By Jim Boone
They told me to take a streetcar named Desire, transfer to one called Cemetery, ride six blocks and get off at Elysian Fields.’ In New Orleans That’s what I like about the South not only getting off at Elysian Fields but because it’s where every writer wants to be for many of eternity’s moments and every musician gravitates to or reincarnates from the original jazz palaces the dives and streets of New Orleans. Once a year they take sin to the streets as it lures people there to decorate and flaunt whatever accelerates virgin heart-beats < Mardi Gras > party time to let it all show sex and sin two three-letter words enjoyed by all bringing many to their knees for pleasure then forgiveness. On All Hallow’s Eve the Crescent City is the place to be as a haunting the New Orleanians go from Oak Alley where Vampires have been known to suck-up to tricks looking for treats as the undead seduce and scare the daylights out of the stayin’ alive jive turkeys who repent and straighten up when the masks are put back on after Mardi Gras and Halloween. The Quarter where once reined the voodoo of Marie Laveau Tennessee introduced Miss Dubois to manly Stanley and poets got schooled in debauchery between too many of Pat O’Brien’s hurricanes and strong morning coffee and beignets as the first light of day shed its Grace across Jackson Square. 1978
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