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Copyright 2005 The Times-Picayune Publishing Company
Times-Picayune (New Orleans)

August 23, 2005 Tuesday

SECTION: LIVING; Chris Rose; Pg. 1

LENGTH: 1298 words

HEADLINE: Just another day in the sun-baked city;
Is that guy angry for no reason, or is it hot out here?

BYLINE: Chris Rose

BODY:


A guy gets out of a cab in front of the Omni Royal Orleans Hotel and
starts yelling at the doorman, who's dressed in one of those
anachronistic organ grinder uniforms that make otherwise-dignified
men from our community look kind of like background extras from "The
Nutcracker."

But the guy from the cab is not mad at the overdressed doorman; he's
super ticked at the cab driver, a sullen, unshaven and vaguely serial-
killer-looking guy who's holding his hands out in one of those "Who,
me?" gestures while the screaming guy yells at us passersby about how
the driver just tried to rip him off with the fare.

Yes, indeed, he's mighty worked up.

But he's yelling more at the sidewalk witnesses -- particularly the
hapless doorman -- than he is at the allegedly crooked hack and you
gotta hand it to these doormen around here: They're unflappable.

Drunks, bums, dopers, caustic conventioneers and stupefied "ferners"
alike -- these guys deal with it all on the sidewalks of the French
Quarter, stoic and silent, like, well, I guess like those wooden
soldiers in "The Nutcracker."

At this point, I begin to approach the scene to divine the truth and
consequences from the incident I am witnessing. Sometimes I think
that -- because I am a reporter -- I can approach any person or
situation with impunity, whether it has anything to do with a story
I'm writing or not.

For instance, sometimes I pull over on Magazine Street and yell at
RTA bus drivers who won't use the bus lanes and who block traffic
with their big, belching machines.

And when I see a tourist getting conned by vagrant shoeshine grifters
in the Quarter, I have a tendency to walk into the hustle and play
good Samaritan by telling Joe Kansas to beat feet out of there before
he loses five bucks on a bet he can't win.

Yeah, I'm a real civic ombudsman. My wife, she tells me: You're going
to get your butt whipped one of these days, and she can't be wrong
because it's happened before.

As I get close to the scene -- close enough to feel the heat -- the
screaming guy's friend fishes an electric guitar out of the trunk of
the cab and slinks sullenly to the sidewalk while Screaming Guy gets
a big square box out of the backseat and slams it on the ground to go
back and get another box and you can see the pain across Screaming
Guy's face as he hears -- as we all hear -- something made of glass
shatter inside of the box.

Now he's not just Screaming Guy for everyone to bear witness to; now
he's also Looking Pretty Foolish Guy. Who quickly turns into Angriest
Man in the World Guy and I think of what my wife always says and I am
out of there.

Not my problem. Just another failure to communicate in the city,
happens a thousand times a day around here, not the kind of thing
you'd ever read about in the newspaper.

. . . . . . .

Despite the edgy urban interlude, I'm still early for my appointment -
- a news conference inside the hotel -- so I am drawn to a sign catty-
cornered from the Royal Orleans that says: Martin Lawrence Gallery.

Because I am a reporter, I feel that I can ask anybody anything, so I
ask the guy at the front desk: "Is Martin Lawrence here?"

"No," he says, "there is no Martin Lawrence," and explains that
Martin and Lawrence are two partners in the business of opening art
boutiques in tony neighborhoods throughout the country.

"Why do you ask?" says the very polite man, whose business card reads
Bobby L. Paris, Fine Art Consultant.

I tell him I was wondering if the comic actor Martin Lawrence, who
recently filmed a movie here, ever came by the gallery, but, in fact,
he didn't.

Nevertheless, a lot of people seem to think that the famous actor
owns the gallery -- the same kind of people, say, who think August is
a good time to visit New Orleans -- and recently a couple stood
outside the door, peering at the refined, tastefully framed and
pricey works inside, and the man shook his head and said to his
companion: "That's one talented brother!"

Bobby L. Paris then says that, despite Martin Lawrence's failure to
appear at the gallery, other celebrities have come in. Once, sitting
at this very desk, Paris overheard a man standing in front of a
series of black and white portraits by renowned celebrity
photographer Francesco Scavullo.

The guy was talking to a little girl, telling her: "That's Uncle
Mick. And that's Uncle Sting . . ."

Turns out the art aficionado was Nick Rhodes, the famous flame-haired
co-founder of the androgynous '80s art-glam rockers, Duran Duran. And
the little girl was his daughter.

And the guys in the photographs were rock legends. Mick Jagger, guys
like that.

And Uncle Sting.

"You see and hear a lot of interesting things around here," Bobby L.
Paris says, and ain't that the truth?

. . . . . . .

A floor above the din of the busy Friday afternoon Rib Room crowd,
the news conference finally gets under way at the Royal Orleans.

It's dry stuff; a regional meeting on the future of the airport. If
you're a news guy, this is, quite frankly, Snooze City. Give me a
good apartment building fire any day, or a chlorine leak over at the
railroad yard. Anything with a little action.

But the power quotient is pretty good at the gathering: Mayor Nagin,
Sen. David Vitter, Sen. Mary Landrieu's chief of staff, a
representative from Gov. Blanco's office and a bunch of suits from
Jefferson and the River Parishes.

They file into an anteroom and the reporters and cameramen form a
flank in front of the podium, where Nagin, the tallest of the
assembled, stands ready to address the group.

But wait a second. Someone is talking. Over on the side, WDSU
reporter Alec Gifford is on his cell phone. Too loud. Nagin waits, a
smile on his face. And waits.

This is, after all, Alec Gifford, whose bio on the WDSU Web site
notes that he joined the station "at the dawn of the television era."

That was a long time ago. Like, before the Beatles.

Gifford talks and pauses. Talks and pauses. Then realizes that the
room -- the rest of the city's media and the region's power elite --
are waiting for him. Because he's Alec Gifford, darn it. (He also not
too long ago loudly cussed out a city councilman in public so no one
wants to see that happen again.)

Gifford finally mumbles into the phone: "I've got to go," and the
news conference begins. The suits each offer brief comments about
regional cooperation, progress, the future, blah blah blah, and some
guy from the exurbs whom no one in the press corps can identify (but
no one would admit that, and they'll just ask around later) begins to
talk.

Gifford blurts out: "Could you say your name please and spell it?" So
St. Charles Parish President Albert Laque stops to spell his name,
then finishes his cordial remarks.

Sen. Landrieu's chief of staff then steps forward and spells her name
for Gifford before passing on the good word from her boss and then a
skinny guy steps to the podium and, before speaking, looks at Gifford
and says: "Alec, it's J-I-N-D-A-L," and then U.S. Rep. Bobby Jindal
makes his speech.

. . . . . . .

Out on the sidewalk, after the news conference, Screaming Guy is long
gone and probably just as forgotten. The doorman in the black uniform
with shiny buttons is standing in godawful heat, not breaking a
sweat, not missing a beat on the street.

It must be 1,000 degrees in that suit and what do these hotels think
they are, Buckingham Palace? (It could be worse, though; the Royal
Orleans long ago abandoned its fashion experiment with khaki shorts
and pith helmets for the doormen.)

I walk by, nod to the doorman. He nods back. "Awright," he says, like
it's just another day at the office, just another Friday afternoon in
the Vieux Carré, just another tale from the not-so-naked city.

. . . . . . .

Columnist Chris Rose can be reached at chris.rose@...,
or (504) 826-3309, or (504) 352-2535.

LOAD-DATE: August 23, 2005