by Joan of Arc, the unofficial saint of New Orleans. It is a veritable roving Renaissance festival, with lots of kings, queens, knights, monks —a walking chess board. Which first took to the streets in 2008.
But for all the dressing up, there are of course, those who dress down. In some cases, all the way down. As I once noted a dozen years ago on here: “A woman at around noon, strolls up Bourbon St. totally naked. Except of course for paint on her breasts, and paint where a thong might go.”
Baring one’s breasts for cheap beads and trinkets, is a tradition claimed to have been started in 1976 by Ann Lyneah Curtis (should this come up at your Super Bowl party). Though my partner and I plan to merely don a mask and assume the role of voyeur, showing no flesh (I hope), as we inch our way up Bourbon Street with a Sazerac in plastic cup in hand. Such public imbibing is permitted here. Seemingly, pretty much everything is. Though caution be advised: What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. What happens in NOLA, stays on the internet.
As for trinkets and “throws,” one can come by them in interesting ways if one is immersed in the spirit of it all. As I noted years ago...
“Walking down the dying streets, a gregarious burly black man on a bike calls to us. Next thing you know he and I are crooning 'Up on the Roof.' He then does an amazing solo rendition of 'Amazing Grace.' He is tipped well. As a token to me, now his partner, he offers his neckwear of beads and plastic breasts. 'You the Tit Meister,' he proclaims."
All politically incorrect of course. ("But that was then....etc."). But when have I ever been so adorned? The subject of such a proclamation? Not even at college commencement. And before my colleagues no less. Anyway, I would wonder what had become of that man in the devastation of Katrina two years later. A stark counterpoint to these fun and games.
Miraculously, the streets become transformed at midnight of Fat Tuesday in this, at heart, a Catholic city. The party is over. The streets are instantly cleaned. Ash Wednesday and Lent kick in. Which will take me to St Louis Cathedral, the oldest active Roman Catholic Cathedral in the U.S. It was originally built in 1727 and dedicated to King Louis IX of France. There, I will receive ashes and be reminded that we are dust and to dust we shall return. Greatly speeded up if one opts for cremation, of course. (Not my cup of Sazerac...)
But not today. Today is about not acting your age. Which is advancing at the speed of a runaway train.
This month, we'll welcome in the New Year, six weeks after the fact, by way of the 167th Mardi Gras. The first having been on February 24, 1857; for you chronologists out there. And as the Cajun-French saying goes down there, Laissez les Bon Temps Rouler. “Let the good times roll!”
Going with the Flow
Shakespeare famously mused:
“What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell just as sweet.”
This came to mind when I came across... Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi. And I was off and running. Really? Would Csikszentmihalyi by another name not be sweeter? Or at least pronounceable?
An eye chart at the front end, and a repetition of his given name on the back nine? And I'd've asked Mr. Csikszentmihalyi, if that second "mihaly" was really necessary? And with an added "i" at the end no less?
Having had sport with this gentleman's name, and as I emerge from a relapse into my 15-year old self ... just who was he? I sought out Wikipedia.
"Mihaly Robert Csikszentmihalyi (/ˈmiːhaɪ ˈtʃiːksɛntmiːˌhɑːjiː/ MEE-hy CHEEK-sent-mee-HAH-yee,
A Hungarian-American psychologist. He recognized and named the psychological concept of "flow", a highly focused mental state conducive to productivity. He was the Distinguished Professor of Psychology and Management at Claremont Graduate University."
But what exactly is the "concept of flow?" In an interview with Wired magazine Csíkszentmihályi described it as...
... "being completely involved in an activity for its own sake. The ego falls away. Time flies. Every action, movement, and thought follows inevitably from the previous one, like playing jazz. Your whole being is involved, and you're using your skills to the utmost.
Which is something we all have experienced at one time or another, and it can leave one feeling euphoric. I just never put a name to it—speaking of names—or knew that something like this had been studied, formulated and written about.
In that interview, Csikszentmihalyi was more or less quoting from his popular book, originally published in 1990. About which The New York Times within his 2021 obit noted:
Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, the Father of ‘Flow,’ Dies at 87
The book made “flow” a part of popular and political culture. Jimmy Johnson, the coach of the Dallas Cowboys, cited Dr. Csikszentmihalyi’s work as a critical piece in his preparation for the team’s victory in the 1993 Super Bowl. He even held up a copy of the book during a postgame interview.
