Photo by http://downtownmemphisdownload.blogspot.com
By Poor William
(Clarksdale, Mississippi)
Poor William has previously addressed his appreciation for all things Bohemian, though what constitutes Bohemian is somewhat subjective and no longer defined by what approaches abject poverty.
A literal Bohemian is a native or inhabitant of Bohemia, the former province located in western Czechoslovakia. A more modern application applies to those whose interests are related to avant-garde literature and the arts.
It has been proffered by an anonymous source if people only have enough money to buy art supplies or a meal and they choose the art supplies then they qualify as a Bohemian.
Thankfully, modern day parlance allows for someone to be considered Bohemian if he or she thinks and lives outside the box and pursues creative endeavors in a non-status quo fashion. In other words, Poor William can pursue Bohemianism and still afford a quill and pen accompanied by a bowl of Ramen noodles with a bit of meat tossed in.
Bohemian events are often thought of as beguiling guests with over-the-top, strange entertainment not often seen in “good-society.” Poor William and his super-fine feline attended such an affair in the River City this past weekend.
The 50th birthday party for Kris Kourdevalis, who moved to Memphis in the late 1990’s, was held at his warehouse-style crib in downtown Memphis.
Poor William likely has never been to a more interesting fete in his almost 50 years of pursuing, flirting with and sometimes eschewing the Bohemian lifestyle.
Immediately after having his name (maybe the Poor in William made the way for his entry in little Bohemia) and that of his fair lady checked by security at the entrance to Kourdevalis’s home, he poured the pair a little liquid hops from a two-spigot beer stand and sauntered behind the warehouse to behold fire-breathing, breathtaking belly dancers gyrating spectacularly to music loosely defined as haunting Arabian-Punk with a metallic-tinge.
The club known as the Blue Monkey with its blue-neon sign provided the post-dusk backdrop for the fire and motion exhibition on a stage outside the home. Poor William was mesmerized by the dancer, who balanced a two-ended burning staff on her hips, while moving as fluidly as a gazelle skipping along the Serengeti Plain. A dude, much svelter than Poor William, dressed in black, glided effortlessly across the stage rife with tantalizing female midriffs, while exhaling explosives into an open flame, resulting in tongues of fire illuminating the Blue Monkey.
Poor William, though no coulrophobist — one afraid of clowns — thought there is no need to “send in the clowns” to save this party.
The 50th birthday party was held in Kourdevalis’s personal warehouse-style residence, complete with a bar, a stage, and every type of table and booth a guest could possibly want to rest in, while listening to live music and people-watching an incredibly eclectic host of folks.
The opening act featured a 70’s style, all-male, funk band whose synchronized movements were no less spectacular—okay maybe a little less—than the belly dancers. The 500 or so birthday party celebrants were invigorated by the enthusiasm and clean funk emanating from the stage.
BBQ was served, potent libations were poured, and anything went sartorially. Jason D. Williams, the most dynamic, piano-playing, Jerry Lee Lewis look-and-act-alike Poor William has ever seen or heard took the stage next.
This red-haired, blurred-phalange pianist, who uses his cowboy boots to beat the ivories into harmonic submission, had Kourdevalis mom dancing on the floor like a femme fatale, while the shadow of a modest nude was projected dancing behind the stage. This was not the Cracker Barrel.
The coup de grace for Poor William during this Bohemian phenomenon was when a fashionably-dressed local lady name Zelna, admiring my wife’s sequined top commented, “We do it like we want in Memphis ‘cause we grown.” Zelna gets it.
When one is grown, is not stifled by living in a box, and desires to have a good time, clowns are not needed!
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