Amphigory, Aldo and Super Chicken

With Easter coming up, I often think about the strange and wonderful Easter customs in my family.
I love the Easter holidays in general but I never enjoyed Easter Monday. All the preparations that precede that day were fun - decorating our home, painting eggs, baking the special Easter bun or the Easter lamb... but then came Easter Monday to ruin it all. I always tried to hide but somehow they always found me. Where my Dads family were from, the boys not only run around to whip you and get an egg or if they are older a shot of home-made brandy - as they do in Bohemia - they come and throw you in a stream, or put your head under a water pipe to be sure to give you a good shower... and NOT just once. It's only when you're in a town that you're lucky there's no stream around and the worst they can do is give you a shower or a swirly in the toilet in your own bathroom. But as if that weren't enough, they spray you with perfume, too, if it were something-anything- from Guerlain, I would not mind a bit, but it was usually Avon's vile elixir (that I am sure caused as many birth defects as Thalidomide) called "Roses, Roses, Roses" that was the weapon of choice. Even though I was/am a boy, I always was the target of the males in my family as there was not a "Girl" - pardon the expression- to be had in the immediate family, save my Mom or my mammy Aida.
Other customs included my getting the first slice of the Simnel Cake since I was the youngest, (The Simnel cake is a rich fruitcake covered with a thick layer of almond paste (marzipan). A layer of marzipan is also traditionally baked into the middle of the cake) not to mention the odd presents I received over the years- usually from my Grandmother "Miz Hyacinth".
On every Easter I would get a basket with the usual fare, the chocolate eggs and bunnies (that I would immediately bite the ears off of, then wander around the house holding it's slowly melting body in my hot little hands saying, "What? What? I can't hear you!") but Mis Hyacinth would always add a few touches of the macabre to this basket-o-sugar.
On more than a few Easter mornings over the years I received the ubiquitous "Lucky Rabbits Foot" key chains, (Not so lucky for the rabbit) a hand mirror with a portrait of Mussolini painted on the back, a Netsuke carving of two Asian people mid coitus, invitations to join the "Daughters of the American Revolution" and "The Sons of Italy", a potted plant (dieffenbachia), a bad imitation Faberge egg and on seven consecutive years, I was gifted with the following Edward Gorey classics-
Age six:
The Bug Book
The Fatal Lozenge: An Alphabet
The Curious Sofa: A Pornographic Tale by Ogdred Weary
The Hapless Child
The Willowdale Handcar: Or, the Return of the Black Doll
Age seven:
The Beastly Baby
The Vinegar Works: Three Volumes of Moral Instruction
The Gashlycrumb Tinies
The Insect God
The West Wing
Age Eight:
The Wuggly Ump
The Nursery Frieze
The Sinking Spell
The Remembered Visit: A Story Taken From Life
Age nine:
The Evil Garden
The Inanimate Tragedy
The Pious Infant
Age ten:
The Gilded Bat, Cape
The Utter Zoo
The Other Statue
The Blue Aspic
The Epiplectic Bicycle
Age eleven:
The Iron Tonic: Or, A Winter Afternoon in Lonely Valley
The Chinese Obelisks: Fourth Alphabet
Donald Has A Difficulty
The Osbick Bird
The Sopping Thursday
Age twelve:
The Deranged Cousins
The Eleventh Episode
The Untitled Book
The Awdrey-Gore Legacy
Leaves From A Mislaid Album
The Abandoned Sock
A Limerick
The Lost Lions
After these, I received The Glorious Nosebleed: Fifth Alphabet when I was 14, and The Fraught Settee when I was 28, strange that, huh? I really must complete my library one day...
I totally learned at an early age to appreciate Gorey's way of thinking.
In his own words- "Ideally, if anything [was] any good, it would be indescribable."
Gorey classified his own work as literary nonsense, the genre made most famous by Lewis Carroll and Edward Lear. Gorey seemed to love the precision involved in this genre, and, in response to the accusation of being Gothic, he stated, "If you're doing nonsense it has to be rather awful, because there'd be no point. I'm trying to think if there's sunny nonsense. Sunny, funny nonsense for children—oh, how boring, boring, boring. As Schubert said, there is no happy music. And that's true, there really isn't. And there's probably no happy nonsense, either."
I concur.
Another strange custom was a song my mammy used to sing to me. Its called "Aldo The Easter Bunny", I am not sure if this was a real song or something she made up... All I know is Aldo is a kind of Italian name for the Easter Bunny...

