Duppy-Man

It was Bowie's death that did it; reminded me of my rock star days. Long behind me now. I was sincere in my love of the music, you must believe me, on that score. But I confess to abandoning any interest in public performance rather cruelly, once it had served my grand purpose. That used to be my way with things . . . with people . . . like an over-indulged kid who breaks a new toy, drops it on the floor, and moves on. I'm trying really hard to be better now.

I mean if you can't commit to anything, what's eternity for?

Satan's Night Out, our little band was called. We were part of all that gloriously absurd New Wave Romanticism, with a little Emo pop thrown in, and a dash of Zeppelin because . . . well why not.

I was the frontman, of course, as if I'd allow myself to be anything else. I didn't play an instrument. I could've, mind. If you can play a harpsichord or, God forbid, a virginal, you can play a piano. If you can play a piano you can play one of those horrible little synthesized organs, so ubiquitous during the New Romantic era. Remember Nick Rhodes pressing a single pre-programmed, computerized button with a single manicured, gleaming, polished finger, and releasing a wave of digitized music? I do. That is the problem with the Dark Gift. Too much time. Too many tomorrows spreading out before you, too many yesterdays gently juttering in your wake.

I remember Nick Rhodes. Do you? Duran Duran? I think they're still knocking around, here and there, remnants of their former selves. I remember another pretty boy named Nicolas, also a musician. Weapon of choice: Stradivarius violin. But I don't want to talk about either of them. As I was saying Bowie's death moved me to journey out of my New Orleans rooms, down to the Old Music House on Queen Anne's. I know there are far better places to buy an instrument. More selection. Hell, more lighting so you can see what your getting, not that that's a problem for me, but there's an ethic, right? And all of them tend to stay open late.

So why the Old Music House? The man who runs the place has a huge dog that sits out side, dog called Yancy. About two years old. Hardly more than a puppy. Some kind of St. Bernard and chow mix. A mountain of cinnamon-colored hair. He's not fierce. He spends most of his time napping on the doorstep, but the old man that runs the place (I don't call him by name, because back then I didn't know his name. It's Plum, Tryvalian Plum, because some parents have no mercy, like that. But when this story commences, it was part of our mutual conceit, Plum and mine's, that I was only dropping by to visit the dog, not him. I was Yancy's friend.) uses Yancy as a litmus test. All the patrons have to step over or in the very least around Yancy to get inside the shop. Those unwilling to do so, don't come in.

People who bleat lamely from the sidewalk, "Um, sir, could you call your dog?" are righteously ignored. And if Yancy starts his soft baritone rumble at anyone's approach, they are not welcome in the store.

I was walking by a month ago, wishing (tragically, romantically, hopelessly that New Orleans would see fit to indulge me with a white Christmas, which was only a few days away. Of course, I realize if I wanted to I could've set myself up in any number of alpine chalets and enjoyed a picture postcard holiday, but that's not really me, in fact I don't know any of my kind who do the full-on tree, while wearing gaudy sweaters and singing silly songs, but I do like the pretty lights, and presents are always nice, but if I'd gone searching for snow it would've lost it's magic, yes? That's the whole beauty of a white Christmas, it comes to you, not you to it, or what's the dammed point, but I digress . . . where was I) . . . oh, right. . . so I was walking down St. Anne's moodily wishing for what I could not have. I was passing the Old Music House, where the ancient man was smoking on his front stoop, and his ginormous puppy half-slumbered at his feet. And, as I approached, the massive beast thumped its ten-pound tail. That's all it took for me to focus in on him, make him suddenly all the world to me.