Oscar Wilde – Born October 16, 1854, died December 13, 1901.
Place of birth Dublin, Ireland
Capes have seemingly gone out of fashion. Come to think of it, so have fancy walking sticks with ornate ivory handles. Opium, however, still seems to be quite fashionable in some circles. I mourn daily the fact that flamboyancy in this day and age will either get you pummeled in an alley behind a convenience store, or thrust into the spotlight where you are celebrated one day and in a bad reality show the next.
I like a good cape. I think a cape, and a cloak, if truth be known, are both damn fine fashion accessories. Capes are great. And practical to boot. Not those shiny capes that magically allow superheroes to take flight, but real capes. Those superhero capes are just silly. No, I mean a “quality cape” for those times when you just don’t need a full-length coat, but prancing around in a billowing chemise won’t do either. (Run-on sentence alert!) A few years back before that wicked flood of 2005, when New Orleans was known for killer jazz, jambalaya and overly-marketed voodoo trinkets adorned with pictures of Marie Laveaux, as opposed to mass human suffering, feral dogs, mold, and much-ballyhooed Brad Pitt sightings, I found myself perusing the racks in a boutique on the southern fringe of the French Quarter. It was just across from Jackson Square. Body Hangings. 835 Decatur Street, for anyone interested (www.bodyhangings.com); tell them Kevin sent you and you get your twentieth cape for the same price you paid for your nineteenth cape, up to a limit of sixty-four capes per customer, offer valid May through August 2002. Body Hangings dealt only in capes and cloaks; no voodoo paraphernalia. Outstanding. If you were to go into this place and ask the friendly staff for assistance in purchasing bloomers, or some type of skirt, or perhaps a form-fitting denim jacket, I am quite confident that they will politely but firmly ask you to leave their cape boutique, possibly suggesting a quick in-and-out to the local Wal-Mart. Now, that’s passion for fashion.
Sure, it would be great to wear a cape, but by doing so today, you open the door for ridicule. I have a cape but I’m afraid to wear it. I bought from a guy who lost his passion for capes. His nickname was Olympic Marty. He told me he had purchased the cape quite a long time ago. He referred to this time frame as his “cape phase.” I snapped it up for a few bucks. Heavy fabric with an epic silver button under the neck. It’s a classic Inverness cape/cloak combo with an attached overcape and a detachable hood. Sleeveless. Side Pockets included. The overcape is lined with paisley satin. It’s 100% wool or maybe velveteen? It hangs from my lumpy frame just right. I did actually wear it out. Once. People can be so cruel. I think my problem was that I had nothing to back up this whole flamboyance. I am hopelessly neurotic and quite paranoid for most of the time, but sadly I’m not eccentric, so I can’t prance around with my cape. Yet.
Oscar Wilde personified blissed-out flamboyance. “Art for art’s sake.” Unless your name is actually Art, short for Arthur, to which this adaptation of the French slogan of ''l'art pour l'art'' does not apply. Oscar was decadent. How do I know, you ask? Did I ever meet Oscar Wilde, you ask? Why are you such a pompous ass, you ask? Okay, let me answer these legitimate questions in order. How do I know he was decadent? Well, because he wore a cape. Did I ever meet Oscar Wilde? No. He died broke in 1897 after serving some pretty serious prison time for a number of rather severe social indiscretions, and showing dreadful moral character. A few years earlier, Oscar had been catapulted to literary superstardom with his novel, “The Picture of Dorian Gray” as well as a number of successful stage plays, such as “The Importance of Being Ernest”, while fully living the life of the debauched rogue artist. Then the tables turned on him and he ended up in the clink before slipping into exile in France while bumming spare change and living under the alias of Joey Joe Joe Shabadoo. So, no, I never met Oscar Wilde. Now, why am I such a pompous ass? No. I’m not clever enough to be pompous. Moronic boob? Possibly.
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