Al-do The Ea-ster Bun-ny, running on his springy rubber legs,
Aldo The Easter Bunny, bringing kids their Easter Eggs.
One Easter he was running, They say he slipped and fell.
But He didn't break a single egg or even crack a shell.
Then- Hop, hop, hop, Jump, jump, jump, poor Aldo couldn't run!
Hop, hop, hop Jump, jump, jump, around to every-one.
When the children woke that Easter morn, their Easter eggs were there,
But no one knew poor Aldo was a little crippled hare.
Aldo the easter Bunny, had to hop the whole day through,
He couldn't run from hunters like other bunnies do,
Aldo the easter Bunny would hide in bright day light,
He'd gather all his easter eggs and color them at night,
Then Ding, ding, ding, dong, dong, dong, went the Easter bell,
Then- Run, run, run, rush, rush, rush, Aldos knee was well,
When the children woke that Easter morn, their Easter eggs were there,
And Aldo the Easter Bunny, is a happy little hare!

(and they wonder why I drink)
Cheers!

The Crippled Deaf Chocolate Bunny
2 oz dark creme de cacao
2 oz vodka
2 tsp chocolate syrup
2 tsp cherry brandy
Shake creme de cacao and vodka with ice. Strain over ice in an old-fashioned glass. Float chocolate syrup and cherry brandy. Supersauce...

pie a la démodé

Some of the things I have learned this week: There is no crying in Modeling, Baseball, Porn or Tap dancing- A very close friend thinks a 401k is a very long marathon- Like Eleanor Roosevelt, I had a rose named after me and I was very flattered. (But I was not pleased to read the description in the catalog: - 'No good in a bed, but fine against a wall') - If I wear vanilla scented lotion, I smell like a rice crispy treat- Karl Lagerfeld Entourage Update: Brad Koenig is out. Model Baptiste Giabiconi is in- Even if I buy Prada (the good stuff from Milan, AKA The European epicenter of the fashion universe) I look like I have shopped in a thrift store.

I do admit, I go to thrift stores a lot, (something I'm afraid you may find demode) -it's something my Mother is not very happy with- "All those other people's germs! How can you stand it?"- I've never really been a germophobe about it. Perhaps I'll incorporate a germ mask into tomorrow morning's outfit though, something with a Darth Vader vibe, perhaps?

Now, speaking of fashion, here is a little story told to me by ZaZa, my personal shopper at Sak's...

The continuing story of Karl Bear; a children's story:
Once upon a time there was a bear in a far off land called "The Garment District" named Karl bear.

The time was right now, this instant, because Karl bear did not like the past, as he told journalists in his 18th century mansion. He only liked the "now", so the "time" in in the "once upon a time" is "now". Right now. Even thought this is written in past tense, it is still "now". As you read this book. The "now", hmm?

Karl bear hopes your hands have leather, fingerless gloves on them (Karl bear does not have any because bears have no fingers).

So anyway, one day Karl bear was out for a walk where he was mobbed by some démodé paparazzi. He said to them: You a very boring, go away." Karl does not like boring things. The paparazzi said, in unison because paparazzi are just grown-up choir boys: "Please sir, can we have a picture?"

"Oh fine, just one, hmm?" Karl bear said sternly, as he dreamt up a Chanel nose picker for the hairs in the noses of very démodé people.

Karl bear didn't really know why he was doing this, because a bear is not a person; although some person from PETA is very likely to say "bears are people too!", and with this he inhaled the irony of the previous few sentences most satisfyingly.

He continued his walk until he met Anna bear, who said: "Karl darhling, some more cognac."

"You are drunk, mm?" said Karl bear."I'm just going to pick out the new cover for Vogue. We're do- doinggg, DOOinggggg, oooo, dooooinnnggggg."

"This is very boring, Anna. I know you're not really drunk and just pretending to in order to appear more human (as opposed to the near-anamorphic entity that you are)." Karl said.

Anna looked a little sad, and decided to fire someone as this always warmed her ice-cold heart.

"ANDRE YOU FRICKIN MORON YOU SAID 100% ALCOHOL WOULD GET ME DRUNK" Anna bear exclaimed, as Andre bear, a rather portly bear who looked like a certain blind soul singer when he had dark glasses on, came waddling out. And then Anna glared at poor Andre bear as his stuffing was burnt.
"Oh, he is not poor, hmm?" Karl bear said somehow reading the book because he's that clever- "Andre is very démodé and boring" Then Karl went off to a dinner that was being held by his friend Alber bear, a stylish but slightly plump bear."This is very boring." said Karl bear. "I do not eat".

