From: francis@oas.stanford.edu (Francis Muir)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.books
Subject: Et in Arcadia ego
Date: 6 Nov 1992 21:16:03 GMT
Organization: Stanford Exploration Project
Distribution: world
NNTP-Posting-Host: oas.stanford.edu

Heather Henderson:

	Francis Muir:

Red Beans and Rice are very nice. New Orleans is a food fan's town, 

	Et in Arcadia ego

and being a food fan, I enjoyed it immensely.  Any city with crawfish, 
cafe au lait, catfish beignets, handmade praline candies, jambalaya, 
gumbo, and fresh oysters out the wazoo is a place I would like to live, 
I thought.  

Then while peacefully taking a bath in my hotel, I encountered a 
cockroach the size of Louis Armstrong, and a little of the romance 
was destroyed.  Or, at least, altered.  The American sub-tropics 
can be seductive, but there are drawbacks.

	For Roach it was something quite other. Cymric overtones.
	Scaling the Three Mounds of the Horizontal Heather inside
	one hour presented an interesting challenge that would have
	been difficult to ignore, perhaps good enough for inclusion
	in a modern-day *Trioedd Ynys Prydein* or *Triads of the
	Isles of Britain* (tr. Rachel Bromwich, 1961, Caerdydd).
	Perhaps, even, to be laid opposite Peacock's great Trio
	of Immortal Drunkards, Ceraint of Essyllwg, Gwrtheyrn 
	Gwrthenau and Seithenyn ap Seithyn Saidi. Alas, Life is
	Not All Beer & Skittles.

Having bludgeoned my visitor with the business section of the
Times-Picayune, 

	Being smite into nothingness and everlasting night was
	not picayune for our high-protein, crunchy friend.
	At least he died having witnessed the metamorphosis
	of the Recumbent Venus to the same Rising from the Waves,
	and then, double whammy, into Pallas Subduing a Centaur.
	All which Botticellian charade would not have been lost
	on our Pagliazza, Heather H. 

I went out to have dinner with the estimable Francis Muir, alias Fido 
etc.  He is a baseball fan which makes him a Real Person.  We expected 
another r.a.b.ster, Miss Barclay Blanchard, at this gathering, but BB 
was unable to attend.  She was planning to motor her way from some other 
place in the South, and her motor wasn't motoring, so we were deprived 
of her company.  Perhaps another day. Alliterativeness must seek 
alliterativeness.

	My bloody oath. We had earlier met up in a Brewery opposite
	the old Jax Brewery where Heather treated me to the quite
	unexpected and spectacular sight of herself quaffing a mug
	of beer of quite unusual size. Certainly larger than the
	typical Baliol Sconcing Mug and somewhere between a Quart and
	a half-Gallon in capacity. If I seemed overly serious at
	this meeting, it was because I was very fearful of our Heather
	bursting into more than laughter.

	HRH -- perhaps to appear conventionally and obviously "bookish" 
	so that I would recognize her -- wore cammo baggies and a
	Fuck You, Paglia! T-shirt, which Camille herself had gracefully
	autographed "and you, bitch..." I wasn't fooled for a moment
	and accepted her gracious offer of a seat. After an exchange
	of books (I got Diane Johnson's *Persian Nights*, Kenneth
	Roberts' *Arundel* and Charles Portis' *True Grit* and Heather
	received MFK Fisher's *The Boss Dog*), we sauntered over to
	BOOKSTAR which is a Clean Well-lighted Place on two floors and
	something more than i had expected. It was as tho' Miss Bell
	wedded herself to a Tower exec. Here we each bought one of the
	two Paglia books and decided on a peripatetic symposium. A 
	moveable feast. Two walking, talking heads.

	First stop the Acme Oyster Bar on Iberville (first street in the
	Quarter that parallels Canal. In back of the Marriott). A dozen
	each of the little slimy rascals with a wonderful horseradish
	sauce yours for the dipping, and we were ready for whatever the
	other threw.

	From there to Miss Ruby and Miss Jean's Saddlery discussed
	below.

Dr. Muir and I consumed dinner in a most wonderful place, Miss Ruby
and Miss Jean's Saddlery.  I believe that the Saddlery is a name
left over from the original proprietorship.  Miss Ruby and Miss
Jean, however, were there in full force.  Southern ladies, iron-
willed as Scarlett, and as charming.  An exotic and instructive
combination for a Northern broad like me.  Miss Ruby brought me
Dixie beer, which is always a good thing.  Beer, that is.  I had
never encountered Dixie before, and I have to say that I enjoyed
it, for the same reason as I enjoy Iron City.  That is, the beer
itself is pisswater, but the name makes it magnificent. The Old
Fart confined himself to Klausthaler -- was that Metamucil he was
surrepticiously stirring into it?

Dr. Muir had jambalaya and I had crawfish etouffee.  The etouffee
was outlandishly good.  I'm sure the jambalaya was equally good,
but Dr. Muir, being part-Scot, would never have admitted it.  

	Lovely! Another Honorary Doctorate!! I managed to sneak
	the tail of a MudBug off Miss henderson's plate, and
	they certainly were yummie.

We discussed many things, including Eudora Welty, the various
Peacocks, Dorothy Sayers, Steve Garvey, Oxford/Cambridge etc., and
the usual.  I'm sure we were each planning to gossip about other
r.a.b.sters, but in fact a much more overwhelming subject
intervened:  the World Series, in which Otis Nixon fell on his
sword and dashed the Braves fans' hopes.  This consumed our
attention for a while.

	This last back in the Brewery where, unbelieveably, Miss
	Henderson again prepared to attack beer in vast quantities.

We segued eventually to Camille Paglia, whose most recent book
("Sex, Art, and American Culture") we had both read.  We both
agreed that she was a minor goddess. I supplied the word "goddess",
while Dr. Muir supplied the modifier of "minor".  We both agreed
that she would be a good companion, a la Priestley.  

	I think we were both surprised at our common delight
	in La Paglia. Perhaps we are both enthralled by her
	sense of energy. We had finally arrived at the Cafe du 
	Monde for coffee au lait and beignets, and the cooling
	night air and the orderliness of Jackson Square conspired 
	to goad us into silence.

I would go on, but you would all get bored rigid, or get inflamed
beyond recall, so let me just suggest that a gathering of
r.a.b.sters in any place, no matter how small the place/few the
number, is a hell of a good time.

Heather

	Concur.

	Francis