I’d forgotten all about “a brownie in motion.”I did find some pix of Henry Africa's. It was the first of the fern bars and for a while, wildly popular. You had to squeeze into the front door and then let the brownian movement of the crowd take you up to the bar to order your drink and then away again to enjoy it.
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I remember this place but dared not go in.Pravda, Decatur Street, New Orleans, 2008.
Pravda, which was an "early soviet themed" absinthe bar on Decatur St, in the Vieux Carre, just around the corner from the Richelieu Hotel, where I lived while working in NOLA. Pravda had one of the most eclectic clienteles of any bar I ever frequented. I was there almost every night for 2 months. Artists, vinyl bondage fetishists, F&B late nighters off from their restaurant shifts, reactionaries, communists, neo-fascists, academics (me), a general menagerie of friendly and well spoken freaks. $2 PBRs kept the Prols like me happy. On my last night there I tipped the staff out very well. I think it closed within a year.
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You had me at Farmall tractor. Drove one when I was nine. Briefly, but still. Huge and red and beautiful. I was given a new Toro riding mower a few years back by a brother who took pity on me and my pusher, pushing it down slope, pulling it up slope, over rocky, mossy sorta-lawn that's really a field. Have never used it. Won't. Not after sitting astride the Farmall. You don't plunk Buffalo Bill on a pony.Ah, I've lived a bucolic life growing up, no pics, except mental! Learning to drive on an International Farmall tractor at the farm we all gathered at growing up. Winter, we couldn't afford a toboggan, but we could take the hood off an abandoned Chevy, left, along with other discarded vehicles, out in the back acreages. Far faster than any wood sled. The shacks we built in the woods.
The mental pictures grow sharper every passing year and at each passing of one of my chums.