So Karl bear decided to design another Chanel collection and teach his daughter, Jane bear, how to say "démodé" right. He felt an uncommon sense of pride when she got it right and was rather worried. It was scary- all these "emotions".

Then Yves bear came in through the door, back from the dead and looking adorably mopey in that way that attracted a thousand women to his clothes. "Hello Karl."

"Hello Yves. You are dead, no?"

"Yes, I am sad."

"Ok."

"This story needs a moral, I think, hmmm?" said Karl bear.

"Hmmm" said everyone.
"Okay. How about don't wear traffic cones of your head when driving, or while eating pie, hmm?"

"Very chic" said Alber.

"I am now bored." said Karl bear.

Fin.

Cheers!
The Sundance Lift

(To be served at every Sundance event)

1 oz Le Tourment Vert

1 oz tonic water

1 oz 7-Up® soda

2 lemon wedges

Build all ingredients in a tall glass filled with ice. Squeeze the 2 lemon wedges. Garnish with a lemon. (May be served with pie)

странная версия знакомого рассказа

of Chordates, Libertines and Growing Noses

Half heartedly watching the Japanese film "Tonari no Totoro" while being somewhat distracted by the swarthy carpet cleaner as he rapped along to DMX in Farsi with his headphones on, I sat in the "Geppetto's workshop" themed rumpus room at Mt. Varnum this morning flipping through photos of a recent trip abroad. Finding a particular pic of the curious inscription found above the entrance of St. Madeleine's church, at Rennes-le-Chateau, France that reads: 'Terribilis Est Locus Iste' (roughly translated by many as "Dreadful is this Place"- inside there is an even more intriguing sculpture of the Devil holding up a holy water font)
I realized that not only is the very same inscription is written above the door to the kitchen of my dear friend Mazeppa, but it also occurs to me that I had not spoken to Mazeppa in a few weeks, I also can't remember whether or not we are "speaking".

My contemplation was briefly interrupted when Mahmoud, the carpet guy, looked up and removed his earphones saying, "Wait a minute, didn't I see you on TV as a counter protester at Paul Harvey's funeral?" (The depraved, hate besotted fools from the Westboro Baptist Church - the kooks who show up at the funerals of fallen soldiers with their "God Hates Fags!" signs -picketed Saturday afternoon's funeral of radio legend Paul Harvey so a bunch of us showed up to protest them)
"I remember you had the sign that read 'CTHULHU HATES CHORDATES' right?" As an answer I lowered my eyes and blushed while a brief smile flashed across my face, my thoughts then returned to the matter at hand, Mazeppa.
As you know I am devoted to the old girl, but several weeks back we were close to having a terrible row about a recent lapse in her judgement. I am afraid I might have thrown what they call a "Hissy" ... I would be remiss if I didn't admit that I was totally negligent when the following happened.

When not being chauffeured around in the Duesenberg, Mazeppa drives an E-240 Mercedes-Benz, a few weeks ago she took it in for a service.

A few days later she noticed something odd. The 'E-240' badge above the right brake light looked different. Specifically, it now read 'E-420'.

Wha?! Exactly. The 420 is a more expensive model than the less powerful 240. My sometimes status-conscious friend was naturally thrilled with the change."I much prefer the new number," she told me with a wide lipsticked grin. "Bu...Hav...Ma...Is it even your car?!!"

"Yes. Well, I mean, I think so."

"Did you tell them about it? Have you told anyone about this?"
"No. I don't want them to change it back. Don't mention it to anyone... anyway the man, the Service Manager or whatever, is a rake-hell, a roue and a libertine!" she yelped.

"And a libertine?' how did we come to that conclusion, may I ask?"

"Well, did you see what he was wearing to start with... he didn't offer me a drink while I was waiting, not even a teensy glass of champagne AND he called me by my first name!" she hissed. "Dear, that is his uniform..." I explained. "Oh, yes, well, very sneaky of him to wear a uniform... how am I supposed to know that?"

Sneaky indeed said the pot to the kettle. The car looks looks a lot like her car (apart from the obvious deviation). It even has coins in the little coin...thing.

"They probably just switched round the two numbers for shits and giggles," suggested Monsieur Moose who was returning from the kitchen with some refreshing adult beverages.

