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Well, Poker Maven is at it again.

Some weeks ago Poker World was rocked by the Saga of Brandi Rose, a young and sort of semi-hot (well, semi-hot by the standards of the sex-starved poker dudes) poker dudette wannabe, who, for reasons best known to herself, apparently gave a significant sum of cash to a random old-time gambler (let’s call him Cap’n Crunch) to “hold” for her. The problem according to Ms. Brandi was that he held it way too tight, so tight that she couldn’t pry it out of his hands. I gather that this possibility had never occurred to her. She managed to recoup some of her alleged losses by hitting up other well-known gamblers, and not satisfied with this partial restitution, went public with her complaints on Poker World. However, Cap’n Crunch’s rapacity was not the only problem. It seems that, money issues notwithstanding, Ms. Brandi shared a hotel bed with the Ol’ Cap’n and was shocked, utterly shocked, that during the night his elderly erection somehow rubbed itself along her back. Who would have thought! This occasioned a meltdown in the adjacent bathroom, writing a cryptic message in blood on the wall, and other mishegas. Brandi went on to attach herself to a random young poker dude and supposedly obtained his password and lost a lot of money on his online account. It was also said that she got young poker dude to stake her in a tournament in exchange for anal sex. Well, that is just the bare outline of the saga which went on and on (illustrated by assorted “provocative” illustrations) for the delectation of the hordes of poker dudes who inhabit Poker World.

The saga had pretty much played itself out when a photo surfaced in which Poker Maven is shoving Brandi up against the wall at the Bellagio. Now, Brandi strikes me as a little long in the tooth for Poker Maven’s taste, but there it was, and the poker dudes were making the most of it. When Mr. Highest Quality and Utmost Integrity Poker Publisher was asked what he thought of Poker Maven’s latest escapade being played out on his corporate website, he simply said that after 20 years of working with Poker Maven, nothing bothers him. Ms. Brandi herself went where even Ms. 16 year old runaway declined to go and said that Poker Maven was endowed with a good nine inches, although it is not entirely clear to me exactly how she came to know this (in the welter of foolishness I might have missed that part). No matter how you look at it, nine inches (if that’s what it is) is a mighty hammer, but in this case the mighty hammer would still be attached to Poker Maven, so whatever….

Apparently not content with the attention that this Brandi up against the wall photo had already received from the gossip-mongering poker dudes (those who think the women have the gossip arena largely to themselves are grossly mistaken), Poker Maven decided to start his own thread on the subject, comparing Ms. Brandi Rose to Saura the 16 year old runaway, basically saying that while he knew Saura very well (some might say–indeed have said–entirely too well), he had roughly a ten-minutes’ acquaintance with Ms. Brandi (ten minutes during which she got the measure of nine inches??!!). And he further announced that Ms. Brandi was the only girl he had ever slapped. After going out of his way to kick up a mini-storm, Poker Maven admitted that the picture was staged–something obvious to the reasonably discerning at first glance (for one thing Ms. Brandi may be the world’s worst actress)–and that the so-called slap wasn’t really a slap, more like a flick of the wrist.

So the question arises: why on earth would a well-known and decidedly middle-aged (i.e., old enough to know better) authority on mathematical approaches to poker stage such a ridiculous photo with the intention of having it posted on the internet and then, presumably not content with the significant response the photo received, start his own thread to call further attention to this charade. Ms. Brandi’s motivation for consenting to participate is pretty clear. She has been playing every angle she can think of in her efforts to become some sort of a poker celebrity, or at least personality. Indeed I don’t doubt that poker personality-dom looks like a much better deal than, say, getting a job sweeping up. But why would Poker Maven go out of his way to make a public fool of himself and then call attention to his own foolery?

Well, PM says that this is all a fun little experiment to see who can apply Bayes’ Theorem. O rly?! Yeah, poker dudes, Bayes’ Theorem will be on the test, so y’all better get crackin’. Bayes’ Theorem notwithstanding, it looks to me more like a complete disconnect with any concept of appropriate social behavior–or the world’s worst male midlife crisis.

It’s the first time since 1981 that I am having a zero-grade carnival. Admittedly I didn’t do much about carnival when I lived in New Orleans–I lived in a non-carnival-impacted neighborhood, I only went to a parade or two per year at most, and I never went to the Quarter to see the costume contest on St. Ann Street. But carnival was always in the air. Even I couldn’t miss the beads and the king cakes and Mardi Gras Mambo on the radio. Some years I spent my carnival in the Netherlands, but south of the rivers they have carnival too, even if it is a low-key and cold affair that serves only as an excuse to lurch from kroeg to kroeg swilling down trappistenbier.

Anyhow my son and daughter-in-law went down for carnival this year. They are staying with a friend in the Marigny, partying on Frenchmen Street, ready to mask on Fat Tuesday. Last year my kid went as a wench with a pink wig. This year he and his wife are going as “fucking ninjas,” garbed in black from head to toe and swinging nunchuks (or whatever those things are called) made of dildos linked by chained nipple clamps. I can’t make up my mind if I did a lousy job of bringing my kid up–or a really great one.

Some New Orleans transplants get into carnival in a big way. I wasn’t one of them. My very first week in New Orleans, one of my students came up to me in class and said, “You are going to love living in New Orleans. We don’t let Jews participate in Mardi Gras.” Um, OK, so I inadvertently landed myself in anti-Semitism central. I learned thereafter that New Orleans Jews stereotypically leave town on Mardi Gras and go skiing in Colorado.