Newt Gingrich sang its praises; so did Bill Clinton and Tony Blair, who once boasted that half his cabinet was reading it. A 2004 TED Talk by Dr. Csikszentmihalyi has been viewed nearly seven million times.
So, to answer Shakespeare's question, What's in a name? A person. One who might be worth knowing something about. By any other name than Csikszentmihalyi? I would never have paused to take notice. I, Mr. Smartass, whose MuseLetters have been viewed something less than seven million times.
Quote of the Month
Picture a Palindrome #7
"Ah, a zoo, Toto. Oz! Aha!"
--- Ron Vazzano
muse-letter \’myüz-‘le-tər noun
1: a personal message, inspired by a muse of one's own creation, in the course of which, the sender becomes absorbed in thought, especially turning something over in the mind meditatively and often inconclusively.
2: a letter from one who envisions oneself as a poet as such, "musing" on that which is perceived to be news, or newsworthy, usually in some ironic or absurd way.
pre 2019
Oscar Slaps Barbie?
In the interest, or disinterest, of full disclosure, I am one who thinks that Barbie was not only a good film, but an extraordinary one. So unexpected. (You're making a movie of what?). Amidst some raised eyebrows, I was pretty much in synch with the Rolling Stone review, which in essence read:
"'Barbie’ May Be the Most Subversive Blockbuster of the 21st Century"
“...slipping in heady notions about sexualization, capitalism, social devolution, human rights and self-empowerment, under the guise of a lucrative, brand-extending trip down memory lane? “
I concluded my Barbi thesis in that October 2023 MuseLetter by saying that, “There's a lot more to this movie than any of its messages which one might agree with or not. It is a stunning production. I think this film is Oscar nominee-worthy in nine categories.”
Four months later, it received eight.
nominations including Best Picture, and was a hit at the box office. In this regard, Gerwig joins directors Randa Haines for Children of a Lesser God (1987) and Barbra Streisand for The Prince of Tides (1992), who were also “snubees,” despite checking all the boxes.
Though Barbi was obviously nominated as Best Picture—in this year of Barbenheimer—director Greta Gerwig was snubbed in the Best Director category. Raising a now cliched question in the face of such slights: Did this movie (and a blockbuster one at that), direct itself?
Blockbuster might be defined as a movie that got five or more
As for what constitutes a Best Actress performance nomination? If you could imagine how Barbie might act and look if she could come to life (which you couldn’t, even if you thought about it, and why would you?), that was Margot Barbi. I mean Robbie.
Playing a doll who on the surface is simple, but who acquires depth in the course of her transformation, is not an easy task. (Ask Pinocchio). Any actor will tell you, that playing over-the-top is easy. Underplaying is hard.
This is echoed by America Ferrera, Best Supporting Actress nominee in the film. “What Margot achieved as an actress is truly unbelievable. One of the things about Margot as an actress is how easy she makes everything look. And perhaps people got fooled into thinking that the work seems easy...”
Yet, Margo Robbie did not receive a nomination.
The bigger question invariably raised about Oscars, outside of Tinseltown of course, is do they matter? I’ve gone in and out on this over the years. And the answer I arrive at, paradoxically, is yes and no. In this regard, they are sort of like the Super Bowl. Which under a wide tent, gathers football fans and non-fans alike. (And with the Kansas City Chiefs in it yet again, comes the side show of Taylor Swift's attendance this year). It becomes something much bigger than the game itself. And it tells us something about ourselves.
As I said four months back, while recognizing that Academy Award nominations are not a purveyor of excellence in achievement, they often serve as a pulse taker of the zeitgeist of the times. And in the process, invariably serving as a forum for airing socio-political grievances amidst shouts and murmurs; to a round of applause or chorus of boos. And of course, it wasn’t always like this. But this extravaganza is now in its 96th year. Toto, I have a feeling we're not in Oz anymore either.
The simplest way I can think of to sum up what I'm driving at— perhaps oversimplified—is this: It is inconceivable that a movie such as Around the World in 80 Days, winner of the 1957 Oscar for Best Picture, would or could ever be made today. Much less win anything. Yet, a perfect expression of the mid-50's. A different time and place. I think most would now agree, this is an awful movie.
So did Oscar slap Barbie? Yeah. But not as hard as Smith slapped Rock two years ago.