"Unlikely, those numbers are welded on pretty tight. And anyway, why would they do that? " I asked.

In the absence of her willing to actually address the issue lest the (fortunate?) error be corrected, Goddess forbid, one can only speculate and hope that Mazeppa doesn't get taken to court. And that if she does go to court I get to take photos.

And now, in honor of Pinocchio's 69th birthday,

Morning Wood

1 oz vodka

1 oz peach schnapps

1 oz orange juice

1 oz sweet and sour mix

1 oz blackberry liqueur
Pour the vodka, peach schnapps, orange juice and sour mix into a cocktail shaker half-filled with ice cubes. Shake well, and strain into a champagne flute. Sink the blackberry liqueur by pouring it at the side of the glass, thus forming a layer at the bottom. Serve.

Beware the Edies of March

I was a blonde teenage anti-semantic devil bunny

Happy Purim! I got you a Yak. It's Kosher don't worry.

In celebration of this, one of the most joyous and fun holidays on the Jewish calendar, (No, Purim is not a shampoo silly) and as a distraction while trying to ignore the adipocerous nature of the wanna-be Intelligistas in our nations capital, (what with their semantics, double entendres and their crossword puzzles) and after being inspired by the seeing flower buds on the trees and daffodils and crocus popping up all over town, (SPOILER ALERT: Spring has sprung) I dyed my hair today.

Monsieur Moose just brought back a fresh supply from Germany. (I think the name of the color is "Braune Fische") After applying the color, I decided to sit and wait the required hour in the Gothic powder room at Mt. Varnum. It's severely Catholic rococo decor inspired me to perform the severely Protestant "A Bed Among the Lentils", the dramatic monologue written by Alan Bennet about the dark interior life of a provincial vicar's wife, Susan, a woman let down by life and God. Her secret fondness for altar wine and a young Indian grocer with good legs and teeth relieves the tedium of days among sanctimonious parish matrons where flower arranging ranks as a competitive sport. ("One sees them so often in England, those women," she says. "You know them automatically.") mid monologue, as I waited for the color to take, I had the stark realization that I started coloring my hair when I was eight and have never stopped since. That's a lot of Clairol under the bridge.

The first time, in 1969, was totally more than a mere vanity project, I simply had decided to live my life from that time, until further notice, as a Chinese Princess. I had my Beatles mop cut into a smart bob, complete with "China Chop" bangs, and then dyed a dark blue black. (Mom is very forward thinking) This phase eventually was grown out of, after I found after about a year of living like deposed royalty, that it wasn't so easy to change my name to Mai Ling.

The next major look came about, and was really very extremely necessary, after the Lemon Juice, Sun-In, Home Perm Incident Of '74.

What hadn't burned off or fallen out of my skull on its own was buzzed off and dyed "Country Butter Blonde" in my mom's near-hysteric yet totally intrinsic effort to salvage some semblance of presentably.

Just for reference purposes: when the boy next door saw me and my raw head get out of the car, he said I looked like Billy Jean King going through chemo... if Billy Jean King had been an guy. And blonde. (Or would that be blond? hmmm, Semantics...)

Why did I bring this up? Oh, merde....the depth of my shallowness is somewhat distracting, non?

Oh. So, with my mother's beaming blessing, I pretty much bleached my hair from then on for at least three years, with increasing frequency, for several I became "blond-orexic"-- convinced that I wasn't blond enough, that I could be blonder (similar in nature to the dreaded and leathery "Tan-orexic" who layout in January, keep a bottle of baby oil in the glove box and who perennially whine, "I'm soooo pale," holding out a well-done, brittle and crispy appendage for your appraisal)-- and that unless my hair was actually TRANSLUCENT, I was a brunette. When I ran out of money, I desperately decided to do a home job (if I'm not mistaken, the color I chose from the shelf was "Albino Nuclear Holocaust Survivor Clear" by Loreal, chain-mail gloves and safety goggles not included) and I burned all my hair off again.

So I cut it all off. Again.
And DIDN'T. FUCKING. TOUCH. IT. I was sort of hoping (and shut up, everyone hopes this) that maybe I'd have this astounding and beautifully complex natural hair color.

If I asked 100 people to describe the color of my hair, a safe 75 of those people would answer "somewhere between empty toilet paper roll and Denny's waitress brown". The other 25 would be stumped, but might go with some animal; maybe a sad animal that spends all of its time blending in with boring ground cover in the woods and rolling around in the mud without a comb. That, or dirt clods. Hell, I've seen squirrels with far more dimensional color.