Never mind Bakhtin’s view of the carnivalesque. The Rabelaisian carnival of the Renaissance may have undercut the established hierarchy and turned the world up-so-down as Chaucer would have put it, but in New Orleans, despite the drinking and ribaldry and casting off of the restraints of ordinary life (including, in some Quarters, clothes), not to mention the occasional physical danger, that Rabelais would have recognized, Carnival serves to reinforce hierarchy, as the wonderful carnival anthem, “Ain’t No Place to Pee on Mardi Gras Day” makes perfectly clear: “Rich folks get to pee on Mardi Gras Day. They get annoyed if they can’t void on Mardi Gras Day. They up there on their balconies, they pee all over you and me. Rich folks get to pee on Mardi Gras Day.”* Mardi Gras may be, as it bills itself, the world’s greatest free show, but it is only free for those who stand in the streets stepping on little children’s fingers to collect worthless junk thrown by the carnival elite, the soi-disant kings and queens, nay, gods and goddesses. At least the largesse thrown to the masses by the real kings and queens of the Middle Ages and Renaissance was edible and spendable, unlike the aluminum doubloons and plastic jewels that litter the streets of New Orleans. If carnival is free for those who stand in the streets, for those who ride on the gaudy floats, it’s mighty expensive. And while mere money can get you into one of the downmarket carnival Krewes, you/ve got to have the right ancestors to join the ones at the top of the heap.

True, there is satire and parody of the powerful here and there, but don’t expect the hereditary aristocracy of New Orleans, who so need mocking, to mock themselves. That was once the function of Zulu, although one might be forgiven for considering the sight of (not very) black men in black(er) face to be a form of self-mockery. If New Orleans carnival reinforces the socioeconomic hierarchy, it also reinforces the racial divides of the community. That is to say, it makes clear that New Orleans is still a city socially segregated into communities of black, white and creoles of color. Of course, people of every race and background can be found reveling on the streets, but despite the efforts of the late Dorothy Mae Taylor, the scourge of the uptown carnival set, Rex, Comus, Momus, and Proteus, the krewes of the local elites, are still essentially white. Of course, in order to keep their parades on the streets, Rex and (very recently) Proteus capitulated and admitted a token African-American or two, but Comus, the oldest and most elite of all, remains as white as the lilies of France which are the ubiquitous symbols of Nouvelle Orleans. The aristocracy of the creoles of color, who make the brahmins of Boston look like egalitaritarians, have their own parallel carnival universe: The Young Men’s Illinois Club and the ORIGINAL Young Men’s Illinois Club, and which of these is the real in-crowd I do not really know. I do know that these are sincere imitations of white carnival high society, complete with a debutante coterie, not a tongue-in-cheel parody. And then there are the carnival manifestations of the working class black population, the most notable of which are the Mardi Gras Indians with their incredible beaded and plumed costumes (very similar to those of the working class Philadelphia Mummers), their call and response chants, and their history of murderous rivalries between the uptown and the downtown tribes, rivalries now sublimated into shows of plumage as competitive as those of any flock of peacocks.

As for The Quarter and Bourbon Street, that’s the carnival of the tourists and the gay community and the artists and bohemians–and the religious zealots who think that drag queens and leather lords and “fucking ninjas” do not represent “family values.” (Hey, that’s my family down there twirling dildos!)

Well, wherever you are, have a nice Mardi Gras.

May sheepsheads grow on apple trees,
May the moon be turned to green cream cheese,
If ever I cease to love………

*”Ain’t No Place to Pee on Mardi Gras Day” by Bennie Grunch and the Bunch can be heard, along with other carnival music, at http://www.walkerpub.com/jukebox_songs.html. (Scroll down until you see the Mardi Gras heading). Pro bono publico!

Yesterday, after two different contracts with two different potential buyers and five different dates for act of sale, my ruined house was finally sold–to a gentleman from California who apparently wants to repair it with Road Home money (good luck actually getting that). He insisted on having the official damage estimate lowered–from 53%–in order to get a building permit. Anything that is officially considered less than 50% damaged can simply have new flooring and wallboard put in and new wiring and appliances installed, no problem. Anything more than 50% must be rebuilt at a higher elevation–which in my neighborhood of slab-on-grade means demolition (including demolition of the foundation) and rebuilding from scratch with the living quarters several feet above ground. The city has been very accommodating–if you want to repair, they lower your estimate below 50%; if you want to rebuild they raise your estimate above 50% so that you can get demolition money from your flood policy. I don’t know whether the gentleman from California plans to live in my house after he repairs it or, perhaps more likely, intends to flip the repaired house for a profit. I do know, however, that the house on its present foundation is too low and too close to the canal, and I think it is irresponsible to repair and reoccupy as it stands.

So my feelings are mixed. On the one hand I am relieved to be rid of the responsibility of a ruined property, now without insurance of any kind. I no longer have to worry about gambling on the future of New Orleans with my very limited resources. I don’t have to hassle with the State of Louisiana over the Road Home money. But I miss my house and the city of New Orleans as it was more than I would ever have thought possible. And I now have no permanent address, no place to vote, nothing I can call home, and I don’t know where I am going next and whether I will ever be able to have a home of my own again. The State of Louisiana very kindly reminded me that I am still legally domiciled in Louisiana and will be until I establish a domicile elsewhere if and when that ever happens. So I have a domicile, but no home and no address. The State is eager to claim me, but only for the purpose of collecting income tax from me. So now I can be taxed without being represented. Fortunately State of Louisiana pensions are not subject to State of Louisiana income taxes, but still….