Long story short, tired of having people try to wrap long expanses of toilet paper around my head, one weekend I innocently used some conditioner by "Madame Bovary" that's supposed to add "subtle red highlights" and I successfully transformed myself from an "empty toilet paper roll" into My Little Pony.

A close family friend looked at me and told me I looked like Strawberry Shortcake. And then he leaned forward to smell my head. For the strawberries. He kept doing it. And every time I saw that disappointment flicker across his face as he gently squeezed my temples together and inhaled, I longed for the camouflage days of yore, when I could safely blend in with old carpets and burned things. Days when I didn't have an expectant nose pressed to my scalp and when people didn't jump on my back hoping for a free ride to the Little Pony Show Stable.

The good news is that it washed out in five to eight shampoos or something.

From that day forward I have been a regular Pantone color wheel as far as hair colors go.

When my hair was cut into a fashionable mohawk in the late seventies I sported a hot pink hue that was achieved by using industrial carpet dye with the occasional Kool-Aid refresher while I wrote poetry- poorly- about hating disco and being an anarchist, spending all of my days in ballet classes and nights in punk bars.

In the early eighties I dyed my mokawk black, leaving it unspiked, wearing it over one eye not unlike an undead Veronica Lake, and, of course, wearing clothing and nail polish with wrist bandages to match, playing keyboard -poorly- in a band called "Culturecide", while acting moody and talking incessantly about subjects ranging from the true ownership of the Elgin Marbles or the fact Beethoven spent his final years, stone deaf, writing 33 small masterpieces based upon one inferior waltz by another man to complete the ensemble.

My goth period then turned into a hybrid New-Romantic/wave look having my letting the 'hawk grow out and had deep aubergine tresses with perpetual three day stubble as an accessory- (I looked like the offspring of Boy George and George Michael) my conversations consisted of New Age blather and the the discussions of the works of Lord Byron, Gabriel Dante Rossetti and longing to live my life like Gabriele d'Annunzio.

My years of having long hair abruptly came to an end one day when I was zipping around in a little Mercedes 500 SL convertible and got my hair caught in the headrest of the car and had to call my stylist for emergency roadside assistance. (did you know that AAA doesn't have "hair style emergency" coverage? That'll teach me to read the fine print)

I have pretty much kept the color and cut the same since then, with a few excursions into bad hair cuts- one made my head look like a blueberry muffin- and changing from varied shades of rouge, the most recent was a color called "Tempted peach", I have even not colored it at all on occasion, only to find to my horror that it had turned completely white, not a sexy salt and pepper, but full on Santa white. Someone even told my that I looked like Porno Santa. (a compliment?) I have often toyed with the idea of letting it stay that way, but somehow it just doesn't look natural, which is, after all, very important to me.... *sigh* how I suffer for beauty... Oh look, cupcakes!

Cheers, or rather LeChaim, this will put hair on your chest..

The Hair Raiser
1 1/2 oz 100 proof vodka
1/2 oz Rock and Rye® liqueur
1 tbsp lemon juice
Shake all ingredients with ice, strain into a cocktail glass, and serve.

Boire avec Banjo Annie

This morning, as I sit in the breakfast nook (a faithful reproduction of the "Jungle Room" at Graceland) at Mt. Varnum, I have my regrets in leaving the 75 degree weather and the soft smell of orange blossoms of New Orleans for the vast puddles of brown exhaust infused slush of Washington DC. (*sigh* mes regrets sont beaucoup...)

I so enjoyed the time I spent recently at my beloved Chez Moose in New Orleans, the Carnival season was rife with numerous decadent pleasures and social intrigues that I will gladly be sharing with you very soon, but for now, I sit staring at the coffee service that features a hand-painted reproduction of Ecce Homo, (Hieronymus Bosch's 1476 version) I wait for the coffee maker to finish making it's daily miraculous elixir of life, in the background a recording of "Some Cold Rainy Day" by Bertha "Chippie" Hill fills the room with the blues, and my thoughts turn to the eccentrics and colorful characters of my much already missed home town.

Among the long list of nonconformists like "Ruthie the Duck Lady" and "The Lucky Bead Lady" is a woman who was once known as the most famous drinker in modern French Quarter history.

My kinda gal.

When a sixty-five year old street woman known throughout the French Quarter as Banjo Annie died in 1951, a newspaper headline read “Banjo Annie At Rest After Fantastic Career.” Bar owners Pat O’Brien, Charlie Cantrell, and Gasper Gulotta agreed after the funeral that Banjo Annie was by all accounts the most famous drinker in modern Quarter history. Banjo Annie was known as the “Queen of the Quarter” during the 1930s and ‘40s, long before Ruthie the Duck Girl’s reign on the streets and bars of the Vieux Carre from the 1950s throughout the ‘90s. Both local legends have surprisingly much in common, and both famous among residents and tourists alike for their colorful dress and behavior.
Banjo Annie was born in 1886. Her real name, it is believed, was Mrs. Barbara Lee, although many doubted this was her real name. The legend is that she came to New Orleans from Texas. Some say Oklahoma. It was rumored that she was married to a wealthy oil man. Other tales had her married to the mayor of Mobile, or that she descended from an old New Orleans family. Some said she was either the wife or girlfriend of a wealthy lumberman during the World War I era. No one really knew for sure.
George McQueen, the night club impresario, was a bellhop in 1915. He remembers serving the young Barbara Lee in style and elegance at the old Roosevelt Hotel. Later, the once good-looking and stylish girl became a frowsy old street singer, where McQueen would give her coins for drinks. Probably no one will ever know the true story of Barbara Lee and how she ended up on the streets, but another story is that she fell in love with a police officer. She spent all of her money on the cop who eventually left her for another woman when the money ran out. It was then that she took to drink and the guitar, or banjo.
Soon after Barbara Lee hit the streets, she became known as Banjo Annie. She was a habitue of French Quarter bars and restaurants beginning around 1925. Police records show that Banjo Annie first gained her dubious royal title in 1928 when she was arrested for being drunk and disturbing the peace. The arresting officer referred to her as the “Queen of the Quarter.” Since then, Banjo was arrested on the average of once a week. As police put it, “she has been doing a life sentence on the installment plan.”
By the 1940s, knowing she meant no harm, the police would only hold her until she sobered up. The “Queen” was found to be spending most of her time lying in doorways sleeping off the effects of wine. Banjo Annie usually wore several dresses at one time, a man’s cap, and carried a large bottle of gin. Sometimes, her clothes were all but missing. In one case, Annie was given a backless evening gown which she wore on the streets. But she wore it without a slip. And with the back to the front!
She was well educated and could quickly learn any current tune. Her best songs were the ones she composed herself to lampoon many Quarterite socialites. But her most well-known scene, was standing in a doorway while a sharpshooting bartender sprayed her tonsils at a 20-foot distance with soda water just as she hit the high note in “The Old Concert Hall on the Bowery.”
Banjo Annie lived and slept on the streets of the French Quarter. At night, she often slept in Jackson Square in the doorways of the Cathedral. A racehorse owner who felt compassion for the homeless woman commissioned Gasper Gulotta to pay 6 months advance rent on a room so she wouldn’t have to sleep on the streets. Banjo told them to go fly a kite. Friends of Banjo remember three occasions when relatives came to take her home. Again, Banjo told them all to go to Hell.
Not everyone appreciated the eccentricities of Banjo Annie. Some bar owners didn’t want her in their establishments on the chance that she may offend the patrons. But Banjo had a gentle blackmail racket worked out - a regular route – calling on bar owners nightly to be given a quarter to stay away. “ I make my route regularly. The guys don’t like me in their swanky places. So every time I go into them, they give me money to leave,” Banjo was quoted as saying. And other places she was welcomed, provided she didn’t stay more than a few minutes.
Cantrell remembers the time two self-proclaimed “society girls” were found drunk and obnoxious on the streets of the Quarter and got tossed in the third precinct for public intoxication. They chewed out the cops calling them flatfeet, brutes, and bums. The cops got revenge by picking up Banjo Annie and putting her in the cell with the girls. Annie cut loose with an obscene song that “killed the cockroaches on the jailhouse walls.”
But in December of 1946, the fun stopped. Some humorless people in the Quarter complained to authorities that Banjo Annie was a nuisance, and needed to be taken off the streets and locked up. As a result, Banjo was picked up and sent to the asylum at East Louisiana Hospital at Jackson for one year.
Newspaper articles lamented, “No longer will the strumming of guitar strings in the hand of the “Queen of the Quarter” be heard on Vieux Carre banquettes. No longer will the “Queen” keep quarterites and tourists in convulsions of laughter with her off-color witticisms; nor will the populace be able to jeer at the strange costumes she once wore.”
With Banjo gone from the Quarter, there were many rumors over the year that she had died. When Banjo was finally released a year later, she returned to the Quarter during a rainfall - an unusual rainfall that lasted almost a month. A well scrubbed and neatly dressed Banjo walked into her favorite bar and announced, “the Queen has returned!” A newspaper article announced “Annie’s Back,” a changed woman. “Neat as a fresh-laundered bar towel, she was making her ‘route’ to thank friends for gifts sent her while she took the cure,” one paper said. “Mrs. Davis got me out,” Banjo was quoted as saying. The identity of Mrs. Davis is not known. Banjo wanted everyone to know that the rumors of her death were false, and she was still the Queen of Bourbon Street. She stayed sober for a few months, but nobody could get used to it. They wanted the old Annie back - and she started drinking again.
In October of ‘48, Banjo celebrated her birthday at Tony Bacino’s Bar, a popular gay hangout. She was among a crowd of her friends including Bootsie, the bartender, Joe Matranga, Grace King, Joe Buick, Jackie King, Don Dasche, Shirley, Billy and Bobby Keller. They all chipped in and bought a birthday cake with one candle on it. Banjo broke down and cried when they sang “Happy Birthday.” Banjo demanded everyone have a slice of cake, whether they liked it or not.
Six months later, in April of ’49, it was reported Banjo was in serious condition at Charity Hospital. She had a broken hip and had multiple bruises. She was being kept under sedation and given blood plasma infusions. Banjo was unable to give a coherent explanation of her injuries.
In April of 1950, a year later, Banjo broke her leg and was finally placed in the Villa Maria Convalescent Home, 1715 Prytania St. After a couple of weeks, Banjo got restless. She could not stand the monotony of the home any longer. She wanted to be back on the streets of the Quarter where she once reigned as the “Queen.” So Banjo got out of her sickbed, hobbled off on her crutches, and sneaked out of the home. When the staff discovered her missing, they notified the police, who knew just where to find her. Just as they expected, she was at her old stand at Bourbon and Conti St.
Banjo Annie was returned to the convalescent home where she lived for another year and few months. She turned ill and was placed in Charity Hospital. In September of 1951, Barbara Lee, known to thousands as Banjo Annie, died at the age of 65.
Two Sisters of Charity nursed Banjo in the hospital before her death. “Mrs. Lee often said she wanted to see the face of God,” one of the sisters said. “She said it was hard for her to be good from day to day, but she prayed that she would receive the Sacraments of the church before her death.” The church service was held at the St. Louis Cathedral. About 25 people were counted at the church and funeral home. One woman was spotted crying outside the church during the service.
The two Sisters of Charity attended her funeral at Lamana-Panno-Fallo funeral home (625 N. Rampart St.), as well as several bar owners and operators, a French Quarter artist, and “Helen,” the Quarter’s flower lady. There were also a few curiosity-mongers. The Sisters stood quietly among the night life figures next to Banjo Annie’s casket. No family members were in attendance.
Although considered a pauper, Banjo left enough money in a bank account ($280) to pay for the kind of funeral she wanted. Charlie Cantrell, a French Quarter bar owner, handled her bank account which was in the name of Anne O’Rourke. “Banjo always said she wanted a Catholic funeral, and she brought me money every once in a while that she earned by playing the guitar during her sober periods,” Cantrell said. “I banked it for her and never let her take it out.”
Pallbearers were P.T. Eastland, Jacob H. Rowe, Peter Deagano, W.E. Martin, Gerry Tait, and Roland Valeton. Five cars made up the funeral procession.
Banjo was laid to rest in an unmarked vault in the St. Michael’s section of St. Louis Cemetery #3.
Like Annie herself used to say when toasting, "Here's Kicks..."

Banjo Annie

1 shot Southern Comfort peach liqueur

1 shot Yukon Jack Canadian whisky

1 shot Jack Daniel's Tennessee whiskey

1 shot amaretto almond liqueur

1/2 cup orange juice

1/2 cup guava juice
Mix the alcohol in an 8-12 oz glass. Cover and shake for about 3 seconds. Mix the juices together in a glass of your choice, add ice for character, and pour in alcohol. Serve chilled.
Bon nuit, Banjo Annie. We hardly knew ya...